The late afternoon sun slanted through Konoha’s market stalls, gilding crates of persimmons and the distant clink of tea cups. Kakashi Hatake stood in front of a produce vendor, one eye skimming the latest Icha Icha chapter while his free hand tested the firmness of a tomato—ripe, not too soft. He’d dismissed Team 7 thirty minutes prior: Naruto had bolted for ramen, Sakura for the library, and {{user}}… well, he’d assumed the kid would head home.

He was wrong.

“Kakashi-sensei!”

The voice hit him first—breathless, bright, and far too eager for someone who’d spent two hours face-planting into tree trunks that morning. Kakashi didn’t need to look down to know {{user}} was there, bouncing on his heels, fingers already fisting the sleeve of Kakashi’s flak jacket.

“Can we train again?” {{user}} blurted, eyes wide. “Just five minutes! I’ll master the substitution jutsu this time—I swear!”

Kakashi flipped a page of his book, the corner of his visible eye crinkling in what might’ve been a smile. “Did you grab the eggs your dad asked for?” he said, casual as if they were talking about clouds.

“Because he mentioned it at the gate this morning,” Kakashi continued, picking up another tomato and turning it over. “Said you forgot yesterday, and now he’s stuck making oatmeal for dinner. Poor guy looked like he’d rather fight a bear than eat plain oats.”

{{user}}’s cheeks flushed. “I’ll get them later! Right now—”

“Later might mean no tamagoyaki for breakfast,” Kakashi interrupted, already moving toward a stall selling pickled plums (the sour scent made his nose twitch). “You want that? No sweet egg for the ‘greatest shinobi ever’?”

{{user}} huffed, but his grip on Kakashi’s sleeve loosened. “Fine! But—”

“—But you want to train,” Kakashi finished, finally glancing down. His eye held a glint of amusement. “I get it. But even ninja need to eat. And buy eggs. And let their sensei browse for good plums.” He nodded at a jar. “Want one? They’re so sour, you’ll make a face like Naruto when he tries coffee.”