In Naruto, I Have an Affair with Mikoto and Kushina

She gave him a warning glance, but the faint color dusting her cheeks didn't go unnoticed.

Souta watched as Mikoto moved gracefully around the small kitchen, tying back the long sleeves of her kimono before reaching for the ingredients. There was a practiced ease in the way she handled everything—her hands skillfully measuring, chopping, stirring. Even in something as simple as cooking, she was composed.

But he wasn't going to let her stay that way for long.

Stepping forward, he came up behind her, close enough that she'd feel his presence before he even touched her. Mikoto stilled for the briefest second, her shoulders tensing before she continued cutting the vegetables in front of her.

"You're standing too close," she murmured, not looking back.

Souta smirked. "Am I?"

His breath tickled the nape of her neck, and this time, he saw her fingers falter just slightly. He reached up, gently brushing a strand of her hair away from her shoulder, tucking it back behind her ear.

"It's going to get in your face while you cook," he said smoothly, his fingertips lingering against her skin for just a second longer than necessary.

Mikoto exhaled sharply. "I can handle it myself."

"I know," he said, his voice low, steady. "But I like taking care of you."

There it was again—the hesitation, the slight tremble in her hands before she steadied herself. She was trying so hard to keep her distance, to maintain the line between them. But Souta could feel it… that line was already fading.

His hands slid lower, ghosting along her waist as he leaned in. "What are you making?"

She cleared her throat, trying to focus. "Something simple. Rice, miso soup, grilled fish."

"Mmm," he hummed, resting his chin on her shoulder for a brief moment. "Sounds good."

Mikoto turned her head slightly, and for a moment, their faces were too close—her lips just a breath away from his. Souta smirked, tilting his head as if daring her to pull away first.

Her cheeks warmed, and she quickly turned back to the food. "If you're going to be in here, at least make yourself useful."

Souta chuckled, finally stepping back. "Yes, ma'am."

But he didn't miss the way her breath had quickened. Or the way her hands were just a little less steady than before.

As Mikoto focused on the food in front of her, carefully adjusting the flame under the miso soup, she felt it—a gentle but deliberate touch at her waist. Souta's hands, warm and steady, rested lightly against her obi sash.

She stiffened. "Souta—"

Before she could protest further, his fingers slipped beneath the folds of her kimono, ghosting over the soft fabric of her inner layer. The heat of his palm met the smooth skin of her stomach, his touch slow, deliberate.

Her breath hitched. "W-What are you—"

Souta hummed lazily, his thumb tracing small circles over her bare skin. "Your tummy is really soft, Mikoto." His voice was low, teasing, like he was enjoying every little reaction from her.

Her entire body tensed, a deep flush creeping up her neck to her cheeks. "Y-You—"

She tried to find words, but her mind was blank. The sensation of his warm hand against her stomach, so unexpected, so intimate, made it impossible to think straight.

Souta chuckled softly, leaning in, his breath hot against her ear. "Are you always this sensitive?"

Mikoto gritted her teeth, grabbing his wrist in an attempt to pull his hand away, but he didn't budge. Not completely. Instead, he let his fingers brush along her skin one last time before finally retreating.

Her grip tightened on the kitchen counter, her face still burning. "You—You are insufferable."

Souta, of course, was watching her every move, enjoying the way she was clearly flustered but pretending otherwise.

"Still red," he mused, resting his chin on his hand as he watched her from the side.

Mikoto finished plating the food with carefully measured movements, her composure slipping back into place.

She turned, intending to leave the small kitchen and put distance between them. But the moment she stepped forward, Souta moved too.

Smooth. Effortless. Right into her path.

Mikoto blinked up at him, brows knitting together. "Move."

Souta smiled. Not the teasing smirk from before—something slower, heavier. "Say please."

She exhaled sharply, her irritation barely masking the warmth still lingering on her skin. "Souta."

He didn't budge.

Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his voice dipping lower. "I'll move… if you give me something first."

Mikoto felt it—the air between them growing charged again, the heat from before still simmering beneath the surface.

She narrowed her eyes. "I don't have time for this."

Souta tilted his head, pretending to think. "Then I guess you'll just have to stay right here with me."

Mikoto could have pushed past him. Could have used a fraction of her shinobi speed to slip away effortlessly. But she didn't.

Instead, she lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with something unreadable. "You want something?"

Souta nodded. "A kiss."

Her breath caught, but her expression didn't waver. "Absolutely not."

"Then I guess I'm not moving."

A standoff.

Mikoto felt her heartbeat against her ribs—too fast, too unsteady. He was too close, too sure of himself.

Souta just watched her, waiting. Not forcing, not demanding—just waiting.

Mikoto took a slow breath, her eyes never leaving his. Then, before she could think better of it, she moved.

Not a full kiss. Just a whisper of a touch—her lips barely brushing the corner of his mouth.

A fleeting second. Too fast.

Souta's smirk vanished.

Mikoto took advantage of his surprise, stepping past him in one smooth movement. "There. Now move."