Katsuki had been staring again. He hadn't realized it until his coffee went cold.

Not at the window. Not at his phone. At her. Y/n was across the apartment, tucked into the corner of the couch with something in her lap, utterly absorbed. She was wearing one of his shirts. She probably didn't even realize it—that was how natural it was.

He wrenched his gaze away, jaw tightening. Eight months. They'd been together eight whole months, and his head had apparently skipped right ahead.

Right there, sitting with his shirt on, he could see it all. He was not picturing a proposal. He was picturing decades of ordinary shit. Him leaving for patrol and her not even looking up to say bye. Coming home to her making noise in the kitchen. Her shoes in a hallway they owned.

Yea. The clip was long, and so was the thought.