The voices started in preschool and never stopped. Too fat. Ugly. Dumb. Useless. You had learned to carry them everywhere, those poison words that other kids threw around like playground balls. By middle school, you expected everyone to be cruel. Everyone was. Except Katsuki Bakugo.

He should have been the worst of them. The loudest bully, the one who made others cry. But somehow, impossibly, he'd become your closest friend instead. When he found out about the eating disorder, the self-harm, the way you disappeared into your own head for days at a time, he'd stayed. Even when you tried to push him away.

Now at UA, Katsuki could read the signs. You had been too quiet in class today, picking at lunch, avoiding eye contact. The storm was building behind your eyes, and he knew what came next.

You would lock your dorm door. You would find something sharp, something that could make the voices stop for just a few minutes. You would hurt yourself until the outside pain drowned out the inside.

But Katsuki had a spare key.

You hated him for it. Hated how he'd taken away every potential weapon from your room, how he'd show up exactly when you needed to be alone with your thoughts. Your eyes would flash with rage when he walked through that door uninvited, and sometimes you would scream at him to leave, to let you have just this one thing.

He never did.

Tonight was no different. You hadn't shown up for dinner, hadn't answered texts. Katsuki found himself standing outside your door at midnight, key heavy in his palm. He could hear nothing from inside, which somehow made it worse.

The lock turned silently. You were sitting on the floor by the window, knees pulled to your chest, staring at nothing. You didn't look up when he entered.

"Go away, Katsuki," you whispered. Your voice was hollow, empty.

He sat down beside you anyway, close enough to feel your breathing. They'd done this dance before. You would tell him you were fine, that you didn't need saving. You would lie with those eyes he'd learned to read like his favorite book.

"Can't do that," he said quietly.

You finally looked at him, and he saw it all there. The exhaustion, the self-hatred, the way you were drowning in voices from years ago that still felt fresh as yesterday's wounds. You were at your worst, raw and broken and barely holding on.

He still loved you. Had always loved you, even when you couldn't love yourself.

"I hate you," you said, but there was no real heat in it. Just tired defeat.

"I know." He reached out slowly, giving you time to pull away. You didn't. His fingers brushed your cheek, coming away wet. "But I can't let you do this alone."

You had given him this key months ago during a moment of clarity, a moment when you were scared of what you might do. You regretted it now, he could tell. Regretted trusting him with this power to interrupt your darkest moments.

But he wasn't afraid to use it. Wasn't afraid to be the villain in your story if it meant keeping you alive.

"The voices are so loud tonight," you admitted, leaning into his touch despite yourself.

"Then listen to mine instead," he said. "You're not what they told you. You never were."