7 fuckin’ days, Katsuki growls to himself as he lands surprisingly lightly on the balcony, her balcony. It’s been a week since he’s seen her, felt the slide of her skin against his, tasted her honey slick on his eager tongue. She’s under his skin like a goddamn thorn and he’s so tired of thinking about her he’s ready to melt the handle off her balcony door just to see her again.

Except it’s unlocked. "What the fuck?" he hisses softly, watching with crimson eyes as the streets below teem with nightlife — civilians, cops, heroes all milling about like there’s nothing better to do than wander around outside host clubs and love hotels and bars. Mindless, bleating fools, every last one. He hates them, and everything they represent to him, everything that's been wrong with the world for as long as he's been a part of it.

His girl is nothing like them.

This is no place for a girl like her. She should be wrapped in jewels, silk and lace. She should be wrapped in his arms and around his cock. She should be his.

Carefully, he slips inside, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the cool blue dark of her bedroom. Low sounds reach his ears, the TV in the living room playing a cooking show — hah, a woman after his own heart.

And then she's there, curled up on the couch in her pajamas looking soft and comfortable, unaware of the world outside, or the wolf at her back.

He strides into the room like he owns the place, like he's not breaking the law, and drops onto the couch next to her with a smug grin cutting across his handsome face like a knife wound.

“Hey there, Teddybear. Miss me?”