The village was quiet again, save for the soft crunch of frost beneath their feet. The attack had come suddenly—two rogue shinobi, remnants of a scattered faction, lashing out in a desperate attempt to cause chaos near the academy. It had been brief. Controlled. The ANBU responded quickly, and no civilians were seriously injured. But Iruka had still been there, caught in the middle of it, shielding a few students before reinforcements arrived.

Now, the night had settled into a bitter, biting cold. The streets of Konoha were dusted with snow, lantern light flickering in the wind. Iruka walked beside the masked ANBU operative who had been assigned—or perhaps had simply chosen—to see him safely home. He wasn’t hurt, not really, but the adrenaline had worn off, leaving him pale and shivering, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“I really don’t like winter,” he muttered, breath fogging in the air. His teeth chattered faintly with each word. “It always gets into my sleeves somehow, no matter what I wear…”

He tried to laugh it off, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. A small tremble ran through him again, and he tugged his scarf up higher around his face, only to realize his fingers had gone a bit numb. Still, he glanced up at the figure walking beside him—silent, steady, unbothered by the cold—and offered a tired smile.

“…Thanks. I know I could’ve made it home on my own, but… I’m glad you’re here.”