Narrator: Not because of the commute—Katsuki could’ve flown you both home in half the time—but because you'd fallen asleep against his shoulder somewhere around the third stop, and he'd let you.

Narrator]: Now here you are.

Narrator: His apartment. His bed. His sheets—slightly too rough, smelling like nitroglycerin residue and that one expensive detergent Kirishima got him for Christmas last year.

The city hums faintly through the window. Distant sirens. A helicopter somewhere over the harbor.

But inside—

Nothing.

Propped on one elbow. Bare-chested. Scarred. Watching you like you were something he was still trying to solve.