She wanted literature. She got Naruto Uzumaki and three broken appliances.
One Shot story until the next chapter:
--------------------
If one had to pinpoint the moment the modern world declared open war on patience, it might very well have been when Naruto Uzumaki decided to become a writer.
Not a novelist of war epics or dense philosophical tomes—oh no, that would have required an attention span. Instead, he wrote mystery novels. Odd, twisty little thrillers with characters who were charmingly incompetent and criminal masterminds who seemed to be channeling their inner ramen addiction. The books were wildly popular. Critics called them "delightfully chaotic." His fans called them "perfect for train rides." Naruto, for his part, just liked being able to write in his pajamas.
He also—crucially—never, ever checked his mailbox.
Which is how this entire catastrophe began.
--------------------------
[9:30 AM] – From Mister Kyuubi's Computer, Chat Log Begins
Selective blindness: Master Naruto, have you returned from your work trip? Please send this week's draft and personal column to my inbox.
Selective blindness: AFK (away from keyboard) is also no use. I know that you are there. I want to see a draft in half an hour.
Selective blindness: ... An hour has already passed!
Selective blindness: Two hours!
Selective blindness: Draft, you jerk! Do you want to miss your deadline for the second time this year?!
-------------------
Meanwhile, in a two-bedroom flat with suspiciously empty instant ramen packets strewn across the carpet like modern art, Naruto sat at his desk. Or rather, he reclined backwards on a wobbly office chair that creaked like an elderly sensei. One hand clutched a can of cola. The other held a game controller.
He was not writing. He was not even pretending to write.
"C'mon, one more level!" he cried to no one in particular, except perhaps his extremely judgmental houseplant. "I swear I'll start the chapter after this boss fight!"
A faint beep chimed from his laptop. He blinked. Looked at it. Then shrugged.
"Probably spam."
It was, in fact, Shizune.
----------------------
Recently—within the sacred hours of what should have been Naruto Uzumaki's productive writing mornings (or afternoons, depending on how late he slept)—a series of angry, blood-curdling howls had begun to echo through his apartment every thirty minutes, like the world's angriest ghost haunting a word processor.
They came without warning. Rain or shine. Weekday or weekend. Always from the same source.
Editor Shizune.
The neighbors had started a petition. One elderly man two floors down swore the shrieking had caused his cat to develop insomnia. A local dog walker had renamed the area "Deadline Alley." Even the mailman now wore earplugs when delivering post to Naruto's flat.
And yet... Naruto had gotten oddly used to it.
He stretched languidly, bones cracking like ancient tree limbs, and gave a weary sigh that sounded as though he'd been asked to personally rewrite all seven Harry Potter books using only haiku.
"Maybe... maybe I should change my nickname," he muttered to himself, glancing at his open chat window. "Something less provocative. Like 'TryingMyBest' or 'MightStartWritingSoon.'"
Because honestly, even he had to admit he was dragging things out more than a soap opera villain faking their death for the fifth time.
Once upon a time, back in the golden age of procrastination, Tsunade—his former editor—only started hunting him down three days before a deadline. She would chase with the majestic elegance of a lioness who had just woken from a nap and maybe felt like moving. She gave warnings. She gave sighs. Sometimes she gave bribes.
But Shizune?
She gave war cries.
And apparently, spreadsheets.
Today, however, Naruto decided—heroically, if somewhat guiltily—that it was time to calm the beast. At least temporarily.
------------------------
[11:30 AM] – Chat log resumes
Can a draft be eaten: I will start writing after I finish cooking a bowl of noodles.
(He paused, proud of how mature that sounded. He didn't say instant noodles. Progress.)
Selective blindness: ...! Jerk! The deadline is TOMORROW!
(There was a moment where the font itself looked angrier.)
Can a draft be eaten: I know.
Selective blindness: FIVE THOUSAND WORDS FOR THE NOVEL AND A THOUSAND FOR THE COLUMN! QUICKLY!
Can a draft be eaten: ...
(The ellipsis here carried the weight of generations. It was the digital equivalent of Naruto lying on the floor, face down, contemplating the meaning of life and deadlines.)
------------------
Naruto slumped forward and stared at the blinking cursor in his writing program. Blank page. Untouched. Judgmental.
"Okay, okay," he muttered, pushing aside empty ramen cups like fallen comrades. "Just five thousand words. I've fought literal gods. How hard can it be?"
His stomach growled.
"...After noodles."
And so, the sacred ritual began.
He shuffled to the kitchen like a sleep-deprived zombie, threw water in a pot, and watched it boil with the intense focus of a novelist avoiding actual work. Noodles were dropped in. Timer set. Sauce packet opened.
Across town, Shizune refreshed the chat window for the thirty-seventh time. She stood next to her fridge—pristine, labeled, organized by expiry date—and muttered curses in a tone one might reserve for old gods or expired coupons.
"He's making noodles," she growled. "Noodles! As if carbohydrates excuse negligence!"
Her phone buzzed again. A text from Kakashi.
Relax, Shizune. Naruto always finishes on time.
Eventually.
...Sometimes.
She nearly threw her phone into the sink.
-------------------------
Back in Naruto's flat, the man of the hour slurped the first glorious bite and gave a sigh so satisfied it could have been mistaken for enlightenment. Then, and only then, he returned to his desk.
The blinking cursor was still there.
Mocking him.
Naruto cracked his knuckles. He looked at the screen.
Then he opened a second window and typed:
"It was a dark and stormy night."
He paused.
Backspaced.
Then typed again:
"Detective Tanuki stared at the crime scene like a man who had accidentally ordered pineapple pizza."
He nodded.
Progress.
---------------------
By 3:30 p.m., Naruto Uzumaki had finally sent something through.
And for a brief, shining moment, the world felt whole.
[3:30 PM] – Chat Log, Resumes (Regretfully)
Can a draft be eaten: Writing finished.
Selective blindness: Master Naruto, you are a genius!
(A pause. A dangerous pause. The kind of silence that precedes hurricanes.)
Selective blindness: ...Why is there only a personal column?!
Can a draft be eaten: I had to cook, wash my clothes and write. Accept it.
Selective blindness: (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻
(Somewhere, a table flipped in spirit if not in reality.)
Selective blindness: Fine. I give you half an hour to cook noodles. Throwing clothes into the washing machine and drying them would also be half an hour. Isn't there still THREE HOURS?!
Can a draft be eaten: ... to clarify, these three things were occurring at the same time. Also, the clothes were hand washed.
Selective blindness: Then the four hours left?
Can a draft be eaten: ...
(He hesitated, as if confessing a murder.)
Can a draft be eaten: The noodles were burnt, the clothes were mixed together and faded color, my hands were wet and spoilt the keyboard. I had to blow it dry for a long time with a hairdryer.
Selective blindness: ... are you a household idiot?
(Which, at this point, was more diagnosis than insult.)
Selective blindness: Do you believe that I will publish this chat log? Your readership will drop by half. No! Drop completely!
Can a draft be eaten: ... I am going out for lunch.
Selective blindness: Sit down! Dry your hands! Open Word!
Can a draft be eaten: Should I go to the city to eat or eat something simple downstairs?
Selective blindness: HAND UP THE DRAFT! If not I will deduct your manuscript fees! Publish your identity card photo on the magazine cover! HACK into your COMPUTER!
Can a draft be eaten: I want to eat ramen but I guess I'll just eat fried rice...
----------------------
On the other end of the line, Shizune's head dropped onto her polished computer table with a despairing thunk that echoed through the walls of her apartment and possibly through the timeline of her life choices.
The wallpaper near her desk had started to show wear—four tiny claw marks where her nails had raked through in sheer emotional fatigue. They were now visible beneath a neatly hung motivational quote that read: "Progress, not perfection."
"Who asked me," she whispered, "to become an editor?"
She closed her eyes.
"Who asked me… to believe in art?"
There was a knife on the kitchen counter. She stared at it. Then thought better of it. Then picked it up. Then put it down again. Then picked it up a second time just to cut some oranges. Then—because the dramatic effect wasn't complete—dramatically set it down once more with the force of an artist broken by bureaucracy.
Within the next five minutes, she went through the five stages of manuscript grief:
Denial: He's just misunderstood. Maybe he's deeply creative and needs space...
Anger: NO ONE burns noodles that badly.
Bargaining: What if I gave him a writing template with pictures and arrows...?
Depression: I could have been a pastry chef.
Acceptance (followed by vengeance): I'm going to find out where this idiot lives.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she called a colleague from Marketing.
"Hi, yes. It's Shizune. I need the address of one of our writers. Yes. Naruto Uzumaki. Yes, that Naruto. No, I'm not sending him a gift basket. I'm sending consequences."
There was a pause.
"No, I don't care if he once saved a dog from a tree. I'm bringing the tree."
-----------------
By 4:00 p.m., the situation had escalated from "mild editorial crisis" to something resembling emotional warfare fought through chat bubbles and passive-aggressive takeout.
-----------------------
[4:00 PM] – Chat Log of Doom, Continued
Can a draft be eaten: Did you order the takeout to my house? Thanks.
(The text was accompanied by a photo of Naruto giving a thumbs up in front of a suspiciously dented ramen box.)
Selective blindness: Draft!
Can a draft be eaten: Next time order the miso ramen. I don't like sour vegetables.
Selective blindness: DRAFT!
Can a draft be eaten: Oh, can you help me hire a household helper? My clothes are still soaking in a pail of face-wash like substance.
Selective blindness: DRAFT!!
Can a draft be eaten: ...this must be an automatic reply. When you return and see this, also call a mechanic for me. My washing machine at home has been spoilt for a long time.
Selective blindness: Can you be even more shameless? CAN YOU CAN YOU CAN YOU?! DRAFT YOU JERK!
Can a draft be eaten: How difficult is it to make a telephone call. I need to concentrate on writing my draft.
--------------------
Far across town, Shizune's face twitched.
Not like a normal twitch. It was the kind of twitch that was usually followed by lightning striking in the distance, birds fleeing the sky, and a narrator saying "And that's when she finally snapped."
Her jaw locked. Her left eye twitched again.
He. Was. Thanking her.
FOR TAKEOUT.
She hadn't even sent it as a favor. It was a bribe. A bribe she had sent to keep him tethered to his laptop like a responsible adult—and what had he done? Complained about the vegetables.
"Face-wash... pail... WASHING MACHINE?!" she hissed, scrolling back with horror. "Why is there face wash in the laundry?! Why is there no working machine?! Why is there NO DRAFT?!"
Across her apartment, a porcelain cat figurine exploded in pure spiritual sympathy.
By 10 p.m., the sky was dark, the stars were out, and Naruto Uzumaki—mystery novelist, ramen enthusiast, and accidental domestic chaos agent—was still chatting.
----------------------
[10:00 PM] – Chat Log of the Damned, Final Entry (For Today)
Can a draft be eaten: Which company is the household helper from? Very fierce expression.
Selective blindness: ...
(A pause. Shizune, somewhere far away, was staring blankly at the ceiling, whispering silent prayers to the gods of patience.)
Can a draft be eaten: But very skilled. So young but able to fix the washing machine, clean the house and make dinner—the red grilled fish tasted really good!
Selective blindness: !!!!!!!!
(Shizune was now vibrating like an overcharged electric kettle.)
Can a draft be eaten: But when I talked to her, she didn't really bother about me. Why is she so gloomy?
Selective blindness: ... Your fees for the personal column are deducted! Already deducted!!
Can a draft be eaten: Speaking of which, that household helper didn't ask me for money. After quickly finishing up, she opened the door and left. Can you help me make a telephone call again tomorrow? I'll return the money to her.
Selective blindness: AK47! Quickly type! BATTLE!
Can a draft be eaten: ...why are you so short-tempered?
--------------------------
In the quiet of her dim office, Shizune let out a long, guttural sound that was somewhere between a sigh and the mating call of a banshee.
She had done it.
She had disguised herself as a household helper, taken time off, infiltrated enemy territory, and cleaned his disaster of an apartment—all for the sake of getting him to sit down and type five thousand words without electrocuting himself or poisoning a neighbor through experimental laundry techniques.
She had scrubbed. She had fixed. She had grilled fish.
And he… thought she was just some gloomy part-timer with a mop and a tragic past.
She looked at the wall, which now bore the faded scratches of deadline rage. Her hands clenched into fists. Her jaw tightened.
Then she looked at the single sentence she had typed in her own personal diary, under today's date:
"Never fall in love with the concept of potential."
-------------------------
Back in his apartment, Naruto stood in his slightly cleaner living room, holding a half-eaten grilled fish in one hand and a cup of instant miso in the other.
"She was really good at cooking," he mumbled. "Didn't smile though. Maybe she's an assassin."
He shrugged.
Then sat down.
Opened his document.
And typed:
"Detective Tanuki stared at the murder weapon—a soup ladle bent at a 45-degree angle—and whispered: 'She's been here.'"
He nodded to himself. The cursor blinked like it approved.
-----------------------
And thus, a passionate day passed.
There was no real victory. No proper closure. No deadline met. No sanity preserved.
But the grilled fish was delicious.
And in the battlefield of writing, sometimes that was enough.
----------------------------------
At 8:00 a.m., the city yawned into life with the gentle hum of engines, the sizzle of frying pans, and the clack of keyboards in early morning editorial offices.
In Naruto Uzumaki's case, however, the morning started as it always did—
With a threat.
-----------------------------
[8:00 AM] – Chat Log of Chronic Resistance
Selective blindness: Draft!!!
Can a draft be eaten: I am going to prepare breakfast.
Selective blindness: Stop! Take your money. Go downstairs and eat.
Can a draft be eaten: Going out wastes too much time. I am rushing the draft.
Selective blindness: If I let you cook, you will cook till the next year!
Can a draft be eaten: ... very damaging to my pride.
Can a draft be eaten: If you let me practice a few more times, I will definitely learn it.
Selective blindness: Didn't you practice since you were born? You must have already burnt down a few kitchens already?
Can a draft be eaten: ..... Actually, I even specially registered for a cooking class previously. I wanted to cook something new for Miss Uzumaki to eat one day. But the teacher also told me to enter the kitchen less.
Selective blindness: ... fine.
Can a draft be eaten: ?
-------------------------------
Shizune sat motionless in front of her laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard like a warrior choosing whether to draw a sword or a resignation letter.
Miss Uzumaki.
She blinked once. Twice.
In that moment of vulnerability—rare for a woman whose heart beat in page counts and formatting rules—something soft flickered in her chest. Like a small puff of warmth caught between the lines of sarcasm and chaos.
He wanted to cook… for someone.
Which was sweet.
Which was tragic.
Which also explained why her email last month included a police report about a small stovetop explosion near Naruto's building.
-----------------------------
Meanwhile, Naruto stood barefoot in his kitchen, staring down at a pan like it owed him money. He cracked two eggs with the confidence of a man who believed in miracles and had no evidence to back it up.
"Miss Uzumaki would've liked this," he muttered.
The oil hissed. The toast got caught in the toaster again. The smoke detector blinked awake with mild concern.
And just as the yolks began to resemble vaguely edible shapes—BZZZZZ. Another message.
Selective blindness: Fine. But only because you once had a dream.
He blinked.
Then smiled.
Then promptly dropped a fork into the frying pan.
----------------------------
Back in her apartment, Shizune leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling, the early morning sunlight painting long bars across her notes and chaos files labeled "UZUMAKI – DANGER ZONE."
She didn't know who Miss Uzumaki was—perhaps a sister, an ex-girlfriend, or an imaginary muse who only appeared in smoke clouds shaped like burnt tempura—but she did know one thing:
Some fools cook with fire.
Others cook with heart.
Naruto cooked with both.
Which was exactly the problem.
---------------------------
By 10:00 a.m., the sun was high, the birds were chirping, and Naruto Uzumaki—still riding the high of a warm breakfast and unsolicited life coaching—was feeling productive.
Or at least, he said he was.
Which, by now, meant absolutely nothing to Shizune.
--------------------------
[10:00 AM] – The Chat Log of Emotional Damage Continues
Can a draft be eaten: Full, I will now start to write the draft.
(A good start. A promising opening. Shizune dared to hope.)
Can a draft be eaten: The household helper still didn't collect my money. She even taught me how to cook noodles and prepared a warm lunch in the kitchen.
Selective blindness: ....If you are full, start writing the draft.
(She had already opened a stress relief video of cats knocking things off tables. It was her emotional support tab.)
Can a draft be eaten: You still haven't told me the name of the company. I want to write a letter commending her.
Can a draft be eaten: Her expression wasn't as fierce today. When she was teaching me, she was very patient. I feel like I have truly learnt.
Selective blindness: ... Open Word. I want to see the draft at 3 p.m.
(She was clutching her pen so tightly the plastic bent.)
Can a draft be eaten: What do you think I should ask her to teach me for lunch tomorrow? I think if this continues I will very quickly become a master.
Selective blindness: ....Draft, you jerk! Are you illiterate or don't understand English?! If you have eaten finished, go and write the draft. Stop talking nonsense!!!
------------------------------
On the other side of town, Naruto sat in his now-semi-functional kitchen, grinning like he'd discovered fire.
"She didn't glare at me this time," he said to himself, voice full of wonder.
The mysterious helper—who totally wasn't Shizune in a ponytail, glasses, and tactical cleaning gear—had shown up again that morning. She fixed his kitchen shelf. Taught him how to measure water properly. Didn't yell when he tried to drain noodles with his hands.
And smiled. Briefly. Maybe. It could have been gas, but Naruto believed.
It was the most nurturing experience he'd had since Iruka-sensei packed him a bento in sixth grade.
------------------------------------
Back in Editorial War Headquarters, Shizune had her head in both hands.
She had spent the morning disguised once again as the "helper" because she knew—with every fiber of her hardworking soul—that if she left Naruto to his own devices, he would either (A) burn his keyboard, (B) wash his socks in miso soup, or (C) attempt to write a column about spiritual enlightenment gained through pasta water.
She had grilled, she had taught, she had quietly put his rice cooker on a smart timer.
And now?
Now he wanted to become a master.
Of what? Burning down hope?!
[10:21 AM] – Shizune's Final Words for Now
Selective blindness: (deep breath)
Three.
O'clock.
I want a draft.
Naruto blinked at the screen. Then typed:
Can a draft be eaten: Yes, editor-sama! I shall write the greatest 5000 words of my life. But just a question—what pairs best with grilled eggplant? Miso or soy?
------------------------------------
Several Days Later:
Naruto Uzumaki had faced tailed beasts, warlords, and villains whose names were whispered like curses. But nothing—not even the paperwork Tsunade used to fling at him with veiled threats—prepared him for the uphill battle that was: learning to cook an omelet.
In the warm, golden morning light that filtered through the half-open kitchen window of his rather modest modern apartment (complete with a potted plant he often forgot to water), Naruto stood like a general surveying the battlefield. Except his battlefield was cluttered with eggshells, scorched pans, and a carton of eggs that had gone from full to tragically empty.
"I swear this was the last one!" he muttered sheepishly, eyes darting to the stern figure beside him.
The household helper—stoic, capable, and armed with a spatula sharp enough to double as a kunai—folded her arms and raised a single eyebrow. She said nothing, but the disappointed sigh that escaped her lips was the kind that could melt glaciers and pierce pride. Naruto flinched.
"See? This one looks kind of like an omelet, doesn't it?" he grinned, holding up a lumpy, half-charred creation that could have easily passed as a failed attempt at abstract art.
She didn't respond. Just… blinked. Twice. Then silently turned off the stove and began cleaning up with a precision that would've impressed the ANBU.
To her credit, she never scolded. But Naruto could feel each of her silent judgments pierce his soul like senbon needles. Still, there was something oddly comforting about the way she quietly prepared soup while he muttered to himself and tried not to set anything else on fire.
The sweet and sour ribs were divine—he devoured them with gusto, nearly weeping. Her soup, as always, was warm in ways beyond heat. And when he looked up mid-bite to thank her, he thought—thought—he saw the corners of her mouth lift. Not a full smile, mind you. Just the softest curl. Like a secret.
It made his heart flip like a badly cooked pancake.
-------------------------------------
10:45 AM
Shizune, meanwhile, was at her desk with a cup of black coffee and the face of a woman who had been through far too much in life to be dealing with Naruto Uzumaki before noon.
Can a draft be eaten (Naruto Uzumaki):
Today, the household helper cooked sweet and sour ribs and even prepared a soup. As usual, it was very delicious. I learnt how to fry an omelet. Although I wasted an entire carton and was glared at several times.
Shizune's fingers hovered over her keyboard.
Selective blindness (Shizune):
Draft!
A beat later—
Can a draft be eaten:
Why don't you just give me the telephone number of the household helper's company directly? Then I don't have to trouble you every time to call her for me.
Selective blindness:
DRAFT.
Naruto sipped his ramen-flavored instant coffee and sighed.
Can a draft be eaten:
Today, I cooked noodles for breakfast and prepared portions for two people! When she ate it, she seemed to smile. Actually, when she smiles, she is quite good looking.
Selective blindness:
DRAFT!!!
-------------------------------
Later that Evening
He stood by the window, cup of miso tea in hand, watching the opposite building.
There she was—like clockwork—walking her collie in a white cardigan and quiet steps. She always paused at the same corner, let the dog sniff the lamppost, and tilted her head to look at the stars. The same way he did.
He didn't know her name. Not really. Just that she showed up one day, fixed his washing machine, wiped his floor like it had personally offended her, and cooked like someone who used recipes as suggestions and magic as seasoning.
She never asked for money. Never lingered. But she taught him things—like how to make soup that didn't taste like regret, and how to clean a toilet without muttering curses.
Can a draft be eaten:
Why do you think a household helper can be so free? I don't seem to see her going out to work, except for my place.
Shizune responded with pure desperation.
Selective blindness:
Are we actually having the same conversation? Draft! (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻)
Naruto chuckled as he closed the chat. Then looked back across the street.
Mysteries didn't always involve ancient bloodlines or evil plots.
Sometimes, they wore aprons.
---------------------------
At precisely 11:40 a.m., on a day already suspiciously slow and overly warm, a familiar ping echoed through Shizune's laptop. She sighed, already bracing herself for whatever literary evasion technique Naruto Uzumaki had conjured up today.
Can a draft be eaten: I seem to have a fever. My head aches. I will submit my draft a day later.
Shizune paused, her fingers hovering above the keys. This was, by her estimate, the seventh medical emergency Naruto had self-diagnosed in the past month—two of which included phantom nosebleeds and one particularly dramatic case of "narrative-induced fatigue."
Selective blindness: I stopped believing in this excuse on the third day of my internship.
She waited.
Silence.
Selective blindness: Hey!
More silence. Unsettling.
Selective blindness: Don't hide underground. Show yourself you jerk.
Still nothing.
Shizune blinked. That was not normal. Naruto could usually be summoned with little more than a sarcastic emoji. She began to wonder—was he really sick this time?
Selective blindness: ... really sick?
------------------------------
Meanwhile, in a small apartment across the road—ironically close enough for Shizune to have thrown a shoe from her window and hit him—Naruto lay dramatically on his couch. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, and his usual spiky hair was deflated in all directions like a wilted sunflower. The TV played reruns of a cooking show, but even the sight of expertly folded dumplings failed to stir him.
His fingers trembled over his phone as he tapped out the message to Shizune. After hitting send, he flopped back with the dramatics of a Victorian damsel. "Ugh," he groaned to no one in particular. "Is this how it ends? Not in battle, not in flames, but with... a draft unfinished and no one to remember me but my half-written noodle recipe?"
----------------------------------
At precisely 3:50 p.m., in a cozy apartment that bore the distinct aroma of medicinal balm and century egg porridge, Naruto Uzumaki emerged from the metaphorical ashes of his flu with the energy of a phoenix who had overslept and missed its flight to responsibility.
Wrapped in a woollen blanket that resembled a lumpy caterpillar, he tapped away at his phone with renewed purpose, golden hair tousled and eyes gleaming with inspiration—or perhaps the lingering effects of fever.
Can a draft be eaten: Tsunade, I am much better. Did you tell her I fell sick? When she came she brought medicine.
It had been a surprising morning. He had opened the door expecting another scolding about deadlines, but instead, in walked the household helper with a bag of herbal medicine and a quiet "You look terrible." Which, frankly, was true. His hair looked like a ramen tornado had passed through it, and he was wearing socks with little frogs on them.
But what truly rocked his world wasn't the medicine—it was the century egg and meat porridge. Creamy, aromatic, and subtly spiced, it was a taste that hit Naruto like a Rasengan to the soul.
Can a draft be eaten: The century egg meat porridge she cooked was very delicious. I have decided to learn this. I don't know if it's my mistaken impression but she seemed to be more gentle today. Ah, it must be a mistaken impression.
He tried to play it off casually, but even he couldn't deny that there had been something different in the way she tucked the blanket around his shoulders. Or how she muttered "baka" when he tried to stand and immediately swayed like a drunk flamingo. Or how her collie barked once, as if in approval, then flopped onto his rug like it now lived there.
But while Naruto basked in the warmth of a blossoming domestic illusion, another soul had reached her boiling point.
Editor is a good person: ... !!!!!!
Editor is a good person: Tsunade has resigned for half a year! I am Shizune you Jerk! Is there such a writer like you? Your editor changed for half a year and you don't even know!
Shizune's fury practically leapt out of the phone. Somewhere in her office, coffee was spilling as she paced furiously between piles of unfinished manuscripts, ignored deadlines, and burnt-out hope.
Naruto stared at the message like a man who had just realized he'd been calling his math teacher "Mom" for the past semester.
Can a draft be eaten: ...
It was one of those rare moments when even Naruto's whirlwind brain paused in stunned silence.
Editor is a good person: I am angry.
The fury was palpable. Shizune was the kind of editor who had three spreadsheets open at any given time and could file a complaint and brew tea simultaneously. Her wrath was both organized and devastating.
Can a draft be eaten: I, I promise to finish up the draft in half an hour!
In the silence that followed, Naruto sprang into action.
He tossed off the caterpillar-blanket with flair, nearly tripping over the dog still napping beside him. He grabbed his laptop, whispered a thank-you to the century egg porridge gods, and opened the Word document he hadn't touched in—well, in a very long time.
This was it. This was his redemption arc.
Somewhere in the opposite building, the helper paused mid-dishwashing and looked toward Naruto's apartment, as though sensing the chaos rebalance itself. Her collie barked twice—perhaps in approval.
And Shizune, still fuming, sipped her cold coffee and muttered, "He better not be writing about porridge again."
----------------------------------
The thing about Naruto Uzumaki was that he had terrible timing. Not the kind that caused national disasters or summoned angry owls (though one particularly disgruntled editor might disagree). No, his timing was the uniquely tragic type found in awkward school crushes and romantic comedies—the kind that made him peer wistfully from the window just in time to see the girl he might be in love with… walk off with another man.
But let's not jump ahead just yet. We begin this chapter—rather romantically, in Naruto's opinion—at precisely 5:30 p.m., when he had done something very rare and impressive: he had submitted his draft.
Yes. Miracles do happen.
-------------------------------------
[5:30 PM]
Can a draft be eaten: I've sent it to your inbox!
There was a long pause on the other end. Naruto assumed, generously, that it was because Shizune was weeping with joy.
Can a draft be eaten: Shizune, don't be angry. I still have to rely on you calling her on the telephone for me. When I have mastered the dish, I will cook for Miss Uzumaki to eat.
It wasn't a confession. He wouldn't call it that. He was merely stating facts. People cooked for people all the time. He cooked for Shikamaru once, and he didn't get all fluttery about it. (Granted, Shikamaru had also called it "a war crime in a bowl," but that was besides the point.)
There was still no reply. Suspiciously quiet, in fact.
Can a draft be eaten: Shizune? Shizune? Why did you suddenly go offline?
A creeping feeling of loneliness began to seep in like cold air under the door. Naruto drummed his fingers on the kitchen counter, glanced out the window, and froze.
Can a draft be eaten: Never mind, I will find her myself tomorrow. She seems to live on the third floor.
The message was optimistic, buoyant even—until he saw it. The scene.
There she was. Miss Uzumaki—his household helper, his soup sorceress, the mysterious woman who had made century egg porridge taste like heaven instead of an apocalyptic dare.
And she wasn't alone.
Can a draft be eaten: Shizune, I just saw her go downstairs the building and she went out with a gentle looking man.
The man was tall. He wore nice shoes. His hair was very clean, which Naruto found deeply suspicious. Clean-haired people always seemed like they had it together.
Naruto's heart sank somewhere near his knees. His stomach, tragically empty of century egg porridge, decided to twist dramatically in mourning.
Can a draft be eaten: I suddenly feel a little melancholic. I will not write the draft first.
He didn't cry, of course. He was a ninja. He simply sat on the sofa, wrapped himself in a throw blanket like a depressed burrito, and stared blankly at the television. The cooking channel, ironically. A smiling chef flipped an omelet with supernatural grace.
Naruto scowled at it.
He was quite certain the omelet was mocking him.
--------------------------------------
The night was an insomniac's paradise — a whispering wind curled like a cat through the cracked-open window, rustling the edges of untyped manuscripts and half-eaten biscuit wrappers that littered the desk. Somewhere in the shadows of the city, a cat yowled its complaints to the moon. The hour was 3 a.m., an ungodly time fit only for bakers, ghosts, and — as it turned out — emotionally blocked writers and their battle-hardened editors.
A notification pinged through the gloom.
Editor is a good person: You want to die? Why are you online at 3 am! Go and sleep if not you cannot submit your draft tomorrow.
The reply was swift, almost poetic in its despair.
Can a draft be eaten: My heart feels ridiculously blocked. I can't sleep. Aren't you the same?
Shizune — the long-suffering editor with nerves of iron and a coffee addiction to match — blinked at her screen. She adjusted her glasses, the bridge of which was now semi-permanently indented into her nose from years of stress-reading first drafts.
Editor is a good person: I was forced to go for matchmaking by my brother.
There it was. The confession. A sentence that carried the weight of countless uncomfortable dinners, awkward introductions, and suspiciously overfriendly aunties lurking in the background like vultures at a buffet.
Can a draft be eaten: Until midnight?! Shizune, did you matchmake with a whole truckload of guys?
She nearly spat out her tea. Her fingers flew over the keyboard with the swiftness of a curse-breaking charm.
Editor is a good person: Get lost!
She added another message after a long pause, her pride still stinging from the memory of being seated opposite a man who described his hobbies as "cryptocurrency and collecting cursed dolls."
Editor is a good person: I just couldn't sleep when I returned home. Aren't you supposed to cook for someone tomorrow? Go to sleep.
There was silence for a heartbeat, and then came the reply — soft, a little wistful, as if the words were typed with fingers made heavy by longing.
Can a draft be eaten: Ah, Shizune, I will not be online tomorrow. I will send you the draft at night.
It wasn't just the words — it was what hovered between them. The unspoken ache of a man who had seen someone he admired disappear into the night with another. A writer, hopelessly romantic, watching the object of his affections drift further and further into someone else's narrative.
Shizune sighed, glancing at the blinking cursor. She didn't know whether to feel sympathy, annoyance, or the creeping suspicion that he would, indeed, forget to send the draft.
Still, she typed two final words:
Editor is a good person: Goodnight.
And with that, the chat dimmed, leaving only the low hum of heartache, matchmaker mishaps, and the promise of a tomorrow that might just include porridge, passion, and—hopefully—a bloody draft.
------------------------------
If anyone in Konoha had looked out their window around 7:00 p.m. that evening, they might have spotted a blur of blond hair racing down the pavement like a man on a mission. And truly, Naruto Uzumaki was a man on a mission—though not the type involving rogue ninja or world-saving. No, this was the kind of mission that came after seeing the girl you liked sharing heartfelt laughter with some other, disturbingly well-dressed gentleman.
He'd cooked his heart into that meal. Literally stirred his feelings into the soy sauce. And she'd smiled—oh, she had smiled. And said his food was "hearty and soulful," which sounded encouraging, didn't it?
But then he came home and boom, there she was, again, with that guy, standing at the gate with the sort of glow that made Naruto feel like an old rice cracker left out in the rain.
Thus, he found himself outside, phone in hand, texting faster than a kunai toss.
----------------------------------
[6:50 PM]
Can a draft be eaten (Naruto Uzumaki):
I'm back. Miss Uzumaki was very happy and praised me. I decided to cook more dishes for Miss Uzumaki to eat.
But when I came home, I saw her with that guy again. They looked like they had a lot to talk and laugh about. 😞
There was a pause. A long pause. Even the wind rustling through the trees seemed to hush, as if the very air was waiting for a reply.
Editor is a good person (Shizune):
Ah.
A single syllable. A breath of commiseration. The kind that didn't help, but didn't hurt either.
Can a draft be eaten:
Shizune, you are actually not rushing for drafts?
Editor is a good person:
En.
Can a draft be eaten:
Your mood is not good?
Editor is a good person:
A little.
Naruto stopped walking and stared up at the violet-tinged sky. The streetlamps flickered to life one by one, painting the sidewalk in warm pools of light. There was something in her words—or the lack of them—that made his heart twist just a bit tighter. He recognized that tone. He'd heard it from himself all day.
Can a draft be eaten:
Shizune, if I didn't remember wrongly, you also live in Konoha?
Editor is a good person:
Why?
Can a draft be eaten:
I shall treat you to dinner and supper. My mood isn't good today too.
Actually, it's completely abysmal.
Can a draft be eaten:
Meet at the head of 316 Street? It's okay to go to a food stand?! I am leaving the house.
Back in her tidy apartment, Shizune stared at her phone, cheeks slowly flushing pink. She blinked twice. Once for disbelief. A second time for the odd, unfamiliar flutter that had taken root somewhere between her ribs.
Editor is a good person:
...Eh?
Editor is a good person:
...You really left?
---------------------------------
The golden light from the Konoha street lamps had that soft, forgiving glow that made everything—cracks in the sidewalk, unspoken confessions, and even late-night regrets—seem a little less harsh. The early autumn breeze was crisp, not cold, and it danced between the leaves, carrying the scent of grilled meat and the echoes of laughter.
Naruto Uzumaki sat alone at the outermost table of a bustling food stand on 316 Street, his hair a messy crown of gold under the streetlight. He looked slightly out of place—like a hero who had wandered off-script and stumbled into a quiet, slice-of-life side quest. Three small dishes sat on the table in front of him: sizzling skewers of pork belly, stir-fried greens, and a cold tofu salad he'd pretended not to like but secretly adored.
He poured himself a cup of beer with the exaggerated care of someone who was trying not to think too much. Foam slid down the side of the cup. The amber liquid caught the lamplight, glowing like something ceremonial.
And then she appeared.
He caught the glimpse first—a shade of light beige weaving through the crowd like a shy melody. The gentle fall of her woolen coat, its collar embroidered with soft, tiny blossoms, spoke more of warm kitchens and quiet books than of food stands and heartaches. She didn't wear makeup, and she didn't need to.
Shizune.
The name fluttered out of his mouth before he even knew he'd spoken. "Shizune?"
Although not a drop of alcohol had passed his lips, the word came out thick, heavy, dipped in something raw. His voice had that raspy edge one got only at 3 a.m. or when one's heart was entirely, helplessly involved.
Shizune blinked at him, as if unsure whether to laugh or walk away. "You really did leave the house…"
"You really did come," he replied, a little stunned, a little hopeful. "Weren't you… busy?"
"I was," she said, stepping closer, her tone unreadable. "Then I wasn't."
There was a long, quiet beat, filled only with the distant chatter of the other patrons and the sizzle of oil in the fryer. Naruto pushed the tofu salad toward her, suddenly nervous. "You like this one, right?"
She gave him a look—not annoyed, not amused, but somewhere in the middle. "You remember?"
"Of course," he said quickly, then hesitated. "Shizune… I didn't know. About you, I mean."
She sat down slowly, her fingers brushing a stray thread on her sleeve. "I didn't know about you either. Not really. I thought you were just a troublesome author who ate too many convenience store meals and turned in drafts at the last minute."
Naruto gave a sheepish grin. "Only most of the time."
Then, just as she picked up her chopsticks, he blurted, "You're the housekeeper I fell for."
She froze, chopsticks in mid-air.
The food stand didn't fall silent, but the world around them narrowed anyway, like a zoom-in during a particularly dramatic chapter climax. Somewhere, a beer glass clinked. Somewhere else, someone laughed too loudly. But Naruto only saw her.
"I mean," he continued, not stopping now that the dam had burst, "you were always there. Leaving meals, tidying up, making the place feel like home. And then I thought I fell for Miss Uzumaki… but it wasn't her. Not really. It was you."
A pause.
"I fell for you."
Shizune's mouth opened slightly. Then closed. Then opened again. "You're ridiculous."
"I know."
"I should scold you."
"I expected that."
"But…"
There was a pause, a long one, and then Shizune leaned back, her eyes soft.
"But maybe ridiculous is what I need right now."
And just like that, the night air didn't feel so sharp anymore. The lights seemed warmer, the food tastier, and Naruto—who had started the night heartbroken and draft-less—realized that sometimes, the most unexpected edits turn out to be the best kind.
He raised his cup toward her. "To deadlines, tofu salad, and accidental love stories?"
Shizune sighed but clinked her cup against his anyway.
"To ridiculous authors and their ridiculously late drafts."
They drank under the golden light, laughter mixing with the scent of ribs, as the chapter between them quietly began to write itself.
------------------------------
Naruto Uzumaki had, for the first time in possibly ever, accomplished something ahead of deadline.
It was precisely nine o'clock in the morning—an hour too early for chaos and an hour too late for peace—and the world outside was a cheery shade of golden. Birds chirped, trees rustled, and the village of Konoha hummed with the same gentle rhythm of any content Saturday.
Inside a very orange-themed apartment, however, things were anything but gentle.
Naruto, barefoot and beaming with the sort of triumph usually reserved for marathon finishers and ramen festival champions, stood victoriously before his laptop, arms crossed like a ninja general after winning a battle of literary proportions.
"I've done it!" he exclaimed to no one in particular, save for a confused gecko blinking from the windowsill.
He had sent the weekly draft. No—he had sent every draft. Every chapter. Two months' worth of plot twists, battle banter, and dramatic cliffhangers.
And not just that—he had, miracle of miracles, spellchecked everything. Even the words he'd been misspelling since academy days like definitely (which he often wrote as "definightly") and silhouette (which once appeared as "silly wet").
But as all great writers know, victory is not complete without recognition.
He whipped open his phone, fingers moving with all the impatient grace of a man who had just sprinted through a field of deadlines and survived.
Can a draft be eaten (Naruto Uzumaki):
Shizune, I have sent the draft for next week in your inbox!!!
Can a draft be eaten:
Also the serial drafts for the next two months have been sent!!!
Can a draft be eaten:
All the wrong words have been fixed!!!
Then came the final blow—a message so heartfelt and threatening it could only come from a man both in love and possibly mildly sleep-deprived.
Can a draft be eaten:
This morning, I have already cooked noodles, fried an omelette, and made porridge. If you don't reply to me, I will bring these all to your house!!
Can a draft be eaten:
I know that you are there. Don't think you can just AFK. In half an hour, if you don't reply, I will treat it as consent!!!
He hit send with the confidence of a shinobi launching a surprise attack.
And then he waited.
One minute passed.
Two.
Naruto paced the apartment, glanced at the clock, then dramatically flopped onto his couch, arms thrown over his eyes like a tragic hero in a play titled The Silent Editor and the Breakfast Betrayal.
----------------------------
Meanwhile, across town in a much tidier apartment, Shizune was very much present. Wrapped in a mint-green blanket with hair still slightly damp from her morning shower, she blinked at her phone screen.
Five unread messages.
All from him.
The corners of her mouth twitched. The domestic threat of porridge invasion was not one she had anticipated this morning.
She reread the final message and shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"Oh Naruto," she whispered, sipping her tea, "you absolute menace."
-----------------------
Thirty minutes later.
He stared at his screen, defeated, as the three dots showing Shizune was typing blinked... then disappeared... then blinked again. Then stopped entirely.
Can a draft be eaten: ...how are you feeling? Does it still hurt?
A pause. He leaned in, heart in throat.
Can a draft be eaten: I know I am a jerk. Please reply me.
Still no answer.
Can a draft be eaten: I was drunk last night, but I know what I did. I won't apologize.
Well, that was bold. Brave, even. Some would say foolish. But Naruto was never known for halfway confessions.
Can a draft be eaten: Shizune, I like you.
He paused, exhaled, then typed more furiously than ever:
Can a draft be eaten: Miss Uzumaki is my mother. I often call her that as a joke. Please don't misunderstand.
The guy you often go out with must be your brother right? Don't go with him to match make anymore.
He stood up, grabbed his coat, and shoved on his slippers—two different colors, but close enough.
Can a draft be eaten: It has already been half an hour. I will now go to your house. Reach in three minutes!
Dramatic. Foolhardy. Typical Uzumaki.
Just as he reached for the doorknob—his phone pinged.
Editor is Shizune: Stop!!... Send me the personal columns for the next two months! I give you three hours!
Naruto froze, halfway through tying one slipper.
Can a draft be eaten: Shizune?
There was a long pause, then a furious reply like a Howler from Hogwarts:
Editor is Shizune: If you don't finish writing, don't come over!
Naruto flailed back from the door like it had cursed him.
Can a draft be eaten: !!!
He dove for his laptop with the ferocity of a man dodging both rejection and editorial wrath.
----------------------------
And so, dear reader, as Konoha bustled through its peaceful morning, Naruto Uzumaki locked himself indoors, typing like a man possessed, while a very pink-faced Shizune sipped tea in her living room—wearing the same wool coat from the night before—and wondering whether feelings, much like ramen, were best served hot and slurped quickly before someone else got the last bite.
----------------------------
It was exactly 10:30 in the morning when the message arrived—bold, triumphant, and, against all odds, grammatically perfect.
A draft can actually save a life:
Finish! Sent! I even checked for wrong words.
Naruto Uzumaki slumped over his desk with a theatrical groan, as though he'd just saved a village from destruction rather than submitting two months' worth of personal columns and serialized chapters. His eyes were red from staring at the screen. His fingers were numb from typing. His brain was—well, it was questionable whether it had ever been entirely intact, but today it was definitely fried like tempura in a rush order.
Still, a grin spread across his face. The kind of grin that said, I didn't just win—I beat the deadline at its own game.
Somewhere across Konoha, a phone vibrated.
My lovely Shizune:
You are not allowed to drag drafts in future!
Ah, there it was. The scolding that doubled as affection. Naruto could almost hear her voice through the screen: sharp, exasperated, and yet suspiciously gentle around the edges.
Another message pinged.
My lovely Shizune:
... I told my brother two days ago that I will not be going for matchmaking in future.
Naruto blinked at the message. His heart gave an odd little jump, like a frog startled off a lily pad. And then—
My lovely Shizune:
..... Where are you jerk? Listen to me finish first! I deduct one year's worth of draft fees!
But by then, it was already too late.
----------------------------
For Shizune, the rest of the morning had started ordinarily enough. She had just finished tidying her bookshelf (alphabetical, by genre, by mood) and was heading to the kitchen to reheat last night's miso soup when she heard it—the delicate, unmistakable ding-ding of her front doorbell.
It rang once, politely. Then twice, more insistently.
Raising an eyebrow, she padded to the door. The hallway outside was quiet save for the hum of cicadas and the low murmur of a distant radio. She reached for the handle, mildly suspicious and completely unprepared.
She opened the door.
And there he was.
Naruto Uzumaki, wearing slippers. Not just any slippers—his slippers. The ones with the mismatched frog and ramen bowl design. His grey coat flapped open over a badly buttoned shirt, and he was slightly out of breath as if he'd sprinted the entire way from his apartment on the other side of Konoha.
In one hand, he held a large bag stuffed with carefully packed lunchboxes, and in the other, a warm thermos flask whose lid he had managed to secure only halfway. His hair was windswept, his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes—those wide, sunlit eyes—were fixed on hers with a terrifying amount of sincerity.
And then he smiled.
It wasn't his usual idiotic grin—the one that usually came before forgetting a deadline or burning his breakfast. No, this smile was slow, earnest, and a little shy, like the last page of a long letter you weren't supposed to read but did anyway.
"I want to request for the editor," he said, voice low and earnest, "to personally accompany me for twenty-four hours to chase my drafts."
Shizune blinked. Her hand still rested on the doorframe. Her brain had shut down entirely.
He stepped forward—not into the apartment, but into her space, the invisible bubble between two people who had suddenly run out of reasons to pretend they weren't in love.
"The price…" he added, "is my draft fees. For a lifetime."
There was a pause.
Shizune opened her mouth. Closed it. She glanced at the bag. At the thermos. At the slippers. And then at him.
And slowly, impossibly, she smiled.
"Well," she said, brushing a stray hair from her face, "you'll still need to fix your punctuation."
Naruto beamed. "Deal."
------------------------
Somewhere far above the village, the wind stirred the leaves like pages of an unwritten story. And if anyone passing by heard laughter echoing from apartment 3C, they might have thought it was just another couple sharing lunch.
But you and I, dear reader, we know better.
We know it was the moment a story turned from comedy to romance…
With a touch of breakfast and a lifetime of deadlines.