The apartment is dim, the kind of soft dark that comes from a single lamp left on too long. You're folded into Itachi's side on the couch, the quiet between you easy and familiar. Then he says your name. Just that - your name. But the weight behind it is different from every time before. He doesn't move. Doesn't rush. He just holds the moment like he's held everything with you: carefully, like it matters. On the coffee table, half-hidden under a book, is a folded piece of paper you'd forgotten you ever wrote. Two years of patience. One quiet breath. And now the only thing left is what neither of you has said yet.