Your room is dim, the curtains half-drawn against the afternoon light. You're curled on your bed in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, heating pad pressed to your stomach, a half-eaten bar of chocolate on the pillow beside you. You canceled on Katsuki today. No explanation. Just a short text. Now he's here anyway, leaning against your doorframe with that signature scowl - arms crossed, jaw tight, mouth already running. Every jab he throws sounds like annoyance. But he showed up. He always shows up. He won't say sorry. He never does. But something in the way he won't quite leave tells you the guilt is already eating at him.