The apartment was dark when Izuku finally pushed the door open, the soft click of the lock sounding far too loud after twenty hours of nonstop work. His body felt like it was made of wet sand—heavy, collapsing in on itself—but the exhaustion wasn’t what worried him. It was the silence.

Katsuki always left a light on for him. Always.

Tonight, only the faint glow from the kitchen hood illuminated the space, casting long shadows across the counters. Izuku toed off his shoes, wincing at the ache in his feet, and set his bag down with a sigh that trembled more than he meant it to.

He barely had time to straighten before Katsuki appeared in the doorway.

Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Eyes sharp in a way that meant he’d been pacing, stewing, waiting.

“Izuku.”

Just his name. But the tone was enough to make Izuku’s shoulders tense.

“I’m home,” Izuku murmured, trying for gentle, trying for normal. He stepped forward to kiss him, but Katsuki didn’t move.

His stomach dropped.

“You didn’t eat,” Katsuki said, voice low, controlled in the way that meant he was fighting not to raise it. “Not once. Not all day.”

Izuku blinked, confused. “Kacchan, I—”

“Don’t.” Katsuki’s voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t tell me you forgot. Don’t tell me you were too busy. I checked your lunchbox. It was untouched.”

Izuku’s throat tightened. He hadn’t meant to skip anything. The shift had been chaos—emergencies stacking on emergencies, paperwork, patrol reports, a last-minute call-out. He’d barely had time to breathe.

But Katsuki wasn’t angry about the food. Not really.

He was scared.

“Kacchan,” Izuku tried again, softer. “It was just today. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Katsuki snapped, and the words hit the room like a spark in dry grass. “You come home shaking. You look like you’re gonna pass out half the time. And you keep saying you’re fine like that fixes anything.”

Izuku flinched. “I’m doing my best.”

“I know you are,” Katsuki said, and suddenly his voice wasn’t sharp—it was frayed. “But your best shouldn’t be killing you.”

The air went still.

Izuku swallowed hard, guilt and defensiveness tangling in his chest. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Katsuki insisted, stepping closer. “And I’m trying to help you, but you won’t let me. You shut me out. You don’t tell me when you’re struggling. You don’t tell me anything.”

“That’s not fair,” Izuku whispered, heat rising behind his eyes. “I’m tired, Kacchan. I’m trying. I’m trying so hard.”

“I know,” Katsuki said again, but this time it sounded like a plea. “So let me help.”

Izuku’s breath hitched. He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But the weight of the day, the exhaustion, the pressure of being a hero, a husband, a person who was supposed to have it together—it all pressed down on him until he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“I can’t do this right now,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Katsuki froze. “Izuku—”

“I just need space,” Izuku said, backing away before he could stop himself. “Please.”

Katsuki’s expression flickered—hurt, frustration, fear—but he didn’t reach out. He didn’t stop him.

That almost made it worse.

Izuku grabbed his bag again, hands trembling, and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Katsuki asked, voice rough.

“To Kirishima and Mina’s,” Izuku said, not turning around. “Just for tonight.”

Silence stretched behind him, thick and painful.

Then, quietly—too quietly—Katsuki said, “Come back.”

Izuku closed his eyes. The words nearly broke him.

“I will,” he whispered. “I just… I need a minute.”

And before he could lose his nerve, he stepped out into the hallway, letting the door close softly behind him.

The quiet that followed wasn’t peaceful.

It was the sound of something delicate beginning to fracture.