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Minato Namikaze didn’t feel like teleporting home right away. After leaving the Konoha hospital, he walked instead—every step heavy—down the quiet streets.
It was late at night, the sky gloomy and starless. The village was hushed: lights dim, streets empty, the wind carrying only the faint rustle of leaves. Normally, Minato found peace in that stillness. But tonight, it pressed down on him like a boulder.
His body wasn’t injured. His chakra was mostly intact. But his spirit… that was another matter entirely.
The mission had been short and relatively simple by jonin standards—infiltration into Kirigakure and recovery of stolen code scrolls. But the compound had been massive, so for efficiency and to lower the risk of discovery, the Third Hokage had delegated the job to three squads. Minato had led his squad in finding their assigned scrolls and teleported them out of the compound, then teleported back to check on the other two. But the third squad had been discovered by Kiri ninjas. By the time he arrived, one chunin had already lost an arm. Minato had then cleared all the enemies and teleported all three squads—nine people—back to the hospital.
Should he have checked on all squads before teleporting anyone out?
What could he have done to get all of them out unharmed?
Was the mission’s success worth its price?
The questions gnawed at him, brutal and relentless.
Minato barely noticed where his feet were taking him until the familiar glow of a small apartment window caught his eye—their apartment.
Something warm flickered in his chest.
Kushina.
Before he registered it, he stood at the door. His hand hovered over the knob, fingers trembling slightly.
He didn’t want her to see him like this—bloodshot eyes, puffy lids, weighed down by a sense of failure and overwhelming guilt.
He wasn’t sure he could hide any of it from her.
When he finally pushed open the door, the smell of food washed over him—miso, green onions, pork. But above all, it was the sound of her humming drifting from the kitchen that made his footsteps feel lighter. Soft, melodic, effortlessly bright, like wind chimes in the summer breeze.
“Minato!” Kushina called the moment she heard the door close, rushing toward him with a soup ladle still in hand.
“Thank goodness you’re okay,” she breathed, hand pressed to her chest. “I know you’re strong and this mission was standard and you told me not to worry, but I still get nervous, especially when you come back later than usual—”
She stopped abruptly, her relieved smile faltering.
“Minato? Are you okay? You must be exhausted. Wait—were you crying? What happened? No, don’t answer yet, sit down first, I made ramen… Actually—hang on, let me see your face—”
She reached up and cupped his cheek, her fiery red hair swaying as she leaned in. Slowly, Minato raised his hand to cover hers, melting into her touch. Her palm was hot from cooking; her cheeks were flushed; faint sweat glittered across her forehead. The sight of her—so lively and radiant—made his heart ache.
“Did something happen?” Kushina asked, eyes searching his.
He opened his mouth—but nothing came out. He couldn’t drag battlefield horrors into this cozy little home. Couldn’t burden her with images that still haunted him. His hand fell back to his side.
But silence only deepened the worry in her eyes.
Kushina’s gaze dropped. She pulled her hand back, fiddling nervously with her apron. “Umm… maybe you want to rest first? I—I shouldn’t have asked. I’m being intense and annoying again—ugh, I talk too much, don’t I? You’re probably blaming yourself for something you shouldn’t and I just thought maybe you’d feel better if you tel—”
“No,” Minato said, voice low and hoarse and sounding harsh. Not what he meant at all.
Her eyes snapped up, wide with concern.
He cleared his throat. “No,” he repeated gently, mentally kicking himself for startling her. “You’re never annoying, Kushina. Please don’t say that.”
She looked ready to argue, but Minato shook his head and stepped forward. He rested his forehead gently against hers, shoulders sagging as tension finally began to drain away.
For a long moment, he just stood there, breathing her in—the scent of ramen spices and her shampoo, the warmth radiating from her skin. Her arms came around him, steady and grounding. He let himself sink into the comfort of her heartbeat.
“Kushina,” he murmured, pressing his face into her hair. “Your voice is the one thing that never exhausts me.”
Kushina’s breath caught. “Oh… that’s great to hear.” Her arms tightened around him. “Minato, you don’t have to shoulder everything alone. I’m here. You can tell me anything. Or nothing. Just… let me stay with you. No need to pretend you’re fine when you’re not, okay?”
Minato flinched. He pulled back slightly, taking in her face—the girl who always knew when he was breaking, even when he hid it from everyone else. He nodded. “I know. Thank you.”
Shinobi. The word itself meant “one who endures.” Endure any pain. Swallow any sorrow.
He’d lived by that definition his entire life. Most of the time, he could compartmentalize his emotions—let the weight settle somewhere deep inside where it wouldn’t interfere with the next mission, the next responsibility, the next person depending on him. He would digest it all later, when he was alone. In front of others, he’d developed a habit of smiling and saying “I’m fine” until the words became a reflex. It was a survival mechanism.
But Kushina saw right through it. She always had.
They sat at the dining table, eating noodles in silence. The broth was still hot, filling the dining room with steam. Outside, the wind had picked up, brushing against the windows.
Kushina was still sneaking anxious glances at him.
He shouldn’t keep it all inside even if he could. He shouldn’t make her worry anymore.
Minato set down his chopsticks on his bowl with a soft clack and sighed.
“Do you remember Takumi-san?” he asked.
“Was he with you on this mission?”
“Yes, on Renho-san’s squad,” he said. “He… lost an arm.”
Kushina’s chopsticks stilled halfway to her mouth. She lowered them slowly.
“I brought out my squad first after we retrieved our scrolls,” Minato said. “Then I went to check on Wataru-san’s squad, then Renho-san’s, but it was too late…”
“But you got everyone out, right?” Kushina said softly. “You teleported everyone back to safety.”
“Maybe I should have checked on everyone first.”
“Then your own squad might have been discovered,” Kushina said. “You know that.”
Minato’s jaw tightened. She was right. Tactically, he’d made the correct call. But…
“I keep thinking…” He stared down at his bowl, watching steam curl upward. “Should I have used shadow clones to stay with every squad from the start?”
Kushina’s eyes widened slightly. “Is this… because of Obito and Rin?”
The names hung in the air between them.
Minato’s throat tightened. He nodded.
“I wasn’t there for either of them,” he said quietly. “I thought if I could just watch over everyone this time, if I could use what I learned…” He clenched his fist. “But the Third Hokage had rejected it before the mission. Said it was unnecessary for experienced jonin. Renho-san said it would be insulting, like I didn’t trust them to do their jobs.”
Kushina’s face crumpled. Tears spilled down her cheeks as her hand came up to cover her mouth. “Those kids…” Her voice broke. “They were so young, Minato. I—”
She couldn’t finish. Her shoulders shook.
Minato reached across the table and took her hand. His own vision blurred as Obito’s laughter echoed in his mind—loud and boisterous, filling this very room during one of their team dinners.
Kushina used to make extra servings every time, knowing Obito would ask for seconds. He’d always eaten too fast, choking while Rin patted his back and Kakashi rolled his eyes. He would complain about Kakashi being an arrogant bastard. Kushina would scold him, tell him to watch his mouth and grow up already, and Rin would laugh at their bickering.
When they’d finished, Rin would help Kushina with the dishes, the two of them chatting in the kitchen while the boys argued over trivial things in the living room. Then she’d come over and ask what Minato was reading, showing interest in knowledge beyond medical ninjutsu.
They’d felt like family. This apartment had been as much theirs as it was Minato and Kushina’s.
Now the table felt too large. Too quiet.
It had been almost a year since Rin’s death. Kakashi still went on missions—sometimes with Minato, sometimes leading a group of chunin as an independent jonin—but the light in his eyes had gone out completely. He never came over for dinner anymore. Whenever Minato tried to reach him, Kakashi would deflect with a polite “I’m fine, sensei” that felt like a wall going up between them. The only thing he could do was ward off ANBU operatives who invited Kakashi to join, warning them not to ask again.
Three students. He’d failed all three of them. The weight of it crushed down on Minato’s chest until he couldn’t breathe.
For a while, Minato and Kushina just sat there, grief flowing between them like a current.
He looked up to see tears still slipping down Kushina’s cheeks, and his chest tightened even more.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words scraping out of his throat. “I shouldn’t have told you. I shouldn’t have brought them up. You were happy tonight—you made dinner, you were humming, and I just…”
He trailed off, pulling his hand back slightly, but Kushina grabbed it.
“Stop,” she said, sniffling. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize for sharing this with me.”
“But I made you cry—”
“They were important to me too, Minato.” Her voice broke, but she held his gaze. “I loved those kids. I miss them every single day. And I’d rather cry with you than have you carry this alone.” She took a shaky breath, wiping her face with her free hand. “We’re allowed to be sad together. That’s what this is—being together. Okay?”
Minato’s vision blurred again. He nodded.
“I failed my students. I couldn’t prevent Takumi-san’s injury… Maybe I should have insisted harder to the Third about shadow clones. Or done it secretly anyway.”
Kushina wiped at her eyes again, but her voice came out firm. “You didn’t fail your students, Minato. You were needed elsewhere. I’m sure they would’ve understood.” She held his gaze steadily. “And what happened to Takumi… you can’t override the Hokage’s decisions. Doing it secretly? That would’ve undermined Renho’s authority as a squad leader. He’s jealous of your strength and reputation already. Having your shadow clone watch over his squad? I know where you’re coming from, but it sounds patronizing to others. I don’t think he would’ve appreciated it.”
“But he couldn’t protect them—”
“That’s hindsight,” Kushina interrupted. “You can’t protect people who won’t let you, Minato. It’s not your fault, or anyone’s really. Sometimes…” She swallowed hard. “Sometimes terrible things happen and there’s nothing anyone could have done.”
Minato sighed. “I’m sorry… I was lost today. Lost in all my doubts, all my regrets.”
“Stop second-guessing and being harsh on yourself, please,” Kushina said quietly, squeezing his hand. “You did everything you could and should. You always do and everyone knows that. But no one’s perfect. No one’s invincible. Don’t punish yourself for being human.”
Human…
His sensei called him “the child of prophecy.”
The Third entrusted him with mission after mission.
Comrades, students, even strangers looked up to him—the Yellow Flash of Konoha.
He tried so hard to protect everyone that he forgot he was human. But she never needed him to be anything else.
Minato lifted his gaze to look at the person he loved most in the world.
“Thank you, Kushina,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You remind me why I’m doing all these missions. You save me every time.”
Kushina smiled a little, eyes still wet. “You’re my boyfriend. Of course I’m here for you.”
Minato blinked as tears finally slid down his cheeks.
To come home to her.
To protect her smile.
This was why he fought.
This was why he held on.
And as long as she waited for him, he could keep walking forward.