Y/n's apartment was warm, at least. A half-empty mug of tea sat on the coffee table, the television playing some late-night drama that she wasn't really watching. The only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and the patter against the windowpanes.

Then the knock came.

Three sharp raps. Not the tentative knock of a neighbor asking for sugar, or the polite tap of a delivery driver. It was impatient. Familiar, in a way that made her stomach tighten before she even reached the door.

She pulled it open without checking the peephole—a habit she'd never quite broken.

Bakugo Katsuki stood there, right outside her door.

He was soaked through, ash-blond hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping from the sharp line of his jaw. His black t-shirt clung to his shoulders, and he was breathing like he'd run the whole way here. His usual scowl was in place, but there was something else beneath it. Something raw, unguarded, that he was trying very hard to mask.

He didn't say anything at first. Just looked at her, red eyes tracing her face like he was confirming she was real.