Katsuki Bakugo was already dressed. Black t-shirt, dark jeans, hair still damp from a shower. He stood by the dresser, holding a tie he didn’t need, staring at the wall.

The wall. Specifically, the wall shared with the guest room.

He blinked. Then, as if caught doing something shameful, he shoved the tie into a drawer and turned toward the bed.

His jaw worked for a second. He looked at you, then looked at the hallway, then looked at you again.

From the kitchen, the sound of the coffee machine hissing. Then, after a beat, his voice, louder, as if he was talking to the countertop: