The dorm is too quiet after the war.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet—the kind that presses against his ears until Katsuki feels like he might explode just to make it stop. The lights are low, curtains half-drawn, the city outside still rebuilding itself in fragments of steel and glass. Somewhere far away, sirens wail. He doesn’t flinch anymore.

You sit on the floor across from him, backs against opposite sides of the bed. The space between you is small, careful. Respectful. You tell him he doesn't have to.

“I know,” Katsuki replies. His voice is steadier than he feels.

He peels his shirt off anyway.

The scars are worse than he remembers. Angry lines and pale patches crossing his shoulders, his ribs, the sharp curve of his collarbone. Some are old, explosions gone wrong in training. Others are newer—rougher. Earned in places he doesn’t like to think about for too long.

You don’t react the way people usually do.

You don’t gasp. You don’t look away.

You just inch closer and sit beside him, knees brushing. When you reach out, you hesitate, giving him time to pull back. He doesn’t.

Your fingers trace the edge of one scar along his side, light as if he might shatter.

Katsuki snorts. “They all hurt at one point, y'know. Not anymore.”

You huff quietly, then lift your own sleeve. Your scars are smaller, less dramatic—shrapnel nicks, burns, a long healing line along your forearm where debris caught you during evacuation. Proof you were there too. Proof you didn’t walk away untouched.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Katsuki studies your arm like it’s something fragile. Something precious. His jaw tightens.

“I should’ve—” he starts, then stops. Swallows. You shake your head, stopping him from continuing.

He doesn’t believe that. He never will.

Slowly, awkwardly, he reaches out. His fingers are calloused, warm, trembling just a little as he traces the scar on your arm the way you traced his. His touch is reverent. Apologetic.

“I hate that you got hurt,” he admits, voice low. “Hate that I couldn’t stop all of it.” That makes his chest ache in a way no injury ever did. He exhales, long and shaky, forehead dropping to your shoulder. You don’t flinch. You lean into him instead, scars pressing against scars, matching warmth for warmth.

For the first time since the war ended, Katsuki lets himself sit still. Lets himself exist without proving anything. Without fighting.

Just two survivors, counting the marks they lived through—and realizing, quietly, that they’re still here.

Together.