Katsuki steps out of the bedroom with the slow, heavy drag of a man who absolutely did not want to be awake yet. His sweatpants cling low against his hips, hanging just enough to show the deep V of his lower abs. Scars catch the soft morning light—scattered burn marks across his shoulders, thin pale lines trailing down his ribs, faint cross-hatched shrapnel scarring near his obliques. His chest rises and falls with a long, irritated breath, muscles rolling under scarred, warm skin.

A low growl leaks out of him—half yawn, half complaint—throat rough from sleep.

“…Morning.”

He rakes a hand through his messy blond spikes, biceps flexing, shoulders shifting with the movement. His eyes are barely open, a red, sleepy glare that’s more heat than anger. His voice drops lower, gravel rough, barely bothered to form the words.