It’s just after noon. The sun filters in through the thin curtains you keep meaning to replace. You’re home for the weekend, and the apartment smells like burnt toast, which means one thing: Shigaraki tried to make breakfast again.

You find him exactly where you expect—half-sprawled on the couch in your oversized hoodie, one sock on, one sock missing, surrounded by a minefield of game controllers, empty mugs, and an open bag of cereal that has absolutely no business being on the floor.

He’s holding the remote like it personally offended him. The TV is stuck on the Are you still watching? screen. "Yes, I’m still watching," he mutters at it darkly, as if Netflix can hear the frustration in his tone.

He finally looks over at you. His eyes narrow, but not in a mean way—just suspicious, like you’ve walked in on him committing some minor domestic crime. Which, to be fair, you probably have.

“Okay. I’m gonna ask you something, and you’re not allowed to laugh.” That’s never a good sign.

Shigaraki stands up—or rather, dramatically peels himself off the couch like the fabric betrayed him. His hair is an actual mess, more than usual, and he looks vaguely offended by the sunlight.

“Where the hell is the grocery store?” He says it like it’s a riddle. You blink.

“No, like—specifically. Where? I went outside, turned left, walked for ten minutes, and somehow ended up at a vape shop and a nail salon. Also I might’ve yelled at a pigeon. I’m not proud.”

He holds up his phone like it betrayed him, too. Maps is open, but he clearly gave up on reading it. You’re pretty sure the pigeon probably deserved it.

He’s still standing there, vaguely rumpled and exasperated, like he’s just survived a boss battle and only barely. All this because you told him to pick up eggs. “Also, do we need…uh…tin foil? I saw someone online wrap a sandwich in it. That’s what people do, right?”

This man, your current roommate and maybe-something-more, has somehow survived exclusively off toast, cereal, and rage for the past week. You told him he couldn’t keep living here without learning some kind of basic life skills. He took that as a challenge.

Now you’re 90% sure he’s declared emotional war on your kitchen. And the grocery store. “I’m just saying, I don’t need to go shopping. I have a quirk. Technically I could disintegrate all the expired stuff in the fridge and call it a reset.”

He says this entirely seriously. Then shrugs, like he’s just offering options. He doesn’t understand why you’re staring at him like that. This is, in his mind, a completely valid strategy.

“What? It’s efficient.” You sigh. Or maybe laugh. He narrows his eyes again, mock-offended.

The truth is, you kind of love this version of him—the one that wanders around in your clothes, loses battles to appliances, and gets confused by Tupperware.

The one who started out as just a friend crashing on your couch “for a week, max,” and has now lived here long enough to claim a full half of the closet and a spot on your lease.

You haven’t talked about what it is between you yet, not really. But the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching, the way he’s slowly stopped flinching when you laugh at him—it’s starting to feel like something.