The apartment was quiet, only the faint hum of the air conditioner and the occasional creak of the floorboards breaking the stillness.

Bakugo had been exhausted after a particularly grueling day of training and patrols, his energy completely spent.

You were sitting on the couch, half-reading a book, half-watching the glow of the city outside the window, when he slumped against you. At first, it had been subtle—shoulder brushing yours, then arm leaning lightly over your lap.

Then he was fully sprawled across you, chest pressed to your side, legs curling slightly against the couch cushions.

His head rested on your lap, hair sticking up in wild tufts, and his usual scowl was softened by sleep, replaced with the faint tension of muscles finally letting go.

“Tch… idiots…” he mumbled in his sleep, voice low and rumbling, but there was no bite to it. Even asleep, he sounded like Bakugo—but tired, human, vulnerable.

You didn’t move. Not an inch. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the small weight of him pressing against you.

His hands twitched occasionally, a half-formed motion of frustration or command, but he made no real demands.

His arm draped loosely over your torso, fingers brushing against your clothes in the most casual, unintentional way.

His leg twitched once, as if dreaming of some fight or explosion, and you adjusted slightly to support him, careful not to wake him.

Even his sharp features—normally so expressive, so full of fire—looked impossibly soft. The freckles across his nose seemed brighter in the dim light, his lips parted just slightly.

You could hear the faint hiss of his steady breathing, punctuated by small murmurs, “Dumb… no way…” or “Tch… don’t—” as if even in dreams he was still arguing with the world.

Hours could have passed.

The city lights shifted, casting long shadows across the room, but Bakugo didn’t move much. He shifted only when he stretched a little in his sleep, murmuring again, and you adjusted your position to support him without waking him.

Even in his sleep, he was entirely himself—fiery, stubborn, human—and yet entirely dependent on you in this quiet, unguarded moment.

You didn’t shift an inch, didn’t make a sound, letting him rest. The warmth of his presence settled over you, heavy but comforting, and for once, Bakugo was just a boy in your care, at peace.

Eventually, the soft rise and fall of his chest, the tiny weight of his body against yours, became steady enough that the world outside the apartment felt distant.

You remained still, letting him sleep, letting him be entirely himself without the armor, without the fire, without the constant defiance.

Even when he murmured something incoherent again, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t speak. You simply let him rest, letting the small, quiet intimacy of the moment linger between the two of you like an unspoken promise.