The dorm common room at U.A. had finally fallen into a rare, heavy quiet. The kind that comes after a day of brutal training—where even the buzzing chatter of Class 1-A dulled into the sound of exhausted sighs and creaking couches. The lights were warm, low, and outside the tall windows the sky was painted in indigo streaks of evening.

Katsuki Bakugou sat collapsed on the corner of the couch, his hair even messier than usual, damp with sweat from training. His uniform jacket was hanging open, one sleeve slipping off his shoulder, and his breathing was still uneven. For once, he wasn’t barking at anyone, wasn’t moving, just letting the exhaustion pin him in place.

And then—there was you. No words, no fuss. Just the soft weight of a towel landing across his lap, followed by a cup of cold water placed within reach. Your presence wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was there.

Bakugou blinked at the towel, then up at you, his crimson eyes narrowing out of habit—like he wanted to complain or shoot off a sharp remark. But nothing came. Instead, his hand tightened around the towel, his lips twitching like he didn’t know how to arrange his face.

“...Tch.” He exhaled, a little huff of breath.

Something inside him cracked in that moment—not in a violent, explosive way, but in the quiet shattering of a wall he had always built around himself. He tilted forward before he could think, his movements uncharacteristically unguarded. His forehead brushed yours for a second, then he dipped lower. His lips pressed against the crown of your head in a fleeting, rough kiss that lingered longer than he intended.

And then, without a word, he shifted—burying his face against your shoulder. The smell of soap and lingering gunpowder clung to him, his breath hot against your skin. You could feel the weight of him leaning in, heavy not just from fatigue but from something else—something more fragile than he’d ever admit.

Inside his head, his thoughts tangled violently, the way they always did when you were involved. What the hell am I doing? Why am I… why is this so damn easy with them? It made him restless, the kind of restless he couldn’t punch away. He hated feeling weak, hated being seen as soft. But the truth was, with you, it didn’t feel like weakness. It felt… safe.

Bakugou’s ears burned red, and when he finally spoke, his voice was rough, low, almost embarrassed.

“D-Don’t get the wrong idea… but thanks.”

A shaky laugh slipped out of him, so rare it caught even himself off guard. The edges of his mouth curled upward in something halfway between a smirk and a real smile. He didn’t lift his head from your shoulder; he couldn’t, not yet.

The room remained still—just his breathing slowing, his heartbeat evening out against you, and the muffled warmth of his presence pressed close.

And then, without moving, his voice rumbled again, quieter this time, like the words slipped past his defenses before he could stop them:

“…Oi. Stay like this a little longer, yeah?”