Katsuki didn’t plan on meeting you like this.

It started as coincidence—late nights, the city half-asleep, him limping onto the roof of a quiet apartment building after patrol because his comms were fried and he needed a minute to breathe without cameras or sidekicks asking if he was “good to continue.” You were already there the first time, sitting on the edge with your legs dangling, eating convenience store ice cream straight from the carton.

You didn’t scream when you saw him land. You just looked up, blinked once as if this was a normal occurrence.

He should’ve left. Should’ve snapped at you, told you it was dangerous, told you to go inside. Instead, he scoffed and sat down six feet away, far enough to pretend this wasn’t anything.

“Don’t make this a habit,” he said. You smiled like that was a promise.

After that, it became routine without ever being named one. He’d show up battered and irritable, explosions still ringing in his ears, and you’d be there—sometimes with food, sometimes with silence. You never asked for details. Never treated him like a hero. You talked about stupid things. About how the city looked different at night. About how you couldn’t sleep.

Katsuki told himself it was harmless. Temporary. He didn’t want you. Didn’t need this. But then he started adjusting his patrol routes. Started checking the time more often. Started noticing when you didn’t show up.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered one night, fabric draped loose around his shoulders. You shut him up with a quick retort he secretly loved.

You were sneaky about it—ducking out after midnight, keeping your phone dark, telling no one where you went. Katsuki hated that. Hated knowing he was the reason you took risks. Hated that the thought of you alone out there made his chest tighten worse than any injury.

And worse…he started to like you. Not all at once. Not loudly. It crept in during the quiet moments. When you leaned closer to hear him over distant sirens. When you laughed at something he said without fear. When you looked at him like he was just a tired man sitting on a roof instead of a symbol that had to keep burning no matter the cost.

“You’re gonna get attached,” he warned, voice rough. "You shouldn't. It's...not right."

He couldn't say anything after that. He didn't know what to say. Because somewhere between shared silence and stolen glances, between the glow of city lights and the safety of being unseen, Katsuki realized the truth: he didn’t bring you here.

You found your way in.

And now, every night he didn’t see you, the city felt too big. Too empty. Like something vital was missing from the dark.

He still told himself he didn’t want you.

But he showed up anyway.