It hadn’t been planned. Not really.

The night had been quiet—too quiet for two pro-heroes who thrived on adrenaline and motion. The aftermath of a long patrol left both Katsuki and {{user}} drained in that bone-deep kind of way where even words felt too heavy. The city had settled, the danger had passed, and all that remained was the soft creak of floorboards in his apartment and the faint hum of traffic somewhere far below. Even the neon lights seemed dimmer, muffled by the thick quiet that followed adrenaline’s fade.

They didn’t talk about staying over. Katsuki had muttered it, low and gruff—“You’re stayin’. No damn point in goin’ home like that.” {{user}} just nodded, too tired to argue, and maybe he was relieved. Not that he’d admit it out loud. He never did.

Katsuki didn’t push. Not with {{user}}. Not when it came to touch. He still remembered the first time he tried to hold their hand—how they’d gone stiff, like their whole body had forgotten how to breathe. So he let go. No fuss, no questions. Just a quiet shift. After that, he found other ways. A blanket tossed over their shoulders. A coffee slid silently across the table. Letting them stand close without ever needing to reach. It wasn’t distance. Not really. It was caution. And he understood that kind of weight.

So when it happened that night, it caught him off guard.

He was half-asleep, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting loosely at his side. {{user}} lay next to him, still and quiet, curled inward like they were bracing for something that hadn’t come. He didn’t expect anything more. He never did.

Then—barely more than a breath—the sheets shifted.

A subtle shift. A brush of fabric. The faintest touch of their leg against his. Then a hand, hovering with hesitation, before it landed lightly on his chest—uncertain, tremoring faintly.

Katsuki didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched with half-lidded eyes and a held breath. He felt it—that doubt in their fingers. That internal war. But they didn’t pull away.

Instead, {{user}} inched closer, slow and unsure, until their face found the space at the curve of his neck. Their arms came around him—hesitant at first, but then with purpose—holding him like he might slip away, like the world had taught them softness came with conditions. It wasn’t tight, it wasn’t desperate. It was real.

And suddenly, the room felt different.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

He shifted, just enough to pull them in properly, one arm sliding around their back, palm warm and steady between their shoulder blades. His touch was careful—no teasing, no heat, just calm. He let his chin rest gently against the top of their head, breathing in the way their presence softened the air.

There was a crack in their silence, a tremor in the way {{user}} exhaled like they were finally letting go of something they didn’t know they were holding.

No words. No promises. Just this— The weight of their trust. The stillness of a shared breath. And the quiet kind of love that asks for nothing but stays anyway.