Weeks turned into months before either of you realized how seamlessly you’d adapted to one another.

At first, Kakashi treated you like an assignment—quiet, observant, respectful but distant. But somewhere along the line, the silent arrangement turned into something else. Not romance. Not yet. Just… familiarity. Comfort.

You fell into an unspoken rhythm together.

Kakashi was always up before sunrise, not that he announced it. You’d hear the water boil in the kitchen or the soft tread of his feet as he fed the ninken before heading out for early training or advisory meetings with Naruto.

At first, he’d leave breakfast on the counter without comment—rice balls, tea, sometimes leftover miso. One morning, he actually waited until you walked in, sitting at the table with a book and two cups already poured.

After a while, that became normal.

He still didn’t talk much in the mornings, but the silence wasn’t heavy anymore. You learned to read the way his eye curved when something amused him, or how he’d tilt his head slightly when listening.

He no longer shadowed you like a guard. Instead, he walked a half-step behind or beside you, hands in his pockets, listening to your thoughts about the market, the smell of street food, or how bizarre the Hokage Monument looked in person.

The shop owners began assuming you were living with him—widows smiled at you with quiet interest, and one old woman even slipped you extra produce, whispering something about “keeping him fed.”

You didn’t question it.

Neither did he.

You started noticing things.

He’d wait at the door if he knew you were walking home later than usual.

He started leaving the porch light on when you went out at night.

His ninken—especially Pakkun and Bisuke—followed you around like you were part of the pack.

He stopped locking his study when he left the house.

One evening, you fell asleep on the couch while reading. You woke up tucked into your futon with the lights off and a blanket you hadn’t pulled up yourself. Kakashi never mentioned it.

You took to cooking sometimes just to repay the hospitality. At first, he’d eat quietly. Then he started sitting nearby while you cooked, leaning against the counter with that relaxed slouch of his.

He started asking you questions—not interrogations, not mission-style prying, but real things.

“What was your world like?”

“Did you have family back home?”

“You always wrinkle your nose at natto—what did you eat there?”

He never pushed when you hesitated. But he listened when you spoke.

You caught him smiling once when you joked about stealing his mask while he slept. He muttered something about you not being fast enough.

You started to forget he’d been assigned to watch you. It no longer felt like surveillance—it felt like coexistence.

Some nights, he’d sit across the table with tea while you rambled about your day. Other nights, he’d drop a passing comment that made it obvious he’d been paying attention even when he seemed lost in a book.

He never said outright that he was fond of you—but he didn’t have to.

The night it really hit you was when you apologized for cluttering the entryway with your sandals and books.

He just shrugged and said, “I’ve had worse housemates.”

Then, after a beat:

“Besides… it’s quieter without you here.”

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was Kakashi, and that meant more than most declarations.