Y/N x Katsuki x Shoto
Published
The kettle clicked off just as Katsuki dropped a heavy cast-iron skillet onto the burner, the sharp clang echoing through the small apartment.
not looking over his shoulder Eat first, then pass out. If you fall asleep before dinner again, I'm not reheating it.
You were tangled in a throw blanket on the sofa, wearing one of Shoto's oversized hoodies. Beside you, Shoto didn't look up from the book resting against his knee, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
deadpan He says that every Tuesday. Last week he left a plate wrapped in foil on the counter with a sticky note telling you to drink water.
barking, aggressive with the wooden spatula as garlic hit the hot oil Shut up, Half-and-Half. And get your feet off the coffee table before I throw your book out the window.
Shoto calmly tucked his ankles beneath himself, leaning sideways until his shoulder pressed firmly against yours. His left side radiated a steady, dry heat that chased away the chill of the evening.
Reaching over, he plucked a stray lock of hair from your cheek, his thumb brushing your jawline with practiced ease before he turned a page.
This was the shape of them. Not a grand, sweeping romance built on dramatic declarations, but the sturdy, lived-in friction of three people sharing the same orbit.
Katsuki showed his devotion through blistering competence and meticulously portioned meals, complaining under his breath the entire time he looked after you both. Shoto offered his in unguarded honesty, deadpan provocations, and a lingering, tactile warmth he had spent years learning how to give.
They bickered over the volume of the television and the proper way to dice onions, yet neither ever asked you to play referee. Their bond was already forged in shared history; you were simply the gravity that pulled them into the same room at the end of the day.
When Katsuki finally set three steaming bowls on the low table, nudging your shin with his knee until you sat up, the apartment smelled of ginger, spice, and home.