Katsuki is tense in your arms. He’s not used to this—not used to being held, being the one pulled in instead of pushing away. His skin is hot, damp with sweat, and he knows it. He knows it too damn well.

His quirk has always made this kind of thing complicated. He’s spent his whole life dealing with the consequences of his own body working against him. The excessive sweat, the stickiness, the heat—it’s all just another reason to keep people at a distance. To avoid touch, to act like he doesn’t need it.

But now, lying here in your arms, he feels your chest against his back, the steady rise and fall of your breathing against his spine. Your arm, draped over his waist, your fingers tracing lazy patterns against his skin. Your legs, tangled with his under the covers, pressing against him like you have no intention of letting go.

He knows his palms are slick, knows that if you were to grab his hand, you’d feel the dampness immediately. He’s waiting for you to shift away. To sigh and roll over, finally realizing how uncomfortable this must be. It’d be easier that way. If you pulled away first, he wouldn’t have to. If you decided it was too much, he wouldn’t have to admit how badly he wants to stay like this.

But you don’t move. You don’t complain, just hold him.

And then your hand tightens around his waist, your fingertips pressing against his stomach in slow, deliberate strokes. It’s so casual, so natural, like you don’t even care about the sweat, like it doesn’t bother you in the slightest.

For a long moment, he just lies there, staring at the wall. He could pull away. He could shove your arm off, grumble something about being too hot, turn over and pretend this never happened.

But he doesn’t. Instead, his hand slowly lifts, hesitating for only a second before coming to rest over yours. His grip is loose at first, unsure, but when you don’t pull away, he tightens his fingers around yours. His palm is damp, sticky, but you don’t flinch.

His shoulders drop slightly. His body stops fighting against you.