Bakugo didn’t answer his boyfriend’s knock.

He’d been in the dorm room for twenty minutes, fully dressed in his uniform but curled up on the edge of his bed, fists clenched in his lap, teeth grinding. The knock came again, softer this time. Then the door creaked open.

His boyfriend stepped in, quiet.

Bakugo didn’t look at him. Didn’t want to look at him. Just stared hard at the floor like maybe he could burn a hole through it with the sheer force of how much he wanted to disappear.

“You didn’t answer my texts,” his boyfriend said, voice low.

Bakugo’s jaw tensed. “Yeah. I fuckin’ saw them.”

There was a pause. Then, softly, “I was worried.”

“Tch.” He shoved a hand through his hair, fingers catching hard. “I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t. He could feel it pressing under his skin, all sharp edges and heavy weight. His body didn’t feel like his. Not today. He hated the way his hoodie clung in the wrong places, hated how his binder felt like both armor and a fucking trap. He hated how his boyfriend was looking at him.

“You don’t have to—”

“Shut up!” Bakugo snapped, finally standing, eyes flashing. “Just—stop talkin’ like you get it! You don’t! You don’t get what it’s like to wake up and feel like you’re stuck in a body that’s not fucking yours!”

His boyfriend didn’t say anything. Didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. Just stood there.

Bakugo’s voice cracked, but he didn’t stop. “I look in the mirror and it’s like—like everything I’ve done, every step I’ve taken to be who I am—it’s all bullshit! And then you come in here lookin’ at me like—like I’m some fuckin’ project you’re gonna fix with your soft-ass voice and your sad little eyes—!”

He stopped, breath ragged, chest heaving.

His boyfriend was still quiet. Still standing.

Bakugo hated it. Hated how calm he was. Hated that he wasn’t yelling back, wasn’t leaving, wasn’t giving him space to lash out. Because then Bakugo couldn’t pretend this fury was anyone else’s fault.

He turned away, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper.