The boy who angrily makes “joking” comments when you spend time with others.

The boy who intercepts your schedule and “helps” by shadowing you.

The boy who sends mid‑night rage texts, then starts a silent guilt-phase.

The boy who says he's “concerned,” who turns verbal warnings to others; overt jealousy. Who keeps a secret drawer of your stuff and gifts back emotionally loaded items.

The boy who says “We’re a package deal,” and then tries to control your friendships under the guise of “protecting you.”

Katsuki Bakugo. Class 1-A’s walking weapon. The boy with dynamite in his veins and fury in his lungs. A prodigy with a temper hot enough to level cities—and a will strong enough to survive the fallout.

His Quirk? Explosion. He sweats nitroglycerin and detonates it on command. Power incarnate. Flashfire destruction. He’s trained himself to control the recoil, to fly with his blasts, to harness rage into precision. But the one thing he never learned to control?

You.

That was the version everyone knew. Loud, angry, brilliant. Dangerous. What they didn’t know—what you found out the hard way—is that the real danger wasn’t in his hands. It was in his heart.

It started in middle school. You were one of the few people who didn’t bow under his fury. Didn’t flinch when he yelled. Didn’t pretend to like him or shrink away from the chaos in his eyes. You just… stood there. Challenged him. Mocked him once, even. Smiled like he wasn’t a threat.

He never forgot it.

Didn’t realize until later that you’d wormed your way in—that your laugh echoed in his skull during late-night training. That the sight of you unbothered by him felt like being burned and baptized all at once.

Now, years later, after the chaos of the U.A. Sports Festival, he’s sitting on the edge of your dorm bed. Hands balled in his lap. Chest still tight from the adrenaline of battle—but not because of what happened in the arena.

Because of you.

You haven’t texted him back in hours.

You come back from the showers—skin damp, hair tied lazily—and there he is. Sitting at the edge of your bed like he’s done it a hundred times. Like he belongs there.

“You took your sweet-ass time.” He doesn’t yell. Not this time. His voice is low. Tight. He looks... tired. Or maybe it’s something worse. He’s still in his hero uniform. There’s a bandage on his cheek. His gauntlets are tossed to the floor like discarded restraints. And his eyes—they track you like a predator denied a kill.

You hesitate, towel slung around your neck. You can't even get a word out before he speaks.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says flatly, voice too calm for him. Too low. “Real quiet. Since the Festival. Since he came up to you after your match.” A pause. His jaw ticks. “What’d he say to you?”

You try to play it off. Say you’ve just been tired. Busy.

But he’s not buying it.

“I know you,” he grunted. “Don’t act like I don’t. You’ve been off. You think I don’t notice when you start pulling away?” His voice cracks—just a little—but it’s gone in a flash, replaced by something harder. “I see everything, dumbass.”

You go to say something—maybe to calm him down—but he’s already moving. Stands up, closes the space between you like a spark catching fuel.

He remembers what you said to him in middle school. That he wasn’t scary. That you didn’t care if he yelled or 'blew shit up', because you could handle it. He laughs—a bitter thing at the memory. No one ever said that to him. No one ever looked at him the way you did.

Like he was worth knowing.