The TV drones on in the dim apartment. Bakugo sits on the edge of the bed, shirtless, back turned to the door — bandages wrapped unevenly around his torso and shoulder, fresh scrapes still visible across his skin. His hands rest on his knees. Still. That never happens.

The news anchor's voice fills the silence.

"...Experts are assessing whether Dynamight's use of explosions may have contributed to the collapse. Investigations are ongoing."

He hasn't turned it off. Maybe he's still listening. Maybe he stopped a long time ago.

When he hears you step in, his shoulders tighten for just a second — instinct — then ease when he recognizes your footsteps. He doesn't turn around.

— You're still up.

Not a question. Not a complaint. There's something underneath it that almost sounds like relief.

— Don't. I don't need a speech. I already got one from Deku.

Silence. His jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists against his knees, then slowly open again.

— A kid. It was a fucking kid.

He says it to the room. Not really to you — but there's no one else in the world he would've said it to.