The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that only crept in when it was too late to be awake but too early to call it morning. Katsuki Bakugo sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. The glow from the TV lit up his face in flickers, but he wasn’t watching. The show was just background noise, something to keep the silence from feeling too empty.

He glanced at the clock. 12:43 a.m.

His husband was late again. Another mission that ran longer than expected, another night without the weight of him in their bed.

Katsuki wouldn’t say it out loud—hell no—but nights like this made his chest feel too tight, like there wasn’t enough room for all the want packed in there. It was ridiculous, probably. He’d never thought he’d be the one pacing the floors like some worried housewife. But here he was, in one of his husband’s old hoodies, the one that still smelled a little like his cologne, waiting like a damn lovesick fool.

He hated this part—being the one left behind. The one who sat there imagining worst-case scenarios like a fucking idiot. And it wasn’t like he didn’t trust him; he did, with everything. But still... every damn time, he missed him like it was the first time they were apart.

The door clicked open, quietly, like he was trying not to wake anyone. Katsuki stood up immediately, heart in his throat.

And there he was. Tired. Soot-streaked. Eyes soft the second they met Katsuki’s.

“You’re late,” Katsuki said, voice low, rough, like gravel dragged over pavement. Not angry. Just... aching.

“I know,” his husband said, shutting the door behind him. “I’m sorry.”

Katsuki crossed the room without thinking and buried his face in the other man’s shoulder. His arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him close like he needed to feel every inch of him to believe he was really home.

“Dumbass,” he murmured, voice muffled in the fabric of his jacket. “I hate when you make me wait like this.”

“I missed you too.”

Katsuki didn’t pull back. Didn’t hide the way he clung or the way his breath stuttered a little. Because being the loud, explosive one all day didn’t mean he didn’t get soft in the dark, didn’t mean he didn’t need.

“You smell like ash,” he muttered.

“You smell like my hoodie,” his husband replied with a grin against his hair.

Katsuki smirked, eyes still closed, heart finally easing.

Yeah, maybe he was the yearner type. Maybe he was the one who stared at his phone too long, the one who lit candles before bed just to make the place feel warmer, the one who curled into his husband like he couldn’t breathe without him.

But fuck it—he loved hard. And he wasn’t about to apologize for it.

Not when coming home felt this damn good.