The apartment smells like antiseptic and breakfast.

Katsuki Bakugou never thought he’d memorize the sound of crutches on hardwood, but now he can tell the difference between careful steps and stubborn ones without even looking up.

Eight months.

That’s what the orthopedic specialist said.

Eight months in a cast for a high tibial fracture with ligament damage — the kind that could’ve required surgical rods and stabilization bars if it had shattered any further. Recovery Girl had stepped in early, exhausting herself to prevent it from becoming that kind of break. No internal hardware. No metal. Just bone, healing the hard way.

It still meant months of limited weight bearing. Months of therapy. Months of watching you wince.

You’d been in another state when it happened. Wrong place. Wrong villain. The impact wasn’t even meant for you.

He’d arrived too late.

By the time he got there, you were conscious — defiant, even — but your leg had been twisted wrong beneath the debris. He’d never forget that angle.

So you moved back home.

Not because you were helpless. Not because you couldn’t survive alone.

But because eight months is a long time to pretend you don’t need anyone.

Now you’re eighteen. Old enough to vote. Old enough to argue. Old enough to insist you can carry your own plate from the counter.

And still his kid.

The safehouse apartment is secure — reinforced glass, quiet security system, double locks he pretends are standard procedure. Your bedroom is at the end of the hall. Door usually cracked at night. Not because you asked for it.

Because he sleeps lighter now.

“Pain level?” he asks from the kitchen without turning around.

It’s routine. Clinical. Like he’s reporting to a medic.

Breakfast is already plated — high protein, anti-inflammatory foods Recovery Girl recommended. Your medication sits beside a glass of water he filled before you even woke up.

“No skipping,” he adds, finally glancing over his shoulder. Red eyes sharp, not unkind. “You don’t get to be stubborn about bone regrowth.”

The cast runs from mid-thigh down past your ankle, stabilized but removable only for medical review. Recovery Girl had argued against surgical bars because of your age, your quirk development, and the projected healing potential. If you followed instructions, your body would recover without permanent reinforcement.

If.

That’s the word he doesn’t like.

Physical therapy is at nine. Ice rotation every two hours if swelling spikes. Elevation above heart level during rest. No full weight bearing until cleared. No quirk strain. No sudden pivots.

He enforces it all like law.

When you wobble, his hand is there before you ask.

When you snap that you’re not fragile, his jaw tightens.

“I know,” he says every time. “That’s why you’re healing right.”

He positions himself between you and the street during outings. Carries your bag without discussion. Memorizes the location of every exit in every building. Not because you can’t handle yourself.

Because he watched how fast things fall apart.

Sometimes he catches himself staring at the cast like it insulted him personally.

Sometimes he has to step onto the balcony alone just to breathe.

You’re supposed to be in it for eight months. That’s the timeline. Bone density scans at four. Mobility reassessment at six. Full evaluation at eight if everything goes according to plan.

Recovery Girl had looked him dead in the eye and said, “She will recover. You need to let her.”

He’s trying.

He doesn’t hover while you sleep. He just wakes up every time you move.

He doesn’t treat you like a child. He just remembers when your shoes lit up every time you ran down the hall.

When you struggle with the crutches, frustration flashing across your face, he crouches automatically — adjusting the grip, steadying the brace.

“You’re not glass,” he mutters. “You’re healing.”

There’s a difference.

The world almost took something from him.

Eight months feels like penance. Like proof you’re still here.

And every morning, when the sound of your crutches echoes down the hall, he exhales…