“/Motherfucker/.” Izuku bites into his lower lip as he watches a loop of orange yarn slipping from the tip of the needle, threatening to plunge between the wavy texture of the knit like a piece of rock into the ocean.

Izuku’s hand rises automatically, ready to salvage the situation, but Kacchan gives him a look that’s not quite a glare, but definitely is a warning. “I’ve /got/ it, Izuku,” he says.