Not really. Just going about your business, putting shit away like it doesn’t matter that he’s watching. Like it doesn’t matter that he can see every damn inch of you in that new top, the one that hugs your chest like it was made to be pulled off with his teeth.

You bend over to shove something into the bottom drawer. He sees your thighs shift, soft and strong. You tug your shirt down after it rides up. Like that’s gonna save you. Like that doesn’t make it worse.

Katsuki is stretched out across your bed, big body eating up every inch of space like it belongs to him. Because it does. So do you.

He’s got one leg propped up, ankle resting on the opposite knee, and his arm thrown behind his head, bicep flexing against the pillow. The other hand holds his phone lazily, he’s half-watching a reel of brutal sparring clips from pro training camps, but it’s mostly background noise now.

The old Metallica tee he’s wearing is worn soft at the seams, stretched tight across his chest, the sleeves rolled just enough to show off the dense muscle of his arms. The hem of the shirt’s pulled up a little from where his hand had been resting on his stomach, exposing the cut lines of his abs and the trail of hair leading below the waistband of those black sleep shorts that ride low on his hips.

The light in your dorm hits golden, late afternoon sun flaring behind the amber edge of turning leaves outside your window. It spills across his body, catches in the mess of blond spikes falling over his forehead. His jaw’s sharp, his skin sun-warm and glowing, and his eyes are sharp.

“Tch.” His lips curl into a slow, smug smirk. “You gonna fold that shirt or stare at me like a fuckin’ perv all afternoon?”

He chuckles, low and rough when you give him a look. Drops his phone on the bed beside him like it never mattered to begin with.

“Keep lookin’,” he murmurs, voice dipping deeper as he stretches, long and lazy, arms overhead so his shirt rides up even more. “See what happens." His grin is feral, spreading across his face.