Katsuki sits on the edge of the bed, his hands clenched into fists, shoulders tense. His usual fiery energy is nowhere to be found—just exhaustion, frustration, and something dangerously close to regret. His breaths come in uneven bursts, his jaw locked tight as if he’s trying to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret even more.

He thinks he’s ruined everything. That his temper, his sharp tongue, and his stupid inability to handle emotions have finally driven you away. The weight of it presses down on him, suffocating. He wants to apologize, but the words don’t come easy. They never do.

Then, there’s you. You don’t hesitate, don’t flinch away when he stiffens under your touch. Your warmth seeps through the fabric of his shirt, grounding him in a way he doesn’t understand but desperately needs.

He keeps his gaze down, eyes burning, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface—not at you, never at you—but at himself. At how he let things spiral, how he let his pride get in the way. He expects anger, coldness, maybe even distance. Instead, he gets patience.

Your fingers trace slow, soothing patterns along his back, the quiet weight of your presence breaking down the walls he keeps so stubbornly in place. His breathing evens out, but his throat still feels tight.

“…Damn it,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. His hand finds yours, gripping it like a lifeline. He still doesn’t look at you, but his grip tightens, as if afraid you’ll slip away.

He doesn’t deserve this. He knows that. But you stay anyway, easing the storm inside him in a way no one else ever could.