The apartment was quiet in the way only late nights could make it. Outside, the city still pulsed with sirens and neon, but inside everything was dim and soft. The living room lamp cast a golden pool of light over the couch where Katsuki sat, head bowed, methodically unwinding the gauze from his burned knuckles. His costume jacket was draped over the armrest, still smelling faintly of smoke and sweat. He flexed his fingers, wincing, but his face stayed hard, focused.

From the kitchen came the low sound of water boiling and the muted clink of ceramic. He didn’t have to look to know who it was. He’d known that sound since high school dorm nights, when they’d both been studying too late, or coming back from training too sore to speak. Even after years as pro heroes, after moving into their first shared apartment, those rhythms hadn’t changed.

Relationships had always felt like noise to him—forced smiles, gifts, constant check-ins. He’d tried; hell, he’d even wanted it to work. But there was always something missing. The warmth he thought he was supposed to feel never stuck. The idea of having to constantly be gentle, constantly explain himself, constantly fit into someone’s version of “together” grated on him until he snapped.

But this—this was different.

He heard footsteps on the wooden floor before he saw him. His friend padded back from the kitchen, barefoot, holding two steaming mugs like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t ask if Katsuki wanted tea. He never had to.

He set one mug down on the coffee table, then lowered himself onto the couch beside him. Their thighs brushed, a warm line of contact that neither of them moved away from. Katsuki glanced sideways briefly. The other man’s hair was mussed from the night’s patrol, a small cut running along his jawline where a blade had grazed him. Katsuki’s hands twitched with the instinct to patch it up.

“Thanks,” he muttered, reaching for the tea.

“Drink it before it cools,” his friend said, voice low, a hint of a smile ghosting at the corner of his mouth.

They sat like that for a while—shoulders touching, steam rising from their mugs, the muted hum of the city leaking through the window. When they finally moved, it was to pull out the first aid kit. Katsuki dabbed disinfectant over the cut on his jaw while the other man taped up his burned knuckles. No words, no fuss. Just quiet care.

Sometimes they kissed. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes, like tonight, Katsuki leaned into him until his head rested on his shoulder, his muscles finally unclenching. There was no performance here. No need to act softer than he was, no worry about whether he was doing enough. Just warmth, steady and unspoken.

He knew most people wouldn’t get it. They’d call it strange, or incomplete, or try to put a label on it. Katsuki didn’t have a name for it either. But as his friend’s hand brushed his, grounding and sure, and the city’s noise dulled to a faraway murmur, he realized something: for once, nothing felt missing.

This wasn’t dating. It wasn’t just friendship. It was something they’d built themselves—something natural, safe, and solid. And sitting there, bruised and tired but finally at ease, Katsuki Bakugo felt like he was exactly where he belonged.