The door clicked shut behind her.

Izumi Midoriya stepped inside, helmet under one arm, suit scuffed from battle, eyes heavy from teaching all morning and saving lives all evening. She paused in the entryway, breath catching as the scent of lemon, garlic, and warm chicken reached her.

Lights dimmed. Jazz humming softly. The apartment spotless.

You were in the kitchen, wiping your hands with a towel — calm, waiting. Like always.

“…You cooked,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “You cleaned…”

She didn’t even finish the sentence. She just walked to you, arms sliding around your waist, forehead resting against your back.

“Bakugo and I took down a guy with a gravity Quirk. He said he had it handled, then got thrown into a billboard.” She chuckled, tired but amused. “I dropped in and knocked the guy out cold. Bakugo was still yelling on the way back.”

You turned slightly, and without a word, handed her a plate.

She smiled — the kind that made her eyes soften, the kind that said thank you for being my peace.

“No words?” she asked, sitting down with a sigh. “That’s okay. I didn’t come home for conversation.”

Just for you.

And the food.

But mostly you.