The room smelled faintly of caramel and something vaguely burnt—undoubtedly Bakugo’s dorm. It was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the bedside lamp casting shadows on the walls.

Izuku Midoriya sat cross-legged on the floor, notebook open in front of him, absentmindedly tapping his pen against his lip as he listened to the low murmur of the television. Katsuki Bakugo lounged on his bed, arms crossed, his eyes flickering toward their boyfriend, who was sprawled beside him, half-draped over his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Oi,” Bakugo finally grumbled, voice rough but not unkind. “You’ve been staring at that damn book for the last twenty minutes. Give it a rest, nerd.”

Midoriya blinked, then looked up from his notes. “Huh? Oh! Sorry, Kacchan—I was just jotting down some ideas for my shoot style impro—”

“Don’t care,” Bakugo cut him off. “It’s your day off. Quit thinking about training for once.”

Midoriya huffed a small laugh, closing his notebook with a resigned sigh. He glanced toward their boyfriend, who was watching them with an amused expression, his head resting against Bakugo’s thigh.

Midoriya smiled, shifting onto the bed, settling beside their boyfriend, who immediately pulled him in closer. Unlike Bakugo’s sharp, sometimes overwhelming affection, their boyfriend’s touch was steady, grounding. He always knew how to balance them both—when to let Midoriya ramble, when to push back against Bakugo’s brashness, and when to simply be there.

Bakugo let out an annoyed grunt but didn’t protest when Midoriya leaned against him, too. Instead, he huffed and flopped onto his side, facing them with an unreadable expression.

“Dumbasses,” he muttered, but his fingers curled into their shirts, tugging slightly as if to keep them close.

Midoriya chuckled softly. “You’re such a liar, Kacchan.”

“Tch.” Bakugo didn’t argue, just glared half-heartedly before giving in, shifting closer, his forehead briefly bumping against their boyfriend’s shoulder.