You came home late.

Not because you wanted to. The mission had dragged on—another villain with a vendetta, another rooftop chase, another reminder that the world hadn’t healed just because All For One was gone.

Izuku was waiting.

He always did.

The apartment was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the kitchen light. He sat at the table, a mug of tea in front of him, untouched. His hair was damp from a shower. His eyes were tired, but warm.

You dropped your gear by the door, too exhausted to speak.

He stood. Walked to you. Didn’t ask if you were okay. Didn’t ask what happened.

Just wrapped his arms around you.

You melted into him, forehead against his shoulder, the scent of green tea and rain clinging to his skin.

“I’m here,” he whispered.

You nodded, eyes closed. “I know.”

He held you like he used to hold the world—carefully, like it might break. But this time, he didn’t have to save anyone. Just you.

“You’re bleeding,” he said softly.

“Just a scratch.”

He didn’t argue. Just led you to the couch, sat beside you, and gently took your hand.

“I hate that I can’t fight beside you anymore,” he admitted. “But I’m glad I get to wait for you.”

You looked at him.

At the boy who became a legend. At the man who became yours.

And you kissed him.

Not because you needed comfort. But because he was home.