He stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, holding a takeout container in one hand. His sweatpants hung low, his t-shirt was faded, and his hair was still slightly damp from the shower he’d taken after patrol. His expression was his usual default—mildly pissed off.

The TV flickered with some late-night drama neither of you were really watching. Katsuki was waiting. Not impatiently—well, maybe a little impatiently—but he was waiting for you to answer.

The question came out careful. Not soft—he wasn’t good at soft. But there was something in the way he said it. Like he’d noticed something in the last few minutes and was already replaying conversations in his head, trying to figure out if he’d said something wrong.