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Music plays from the old speaker beside your television, low enough to disappear beneath the overlapping voices of reporters.
The same footage has been running for nearly an hour. Smoke pours from the upper floors of an apartment building while emergency crews crowd the street below. The camera keeps cutting between shattered windows, ambulances, and the section of roof that collapsed shortly after the evacuation began.
Thirty-seven residents have been accounted for. Two firefighters were taken to the hospital. Three heroes sustained injuries, but none of the reporters will confirm which ones.
You sit forward when another explosion lights up the smoke. The camera jerks away, losing the building entirely while someone behind it starts shouting. By the time the picture stabilizes, a flash of blond has vanished through what remains of the entrance.
The reporter identifies Dynamight as though you could have mistaken him for anyone else.
He entered the building fourteen minutes ago.
You know because you have been watching the clock.
His agency hasn't released a statement. The emergency line posted an update asking people to remain clear of the area, and the news station keeps replaying the same twenty seconds of footage because no one has anything new to report.
You reach for your phone again.
The last message you sent Katsuki is still sitting beneath his response from that morning.
You: You left your charger again.
Katsuki: Got another one.
You: Then why do you keep using mine?
Katsuki: Because yours is there.
That had been seven hours ago.
You open your conversation and begin typing.
You: Are you okay?
You stare at the words, then erase them.
He is inside a burning building. If his phone is even with him, he doesn't need you distracting him. His agency will contact his family if something happens, not you.
You have no official place in his life.
No matter how many nights he spends on your couch or how many mornings you wake to find him using your kitchen, there is nothing you could say if someone asked what the two of you are. Friends doesn't cover it anymore. Neither does whatever answer Katsuki would give while glaring at the person who asked.
Another ten minutes pass.
Then twenty.
The station cuts to commercial, and you lower the volume before an overly cheerful advertisement can fill the apartment. The quiet makes the ache beneath your ribs worse, so you turn it back up when the broadcast returns.
The smoke has thinned enough for the camera to catch movement near the entrance.
A firefighter emerges first. Two heroes follow with a stretcher between them. The reporter starts talking faster, but you barely hear her.
Katsuki comes out behind them.
His mask is gone. Half of his right sleeve has been burned away, and soot covers his face and hair. He turns back toward the building as though he intends to go inside again, but another hero catches him by the shoulder.
The relief hurts almost as much as the waiting did.
You close your eyes and press the heel of your hand against them.
He is alive.
You tell yourself that should be enough.
It isn't.
The live coverage continues while paramedics examine the heroes who made it out. Katsuki remains visible near the edge of the emergency vehicles, arguing with someone while a medic wraps his forearm. Blood runs from a cut near his hairline, and every few minutes he looks back at the building.
Eventually, the station loses sight of him.
The reporter says Dynamight has been taken from the scene for medical evaluation, but she doesn't say where. His agency still hasn't released anything. The broadcast returns to the same footage of him emerging through the smoke, now marked as recorded earlier.
You keep watching anyway.
Nearly forty minutes pass before your phone vibrates on the couch beside you.
Katsuki: I'm fine.
Katsuki: Stop staring at the damn news.
You read the messages twice.
Of course he knows.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard.
You: Didn't ask.
You: But no hospital?
The typing bubble appears, disappears, then returns.
Katsuki: No hospital.
Katsuki: Burns. Nothing new.
Behind the messages, the television replays the footage of a paramedic wrapping his arm. The banner beneath it confirms he was evaluated at the scene and released to his agency.
You: Come over.
You: I made food.
His answer doesn't come.
You watch the typing bubble appear once before vanishing. Several minutes pass without it returning.
Katsuki: Go to bed.
You glance at the clock on the wall. It isn't even nine.
You: It's 8:47.
Katsuki: Then find something else to do.
You: I am.
You: I'm waiting for you.
That message sits between you longer than the others.
You consider taking it back, but Katsuki has already read it. There is no way to make it sound less honest now.
Katsuki: Ten.
You're moving before you put the phone down.
The pasta you made earlier is still in the refrigerator. You set the container on the counter to reheat when he arrives, then pour a glass of cold mugicha and leave it beside his usual place on the couch. His charger is still plugged into the wall there, the gray blanket folded over the cushion.
On your way to the bathroom, you catch your reflection in the mirror hanging near the hallway.
You look exactly as you would expect after spending the day at home—comfortable clothes, no effort made with your hair, nothing you would have chosen if you had known Katsuki was coming over.
He probably won't care what you look like after the night he's had.
You care.
You hurry to the bathroom, wash your face, and fix your hair. In the bedroom, you change into a clean shirt—the one you caught him looking at the last time you wore it, even though he denied staring when you called him on it.
The effort feels a little ridiculous when he is arriving bruised and bandaged, but knowing that doesn't stop you from checking yourself once more.
When you return to the living room, the news is replaying his rescue again. This time, the footage catches the moment he stumbles after emerging from the building.
You turn it off.
The apartment loses the sirens and shouting, leaving only the music from the speaker.
You straighten the blanket, check the pasta, and look at your phone.
Nine minutes.
Then ten.
When the clock changes again, you are already standing.
The knock comes halfway through the eleventh minute.
"Oi."
You open the door before he can knock again.
Katsuki is leaning against the frame with his left hand tucked into his pocket. He has showered at the agency, although the ends of his hair are still damp. Clean clothes cover most of the damage, but white bandaging shows beneath the collar of his shirt and wraps around his right forearm.
The bruising beneath his eyes might be exhaustion. The discoloration spreading along the side of his face isn't.
For the past hour, you have imagined what you would do when you saw him. None of those versions included standing in the doorway unable to touch him.
His gaze moves over your face.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Bullshit."
You look at the bandages on his arm. "I wasn't sure where you were hurt."
Katsuki's expression changes. He opens his left arm to you.
That is all the permission you need.
You barely have time to reach for him before Katsuki hooks his left arm around your waist and pulls you against him. His hold is firm, leaving no space between your bodies. He lowers his face into your hair and breathes you in while your hands bunch in the back of his shirt.
Your cheek rests over his heart. It is beating faster than you expected, and his arm tightens around your waist. Neither of you says anything about it.
"You're late," you mumble against his chest.
"By one minute."
"You said ten."
"It's been eleven."
"Exactly."
His breath moves through your hair, but his arm remains locked around your waist. "You gonna keep arguing with me in the hallway?"
"Maybe."
"Let's get inside."
He says it without releasing you.
Katsuki finally loosens his hold enough to step inside, his hand sliding from your waist as you close the door behind him.
He toes off his shoes without untying them. When he straightens, he keeps his right arm close to his body.
"How bad is it?"
"Medic handled it."
It isn't an answer, but he is already walking toward the couch. His pace is slower than usual. When he reaches it, he angles his injured side away from the furniture and grips the armrest as he lowers himself onto the cushion.
You let him avoid the question for now. You'll see the damage yourself soon enough.
His refusal to explain should irritate you. Instead, the news footage runs through your mind again: smoke covering the entrance, the roof coming down, Katsuki stumbling once he made it outside.
"The report said three heroes went to the hospital."
"Wasn't one of them." He leans back and closes his eyes. "The medic checked me. The cut looked worse than it was."
You retrieve the mugicha waiting on the side table and hold it out. Katsuki opens his eyes long enough to accept it with his left hand.
He drinks while you remain in front of him, watching for anything else he might be hiding.
Katsuki lowers the glass. "You don't have to keep checking."
"I know."
His eyes move over your face. "I'm here."
The words soften something inside you, but not enough to make you stop worrying. "And you haven't eaten."
You turn toward the kitchen, noticing how carefully he keeps his right arm against his side.
"It's pasta," you tell him as you take the container from the refrigerator.
"Cold?"
"Not after I reheat it."
"You eat like a college student."
"You think protein bars count as dinner."
A quiet huff comes from the couch. You put the container into the microwave and turn back while it heats.
Katsuki is resting against the cushions with his eyes closed. The glass of mugicha sits loosely in his left hand, supported against his thigh.
Months ago, you found him asleep in nearly the same position after a night patrol. He had insisted he only needed to sit down for five minutes, his hero suit pulled to his waist and his hair still damp from the agency showers.
When you returned from the kitchen, his head had fallen against the cushion and the usual tension had left his face. You covered him with the gray blanket and sat beside him, intending to stay only until you were certain he was comfortable.
Katsuki shifted toward you in his sleep until his head rested against your shoulder. You waited until a small snore confirmed he was completely out, then carefully guided him down with his head in your lap.
He didn't wake when you ran your fingers through his hair. He only turned toward you and made himself more comfortable beneath the blanket.
You stayed there until your leg went numb.
The next morning, Katsuki denied snoring while eating the breakfast you made him.
He came back two nights later and took the same place beside you.
The microwave beeps. Katsuki opens his eyes immediately, though exhaustion still weighs on his face.
You carry the pasta into the living room and offer him the bowl. "Careful. It's hot."
He takes it with his left hand. "Thanks."
You sit beside him while he eats, watching some of the tension leave his body after the first few bites.
"You don't have to stay up every time something happens," he says.
"That's what friends do."
His fork pauses above the pasta.
Friends.
The word sounds inadequate as soon as you say it. Katsuki's expression reveals nothing, but he heard it too.
His eyes move toward the blank television screen. "How long were you watching?"
"Since they first reported the explosion."
His chewing slows. "That was hours ago."
"I know."
He looks at you, then at the glass and food you left waiting for him. "You stayed here the whole time?"
"They lost sight of you after you went inside."
Katsuki sets the fork against the edge of the bowl. "We lost communications."
"For how long?"
"Twelve minutes."
You watched the entrance for twenty-three before anyone confirmed he was alive.
"What happened?"
"Part of the upper floor came down and blocked the western stairs. We lost communications after the second blast."
The news never mentioned another explosion. Your fingers curl into your palms. "Were people still inside?"
"A father and his two kids." Katsuki sets the bowl against his thigh. "Couldn't get them back to the stairs, so I made another exit through the eastern wall."
Of course he did.
"Is that how you hurt your shoulder?"
"Concrete caught me when the ceiling came down."
You look at the bandages beneath his sleeve. "And you still didn't go to the hospital?"
"The medic scanned me at the agency. Nothing internal, no concussion. They cleaned the burn and wrapped my shoulder."
He takes another bite, but his breathing catches when he adjusts his right arm.
"They wanted to keep you for observation."
"As a precaution."
"Which you ignored."
Katsuki looks at you for a moment. The frustration you expect never comes.
"This isn't only about the hospital, is it?" he asks.
You look down at your hands. "No one knew where you were."
"The agency knew I was inside."
"They didn't know whether you were alive." Your fingers close together in your lap. "And even if they did, I had no one I could ask."
Katsuki places the bowl on the side table.
"I couldn't call your agency and demand answers," you continue. "What would I tell them? That I'm the person whose apartment you sleep at sometimes? That I keep your tea in my cabinet?"
He turns toward you. "What are you asking me?"
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
The answer is simple. Admitting it isn't.
You want him to call you. You want someone at his agency to know that if Katsuki is injured, you should be told. You want to sit beside him at the hospital without wondering whether his parents or friends will ask why you are there. You want the right to worry without feeling as though you are asking for something that doesn't belong to you.
You want something neither of you has named.
Katsuki waits without pushing, his knee still resting against yours.
"I don't know what I'm allowed to ask from you," you finally say.
His brow draws together. "What does that mean?"
"It means..." Your voice catches, and you have to start again. "I'm not your partner. Not officially."
Katsuki goes completely still.
His eyes widen slightly, and his lips part as if an answer had been there but disappeared when he heard you. For once, Katsuki has nothing to say.
The silence makes your stomach turn.
"I know we've never talked about it," you continue, looking down at your hands. "Maybe there isn't anything to talk about. Maybe I've made it into more than it is."
His brow draws together, but you keep going before you lose the nerve.
"You come here after difficult patrols. You leave things in my apartment, and I spend Tuesdays at yours. I know what you drink and what food you'll eat when you're too tired to cook. I know which side of you hurts before you tell me."
Your fingers twist together in your lap.
"And none of that has to mean anything. I know that. Friends can take care of each other, and you've never promised me something different."
Katsuki turns toward you fully, but you can't make yourself look at him.
"But it feels different to me," you admit. "It has for a while."
The words leave you exposed in a way saying I was worried never could.
"Tonight, I kept thinking that if something happened to you, I wouldn't have the right to ask anyone where you were. I wouldn't know if you were hurt or whether you were coming home. I would have to sit here and wait because whatever this is between us doesn't have a name."
You force yourself to look at him.
Katsuki is staring at you as though he can't quite believe what he is hearing. The surprise on his face makes your nerves worse.
"I'm not asking you to call it something because I'm upset," you say quickly. "And I don't want to assume you feel the same way. If this has only ever been friendship to you, then I'll deal with that. I just can't keep pretending that's all it is to me."
Katsuki's left hand moves from his thigh and covers your restless fingers.
"You thought this was only friendship to me?"
There is no anger in the question. He sounds genuinely stunned.
"I didn't know what else I was allowed to think."
His fingers close around yours.
"Look at me."
You already are, but only barely.
Katsuki searches your face, still trying to understand how both of you could have lived inside the same routines and reached such different conclusions.
"You really thought I didn't want you?"
"I didn't know."
Your voice trembles, but you don't look away.
"You never said anything, and I was afraid to ask. If I was wrong, I could lose what we already had." Your fingers tighten around his. "I didn't want to lose you just because I wanted more."
Katsuki stares at you. The surprise on his face gives way to something more difficult to read.
"You weren't going to lose me."
"How was I supposed to know that?"
His thumb moves across your knuckles.
Music continues quietly from the speaker, but neither of you pays attention to it.
"Because I'm here," he says. "I keep coming back here."
He looks down at your joined hands. "After patrol, I could go home. Most nights, I come here."
You wait while he works through what he wants to say.
"When something pisses me off, you're the first person I want to tell. If I'm working late, I think about whether you ate. I keep that shitty creamer in my refrigerator because I expect you to be there."
His thumb passes over your knuckles.
"I don't do any of that with my other friends."
He looks at you again.
"So, yeah. I thought you knew."
A disbelieving laugh slips out of you. "You really bought my creamer?"
Katsuki stares at you with his familiar frown. "That's what you got from all that?"
"No." Your fingers tighten around his. "I just didn't know you wanted me at your place when you weren't there."
"I gave you a key."
"You said it was for emergencies."
"Then you started coming over on Tuesdays." His eyes stay on yours. "I never told you to stop."
"That isn't the same as telling me you wanted me there."
"I thought it was."
You release a small breath, caught somewhere between a laugh and everything else pressing against your ribs. "You could have used actual words."
"I'm using them now."
His hand tightens around yours.
"I gave you the key because I wanted you there. I come here because I want to be with you." He pauses, but he doesn't look away. "And I'm not walking away because you finally admitted you want the same thing."
Katsuki releases your hand and lifts his left arm, making room for you against his uninjured side.
You shift closer. He brings his arm around your shoulders, his hand resting against your upper arm.
"I wait for Tuesdays," you admit.
His fingers curl gently around your arm.
"I make extra coffee after your night patrols because I never know whether you'll come here first. I keep food you like in the freezer, and your tea has its own shelf because you complained that mine smelled like cinnamon." Your mouth curves despite your nerves. "Every time I hear someone in the hallway, part of me hopes it's you."
Katsuki watches you without interrupting.
"I like seeing your boots by the door. I like waking up and realizing you stayed. Even when you steal the blanket and blame me when your neck hurts."
"Your couch is shit."
"You keep coming back."
"Yeah." His arm draws you closer against his side. "I do."
You lift your hand and cup his cheek. Katsuki leans into your palm, and his left hand comes up to cover yours, holding it against his face.
"I don't want to lose any of that," you say. "But I don't want to keep pretending it's enough either."
"Good."
The answer comes so quickly that you stare at him.
His thumb moves across the back of your hand. "Because I'm not giving any of it up."
"What are you saying?"
"That I want the mornings. Tuesdays. Your terrible food."
A quiet laugh escapes you despite your nerves. "You ate all of that pasta."
"Didn't say I wouldn't eat it."
Your smile lingers as his expression softens again.
"I want you there when I get home," he continues, "and I want to be the person you're waiting for when I come here."
His hand remains over yours, keeping your palm against his cheek.
"Tell me what you want," he says.
Your heart beats hard, but you no longer feel as though you are stepping into this alone.
Both of you have spent months finding practical reasons to avoid this conversation. Tonight, you watched a building collapse around him.
You don't want to avoid it anymore.
"I love you."
Katsuki goes still. His fingers tighten around yours, and he closes his eyes as his forehead comes to rest against yours.
When he opens them again, he stays close. His voice is quieter when he asks, "You sure?"
"Yes."
"You're not saying it because of tonight?"
"Tonight made me say it." Your thumb moves gently across his cheek. "But I loved you before tonight."
His left hand releases yours and moves to the back of your neck. When his eyes meet yours again, the intensity in them leaves no question about how badly he wants you.
Katsuki leans forward until his breath brushes your lips. He stays there, close enough to kiss you but waiting until you lean toward him too.
"Say it again."
"I love you."
His eyes move to your mouth.
"C'mere."
Katsuki closes the remaining distance.
His mouth meets yours softly at first, the kiss almost hesitant despite the hand holding you close. You answer by tightening your fingers in his shirt and leaning into him.
That is all it takes.
He kisses you again with more urgency, his fingers pressing into the back of your neck as his mouth moves against yours. You turn toward him until you are pressed against his uninjured side, one hand still gripping his shirt while the other slides into his hair.
His heart beats hard beneath your palm, bringing back every minute you spent watching the building and wondering whether you would ever hold him like this. The fear is still there, but Katsuki draws you closer, answering the relief you can't put into words.
The kiss deepens as you hold each other closer, neither of you willing to end it first. You only separate when you both need to breathe.
Even then, Katsuki only lets you go far enough to draw breath. His forehead rests against yours, his fingers still buried in your hair while your hand remains curled in his shirt.
His thumb passes beneath your eye, catching the tear you hadn't noticed falling.
"Don't cry."
You lean into his palm, your fingers still curled in the front of his shirt.
Katsuki looks at you for a long moment. His thumb moves across your cheek once more.
"I love you too."
Your breath catches.
You had seen it in the key to his apartment, the creamer in his refrigerator, and every night he chose your couch instead of his own bed. But hearing him say it is different.
The fear and uncertainty you have carried for months finally begin to loosen. A small, disbelieving laugh leaves you as another tear slips down your cheek.
Katsuki wipes it away before leaning in and pressing a kiss beneath your eye.
You hold him closer, overwhelmed by the simple fact that he loves you and has finally given you the words.
His mouth returns to yours. This kiss is softer, his hand remaining against your face while your fingers slide into his hair. Neither of you is trying to confess anything now.
You are only letting yourselves have it.
When Katsuki tries to shift closer, his breath catches and he goes still.
You pull back enough to look at him. "Let me see your arm."
"It's fine."
"Katsuki."
He watches you for a moment, then gives a small nod.
You retrieve the first-aid kit from the bathroom. When you return, the bowl on the side table is empty.
"You finished it?"
"Was hungry."
You kneel in front of him and place the kit beside you. "I need to see the bandages."
Katsuki reaches for the hem of his shirt with his left hand. The fabric catches around his injured shoulder, drawing a strained breath through his teeth.
You touch his wrist. "Let me."
This time, he doesn't argue.
You lift the shirt carefully, working it over his head without pulling against his right arm. Katsuki remains still until you free the fabric and set it aside.
Gauze covers part of his shoulder, and bruising spreads along his ribs. The sight of it takes some of the warmth from your face.
"The scan was clean," he reminds you. "Nothing internal."
"It still hurts."
His eyes remain on yours. "Yeah."
You open the kit and begin loosening the bandage around his forearm. When the adhesive pulls near the burn, his leg tenses beside you.
You stop. "Sorry."
His left hand covers yours briefly. "It's okay. Keep going."
You support his wrist and remove the rest of the dressing with greater care. The burn stretches across the outside of his forearm, red beneath the ointment.
Katsuki sees the change in your face. "Looks worse than it is."
"You don't have to make it sound smaller for me."
"I'm not." His fingers shift against your palm. "Hurts like hell."
You look up at him.
"You wanted honesty," he reminds you.
You begin cleaning the skin around the burn.
"When the radios went out, I knew you'd be watching," he says.
Your hands pause.
Katsuki keeps his eyes on his arm. "I kept thinking about you sitting here with the news on, not knowing what was happening."
"You thought about me while you were trapped?"
He looks at you as though the answer should be obvious. "Course I did."
You spread fresh ointment over the burn and begin wrapping clean gauze around his arm.
"You told me you were cooking this morning," he continues. "Kept thinking about getting back here and finding out what you made."
Your mouth curves. "It was only pasta."
"Still came back for it."
You secure the gauze and run your thumb gently over the inside of his wrist.
"I'm glad you did."
Katsuki's left hand moves into your hair, brushing it back from your face.
"I wanted to come here."
The words are simple, but you understand what he is giving you.
You turn your face and press a kiss to the inside of his wrist. His fingers curl gently into your hair.
"C'mere."
He guides you back onto the couch beside him. You move against his uninjured side, and his left arm wraps around you while you rest your head against his chest.
The song ends. Another begins, but neither of you pays attention to it.
After several quiet minutes, you lift your head. "Are you going to regret this tomorrow?"
"No."
His answer comes without hesitation.
"Tonight was intense."
"I know." His arm tightens around you. "Answer's still no."
You search his face.
"My shit's here. Yours is at my place. You have a key, and I wait for you every Tuesday." His thumb moves along your arm. "This didn't start tonight."
"It feels like we changed everything."
"Didn't change anything." Katsuki looks down at you. "You're still here. I'm still here. We finally stopped pretending this was only friendship."
You rest your head against him again, listening to his heartbeat beneath your ear.
"About damn time," he adds.
You place your hand over his heart. "You still haven't actually asked me."
Katsuki looks down at you. "Thought we covered that."
"You told me you loved me."
"Yeah."
"That isn't the same as asking."
He watches you long enough for your nerves to return. Then his hand moves up your back and holds you closer.
"Will you be mine?"
A wide smile spreads across your face. "Yes
His mouth curves. "Good."
You lean up and kiss him, smiling against his lips when he kisses you back.
His phone vibrates in his pocket. Katsuki removes it with his left hand, silences the call without checking the screen, and places it on the side table.
"Your agency?"
"Yeah."
"What if they need you?"
"They know I'm alive." He reaches for the gray blanket. "The rest can wait."
You help him pull it over both of you and return your head to his chest.
"You should sleep in the bed."
"Not moving."
"You'll regret that tomorrow."
"Worth it."
You lift your head, but his eyes are already closed. His arm remains around you, keeping you tucked against him.
"You're tired," he murmurs.
"You're the one who ran into a burning building."
"And you're falling asleep."
"I was worried."
His thumb moves along your arm. "I know."
"I'm still worried."
Katsuki presses his mouth to your hair. "I'm here."
You tuck your face against his neck as your eyes begin to close.
"I love you," you murmur.
His arm tightens around you. "Love you too."
You smile against his skin.
The last thing you feel is his thumb moving along your arm.
🌸˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧🩷˚⋆
Katsuki waits until your breathing deepens before resting his head against the back of the couch.
His shoulder hurts. His ribs hurt. Adjusting his position would disturb you, and he isn't willing to do that yet.
His phone vibrates on the side table.
He ignores it.
You shift at the sound, your fingers curling against his side. Katsuki presses his palm against your back.
"Sleep."
You relax almost immediately.
He still isn't used to being trusted that easily.
His eyes move toward the blank television screen. Hours earlier, every station in the city had been showing the building while he was still trapped inside it.
Communications failed after the second explosion. The western stairwell collapsed, and dust filled his mouth and lungs while a slab of concrete pinned his right shoulder.
One of the children was screaming for her mother. Katsuki could barely hear her through the ringing in his ears and his damaged earpiece. He found her beneath a desk with her brother, both of them covered in dust but alive. Their father was several feet away, trying to move debris off his leg.
Katsuki forced himself onto his knees. His right arm wouldn't support his weight, and every breath sent pain through his ribs. The remaining section of ceiling wouldn't hold long enough for anyone outside to reach them.
He remembers thinking that you would be watching.
Not his ranking. Not the agency or the reporters waiting outside. You, sitting on this couch with your phone in your hand, unable to find out whether he was alive.
The thought got him back on his feet.
He used his left hand to blast through the eastern wall, controlling the force as much as he could with smoke in his lungs and one arm refusing to cooperate. He cleared enough of the opening for the children to crawl through before helping their father.
By the time Katsuki followed them out, part of the roof was coming down behind him.
The agency medic examined him as soon as he returned. Katsuki endured the scan, the burn treatment, and the argument about observation before showering and changing into the spare clothes kept in his office.
His first message was to you.
He contacted his parents afterward.
At the time, he didn't stop to consider why.
He doesn't need to now.
His charger is plugged into the wall beside him, his tea has a place in your cabinet, and the blanket covering both of you is the one you bought after he complained about the old one.
At his apartment, your shampoo sits beside his and your clothes occupy a drawer neither of you ever discussed.
None of it happened by accident. He gave you a key because he wanted you there, then spent every Tuesday waiting to hear it turn in the lock.
Friends.
What a stupid fucking word for it.
His phone vibrates again.
Katsuki reaches for it without disturbing you. His manager has sent three messages.
Need your official statement by 0600.
Medical wants confirmation you're being monitored tonight.
Bakugo, answer your phone.
Katsuki types with his left thumb.
I'm being monitored.
The response comes almost immediately.
By a licensed professional?
He looks down at you. Your cheek rests against his chest, and one of your legs has slipped from beneath the blanket.
Close enough.
He silences the phone and places it face down on the table.
Tomorrow, he will have to give his statement, complete the incident reports, and listen to an agency physician lecture him about leaving. Reporters will replay the collapse and ask what went through his mind when the building came down.
He already knows he won't tell them.
That belongs here.
His apartment is twenty minutes away, and the uniform he needs in the morning is hanging in his bedroom. He'll have to leave before sunrise.
Rather than wake you, Katsuki carefully lowers himself along the couch. He keeps his right shoulder still and uses his left arm to bring you with him.
You stir as you come to rest on top of him, your weight angled across his uninjured side and your cheek over his heart. Katsuki adjusts the blanket around both of you before wrapping his left arm securely around your waist.
"Stay," you mumble without opening your eyes.
He draws you closer until there is no space left between you.
"Wasn't planning on leaving."
You relax against him again, and Katsuki sinks deeper into the cushions with you held against his chest.
Everything else can wait until tomorrow.
The End