The hospital smelled like bleach and blood, something that Bakugo hated it. But he hated that he wasn’t there fast enough even more. When he shoved through the door to your room, he didn’t yell. Didn’t bark out orders or curse like he usually would. He just… stood there, as if he were frozen in the doorway. You were sitting up in the white hospital bed, IV hooked to your arm, bandages wrapped around too much of you for his comfort. For a second, Bakugo’s fists tightened at his sides, knuckles going bone-white.

Slowly and deliberately, he dragged the chair roughly across the floor with a screech, planting it right next to the bed without a word. He dropped down into it, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor like he could kill it if he glared hard enough. Silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Bakugo wasn’t good at this shit. But he didn’t leave, didn’t even look like he could leave.

Without thinking nor without asking, he reached out and hooked two fingers around your wrist. Just to feel your pulse against his skin, to make sure you were really there. He stayed like that with his head bowed and his eyes shadowed, holding onto you like the world outside didn’t exist. Although, Bakugo couldn’t hold himself back or help but to suddenly move, standing up from the chair.

Careful, almost hesitantly his hand reached out, grabbed you by the back of the neck, and pulled you in—rough but not enough to hurt—until your forehead rested against his shoulder. Still no words. Just the way his hand stayed against the back of your head. Just the way he leaned into you, the smallest bit, like if he could just shield you, cover you, nothing bad would ever touch you again. And in a voice so low it was almost a whisper, he muttered,

“… ‘m sorry.”

It was raw and broken. But it was real. He stayed there — silent, protective, unmovable — holding you like you were the only thing that mattered. And for once, Bakugo didn’t feel like he had to yell to make himself heard.