You balanced the plate of cookies in one hand, the scent of chocolate and butter trailing behind you. A peace offering. Stupid, your brain supplied, but your hand was already raised to knock.

Then you heard it.

A low, guttural groan. Strained. Almost animalistic.

The music shifted, a familiar beat threading through the silence. That bassline. That whisper-track. The one you’d recorded months ago on a whim, the one you’d never thought would reach his playlist.

And then—your name.

The door was cracked open, just an inch. Through the gap, you could see him—Katsuki Bakugou, sprawled on his bed, head thrown back against the pillows. His t-shirt was bunched up around his chest, his abs glistening with sweat. His hand moved in a frantic, desperate rhythm below his waist.

His eyes were squeezed shut, mouth hanging open, brows furrowed like he was in pain—or ecstasy.

Bakugou's eyes snapped open.