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The snow had been falling since late afternoon.
Not heavy enough to disrupt the city, not dramatic enough to make the news. Just soft, constant flakes drifting past the windows of their apartment, collecting on ledges and fire escapes like the world was trying to slow itself down.
Katsuki noticed it first, like he always did.
He stood near the window with his arms crossed, watching the way the streetlights caught on the snow and turned it gold. The city below was muted, distant, car engines dull, voices swallowed by the cold. Everything felt far away.
Safe..
Behind him, the apartment breathed quietly. The heater clicked on and off. The faint hum of the refrigerator filled the gaps. Somewhere in the living room, a blanket shifted.
Katsuki didn’t need to turn around to know Izuku was awake.
“You’re gonna get cold standing there, Kacchan.” Izuku said softly.
Katsuki glanced back. Izuku was curled into the corner of the couch, socked feet tucked beneath him, an old sweater of Katsuki’s hanging loose off one shoulder. The sleeves were too long, covering his hands. His curls were messy in that end-of-day way, and his eyes were already heavy with sleep.
Katsuki scoffed lightly. “I’m fine.”
“Mmm,” Izuku hummed, clearly unconvinced.
Katsuki turned from the window anyway. He set his Dynamight branded mug down on the counter and crossed the room, stopping in front of the couch. He stared down at Izuku for a moment, taking him in like he always did, like he needed to remind himself this was real.
Married.
Home.
Safe.
“You’re tired,” Katsuki said.
Izuku smiled faintly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is when you pretend you’re not.”
Izuku shifted, making room. “Then come sit.”
Katsuki didn’t argue.
He sank onto the couch beside him, the cushion of the couch dipping under his weight. Almost immediately, Izuku leaned into him, like an instinct, warm and familiar. His head found Katsuki’s shoulder without hesitation, like it had memorized the shape years ago.
Katsuki’s arm came up automatically, settling around Izuku’s back. His thumb brushed slow, absent-minded circles between Izuku’s shoulder blades.
Izuku sighed.
It was quiet. Content.
The kind of sound someone made when they felt safe enough to finally rest.
The kind of sound someone made when they finally felt free.
“Kacchan.. You remember our first winter here?” Izuku murmured. Soft smile on his face
Katsuki snorted softly. “Yeah. You burned the soup.”
“I did not burn it,” Izuku protested lazily. “It was slightly… overcooked.”
“Slightly? It was literally charcoal, Izuku”
Izuku laughed, soft and breathy, the sound vibrating gently against Katsuki’s chest. “Yeah but you still ate it.”
“Didn’t wanna hurt your feelings.”
Izuku tilted his head up just enough to look at him. His eyes were warm, shining in that familiar way that always made Katsuki feel like he’d been seen too clearly.
“You always do that,” Izuku said quietly.
“Do what exactly?”
“You know.. Take care of me. Even when you pretend you’re not.”
Katsuki huffed, turning his head away. Cheeks tinted pink. “Ew, don’t get sappy.”
Izuku smiled, clearly not listening.
His hand slid down between them, fingers brushing against Katsuki’s. Their wedding bands clicked together softly, metal against metal, warm from shared body heat.
Katsuki glanced down at them.
The rings weren’t flashy. Simple, worn gold. Scratched from years of training, missions, daily life. They’d picked them out together, hands entwined, arguing over thickness and finish like it was the most important decision in the world.
Somehow, it had been.
Izuku noticed his gaze and laced their fingers together fully, thumb brushing over the band on Katsuki’s hand.
“I still can’t believe you wear it all the time,” Izuku murmured.
Katsuki scoffed. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know,” Izuku said honestly. “You used to hate jewelry.”
“Yeah, well.” Katsuki squeezed his hand. “This one’s different. And I have trauma from my parents forcing jewelry on me when I was a kid.”
Izuku’s expression softened even more as he giggled.
He shifted just slightly, lifting his head from Katsuki’s shoulder. Their faces were close now, close enough that Katsuki could feel Izuku’s breath, warm and familiar.
Neither of them spoke.
They didn’t need to.
Katsuki leaned in first, slow and careful, like he was giving Izuku time to pull away if he wanted to. He didn’t.
Katsuki leant down and pressed a gentle kiss to izuku's lips, thumb rubbing small circles into the small of Izuku's back, a small gesture Izuku called cute once. In a tone that made Katsuki's heart flutter.
Izuku reluctantly pulls away, smile on his face, eyes droopy.
"Tired?"
Katsuki asked, eyebrow raised, Izuku nodded and laid his head on Katsuki's shoulder once more.
Gradually, Izuku fell asleep
His head tipped further into Katsuki’s chest, body growing heavier as sleep claimed him. His fingers twitched once, then tightened around Katsuki’s hand like he was afraid to let go, even in sleep.
Katsuki felt it.
The trust.
The quiet certainty.
He shifted carefully, adjusting the blanket so it covered them both, tucking it around Izuku’s shoulders. He leaned his head back against the couch and seen down at him.
Izuku’s face was peaceful in sleep. Lips parted slightly. Lashes dark against his cheeks.
Katsuki’s chest ached.
Not with pain.
With love so deep it scared him a little.
He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Izuku’s hair. Then another, softer still, to his temple.
“I love you,” he murmured, barely louder than a breath. “Izuku”
Izuku didn’t wake.
But his hand tightened just a bit more around Katsuki’s.
Katsuki stayed awake a while longer, listening to the rhythm of Izuku’s breathing, the faint sounds of the city beyond the window, the soft hush of snowfall against glass.
Eventually, his own eyes grew heavy.
He shifted carefully, settling deeper into the couch, keeping Izuku close.
Their rings caught the low light as their hands rested together between them.
A quiet night.
A warm home.
And nothing left to prove.
Katsuki closed his eyes.
And for once, the world felt perfectly still.