Izuku had always thought of his boyfriend as unshakable. Grumpy, maybe, blunt in a way that could make even the friendliest conversations feel like debates, but never soft. Not in the way people usually meant. He wasn’t cuddly, wasn’t the type to drape himself over Izuku in the middle of the day or whisper endless strings of sweet words. He loved in other ways: in the way he listened, even if he pretended not to; in the way he remembered details Izuku didn’t expect him to; in the way his presence alone felt like a steady anchor when Izuku’s head got too noisy.

But there were two very specific scenarios when that careful, firm exterior cracked—and Izuku cherished both like secrets only he was allowed to keep.

The first always came after sex.

It never mattered how heated things had been, how stubborn his boyfriend was about keeping up, or how many times he insisted, gruffly, that Izuku didn’t need to “hold back.” The moment they were done, it was like a switch flipped. Izuku would barely be catching his breath before he’d see it—that sudden heaviness in his boyfriend’s eyes, the slackening of his jaw, the way his entire body seemed to melt into the sheets as if gravity itself had doubled.

“Don’t,” he’d mumble whenever Izuku tried to sit up and grab water or tissues. “Stay.” His voice would be soft in a way Izuku never heard at any other time, his hand catching weakly at Izuku’s wrist like a plea. Within minutes, he’d be asleep, face pressed against Izuku’s chest, completely undone.

Izuku always held him then, unable to stop smiling. Nobody else would believe it if they saw. The man who could argue circles around pro heroes, who met danger with steel in his voice, reduced to the gentlest, sleepiest weight in Izuku’s arms. He’d trace lazy circles against his boyfriend’s back and think, over and over: I get to see this side of you. Only me.

The second scenario happened on nights like this.

Patrol had run late, and Izuku had come home buzzing with things to share—the small successes, the worries, the way his agency partner had almost tripped into a dumpster chasing a purse-snatcher. His boyfriend had listened, arms crossed as always, leaning against the couch like he was just tolerating Izuku’s energy. But Izuku had noticed the time creeping past nine, then ten, and now… well, now his boyfriend’s head was slumped against his shoulder, his sharp edges dulled by exhaustion.

“I’m fine,” he muttered when Izuku shifted. His voice was thick, heavy with sleep.

“You’re not fine,” Izuku said softly, pressing a hand to his hair. “You’re falling asleep sitting up.”

“No,” came the automatic protest, though it was half-swallowed by a yawn.

Izuku’s heart warmed at the sight. This version of him was rare, fleeting—just like after sex. Both times, his boyfriend was too tired to guard himself, too sleepy to hide behind that grumpy composure. Both times, Izuku got to hold someone softer, quieter, still fiercely his, but stripped down to something almost vulnerable.

“Come on,” Izuku murmured, easing him to his feet. His boyfriend grumbled, swayed, but didn’t fight much as Izuku scooped him up in his arms.

“Show-off,” he mumbled against Izuku’s chest, eyelids fluttering.

Izuku chuckled, carrying him down the hallway like it was second nature. “You’re not heavy. Besides, I like taking care of you.”

By the time he laid him down on the bed, his boyfriend was gone, breathing slow and even. Izuku lingered a moment, brushing stray hair off his forehead, then slipped in beside him. As if on instinct, his boyfriend rolled toward him, draping an arm across his waist, clinging without realizing it—just like he did after sex.

Izuku pressed a kiss to his temple and smiled into the dark.

He had saved countless people, faced dangers that could end lives in seconds, but these small, secret victories—the soft, sleepy weight of the man he loved in his arms—were what made him the luckiest.