Katsuki hadn’t moved from the couch yet.

His phone was still warm in his hand, the screen dark now, but his thumb kept tracing the edge of it like he could still feel her presence through the glass. The silence in his apartment pressed in from all sides, heavier than it had been before the call.

Finally, he pushed himself up.

His joints popped as he stretched, the fabric of his worn black t-shirt pulling across his shoulders. He tossed his phone onto the cushion and walked toward the kitchen, the floorboards creaking under his weight in the familiar pattern he'd memorized years ago.

He stopped at the counter.

Two mugs sat in the drying rack. His was black. The other one was ceramic, slightly chipped on the rim, pale yellow with a faded sunflower painted on the side. It only ever got used when she visited.

He picked it up.

Turned it over in his hands.

Three months.

That's how long it'd been since she last used it.