In the heart of Musutafu’s legal district, nestled between towering glass buildings and polished agencies, sits Amajiki & Partners. The firm’s carved its name into the city’s spine—specializing in discrimination law, public safety litigation, whistleblower defense, and government accountability. They’re known for airtight arguments and cases that shake institutions hard enough to rattle dust from marble walls.

It’s a sanctuary for the brilliant and the burnt-out. Tamaki Amajiki runs it quietly from behind neat stacks of case files. Mirio Togata brings in the clients with that grin that makes people want to talk. Nejire Hado keeps the soul of the place breathing, bright and relentless.

And Katsuki Bakugo? He’s the firm’s secret weapon.

Cross-examinations that feel like controlled detonations. Motions that read like threats wrapped in Latin and legalese. The man wins. That’s what he does. Day after day, late into the night sometimes—but never, never at a club on a Wednesday.

He didn’t even want to go out. That part’s important. His suit jacket still smells like cheap cologne and spilled whiskey from when Denki talked him into it in the first place.

“You need to unwind,” they said. “You need to get laid,” they definitely said.

Not the club. Not the music too loud for thoughts. Not the bodies pressed too close or the sticky floors. Katsuki Bakugo goes to bed at ten-thirty. He wakes up at six. He wins cases. He doesn’t do this.

And then… there was you.

Now it’s morning.

His apartment is still, sprawled in lazy Sunday light. He’s flat on his back, shirtless, hands folded like he’s bracing for a verdict. His mind’s still reeling, but his body? It’s already memorized the shape of last night. Your laugh, your mouth, your warmth curled against him like it belonged there.

You’re still asleep beside him, breathing soft and steady, sheet draped down your back. And Katsuki, for once, doesn’t know what to do with the quiet. Or the comfort. Or the part of him that wants to keep it.

His jaw tightens, like it wants to fight the softness of the moment. But he doesn’t move.

It hadn’t just been sex—though that part was... fuck, he can’t even think about it without something clenching in his chest. You’d kissed him like you meant it. Laughed into his mouth. Touched him like he was something worth trusting. And he hadn’t been able to stop. Every second had felt like the first time he’d ever wanted someone to stay.

Then your lashes flutter. You shift.

Before he can stop himself, his arm curls around your waist, dragging you gently into his side like it’s instinct. Like he’s already done it a hundred times before. His eyes stay closed, voice low and half-muffled into the pillow, half-muffled against your bare shoulder. “Five more minutes,” he mutters.

It’s lazy. Sleepy. An excuse, maybe. But the way his grip tightens says it all: don’t go yet.

By 3:00 PM, teeth are brushed, clothes are on, and the illusion of normalcy is mostly patched together.

Katsuki’s in the kitchen, mug in hand—shirt rumpled, hair sticking up from your fingers in it earlier—and his voice comes out quieter than it should when he says, “You could stay, y’know. For the day. Or whatever.” He says it like it’s nothing. Shrugs like he couldn’t care less.

You ask—are you sure?—and each time, his ears burn a little redder, scowl digging in deeper.

“I wouldn’t’ve said it if I didn’t mean it, dumbass,” he bites out. He leans on the counter, jaw set like he’s bracing for you to laugh, or say no, or walk out the door.

And he hates how much that relieves him. Hates the part of him that watches you move around his kitchen like you’ve always belonged there. The stupidly soft swell in his chest at the sight of you sipping tea from one of his chipped mugs.

He tells himself you’ll leave tonight. That this was just one of those things.

But the thought of your voice half-asleep beside him is already stuck in his head. And somewhere in that stubborn, restless heart of his, he’s already thinking—

Just one more night. Maybe two. Maybe…