Katsuki Bakugou doesn’t show up at your apartment at 2:17 a.m. unless something is wrong.

You know that before you even open the door.

When you do, he’s standing there in civilian clothes, jacket unzipped, hair damp like he scrubbed his hands through it one too many times. His jaw is clenched so tight you swear you hear it grind. One of his hands is shoved deep into his pocket like he’s holding himself back from exploding the hallway apart.

“Don’t say anything,” he snaps before you can open your mouth. “Just—listen.”

That alone tells you everything.

You step aside, wordlessly letting him in. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing off the quiet hallway and whatever pride he had left outside.

For a moment, he just stands there. Then his shoulders drop—just a fraction, but you catch it. You always do. You’ve known him since scraped knees and explosive tantrums in middle school, since the first time he ever yelled at you for patching him up wrong.

“She cheated,” he says finally, voice flat. Not angry. Not loud. Worse—controlled. “Didn’t even try to hide it. Thought I’d be on patrol all night.”

Your chest tightens.

Katsuki Bakugou, top-ranked pro hero, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight—stood in his own apartment doorway earlier tonight and watched the person he trusted most shatter something inside him. He lets out a sharp breath through his nose, like he’s disgusted with himself. “I didn’t do anything. Didn’t yell. Didn’t blow shit up.” A humorless huff. “Just grabbed my stuff and left.”

You don’t pity him. You don’t sugarcoat it. You just say, softly, “Do you want to sit down?”

He nods once.

Later—after tea goes untouched and silence stretches comfortably between you—he clears his throat.

“…Can I stay here?”

You look up from the couch, surprised only because he asked.

“Just for a bit,” he adds quickly. “I’ll sleep on the floor. I won’t get in your way. I just—” His fingers curl into his palm. “I can’t go back there.”