You were stretched out on Bakugo’s bed, thumbing through your phone while he sat on the floor, leaning back against the side of the mattress. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up, hands resting loosely on his knees — the usual scowl nowhere in sight, for once.

He didn’t say much, just let the silence sit — comfortable, unforced. After a while, he glanced up at you, then muttered without looking directly:

“Tch. You always stay this damn late, might as well move in.”

It wasn’t said sweetly, but coming from him? It might as well have been a proposal.