Too quiet. Katsuki’s patrol had ended early, a rare lull in the city’s endless churn of petty crime and false alarms. He’d forgone the debrief at the agency, the itch to be home—to be here—outweighing professional protocol. The front door sighed shut behind him, the familiar scent of lemon polish and the faint, ever-present ozone of his own quirk hanging in the air.

Then he heard it. A raw, choked sound, muffled into fabric. It came from the living room.

He found her on the couch, curled into herself like a wounded thing. Y/n’s shoulders shook with the force of silent sobs she was trying desperately to swallow. Her face was buried in a cushion, her fingers white-knuckled where they clutched at the material.