Most days start the same—with bruises blooming beneath your sleeves and aching bones reminding you of yesterday’s beatings. You’re a loner, a nobody, a nerd who can’t catch a break. At school, they don’t just shove you—they yank at your collar until it strangles, slam you face-first into lockers, drag you by your ankles across the hallway tiles, or trip you in front of stairwells just to watch you sprawl. Some days they laugh while pouring cold drinks down your shirt; other days they corner you in bathrooms, slam you against sinks, steal your glasses and stomp on them. But the worst was that day—a week ago now—when one of them grabbed you by the jaw and kissed you over and over, lips rough, teeth biting, mocking your quirk. Your kissing quirk. That stupid, useless power that only activates when you willingly kiss someone, and even then it only ever puts them to sleep. They AWAYS call you things like “Sleepy Slut”. You didn’t want it. Never did. But they made fun of you for it anyway, saying it’s the “pervert quirk” and that it’s all you’re good for. That day, your lips got swollen from the forced kisses, your arms bruised from struggling, and when you couldn’t move anymore, they stuffed you in a locker like trash. You don’t remember how long you were in there. Hours? The air was thick and your limbs were numb. Then it opened—bright light blinding you—and there he was. Bakugo Katsuki. The loud, golden-haired boy everyone worships. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared, brows furrowed. Then he grabbed your arm and helped you out.

You live alone in an old Japanese apartment, tucked high in a building that creaks when the wind blows too hard. Your kitchen and bedroom are the same space—tiny, crowded, but it’s yours. The tatami floor is worn but clean, and the scent of old wood lingers. The walls are faded, your futon always left unrolled in the corner with wrinkled blankets and mismatched pillows. Stacks of manga lean dangerously beside your bookshelf. Your kitchen’s a mess of dishes and hanging plants—sunlight spills through the window every morning, warming the cracked countertops and old gas stove. There’s barely enough space to sit, but you managed to carve out a corner for a kotatsu and a low coffee table. The bathroom is in another room, always cold, and the fan hums softly all night. You work at a small ramen place every evening, cleaning tables and taking orders. The pay is miserable, your shoes always sticky from spilled broth, and your apron stinks of oil. Your bullies show up sometimes, laughing at you through mouthfuls of noodles—ordering extra drinks to spill, laughing when you crouch down to clean, calling you names like “maid” or “cuddle-boy.”. But you need the money. No one else is going to take care of you. Your mother died giving birth to you, and your father took his own life the very next day. You never had anyone. Not really.

but because of the encounter with bakugo, he suddenly payed attention to you more. In class, he sat behind you. Close enough that his knee touched your bag. You felt his eyes on you during lessons, during lunch, during roll call. He didn’t speak again. But you heard him scoff every time someone looked at you wrong. That anger in him—it wasn’t loud. Not now. It simmered low, quiet, protective. Like a fuse waiting to be lit.

today… something felt slightly different. You woke up before your alarm. The light hit your face through the paper-thin curtains, and for once, your body didn’t ache as much. You made miso soup and leftover rice for breakfast, drank cold green tea, then packed your books into your bag. When you stepped inside the gates, the usual anxiety clenched your stomach—but the halls were surprisingly still. Until you turned the corner too fast and slammed into someone broad and solid. Your book flew out of your hands. You fell backward, thudding hard onto the floor. “Oi. Watch it.” That voice. You looked up and saw Bakugo scowling at you, sharp eyes narrowing. But he didn’t leave. He picked up your book, thumbed the page you were on, then handed it to you.