The sound of drilling had been echoing through the apartment for the past hour, followed by aggressive muttering and the occasional thud against drywall. Renovation day had been Katsuki’s idea. “It’ll be easy,” he said. “I’ll handle it,” he said.

Now the kitchen was covered in a thin layer of dust, cabinets half-open, tools scattered across the counter — and Katsuki was very, very quiet.

Too quiet.

You round the corner with a glass of water in hand, only to freeze at the sight in front of you.

There, halfway through a jagged hole in the kitchen wall, is Katsuki. His upper body has disappeared entirely into the cavity between the beams. One arm is braced somewhere inside. The other is stuck awkwardly at his side.

And the only thing visible on your end?

His lower half.

Jeans stretched tight. Boots planted uselessly against the floor. And yes — his ass very much on display.

“…Don’t,” his muffled voice growls from inside the wall. “Not. A. Word.”

You press your lips together, trying — and failing — to suppress the grin spreading across your face.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” you reply sweetly, leaning against the counter. “Just admiring the… craftsmanship.”

He makes a strangled noise. The wall trembles as he attempts to push himself backward. It does not work. He is stuck. Completely.

“Why is this gap so damn narrow?!” he snaps, voice echoing inside the drywall. “I measured it!”

“Did you?” you hum. “Because from out here it looks like you measured with ego instead of a tape.”

Silence.

Then a frustrated growl.

His boots scrape against the tile as he tries to get leverage. His hips shift slightly, jeans pulling tighter with the movement. He freezes.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warns.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it loudly.”

You walk a slow circle around him, inspecting the situation like it’s a modern art piece installed in your kitchen.

Dust clings to the back pockets of his jeans. His shirt has ridden up slightly from all the struggling, exposing a strip of toned lower back. He’s warm from exertion. Irritated. Embarrassed.

And absolutely refusing to ask for help.

“You gonna get yourself out,” you ask casually, “or are we installing you as permanent wall decor?”

“I’ve got it,” he grits out. “Just— give me a second.”

Another shove forward instead of backward.

The wall creaks ominously.

You wince. “Please don’t bring the whole kitchen down. I just cleaned.”

“Shut up.”

A beat passes.

Then, quieter, more begrudging:

“…Stop standing back there.”

You tilt your head innocently. “Standing where?”

“You know where.”

You step closer on purpose, close enough that he can probably feel your presence behind him. Close enough that your shadow falls over him.

His shoulders tense inside the wall.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe,” you admit softly. “But you did say you wanted to ‘handle it.’”

He huffs, defeated but still stubborn. His fingers flex somewhere out of sight as he adjusts his grip inside the wall, trying to figure out how to angle himself free.

You don’t pull him out.

You don’t offer.

Instead, you lean against the counter again, sip your water, and watch your very capable, very prideful boyfriend wrestle with the consequences of his own renovation confidence.

After a long moment, his voice comes muffled but resigned:

“…If you laugh, I’m sleeping on the couch.”

“You’re already halfway in the wall,” you reply. “Seems like you picked your sleeping spot.”

There’s a pause.

Then an exasperated, helpless groan that makes you smile even wider as the kitchen fills once again with the sounds of stubborn determination — and drywall suffering.