Katsuki Bakugo hated airports. Too many people, too much noise, too many damn eyes on him. But right now? He didn’t give a damn. His legs carried him faster than most of the other exhausted travelers, his duffel slung over his shoulder, his mask tugged low to cover most of his face. He wasn’t supposed to be here until Thursday. He told his boyfriend Thursday. He planned for Thursday.

But when the mission wrapped up earlier than expected, he didn’t even think twice. He grabbed the first flight out and now, after five grueling weeks, he was finally—finally—back on home soil. Back where he belonged. Back to him.

The past month had been hell. Not the mission—well, yeah, the mission had been brutal, but he could handle that. What gnawed at him was the quiet in his chest when he hung up the phone at odd hours. The grainy pictures his boyfriend had sent, selfies and little snapshots of their apartment, of his messy hair in the mornings. Katsuki saved every single one, scrolled through them when sleep wouldn’t come. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t him.

And fuck, he’d missed him. More than he ever thought he could miss someone.

Dragging his duffel into the cab, he gave the driver his address, bouncing his leg the entire ride. His heart pounded like he was walking into battle, and he hated how nervous he felt. But it wasn’t the bad kind of nerves. It was the kind that burned warm under his ribs.

By the time he reached the apartment building, it was past two in the morning. Dark and quiet, just the buzz of a streetlight and the distant hum of the city. Katsuki slipped inside, climbing the stairs two at a time, his key tight in his fist. He eased the door open as quietly as possible, dropping his bag by the entry.

There he was. Curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over him, TV still faintly glowing with some late-night rerun. His face softened in sleep, lips parted just slightly, hair a mess—god, Katsuki’s chest clenched so tight it almost hurt.

He didn’t want to wake him, but his feet carried him closer anyway, kneeling by the couch. For a long moment, he just looked. Five weeks. Five goddamn weeks.

He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his boyfriend’s forehead with a touch softer than he thought he was capable of. The man stirred, eyes fluttering open groggily.