HLHT 10

"This is where you live?" she asked, looking around with curiosity as we entered my apartment. "All by yourself?"

My place was modest but carefully arranged. One main room that served as both living area and bedroom, a small kitchenette, and a bathroom. What it lacked in size it made up for in organization and a few quality touches—a decent bookshelf filled with scrolls and texts, a well-maintained plant in the corner, and a comfortable futon that I properly rolled up every morning.

"Yep. Home sweet home," I replied, setting my groceries on the counter. "Not exactly the Daimyo's palace, but it's all mine."

Kushina ran her finger along my bookshelf. "It's... actually nice. I'm impressed you can afford this on the orphan stipend."

I smirked and started unpacking the groceries. "The stipend barely covers cup ramen. I've got... supplementary income."

"Supplementary income?" Her eyebrows shot up. "That sounds suspicious."

"Only if you lack imagination, Red." I pulled out fresh vegetables and arranged them on the cutting board. "Let's just say I provide certain services to stressed-out student and genin."

"What kind of services?" She narrowed her eyes.

"Academic assistance," I said with innocence. "Test answers, homework completion, the occasional essay on 'What the Will of Fire Means to Me.' Nothing illegal... technically." And a perfect cover for the less savory transactions that kept my wallet fat.

"You're running a cheating ring!" she whispered, though I detected a hint of admiration in her voice.

I pressed a finger to my lips. "I prefer 'educational consulting business.' And it pays for this place and my sake habit, so don't go blabbing to Grumpy-chan or anyone else from the moral high ground club."

She mimed zipping her lips, then peered at my groceries. "Speaking of which, what are you making? It looks... ambitious."

"Grilled mackerel with miso glaze, eggplant dengaku, and pickled cucumber," I explained, already reaching for my knives. "Hungry?"

Her stomach answered with an audible growl, and she had the grace to look embarrassed. "Maybe a little."

"Wash those vegetables while I prep the fish," I said, nodding toward the sink.

To my surprise, she did as I asked without argument.

"I've been wondering how you make those fancy lunches that make Mikoto drool," she said, carefully washing the eggplant as though it might explode with improper handling. "I should have guessed you actually know what you're doing in a kitchen."

"One of my few legitimate talents," I answered, taking out my favorite kitchen knife and testing its edge with my thumb. "Food tastes better when you make it yourself."

"Where'd you learn how to cook?" She handed me the washed vegetables.

I hesitated. "Started out of necessity, turned into a hobby. When you live alone, it's either learn to cook or eat shinobi ration for the rest of your life."

"But you're actually good at it," she observed, watching as I sliced through the mackerel skillfully, removing the bones in one go. "That's more than necessity."

I shrugged. "I pay attention at restaurants. Ask questions. Experiment." I handed her a smaller knife. "Here, cut the eggplant lengthwise, but not all the way through. Like this."

I demonstrated the technique, creating a crosshatch pattern that allowed the eggplant to cook evenly while absorbing maximum flavor.

"So it's like training," she said, attempting to mimic my cuts with significantly less finesse.

"Cooking is exactly like training," I agreed, rescuing the eggplant before she mutilated it beyond recognition. "Precision, timing, attention to detail. Every ingredient reacts differently to heat, moisture, salt."

I set a pot of water to boil for the rice, then reached for a small bowl to make the miso glaze. "Here, I'll show you something cool. Watch."

I combined miso paste, mirin, sake, and a touch of sugar, whisking it thoroughly. "Balancing flavors is like chakra control—too much of any element throws everything off."

She leaned closer, genuinely interested. "So what's the chakra control equivalent in this dish?"

"The miso," I explained. "Too much and it's overwhelming, too little and you miss the depth. But when it's right..." I dipped my finger in the mixture and offered it to her.

She hesitated only briefly before tasting it, and her eyes widened. "That's... amazing! Sweet but savory and something else—"

"Umami," I supplied. "The fifth taste. Now, hand me that ginger."

As I worked on the fish, I showed her how to score the eggplant flesh and brush it with oil before grilling. The kitchen filled with aromatic steam as the rice began to cook.

"You're actually pretty normal when you're cooking," she observed, watching me flip the mackerel with care.

"As opposed to my usual abnormal self?" I raised an eyebrow.

"You know what I mean," she said, leaning against the counter. "At the Academy, you're all lazy and smartass. Here you're just... focused. Present."

I considered this as I brushed the miso glaze over the fish. "Different environments, different faces. In class, I'm surrounded by child soldiers trying to outperform each other. Here, I'm just making dinner."

The mackerel sizzled as I applied a second layer of glaze, the sugar caramelizing under the heat. I demonstrated the proper way to tell when fish is done—firm to the touch but still moist inside.

"The secret," I explained, transferring the eggplant to the grill, "is knowing when to stop. Most people overcook fish because they're afraid of it being raw. But that extra minute is what turns it from silky to sawdust."

"Like chakra control," she said, picking up my analogy.

"Exactly. Too little, nothing happens. Too much, you blow up the jutsu." I sprinkled toasted sesame seeds over the eggplant. "Hand me those plates?"

Soon, we had a proper meal laid out—golden-brown eggplant with a shiny miso glaze, perfectly crisp-skinned mackerel, bright pickled cucumbers, and fluffy white rice.

Kushina's eyes widened at her first bite. "This is incredible," she mumbled through a mouthful of fish. "Like, restaurant quality."

"Try not to sound so shocked," I said dryly, but I was pleased nonetheless.

We ate in silence for a few minutes. The food was good—the fish flaky and moist, the eggplant creamy inside with a caramelized exterior, the pickles providing a sharp contrast.

"You should teach me," she said suddenly.

I raised an eyebrow. "Teach you what?"

"To cook," she clarified. "Not just cup ramen and rice balls. Real food, like this."

I studied her face for signs of teasing but found only earnest determination—the same look she got before mastering a particularly difficult jutsu in class.

"Why?" I asked, genuinely curious.

She shrugged, trying to look casual but not quite succeeding. "It's a useful skill, like you said. And..." she hesitated, "It's nice, making something with your own hands. Creating instead of just destroying things."

"I'm not running a cooking school for hopeless cases," I said, but without any real refusal in my voice.

She grinned, recognizing the non-rejection for what it was. "I'll pay you back with my amazing fuinjutsu knowledge. Even trade."

Now that caught my interest. The Uzumaki clan's sealing techniques were legendary, and while Kushina was still learning herself, she undoubtedly knew more than what they taught us at the Academy.

"Deal," I heard myself saying. "But if you burn down my kitchen, you're rebuilding it yourself."

Her smile was bright enough to rival Minato's. "Deal!"

As we finished our meal and she helped me clean up—clumsily but enthusiastically—I found myself watching Kushina attempt to dry dishes without breaking them.

"Same time next week?" she asked as she prepared to leave, trying to sound casual but clearly hopeful.

I leaned against the doorframe. "If you bring the ingredients and don't tell anyone about this."

"Your secret's safe with me," she promised, then added with a mischievous grin, "Chef Shinji."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't quite suppress a smile. "Get out of here, Red, before I change my mind."

She darted off down the hallway with a wave, red hair flying behind her like a banner.

I closed the door, surveying my now-quiet apartment. It felt different somehow—as if the heat of her presence lingered in the room.

'Well,' I thought, retrieving my secret sake bottle from its hiding place, 'at least my dinner time just got a bit more interesting.'