Katsuki isn’t used to this. The quiet warmth of your hands against his skin, the way you brush your fingers over his knuckles just to feel them. He watches, heart tight in his chest, as you run your thumb along his palm, tracing the lines there like they mean something. And maybe they do—to you. Maybe every part of him means something to you.

It’s strange. Unfamiliar.

He’s always thought love came with conditions. That if someone touched him, they’d want something in return. That if they kissed him, held him, whispered his name, there would be expectations he had to meet—ways he had to give himself up. But you don’t ask for anything. You just hold him. Just touch him. Like he’s worth it, without it needing to be anything.

It makes his throat tight. Makes him press his face into your shoulder and breathe in deep, grounding himself in the steady beat of your heart. You don’t push him to speak. You don’t demand anything. You just let him exist in your arms, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your fingers slip into his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp, and his whole body relaxes before he even realizes it. His grip on your shirt tightens for a second before loosening again. He doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t know how to say anything.

But maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe you already know.