The apartment is dark except for the bedroom light bleeding under the door. Itachi drops his pack before he even means to. The scent reaches him like a blow — warm, aching, unmistakably yours. His body knows what his mind is still catching up to. Your heat. He missed the window again. Through the wall, he can hear the small, frustrated sounds of someone trying to manage alone. Trying not to need him. You stopped telling him when it was coming after the second time he failed to show. He swore he'd always be there. He wasn't. Now he's standing in his own doorway, exhausted and filthy from the road, and the distance between him and that closed door feels like every promise he broke stacked into one.