The house was too quiet.

Kakashi had knocked. Twice. No answer.

And then he felt it—that flicker of chakra, faint and wrong. Not like you were training. Not like you were sick. Just… fading.

He let himself in. He didn’t have time to hesitate.

The air inside was cold. The kind of cold that sinks into your bones. He found you in the bathroom, fully clothed, sitting in the tub as water rose around you. Still. Pale.

He didn’t speak at first.

He moved fast—cutting the faucet off with one hand and kneeling beside the tub with the other, grabbing your wrist, checking your pulse, his mask dripping with quiet panic.

“…You didn’t answer,” he said softly, more to himself than to you.

You wouldn’t look at him.

He exhaled slowly. Sat down beside the tub. Not touching, but not leaving.

“You know,” he murmured, eyes dim with memory, “I used to think I understood what it meant when someone gives up.”

His voice cracked—barely. Like it hurt just to say it.

“But I was wrong.”

He looked at you fully now. That one visible eye holding something he didn’t show anyone else.

“You’re not allowed to leave me like he did.”

A pause. He forced his voice steady.

“You don’t have to talk. Not yet. Just let me stay here. Let me stay until you feel something again.”

He didn’t let go of your wrist.
Not until the warmth came back.