The halls of Heights Alliance were wrapped in quiet. Dim lighting lined the walls in soft pulses, flickering gently over the wooden floors. Most of the students were asleep, their dreams muffled behind closed doors. But not you. And not Bakugo.

You walked beside him in socked feet, the silence between you both easy. Familiar. It had been like this for years—late-night sneaks, stolen snacks, the occasional bicker over what to watch in the common room. Some things never changed. Some things had.

He didn’t storm ahead anymore. He didn’t tell you to “keep up” or call you useless for walking too slow. He matched your pace. Shoulder brushing yours now and then. Hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie. Quiet. Present.

“…If they touched it, I’ll kill ‘em,” he muttered as you rounded the corner toward the kitchen.

You glanced at him. “The ice cream?”

He grunted. “Obviously.”

You laughed under your breath, nudging his elbow. “It’s just dessert, Katsuki.”

“It’s not just anything when it’s mine.”

But that wasn’t true tonight. You found that out a minute later.

The fridge door opened with a soft pull. He crouched, digging through the freezer drawer like a man on a mission. Then he pulled out a tub—Sharpie label scrawled across the lid in his handwriting. Your name. His name.

And your favorite flavor.

Cookies & scream.

You blinked. That wasn’t his pick. Not even close. He used to call it “sugar sludge,” swear it tasted like “a cookie fell in battery acid.” You’d heard the complaints a dozen times before, shrugged them off like you always did.

But here it was. Half a pint, untouched. Two spoons already waiting on the counter.

You looked at him. Really looked.

He didn’t say anything about it. Just handed you a spoon without looking up. Like it was normal. Like it wasn’t something that made your chest ache a little.

You took it carefully. “You don’t like this flavor.”

“I don’t gotta like it,” he said simply. “You do.”

You stared at him for a beat, stunned into silence. He didn’t meet your eyes. Just turned and left the kitchen like he hadn’t said anything at all.

So you followed him—ice cream and all—into the entertainment room, the low light casting shadows over the couch cushions and movie cases. He flopped down, pulled out an old DVD, and shoved it into the player without asking your opinion.

You didn’t care. You were still thinking about the freezer.

The movie started playing—loud martial arts grunts and outdated visual effects—but you barely noticed. You sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, the tub balanced between you both.

You scooped a bite. He didn’t.

Minutes passed in silence. Then:

“…You’re still here.”

It wasn’t a question.

You looked over at him.

He was staring at the screen, jaw tight, voice low. “Everyone else’s left. Or drifted. Or… whatever. But you didn’t.”

You swallowed. The taste of cookies and scream was still on your tongue, but it felt like something else entirely now.

“Yeah,” you said. “I didn’t.”

He shifted slightly, not closer but not away either. His fingers tapped restlessly against his knee. Then:

“…Good.”

That was all. But it was enough.

You leaned against his arm, just a little.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t tell you to stop.

Just stayed. Quiet, steady, softer than you’d ever thought possible.

And maybe, in the dark, with the hum of the TV and the slow melt of your favorite ice cream between you—his least favorite, bought anyway just because you liked it—you finally realized something.

This version of Bakugo didn’t say a lot.

But he remembered everything that mattered.