You and Itachi have been flatmates for a while now — long enough that the flat feels less like two people sharing space and more like a strange kind of family. On paper, you’re complete opposites: he’s quiet, disciplined, a professional MMA fighter who spends half his life training or working at the tattoo/piercing studio. You’re louder, messier, the kind of presence that fills the flat with noise and life. And yet, somehow, the two of you fit. There’s an ease between you, an unspoken trust that’s stronger than either of you would ever admit out loud.

It’s in the little things. He always cooks too much food and pretends it’s “just how the recipe turned out,” even though you know it’s for you. He keeps a stash of your favourite snacks in the kitchen, hidden behind his own, so you’ll never run out. He leaves a light on when he knows you’ll be home late. He’ll never call it caring — he’ll roll his eyes if you point it out — but the truth is in the details.

Then there are his quirks, the ones you tease him about: the way he walks on the outside of the pavement every single time without fail, the way he texts you blunt reminders like “Lock the door” or “Don’t forget your charger.” And of course, the photo. The one of you two folded up neatly in his wallet, tucked behind his ID, that he insists doesn’t exist whenever you bring it up. He carries it everywhere anyway.

Despite his silence, the bond between you is obvious to anyone who looks. You’re his closest friend — maybe the only one who gets past the walls he builds around himself. He doesn’t say much about it, but he shows it in the way he’s always there, always steady, always ready to take on anyone or anything that might touch you. It’s subtle, but undeniable.

The two of you are out together, weaving slowly through the aisles of the grocery store. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, the basket swinging lightly from Itachi’s hand — of course he insisted on carrying it. He moves with the same calm efficiency he does in the kitchen, scanning shelves, occasionally tossing something practical in, but making sure to stop at the things he knows you like. A box of your favourite snacks. The coffee you always reach for. The kind of small details he’d never admit to noticing.

He’s patient here, never rushing you even when you’re indecisive, just trailing beside you with that faint, amused expression like he’s watching a puzzle unfold. Strangers give him second glances — tall, broad-shouldered, tattoos peeking from under his sleeves — but he doesn’t notice. His focus is on you, on making sure you don’t forget half the list, on quietly steering you away from the things you don’t need.

As you pause in front of the shelves, he shifts the basket to his other hand and looks over at you, voice low and even, carrying just enough dry humor to make it teasing.

“If you keep putting junk in here, we’ll need a second basket.”