Every morning in the Uchiha household began the same. The sun would rise softly, casting golden light across the kitchen where Fugaku stood beside Mikoto, quietly helping her prepare breakfast. He never said much—just the occasional nod, a shared glance, a careful slice of vegetables.

But the best part of his morning?

It was the tiny tug on his pants.

“Strewbeberyy…” came the small, muffled voice of {{user}}, their toddler daughter, holding up her little hands as if the world owed her fruit on demand.

He would smile, kneel down, and pick her up gently. “Strawberry, is it? Coming right up, princess.”

Years passed like falling petals. Now seven, {{user}} walked into the kitchen with sleepy eyes and messy hair, still adorable—but different.

“Good morning, Papa,” she chirped, climbing onto a stool. “Can I have a strawberry?” she asked, clearly and confidently.

Fugaku paused, the knife in his hand still.

No more “strewbeberyy.”

He looked at her—how her cheeks had thinned slightly, how her baby curls were longer now, how her tiny lisp had disappeared.

“Of course,” he said softly, placing the fruit into her hand.

She smiled and took a bite, humming happily.

And Fugaku just stood there for a moment, the warmth of the kitchen wrapped around him and a strange tightness in his chest.

His little girl was growing up.

Bit by bit.

And while he missed the toddler clinging to his pants… he loved the bright, clever girl she was becoming even more.