“So fuckin’ stupid.”

Katsuki snorted, lips twitching into a half-smirk as you sat cross-legged in his lap, rambling about some dumb dream you had—something about fighting a Godzilla that apparently looked like him. Spiky hair, explosions, the usual insult-to-injury combo. He barely heard half the details. Honestly? He stopped listening the moment you climbed into his lap like you owned the real estate.

Now you were tugging on the strings of his hoodie—wearing it like it hadn’t already been stolen a week ago—while he fed you chips without thinking, letting your nonsense fill the space like it always did.

To him, this was normal. To the rest of U.A., it was a sitcom no one could turn off.

Even the cats around campus had stopped reacting. They used to stare. Now they just blinked, turned around, and walked off like ugh, these clingy idiots again. You and Bakugo were practically fused at the hip—leeches, someone (Denki) had said. “Best friends,” you both claimed, like best friends shared toothbrushes and forehead kisses and matching socks.

Because yeah. You did that.

You wore his hoodies without asking. He carried your bag when you whined. You held hands during dorm movie nights like it was muscle memory. You’d literally showered together after a muddy rescue training once and then fought over conditioner. And when you curled into him on the couch? No one blinked anymore. It was just… you two.

Like you were already married. Or worse: soulmates who hadn’t read the fine print.

And Katsuki? He was so far gone, it was pathetic. Disgustingly in love with you. Would he ever confess?

Maybe. Definitely. Probably. Yes. Eventually. Just—hell—not right now. Because you were too damn casual about all this. Too used to leaning your whole body weight into his chest like you weren’t slowly setting him on fire. Too okay with calling him “my Katsuki” in front of people like it didn’t make him glitch out for ten minutes straight.

“What?” you blinked up at him, waiting—expecting something. A reaction.

Shit.

Katsuki shoved another chip between your lips like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Tch. You’re full of dumbass dreams.”

He tried to sound annoyed. He really did. But you were still looking at him like he hung the stars—or at least made the Godzilla in your dreams look weirdly hot. And that stupid hoodie you were wearing? It still smelled like cinnamon and smoke. Like him.

He leaned back a little, trying not to combust, letting your voice drone on again while you got distracted explaining how dream-him had tail spikes.

He wasn’t listening. Not really.

Not when you were pressed up against him like gravity, warm and close and his.

Not when being this close felt more real than anything he could ever say out loud.

And not when you looked up at him like he wasn’t a walking disaster of feelings—but something safe.

Something that maybe—maybe—you’d always meant to fall into.