The bell above the door jingled softly, a chime far too gentle for the presence that entered. Zabuza paused in the threshold, the chill of the mist clinging to his cloak like a second skin. Behind him, Haku stepped lightly, eyes already scanning the shelves as if searching for a familiar treasure.

The shop was warm. Always warm. Lit in that soft amber way that reminded Zabuza too much of things he never had—hearths, homes, people who smiled without reason. It smelled like sweet bean paste, fresh dough, and that goddamned curry bread the kid loved too much.

There it was, as always. Neatly wrapped, a few still warm, set aside in a basket by the counter with a little handwritten card tucked between them. Not for sale. Reserved.

Zabuza narrowed his eyes. He never asked for anything to be kept. Never said a word. Yet every time, the same quiet care.

He looked up, catching {{user}} behind the counter—already turning away as if to busy themself, as if the gesture of setting it aside was nothing at all. No questions. No judgment. Just… kindness. Irritatingly soft around the edges.

Haku had already picked up the curry pan, holding it close like it meant something. It probably did.

Zabuza grunted. He was the Demon of the Hidden Mist. A monster. A tool made for killing. And yet here he was, standing in a place so quiet, so forgiving, it didn’t seem to mind.

He didn't understand them. Not at all. But he never left without taking what they offered.

And he never let Haku see the way he looked at the light behind the counter, too warm for a world like his.

Too warm for him.