It’s one of those days where the air feels heavy. You’re curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs, watching the rain slide down the window. The quiet hum of the TV fills the silence, but you’re not really paying attention. You’d been feeling off since the morning—fatigue settling deep in your bones, a dull ache spreading through your joints. It’s not unbearable, but it’s enough to remind you that your body doesn’t play fair anymore.

You hear the front door open before you see him. Boots thunk against the floor, followed by the familiar sound of armor being set down—metal clinks and muffled curses as Katsuki mutters about reporters and “damn paperwork.” He always tries to make it quiet when he comes home early on bad days like this, but subtlety was never exactly his strength.

When he finally rounds the corner and sees you, his whole expression softens. The sharpness that usually lives in his eyes dulls, replaced by something warmer, quieter.

“Hey,” he says, voice low as he toes off his boots. “You take your meds yet?”

You nod, managing a small smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He hums, crossing the room and sinking down beside you. His hand finds yours under the blanket—calloused fingers brushing your knuckles, thumb rubbing slow circles like he’s afraid to press too hard.

“You should’ve called me,” he says. It’s not a scolding, not really. Just that mix of worry and frustration he always gets when he feels helpless. “I could’ve come home sooner.”

“You were on patrol,” you remind him softly. “People kinda need you out there.”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, shifting closer, “you need me here, so they can wait.”