Naruto ran fifteen minutes late and felt every second as he hoofed it down the corridor to Sasuke's penthouse. The building's upper floors all smelled faintly of ozone and lemon, the air scrubbed to corporate sterility, but the deeper he went, the more the hallways whispered money. The elevator doors opened straight into a vestibule, where instead of a welcome mat there was a gleaming slab of onyx that reflected Naruto's sneakers in unsettling detail. He'd worn jeans, a plain gray tee, and over it an old denim jacket Gaara had once called "aggressively vintage." It looked even shabbier now, with the minimalist lighting ricocheting off every scuffed seam and mismatched button.
He spent a full minute trying to flatten his hair in the elevator's mirrored panel, but the end result was "static electrocution survivor" at best. The elevator pinged; Naruto flinched, then forced himself to roll his shoulders back and knock—twice, hard, as if the door might refuse to open unless challenged.
It opened instantly, of course, as if Sasuke had been standing there the entire time, watching Naruto approach through some hidden camera.
Sasuke wore black slacks, a thin merino sweater in indigo, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The outfit looked simple, but Naruto's fashion sense was sharp enough to notice the sweater's hand-stitched hem, the pressed crispness of the collar peeking from beneath it. Sasuke looked like he'd been poured into his clothes and then airbrushed for good measure.
"Hey," Naruto blurted, voice an octave too bright. "Sorry I'm late. Had to defuse a small cat-related incident at my place."
Sasuke blinked, stepped aside, and gestured for him to enter. "Didn't know you had a cat."
"I don't," Naruto said, sidestepping inside and glancing back with a grin. "That's what made it an incident." Sasuke's mouth twitched—not quite a smile.
The entryway led into a living room so immaculate it looked like the showroom for "wealth, but not trying too hard." The floors were pale wood, the walls concrete with subtle variations that suggested the kind of artistry that only came from endless sanding and the threat of lawsuits. There was a low, angular sofa in soft black leather, a glass coffee table the size of a Prius hood, and an arrangement of art books that probably cost as much as Naruto's rent.
But what took Naruto out was the view: windows from floor to ceiling, Manhattan sprawled like a light-up toy someone had kicked over. He drifted to the glass, shoes squeaking against the immaculate floor.
"Holy shit," he said, breath fogging the glass. "Do you ever just stand here in a bathrobe, stroking a white cat, and practice your villain laugh?"
Sasuke closed the door with a whisper-quiet click and joined him. "I tried. The cat sued me for emotional distress."
"Figures," Naruto snorted, pressing his nose to the glass. "Hey, I can see your minions from here." He pointed to a lit-up office tower. "That one's definitely photocopying his butt."
"My minions use scanners," Sasuke deadpanned. "Higher resolution."
Naruto grinned. "Is that how you got your employee ID photo to look so good?" The joke felt natural, like slipping into an old conversation rhythm they'd once perfected.
He rocked back on his heels, hands fidgeting between pockets and open air. The apartment was intimidating—all clean lines and deliberate design—but something about the familiar silhouette of Sasuke moving through it made the space feel less like a museum and more like somewhere he could exhale.
Sasuke drifted to the kitchen, a seamless blend of matte black cabinetry and pale marble. Naruto followed, drawn by a scent that unwound something tight in his chest—pork, miso, scallion—even as his fingers tapped an anxious pattern against his thigh.
"You actually cooked?" Naruto said, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, not quite brave enough to step fully into the pristine kitchen but no longer afraid to claim a little space.
Sasuke pulled two bowls from a drawer and set them gently on the island counter. "Don't sound so surprised."
"It's just…" Naruto picked up a bowl, inspected it. It was porcelain so thin it felt like holding a soap bubble. He put it down before he could snap it in half. "You always made it sound like microwaving ramen was beneath you."
"Microwaving is." Sasuke ladled broth into the bowls with a precision that bordered on surgical. "Real ramen takes at least four hours." He set the pot down and turned, folding his arms. "Do you want miso or shoyu?"
"Dealer's choice," Naruto said, staring at the ingredients lined up on the cutting board: slivered green onion, braised pork belly, eggs sliced so cleanly the yolks looked like tiny suns.
Sasuke topped both bowls, handed one to Naruto, and inclined his head toward the living room. "We can sit anywhere. If you're worried about spills, the table's easier to clean."
Naruto grinned, his shoulders visibly relaxing. "Yeah, better keep me away from anything white or breakable. One time I knocked over Jiraiya's 'priceless' sake cup from Kyoto and he made me work overtime for a month." He moved toward the dining table, which was glass so flawless it seemed to float on air.
Sasuke followed, carrying his own bowl with both hands. The corner of his mouth twitched. "If you break anything, I'll just invoice you." He paused, glanced at Naruto's sneakers, and said, "You can leave your shoes on. Unless you want to take them off."
Naruto shrugged, kicked them off under the table, and slid into the nearest chair. "Wouldn't want to disrespect the floors.
Sasuke sat opposite, setting the bowl down with a soft click. He reached for chopsticks—real, hand-lacquered wood, not the cheap disposable kind—and passed a pair to Naruto.
"So," Sasuke said, voice neutral but softer than at work. "How long have you worked for Jiraiya?"
Naruto twirled noodles around his chopsticks, his knee bouncing beneath the table. "Since graduation," he said, voice deliberately casual while his pulse skittered in his throat. He slurped loudly, then paused mid-chew when a droplet of broth splashed onto the pristine tabletop. His ears burned as he wiped it away with his thumb, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Sorry," he murmured, eyes darting up to Sasuke's face and away again. "Force of habit."
Sasuke's eyes narrowed, but not in annoyance. "That's the right way to eat ramen," he said. "If you don't make a mess, it's not good."
Naruto snorted again, this time letting the sound hang between them. He picked up the egg with his chopsticks, examined it, and then pointed at Sasuke with it. "Okay, not gonna lie, this looks better than anything I ever made in my apartment. Did you YouTube this, or…?"
"I learned from Itachi," Sasuke said, almost too quietly. "He was obsessed with getting the noodles right."
They ate in a companionable quiet for a few minutes, the clink of ceramic and the slurp of noodles filling the void. Naruto found his nerves fading. The food was simple but incredible, the broth rich and layered, the pork tender enough to fall apart with a glance.
After the first bowl, Naruto leaned back and patted his stomach. "Okay, you win. This is officially the best ramen I've ever had."
Sasuke looked up, eyebrow arching. "Better than Ichiraku's?"
"Don't tell the old man, but yeah." Naruto set his chopsticks across his empty bowl with reverence. "Seriously, where'd you learn to make it like this?"
Sasuke's fingers tapped once against the table. "I can make it for you anytime. Just show up. Door's always open."
The words hung in the air between them. Naruto's cheeks flushed pink, the color creeping up to his ears as he registered the implication—not just dinner, but a standing invitation, an open door, a place in Sasuke's carefully ordered life.
"I—um—" Naruto's chopsticks clattered to the table. "You might regret that. I eat a lot of ramen."
"I know," Sasuke said, his voice dropping to something softer. "I remember."
Naruto glanced around, gaze lingering on the art books and the framed minimalist prints on the wall, anywhere but at Sasuke's face. "Pretty sure even the ingredients here cost more than my shoes."
"Most things do," Sasuke said, dry as ever. Then, quietly: "I wanted tonight to be simple."
Eventually, their bowls sat empty except for slicks of broth and a few strands of noodle clinging to the sides. Sasuke gathered the dishes, and Naruto, on reflex, moved to help, only to be waved away. "You'll break something," Sasuke deadpanned, but this time the words landed with the softness of a private joke.
Naruto watched Sasuke move around the kitchen, stacking bowls, running the tap. The man had a way of making everything look deliberate—every gesture, every glance, as if life was a series of tests and he was determined to pass with the highest possible grade. But tonight, for the first time, Naruto saw the edges of exhaustion, the small tics in Sasuke's armor: the roll of his neck before he bent to load the dishwasher, the faintest tremor in his hand as he rinsed out a glass.
Naruto rested his chin on his palm, elbows on the table, and let the silence stretch. When Sasuke finally turned back, drying his hands on a towel so white it nearly glowed, Naruto didn't look away.
"So how long have you actually lived here?" he asked, gesturing at the penthouse with a lazy sweep. "Because last I checked, your folks had you running the Chicago office like a feudal lord."
Sasuke braced himself against the counter, towel in hand, considering. "About three years," he said. "I took over the New York division right after grad school."
Naruto raised an eyebrow. "You expect me to believe that?"
Sasuke's shoulders rose and fell in a dismissive shrug. "Believe what you want. I needed distance from my father's constant oversight. New York has the right market opportunities." He turned away to adjust a perfectly aligned dish towel, his fingers lingering on the fabric. "And I saw your name in Jiraiya's publishing catalog. I knew you were here."
Something hot and tight coiled in Naruto's chest. His throat constricted as if someone had reached in and squeezed.
"Wait. You—what?" His voice came out hoarse. He swallowed hard, feeling the sting behind his eyes that he refused to acknowledge. "You moved here because of me?"
Sasuke picked at a seam on the towel, eyes fixed on the floor. "Not... directly," he said quietly. "I told my father the publishing market here needed tighter oversight. Which it did. But—" He stopped, cleared his throat.
Naruto's hands trembled slightly against the table. Five years of wondering if Sasuke ever thought about him, five years of pretending he didn't care, and now—
"But I was hoping you'd still be here," Sasuke finished, finally meeting Naruto's gaze. "After college, I figured you'd run as far as you could. But then Jiraiya's company kept popping up, and every time I passed a bookstore I'd see your name on something—on a poster, a display, sometimes even in the credits of those dumb manga anthologies." His mouth twisted with faint amusement, then softened again. "I kept thinking we'd run into each other by accident. Like, out of the blue. On the subway or something. But New York's too big for that."
Naruto ducked his head, blinking rapidly. The revelation hit him like a physical blow—all those lonely nights, all those times he'd caught himself searching crowds for a familiar face, and Sasuke had been doing the same thing. He bit the inside of his cheek hard, tasting copper.
Naruto felt his face burning, a blush so deep it made his ears ache. For a second, he couldn't speak at all. He let the words settle over him, testing each one for weakness and finding none.
Naruto's fingers twitched against the table. "So you just…" he started, then stopped. "Did you ever try to contact me?"
Sasuke shook his head. "I thought about it. I wrote emails. Deleted them." He offered a half-smile, almost apologetic. "Kushina told me you'd moved out. Said you would contact me when you were ready."
Naruto's shoulders jerked back like he'd been struck. He recovered quickly, jaw tightening. "Mom was just—she was trying to protect me." His voice hardened even as his eyes darted away. "She thought you'd break my heart again."
The moment could have collapsed right there—too much history, too much regret. But instead, Naruto grinned, wide and bright and just a little bit mean, his mother's betrayal tucked away behind his teeth. "So you spent three years in this city hoping to run into me by accident? That's so…" He trailed off, searching for the right word, then let it hang. "Romantic. Or tragic. Probably both."
Sasuke shrugged, a non-answer that managed to say everything.
Sasuke didn't answer, but he didn't have to. The look on his face—contrite, hopeful, a little bit scared—said more than any words could.
Naruto felt Gaara's voice in his head, clear as if he were standing right there: "You can't live with one foot in the door and one foot out. It's all or nothing." And Lee, with his ridiculous thumbs-up: "The courage to be vulnerable is the most youthful thing of all!" They'd seen him through the worst of it—the 3 AM drunk texts he never sent, the dating profiles he'd delete after a day.
It was Naruto who moved first. Something about knowing Sasuke had been searching for him too—had moved to this city partly for him—made his chest expand with a courage he thought he'd lost years ago. He slid out from behind the table and padded across the polished floor in bare feet, stopping an arm's length away.
Naruto's fingers twitched against the table. He stood, crossing the distance between them with quick steps. "I don't want to spend another five years wondering," he said, voice cracking slightly. "Not when you've been looking for me too."
Sasuke's eyes widened, his hand still clutching the dish towel.
"I'm done with the what-ifs," Naruto continued, words tumbling out faster now. "I'm done pretending I don't still—" He swallowed hard, then squared his shoulders. "I love you. I never stopped. And if we're doing this, I want all of it. I want to be your boyfriend, not just someone you bump into every few years."
Sasuke's face softened in a way Naruto had never seen before. He dropped the towel on the counter and reached for Naruto's hand, his fingers trembling slightly. "These last five years..." His voice caught. "Every day felt like walking through an empty house where the lights wouldn't turn on."
Naruto's breath hitched, watching Sasuke struggle for words—Sasuke, who never struggled for anything.
"But these last few months, working with you again—" Sasuke's grip tightened. "It's like someone finally opened the windows. I can breathe again." His dark eyes searched Naruto's face. "I know I don't deserve another chance. But if you're giving me one, I swear I'll never disappoint you again."
Naruto stepped closer until their foreheads touched, his heart hammering against his ribs. "So what now?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Sasuke's thumb traced lazy circles on the back of Naruto's hand. "Whatever you want. I'm not letting go this time."