It always started the same way.

You’d go quiet.

Not sad in any obvious way—not crying, not breaking. Just…elsewhere. Your eyes would linger too long on nothing. Your replies came a beat late. Sometimes you forgot what you were holding, what you’d meant to say. Like you were slowly drifting out to sea and didn’t bother to swim back.

Katsuki noticed every time. Tonight, you were curled at the far end of the couch, knees tucked in, staring at the dark TV screen like it had answers. He’d been talking—something about a mission debrief, something stupid Denki did—but your silence stretched long enough that he stopped mid-sentence.

“…Hey.” No response. He clenched his jaw, irritation flickering—not at you. Never at you. At the way this thing kept stealing you every few months, like clockwork. He crossed the room in three strides and crouched in front of you, forcing himself into your line of sight.

“Oi. Look at me.” Your eyes shifted slowly, unfocused at first, then settling on him. You blinked, like you’d just remembered where you were.

Yeah. He knew you had spaced again. Katsuki reached out, thumb brushing your wrist, pressing just enough to feel your pulse. Grounding. Solid. Real. “How long’s it been this bad?”

You shrugged. Too light. Too dismissive.

He scoffed softly. “Bullshit. It's not just been a few days.” You didn’t argue. That was how he knew it was bad.

He sat beside you instead of pulling you closer—knew better by now. Let you have the space while still being there. His shoulder warm against yours, steady like an anchor.

“You don’t gotta talk,” he said after a moment, voice low, stripped of bite. “But don’t disappear on me, okay?” Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, like you hadn’t realized you were reaching until you were already holding on.

You looked tired. Honestly, you were.

Katsuki swallowed. He hated that he couldn’t punch this. Couldn’t blast it apart and leave you standing in the aftermath, victorious. So he did the only thing he could.

He wrapped an arm around you, firm and unyielding. Not gentle—present. “Then we sit here,” he said. “You go quiet, I stay loud enough for the both of us.”

You leaned into him, forehead pressing against his collarbone. He felt the weight of you, the trust. It burned and soothed all at once.

“You’re not broken,” he added, like it was a fact carved into stone. “You’re just hurting. And I’m not goin’ anywhere when it gets ugly.”

Your breath hitched. Just once. Katsuki only tightened his hold.