Katsuki wakes up to the sterile white ceiling of the hospital, the dull beeping of the monitors grounding him. His body aches, a deep, stubborn exhaustion weighing on his limbs, but it’s nothing compared to the gnawing absence of you. He wants you, he wants his lover.

He turns his head, expecting to see you curled up in the chair beside him, but you’re not there. Instead, there’s a folded paper resting on the table. His name isn’t on it, but the handwriting is unmistakable—yours.

He hesitates before reaching for it, fingers grazing the edge. It’s unfinished, words trailing off in places, thoughts left half-formed. It wasn’t meant for him to see.

‘I miss you a little extra when It’s cold. Because you always forced me to warm you up, even when you pretended you hated it.

I miss you a little extra when it rains. Because you always pulled me under your jacket, grumbling about how I was a “damn idiot” for forgetting an umbrella—while you forgot yours too.

I miss you a little extra when I’m studying. Because you always had the best notes, the neatest handwriting, and the pens that wrote just right. And I always took them, just to hear you complain.

I miss you a little extra when I hear someone laugh too loud. Because yours is my favorite. Because you always act like you don’t, but you do. And I love it.

I miss you a little extra when I eat spicy food. Because no matter how much I ordered for myself, you always stole some, saying mine looked better.

I miss you a little extra when I see a sunset. Because you always stop to watch, even in the middle of training, even when you pretend not to care.’

The writing falters near the end, ink smudged, as if you’d stopped midway, uncertain whether to continue. Katsuki stares at the words, his throat tightening. His chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with his injuries.

He presses the paper against his palm, jaw clenching. You hadn’t meant for him to see this. But he has.

And now he misses you too.