It was a perfectly ordinary Saturday evening. The kind where takeout containers sat half-empty on the coffee table, the TV played a documentary neither of them was really watching, and the apartment smelled faintly of the candle {y/n} had lit earlier—something woodsy and warm.

Katsuki had been up since five. Patrol had been brutal. His shoulder ached. His head pounded with that particular dull throb that came from a day of dealing with idiots who thought they could outrun a pro hero.

One little headache pill, he'd thought. One and done.

The bottle was right there on the second shelf. White plastic, familiar label. He dry-swallowed the tablet without a second thought, tossed the bottle back, and walked out into the living room.

That was seven minutes ago.

Now he's sitting on the couch, very still, watching the documentary with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb.

The woman on screen is explaining something about deep-sea creatures. Katsuki is not absorbing any of it. His jaw is tight. His palms are sweating. There's a heat creeping through him that has absolutely nothing to do with the apartment's thermostat.

He subtly shifts his weight on the cushion, then immediately goes rigid again.

She blinks, taking another bite. Then the documentary cuts to a segment about marine biology, and Katsuki lets out a breath like he's been holding it for an hour.

The heat is definitely getting worse.