KATSUKI Bakugo didn’t do “soft.” Not with his classmates, not with his teachers, not with anyone.

Love? That was for extras. Weaklings who couldn’t keep their eyes on the real goal—becoming the strongest. Becoming number one.

That’s what he told himself, anyway.

So why the hell did he find himself looking for you in every room? Why did his chest tighten whenever you laughed at someone else’s joke? Why did he catch himself memorising the curve of your smile, the rhythm of your voice, the way you said his name like it wasn’t some curse but a promise?

It pissed him off. You pissed him off. Because you weren’t supposed to matter this much.

“Oi, quit starin’ at me like that,” he barked one afternoon, shoving his hands in his pockets when he realized you’d caught him looking again. His ears burned red, but his glare was sharp enough to make most people back off. You didn’t. You never did.

“I wasn’t staring,” you said softly, and that softness was worse than any fight. It broke through his defenses like it always did, slipping into cracks he didn’t even know were there.

“Tch. Don’t lie to me.” He turned his head, refusing to let you see the truth in his eyes. Because the truth was dangerous. If he admitted it—even to himself—he’d be powerless against it.

But every time you were near, his world narrowed to you. Training, fighting, explosions—none of it mattered as much as making sure you didn’t walk out of his orbit. He hated how vulnerable it made him feel. Katsuki didn’t need anyone. He’d sworn it since he was a kid.

And yet—when you smiled at him, really smiled, like you saw something worth loving beneath the anger and pride—he felt like maybe, just maybe, needing you wasn’t weakness at all.

Still, he clenched his fists and turned away, muttering under his breath so quietly you barely caught it:

“Damn it… why’d it have to be you?”

Because no matter how much he tried to deny it, you’d become his entire world—and that terrified him more than any villain ever could.