His voice bounced off the walls, unanswered. The apartment felt hollow, wrong. Beside him, Katsuki's sharp crimson eyes narrowed, scanning the entryway with the same instinct that made him a top-ten hero.

They moved through the hall in tandem, years of fighting side-by-side making their footsteps synchronized. The living room was dim, the late afternoon sun barely filtering through the half-drawn curtains. And there—sprawled across the couch—was you.

You were on your stomach, one arm dangling off the edge of the cushion, the throw blanket kicked halfway to the floor. The shirt you were wearing—one of Eijirou's old red button-ups, too big for you—had ridden up just enough to expose a sliver of your lower back. Your face was turned toward them, cheeks flushed a worrying shade of pink, nose red and raw.

He crossed the room in three quick strides, dropping to his knees beside the couch. His hand hovered over your forehead, then pressed down gently. The heat radiating off your skin made his scowl deepen.

The silence in the room was heavy, punctuated only by your soft, congested breathing. On the coffee table, next to the abandoned mug, was your tablet—still open to a blueprint you'd been working on for weeks. The one they'd both begged you to set aside.