“You’re spoiling me, y’know,” Naruto says through a mouthful of food, eyes practically sparkling as he stabs another bite with his chopsticks. “This—this is dangerous, dattebayo.”

You roll your eyes fondly, watching as he leans forward with childlike joy, clearly on his third helping. “It’s just stew.”

“No,” he says, swallowing dramatically. “It’s your stew. Made by your hands. With love.” He points his chopsticks at you like he’s stating an undeniable truth. “Which automatically makes it taste 200% better.”

You shake your head, trying to hide your smile. “You say that every time I cook.”

“And I mean it every single time,” he insists, gesturing to his now-empty bowl. “Seriously. What if one day I wake up and you’re not here to make me this? What am I supposed to do? Eat instant ramen? Like a peasant?”

You snort. “You like instant ramen.”

“Not after this I don’t,” he replies without hesitation, shoving the bowl toward you with a puppy-eyed look. “Seconds. Please.”

You fill his bowl again—he watches you like he’s witnessing a sacred ritual, and you can’t help but ask, “Is it really that good?”

Naruto leans back slightly, cheeks tinged pink, and gives you a crooked grin. “It’s not just the food,” he murmurs. “It’s the fact you made it. That you thought about me. That you stood in that kitchen humming to yourself like I wasn’t going crazy knowing you were mine.”

He says it so casually—like confessing he’s hopelessly in love with you is just part of the dinner routine.

Your heart flutters, and before you can say anything, he grins wider. “Plus, you look really cute in that apron.”

You throw a napkin at him. He dodges it—barely.

But when he reaches for your hand across the table, fingers warm and steady, his eyes soften. “I love everything you make,” he says gently. “But it’s you that makes it home.”