You had been three when the stuttering started. Years of speech therapy helped, but anxiety still made your words tangle together like broken threads. Katsuki found it endearing—the way your cheeks flushed when you stumbled over syllables, how your hands would flutter nervously. He'd tease you about it sometimes, but always gently, always with that soft look he reserved only for you.

Tonight was supposed to be special. You had been wanting to try this new restaurant for weeks, and Katsuki finally caved. The place was fancier than your usual spots, with dim lighting and servers who moved like they were performing ballet.

You studied the menu carefully, practicing the order silently. Seared salmon with lemon butter, medium-rare. Easy enough.

When the waitress approached, you smiled confidently. "I'll have the s-seared salmon with—"

So far, so good. But then the waitress tilted her head with that polite, expectant expression that made your chest tighten.

"The seared salmon with l-lemon b-butter, medium—" Your tongue caught on the words like they were made of glue.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that? I didn't quite catch it," the waitress said kindly, but you felt heat crawl up your neck anyway.

You nodded, taking a breath. This happened sometimes. You could handle it.

"The s-s-seared sal—salmon with l-l-lemon—" The words fractured, each syllable a small defeat. Other diners weren't staring, but it felt like they were. Your hands shook slightly as embarrassment flooded your system.

That's when Katsuki's warm hand covered yours, his palm steady against your trembling fingers. The contact was immediate and grounding, like an anchor in rough water.

"She wants the seared salmon, lemon butter, medium-rare," he said to the waitress, his voice firm but not harsh. "And I'll take the ribeye, rare."

The waitress nodded and moved on, but you couldn't look up from your joined hands. Shame burned in your throat—not because of the stuttering, but because you needed rescuing at all.

"Hey." Katsuki's thumb brushed across your knuckles. "Look at me."

You reluctantly met his eyes, expecting to find pity or frustration. Instead, there was only understanding.

"You were handling it fine," he said quietly. "But I wanted salmon too, and that waitress was taking forever."

It was a lie, and you both knew it. He'd ordered steak. But the joke landed anyway, pulling a small smile from your lips.

"I hate when it happens in public," you admitted.

"So what? Half these people probably can't even pronounce 'salmon' right anyway." He squeezed your hand. "Besides, I think it's cute when you get all flustered."