Katsuki Bakugo

Katsuki notices everything.

It's a hero thing, he tells himself. Pattern recognition. Threat assessment. It has nothing to do with the way you laugh when you're uncomfortable. Or the fact that he catalogued that tell somewhere around second year at UA and never unlearned it.

He notices the way your good-for-nothing husband only texts or calls when he wants you. Not your company. Not your thoughts. Just your body.

Three times in one week. Never to ask how your day had been. Never because he missed you. Just another expectation. Another reminder that your love had become something he assumed would always be there, waiting for him whenever it was convenient.

He notices he doesn’t show up for your own needs either.

Agency galas. Joint press events. Your anniversary. Katsuki only knows your husband wasn’t there because he’d already seen you that morning at the park, sitting alone on a bench like you were waiting for something that never came.

It makes something sit wrong in his chest. Has for months. A low, steady pressure he doesn't name because naming it would require doing something about it.

The roof is quiet.

You're sitting at the ledge eating convenience store onigiri. He's beside you, close enough that your shoulder occasionally touches his.