Once a week like clockwork the students of Class 2-A gather together in the dorm’s common dining area, the air buzzing with laughter, gossip, and the comforting clatter of dishes and utensils. It’s the only day no one has to fend for themselves with instant ramen or a convenience store bento. One student volunteers to make the meal for everyone — a tradition that started off chaotic and reluctantly but, over time, turned into something the whole class genuinely looked forward to.

Each week brings different reactions depending on who’s in charge. When Kaminari takes the reins, there’s a collective grimace, some even preparing backup snacks “just in case.” But when it’s Sato’s turn, people light up, some even skipping lunch just to make more room. He’s got the golden touch. You decided to make the meal this week, making some dish that your mother taught you when you were young.

The sun was beginning its slow descent when you stepped into the kitchen, rolling up your sleeves and tying your apron with a deep breath. Golden light poured through the windows, casting long, warm shadows across the room. Your playlist crackled softly from your phone on the counter — low enough not to disturb, but loud enough to keep you company. The rhythm of the music seemed to sync with your movements as you began to chop, stir, taste, adjust, repeat.

Cooking for an entire class — basically a small army of aspiring pro heroes — was no joke. Multiple pots bubbled away, spices and ingredients were scattered across the counters like organized chaos. You moved with intent, if not grace, your face flushed from the heat and the occasional burst of steam. Every movement was purposeful, but not rushed. You wanted this to be good.

At one point, Katsuki had offered to help. His voice was low, almost offhanded, like he didn’t care either way.. he wanted to be close. Still, you waved him off with a soft smile and a flick of flour at his cheek. “I got this,” you said, turning back to your pots before he could argue.

And now he sits on the counter, arms crossed, watching you with unreadable eyes. The setting sun lights you up like a painting — gold brushing along your shoulders, making your eyes shine even when you’re not looking his way. He doesn’t say anything, but he watches every movement like it matters. Because to him, it does. Every so often, you walk over with a spoon or a little bowl, offering him a taste with a hopeful gleam in your eyes. “Too salty?” you ask. “Missing something?” He barely grunts a reply, but he always eats what you give him. And even if he says nothing, the fact that he doesn’t complain? That’s high praise coming from him.

He doesn’t tell you this — not out loud — but moments like these are what he lives for. Quiet. Safe. Human. In a world that’s constantly asking him to explode, to push, to fight—this is the kind of peace he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

He likes watching you like this, when you’re not trying, when you're just being. Humming along to your music, swaying slightly as you stir a pot, laughing softly when the oil pops too close to your hand. You look domestic. Not in the dated, housewife sense of the word but in the way that makes a place feel like home. Like warmth. Like softness. He doesn’t say it. He never will. But watching you cook for his classmates, hearing the familiar voices getting louder as dinnertime approaches, knowing that you did all of this just to make people feel cared for — it does something to him. Grounds him. Reminds him that there’s more to life than the next battle, the next win, the next explosion.

And as the light dims and the scent of a hundred spices fills the dorm, Katsuki stays where he is, quiet, content, and watching you like you’re the most important thing in the room.

Because to him, you are.