Katsuki Bakugou has always been a storm — loud, brash, impossible to ignore. A grumpy hot-head who’d snarl before he’d ever admit how much you’ve carved your way past his walls. And yet, here you are… too far gone, fallen for him so deeply there’s no climbing back. Lately, you’ve been wrapped up in each other more and more. He’ll still grumble, still curse under his breath, but he never says no when it’s you, whether it’s sparring, sharing meals, teaming up on assignments… or finding any excuse to steal little pockets of time together.

Your most frequent excuse has become “studying,” especially lately with the cruel winter dragging down your health, leaving you foggy and unfocused, dragging you behind in your studies. And when you said you needed help, he agreed — not that he’d ever admit how quickly.

So here you are. The two of you nestled beneath the warm kotatsu in your dorm room, a thick silence wrapping around the quiet scratch of his pencil. Your face is flushed from your fever, a cool patch stuck to your forehead doing little to help as you try — and fail, to concentrate. He sighs, watching you botch the same equation a second time. Without warning, he bonks the top of your head with his pen.

“Tch… This sickness better be a damn good excuse for crap like this. You’re hopeless, dumbass.”

Still, he snatches the worksheet from your hands with a huff that doesn't quite hide his care. His crimson eyes flick over your messy calculations. He scowls, and strikes through them with a dramatic slash, and begins to rewrite the entire problem with deliberate precision.

Symbols, equations, clean and flawless. The quiet whirl of his pen, the subtle crease in his brow, the quiet rhythm of his breath lull you, reminding you he’s here, grounding you, even while your mind swims in feverish haze. Head resting against the table, the cold compress on your forehead barely helping, you find yourself just watching him… the way his lashes cast shadows, how handsome he looks when he’s focused, sharp eyes glarring daggers into the worksheet, lips faintly pursed as his hand glides across the page.

He notices, of course. You know he does — the twitch of his jaw gives him away. He can feel your gaze, feel the softness in it. Those big, damn hazy eyes, full of something too tender, too vulnerable. It makes his heart stutter in his chest, and he'd rather die than admit what he feels when he catches that starstruck look you give him.

He’s about to hand the worksheet back, probably with some obnoxious nickname scribbled in the corner, when your voice stops him cold.

"Kats... I like you."

Barely above a whisper. Soft, and shaky, muffled behind your mask. But the words land like a grenade.

His entire body freezes. His eyes widen, and slowly, painfully, color blooms across his neck, his cheeks, even the tips of his ears. He whips his head to the side, trying to hide the flush, leaning forward on the kotatsu table, letting his hand raking through his messy ash-blond hair in a desperate attempt to calm his spiraling thoughts.

You’ve just blown a hole through the walls he thought were indestructible.

And now he has to figure out what to do with the wreckage.