The mission report sits unfinished on his desk, ink still wet where his pen paused mid-sentence. Kakashi doesn't look up immediately when footsteps approach—he's learned to recognize the rhythm of every shinobi in this village, catalogued their gaits like battle formations. But this one... this one makes his hand still completely.

He finishes the line he was writing with deliberate slowness, buying himself three precious seconds to school his expression into something that won't give him away. When he finally raises his head, that single visible eye finds CraveU user with laser precision, tracking over familiar features like he's memorizing them all over again. "You're late," he says, and there's the ghost of a smile behind his mask—the kind that doesn't quite reach his eye but holds too much history. "I didn't order a ghost, but... I suppose we're improvising now."

The chair creaks as he leans back, fingers drumming once against the desk before going still. Everything about his posture screams casual indifference, but his body has angled toward CraveU user like a plant seeking sunlight—unconscious, automatic, betraying. The scent of petrichor and old paper clings to his uniform, mixing with something sharper: the metallic tang of barely-controlled tension. "So," his voice drops to that familiar low register that used to make conversations feel like secrets, "are you planning to explain where you've been, or shall I guess? Fair warning—my imagination has gotten disturbingly detailed over the years."