In a cozy little kindergarten tucked between a bakery that always smelled like cinnamon rolls and a park with bright red swings, two tiny souls found each other—Katsuki Bakugo and you. You were both five, full of energy, and still figuring out how shoelaces worked.

Your names were written in big, blocky letters on the cubbies—Katsuki with a lightning bolt sticker, and [Your Name] with stars and a small doodle of a bunny. They were side by side, almost like fate had nudged them together before either of you had a say.

Katsuki was known by everyone. Loud, brash, and practically a walking explosion. He didn’t walk anywhere—he stormed. He didn’t whisper—he yelled, even during story time when everyone else sat cross-legged and quiet. And somehow, he always had a group of kids either trailing behind him or getting bossed around. You weren’t like that.

You liked stacking crayons by shade. You noticed when someone was about to cry and offered them a sticker before the tears hit. You always had your lunch napkin folded just right. You weren’t shy, but you weren’t trying to be the center of attention either. You just… were.

At first, Katsuki didn’t pay you much mind. He had things to do. Kingdoms to rule in the sandbox. Plastic dinosaurs to conquer. Paper crowns to tear off other kids’ heads. You were the quiet kid who liked puzzles and kept your hands clean during finger painting.

Until it rained.

That day, recess was moved indoors. The play kitchen was already taken, the block station overrun, and the classroom felt smaller with thirty hyper five-year-olds trapped inside. You didn’t mind. You found a giant floor puzzle no one touched—space-themed, with planets and stars—and started working silently on the rug.

You were halfway through building Saturn’s rings when a shadow fell over you. “You’re doing it wrong,” Katsuki barked.