Chapter Text
Katsuki was three sentences into a post-mission debrief when the door to the conference room cracked open.
Not slammed.
Not barged through.
Cracked.
That alone was enough to put him on edge.
“Bakugou-san?”
He stopped mid-word. The room went quiet — screens still glowing, a junior analyst frozen halfway through typing.
“What,” Katsuki snapped, already irritated at the interruption.
The assistant swallowed. “Midoriya Izuku is at the front desk.”
The words didn’t land right away. They hung there, wrong and unreal, like a bad echo.
“…What.”
“He—uh,” she said, holding up a hand like this was somehow going to soften the blow, “he brought lunch?”
Silence.
Katsuki stared at her.
Lunch.
That… wasn’t how this usually went.
Normally, Katsuki was the one shoving his schedule around, timing patrol routes so he could swing by U.A., wolfing down whatever Izuku had packed while pretending he wasn’t looking forward to it all damn morning. Normally, he was the visitor. The anomaly.
Izuku didn’t just show up at hero agencies unannounced.
Something hot and nervous sparked in Katsuki’s chest.
“Out,” he barked, already standing. “All of you. Five minutes.”
Nobody argued. Chairs scraped back. Screens went dark. The room emptied fast — not because of his volume, but because every person here recognized that particular edge in his voice.
Private emergency.
The door shut.
Katsuki turned slowly and took stock of his office.
Too many files stacked on the desk.
Empty protein bar wrapper half-visible near the keyboard.
Coffee cup. Still warm.
“Shit.”
He moved on instinct, like this was a rescue site and time mattered.
Folders got shoved into drawers — not sorted, just gone. He wiped down the desk with his sleeve, grimaced, then grabbed a spare towel from a shelf and did it again properly. The jacket slung over his chair got hung up, then adjusted so it looked intentional.
He straightened.
Paused.
Turned back to the desk and shifted the chair so it faced the window just a little more.
Why was he doing this.
He caught his reflection in the glass — hair mussed from earlier, faint smudge of ash still near his collarbone.
Fixed the hair.
Scowled at himself.
Fixed it again anyway.
He didn’t need to do this. Izuku had seen him worse — bloody, exhausted, mouth full of smoke and apologies he never said out loud.
But this felt different.
This felt like being seen in a place that was his.
A knock sounded, softer this time.
Katsuki’s pulse spiked.
“—Come in,” he said, sharper than he meant to be. He cleared his throat. “…Yeah. Come in.”
The door slid open.
Izuku stepped inside with a neat bento bag cradled in both hands, staff jacket zipped up against the late-season chill, hair a little wind-tousled like he’d hurried.
He looked up and smiled.
Not the hero smile.
Not the teacher smile.
The one he only used with Katsuki — small, warm, like this was exactly where he’d wanted to be.
“I thought I’d surprise you.”
Katsuki just stared.
Office clean.
Brain on fire.
“Tch. You’re— you should’ve—”
He clamps down on it, clears his throat.
“…Hi.”
Izuku’s smile deepens, fond and knowing.
He stepped farther in, careful not to brush against anything, like he could sense how tightly wound the room still was.
“I wasn’t sure how busy you’d be,” he said, lifting the bento bag slightly. “If it’s a bad time, I can—”
“It’s not,” Katsuki cut in immediately.
Too fast.
He clicked his tongue, turned toward the window, and added like an afterthought, “Debrief’s done. You’re fine.”
Izuku’s shoulders relaxed at that, the tension easing out of him in a way Katsuki noticed and filed away without meaning to. He always noticed when Izuku relaxed around him. Like he was some kind of idiot reassurance anchor just by existing.
They sat at the small table near the window — the one Katsuki never used unless someone else was there. Izuku laid everything out neatly, containers aligned, napkins folded like he had all the time in the world.
Katsuki watched him do it. The way his hands moved, practiced and gentle. Scarred fingers, too, but quieter scars. Different kind.
“You didn’t have to come all the way out here,” Katsuki muttered, even as he leaned forward. “UA’s not exactly next door.”
Izuku glanced up, eyes bright. “I wanted to.”
That word hit harder than it should have.
Katsuki grunted and opened one of the containers, inhaled before he could stop himself. “Smells good.”
“I remembered you saying you were sick of convenience store garbage,” Izuku said. “So I—”
“It’s good,” Katsuki said again, firmer this time. Then, because he didn’t know what to do with the way Izuku’s smile widened, he shoved a bite into his mouth and chewed like his life depended on it.
They ate in relative quiet for a minute — the comfortable kind, where nothing pressed too hard. Katsuki finished one container, reached for another, then hesitated.
“…Mission went fine,” he said suddenly.
Izuku looked up immediately. “Yeah? I saw the report headline, but I haven’t read the full breakdown yet.”
Katsuki shrugged. “Nothing big.”
Which was a lie, and he knew Izuku would hear it.
“There were… trapped civilians. Building collapse risked a chain reaction.” He kept his voice flat, casual. “Could’ve leveled the whole block.”
Izuku stayed silent, listening.
Katsuki took another bite, went on, “Didn’t. Redirected force upward, stabilized the support beams. Evac team got everyone out before the last blast.”
He waited half a beat, then added, quieter, “No secondary damage.”
Izuku’s eyes softened.
“You adjusted your output,” he said. Not impressed — understanding.
“Tch. Obviously,” Katsuki snapped, but his shoulders eased like he’d been holding them tight all morning. “Didn’t want to— y’know. Overdo it.”
Izuku smiled into his own lunch. “I figured.”
Katsuki glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “You always ‘figure’ things.”
Izuku laughed softly.
Then, after a moment, he said it.
“You did really well.”
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just honest.
Katsuki felt it hit his chest like someone finally let him set something heavy down.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, glare fixed firmly on the table. “Took you long enough to say it.”
Izuku’s lips twitched.
Katsuki grabbed another container and dug in like this whole thing was no big deal, ears warm, pulse settling. He ate faster than necessary, like the praise might disappear if he didn’t anchor himself to something solid.
Izuku watched him with that quiet, fond patience that made Katsuki’s chest ache in places he didn’t have words for.
“…I like seeing you like this,” Izuku said after a moment.
“Like what,” Katsuki asked automatically.
“Sure of yourself,” Izuku said. “And still careful.”
Katsuki scoffed, but it came out softer than usual. “Don’t get used to it.”
Izuku just smiled, like he already was.
Katsuki was halfway through his next bite when Izuku’s gaze shifted — not away this time, but focused. Intent.
“What,” Katsuki asked, instinctively defensive.
Izuku hesitated a second, then reached out.
Katsuki froze.
Izuku’s thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, slow and careful, wiping away a stray grain of rice Katsuki hadn’t even noticed.
The touch was warm.
Close.
Domestic in a way that knocked the air clean out of Katsuki’s lungs.
“You had… there,” Izuku murmured, already pulling his hand back like he hadn’t just crossed a thousand invisible lines.
Katsuki swallowed.
His jaw flexed. “You could’ve said something.”
Izuku smiled — small, unapologetic. “I know.”
That did it.
Katsuki turned his head just enough to look at him fully, eyes sharp but not angry. There was something open there now, something vulnerable that hadn’t been minutes ago.
“…You’re getting bold,” he muttered.
Izuku met his gaze, steady and warm. “You don’t seem to mind.”
Katsuki huffed, leaned back in his chair, and went back to eating — slower this time, more aware of his mouth, of the space between them that felt suddenly electric.
“…Tch,” he said. “You’re distractin’.”
Izuku laughed quietly, entirely unrepentant.
The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward.
It was loaded.
Katsuki finished eating with more awareness than he’d ever brought to a meal in his life — every movement deliberate now, every breath just a little slower. He could still feel Izuku’s thumb at the corner of his mouth, like the memory of it had sunk into his skin.
When he stood to clear the containers, Izuku moved with him, reaching automatically for the empty boxes.
“Leave it,” Katsuki said. Not sharp. Just firm.
Izuku paused. Looked at him. “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Because if Izuku bent any closer right now, Katsuki wasn’t sure he’d keep his hands to himself.
They drifted toward the window instead — the tall one that overlooked the city, afternoon light turning the streets into something soft and unreal. From up here, everything looked quieter. Manageable.
Izuku leaned beside him, shoulder just brushing Katsuki’s arm.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Izuku did, voice low, sincere.
“You were careful out there,” he said. “You always are. I don’t think people realize how much thought you put into every choice.”
Katsuki scoffed half-heartedly. “They don’t need to.”
“I do,” Izuku replied.
That stopped him.
Katsuki turned his head, found Izuku already watching him — not shy, not uncertain. Steady. Intent.
Before Katsuki could think of something biting to say, Izuku stepped closer.
One hand came up, cupping Katsuki’s jaw — thumb warm against scarred skin.
Katsuki barely had time to register oh before Izuku leaned in and kissed him.
Slow.
Measured.
Confident in a way that made Katsuki’s brain stutter uselessly.
For half a second, Katsuki froze — more from shock than hesitation — and then instinct kicked in. His hand fisted in Izuku’s jacket, pulled him closer, mouth moving with rougher urgency while Izuku met him easily, grounding him without slowing him down.
It wasn’t frantic.
It was sure.
When they finally pulled apart, Katsuki rested his forehead against Izuku’s, breathing heavier than he wanted to admit.
“You did that on purpose,” he muttered.
Izuku smiled — small, fond, devastating.
“You like it.”
“…Yeah.”
The word came out rough. Honest.
Katsuki swallowed, voice dropping. “I don’t need the whole damn world praising me. Just you.”
Izuku’s thumb brushed his cheek, soft and reverent.
“Good. Because I intend to keep doing it.”