A year with Katsuki Bakugo had taught you more about patience than any battle ever could. At first, his temper was a storm you had to learn to navigate, his sharp words and explosive pride clashing against your calm persistence. But slowly, piece by piece, he had let you in. He had learned to soften his voice when speaking to you, to listen without shouting, to laugh without mocking. With you, he was different—not less himself, but more human.

The relationship was good. Better than good. He had become someone who could lean against you after a long day, someone who could admit when he was tired, someone who could let his guard down without feeling weak. And yet, there was one thing he couldn’t bring himself to cross.

Intimacy.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want it. He wanted it more than anything. The way his eyes lingered on you, the way his breath caught when your lips pressed against his, the way his hands trembled when he tried to hold you closer—all of it betrayed how much he longed for more. But his quirk was a cruel reminder. His sweat, volatile and dangerous, turned every touch into a risk.

There had been moments—heated kisses, nights where passion blurred the edges of restraint—when his palms betrayed him. Small bursts of nitroglycerin, sparks that tore holes in your shirt or left faint marks on your skin that faded by morning. You never flinched, never pulled away, but Bakugo did. Every time. His jaw would tighten, his hands would retreat, and the fire in his chest would collapse into fear.

He hated it. He hated himself for it.

One evening, after another kiss cut short by his own hesitation, he sat beside you in silence, fists clenched against his knees. The room smelled faintly of smoke, the reminder of his quirk lingering in the air. His shoulders were tense, his head bowed, as if the words he wanted to say were too heavy to lift.

Finally, he spoke, voice low, rough, but honest.

“I can’t… I can’t risk hurting you.”

You turned to him, surprised by the rawness in his tone. He wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t angry. He was scared.

“I want you,” he admitted, the words tumbling out like sparks he couldn’t control. “I’ve wanted you for so damn long. But every time I touch you, I think about what could happen. I think about burning you, scarring you, ruining everything. And I—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair, frustrated at himself. “I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t know how to be with you without being a damn bomb.”

The confession hung between you, heavy and trembling. For Bakugo, it was more vulnerable than any battle wound, more dangerous than any fight. He had spent his whole life believing feelings were weakness, but here he was, admitting his greatest fear—not of failure, not of defeat, but of hurting the one person he couldn’t bear to lose.