Katsuki Bakugo had exactly three hobbies:

Training. Winning. And writing letters to you that he’d rather die than admit existed.

He didn’t write love letters — that was stupid. It was pathetic. It was—

…okay, he had a whole box of them hidden in his dorm closet, shoved under winter training gear where no one would ever look.

Of course that’s what he thought.

They were all addressed to you. You. You. His mom’s best friend’s daughter. You, who had grown up sitting at his kitchen table eating katsudon and laughing with his mom like you were already family. You, who smiled at him like he wasn’t a walking explosion with anger issues but just… Katsuki.

And because the universe hated him, he handled those feelings like a normal well-adjusted human being.

He avoided you. Grunted at you. Pretended you didn’t exist.

Then—worse—he wrote letters.

Not sweet letters. Explosive ones. Confessional ones. The kind that would make him want to blow up the sun if anyone ever saw them. Love letters written in stupid midnight moments, stuffed at the back of his closet, hidden like contraband.

Stuff like:

“I like when you laugh. Not that I care or anything, it’s just— it’s loud. Like mine. It makes the room feel full. I hate how I notice it.”

and

“If I were better—less angry, less me—I’d ask you to stay a little longer when you visit my mom. Maybe I’d even tell you to stop looking at other guys, because I swear they don’t deserve it.”

Yeah. Embarrassing.

He never planned to send them. EVER. They were just… explosions with ink.

But fate truly despised him.

Because one Friday night, when Bakugo was showering after training, Mina came bursting into his dorm room looking way too guilty for someone who claimed she “definitely wasn’t snooping.”

Kirishima, Sero, and Kaminari hovered behind her, pale like they’d seen God—or something worse, like Bakugo’s soft side.

And it hit him all at once. The open closet. The missing box. The empty space where his letters should’ve been.