It was past midnight, and the soft glow of the city filtered in through the window. Katsuki Bakugo sat on the edge of the couch, one elbow on his knee, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The bitter taste filled his lungs, heavier than he remembered but familiar all the same. Smoke curled lazily in the dim light, twisting in the air before disappearing. His eyes were sharp but distant, his jaw tight.

He glanced at the cigarette, lips pressing into a thin line. “Stupid habit,” he muttered, flicking ash into the tray on the coffee table. He’d told himself he’d quit months ago. He'd meant it, too. But it was harder than he’d expected. Harder than he’d admit.

The faint creak of the floorboards pulled him out of his thoughts. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. His boyfriend shuffled in, hair a mess from sleep, eyes half-lidded with drowsiness. Wearing one of Bakugo’s shirts that hung a little too big on him, he blinked slowly, rubbing at his eyes as he stepped closer.

“Katsuki?” his voice was soft, rough from sleep. He glanced at the cigarette in Bakugo’s hand, frowning. “What’re you doing?”

Bakugo’s eyes flicked away. “Nothin’. Go back to bed.” His voice came out harder than he’d meant, but he didn’t bother to fix it. He tapped ash into the tray again, refusing to look at him.

“You said you quit,” he said quietly, stepping closer. Bakugo winced. No anger, no judgment — just that stupid, steady patience that always made it harder to lie.

“I’m tryin’,” Bakugo muttered, finally looking at him. His gaze was sharp but tired. “It’s not that simple.” He hated how it sounded. Like an excuse.

His boyfriend knelt in front of him, eyes searching his face in that slow, careful way that always managed to crack something inside him. He didn’t say anything right away. Just reached out and rested his head on Bakugos knee.