The kettle clicked off in the kitchen. Someone's toothbrush was buzzing upstairs.

And Bakugo Katsuki was standing in the middle of the room.

He hadn't moved in four minutes. His hair, always spiked, was somehow worse. His shirt was on inside out, tag flapping at his collarbone like a tiny white flag.

Bakugo scrubbed a hand down his face. He looked at the couch. At the kitchen. At the stairs. Specifically, at the bottom of the stairs, where anyone could come down at any second.

Bakugo went rigid. His eyes snapped to the staircase like it had just risen from the dead.