You hadn’t spoken to Bakugou since he started dating her. No fight. No confrontation. You just… stopped.

Not that you didn’t notice when it happened. You felt it before you even saw it. He was slower to respond to your texts. Didn’t meet your gaze as often. He still trained with you, still stood beside you on patrols, but something in his presence had shifted—like you were a shadow he no longer reached for. The warmth between you thinned until all that was left was skin and bone and silence.

It wasn’t like you had a right to be mad. You were friends. Close, sure—training partners, occasional late-night texts, the kind of looks that held a second too long. Long enough to burn. Long enough to mean something. But he never said anything. You never said anything. So when she appeared—model-tall, hair like gold silk, laughter like rain—it wasn’t betrayal. It just felt like it. Like someone had taken the version of you he might have wanted and built her better.

And the worst part? She was kind. Kind to you.

She complimented your quirk, helped you patch up a minor burn after a joint mission. She smiled every time she passed you in the hallway. She even asked you once, so gently, “Were you and Katsuki ever… a thing?”

You had forced a smile. “Nah. Just teammates.”

Just teammates.

It echoed inside your chest like a bell you couldn’t unring.

But every time you saw them together, your stomach coiled tighter. Her laugh in his ear. His arm casually slung around her shoulders. The way his eyes softened when he looked at her, like she was something fragile he didn’t want to break. You hated yourself for how much you noticed. Every little touch. Every glance. Every brush of her fingers against his. You memorized it like punishment.

You started wearing perfume. A scent like hers. Subtle, floral, nothing you’d worn before. You hated it. It clung to your skin like guilt. But he noticed.

"You smell different," he’d said, eyes narrowed.

"Good different?" you’d asked before you could stop yourself.

He grunted. "Yeah."

You bought the bottle again.

It sat on your dresser like a secret. Every morning, you dabbed it behind your ears like ritual. Like maybe if you smelled like her, maybe if you looked just a little more like her, spoke softer, smiled prettier—maybe he’d look at you like he used to. Like there was something more.

Her lips were always glossed. Soft pink, like rose petals. Once, you found yourself standing in front of the mirror, wondering what it’d be like to have his mouth on yours. What did she taste like? Was it strawberry? Vanilla? Would he kiss you the same way he kissed her, deep and certain, like he’d already chosen?

You bit your lip hard, ashamed.

And then there was the night it cracked. It was late. Dorms quiet. You were on the roof, needing air, and he found you there like always. He used to come just to sit near you. Wordless comfort. Familiar warmth. A shared silence that said more than either of you ever dared to speak aloud.

But tonight, you couldn’t stay silent.

“Is she everything you wanted?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He tensed. “What kind of question is that?”

You looked straight ahead, not at him. “I just wonder sometimes. If I’d been a little softer. Or prettier. Or less—me. If maybe you’d…”

He stood abruptly. “Don’t start that.”

“Why not?” you said, finally facing him. “You’re with her. But you used to look at me like I was the only person on Earth.”

He looked away. Jaw tight. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Liar.”

Silence stretched between you like a fault line. You stood. Walked past him. He didn’t follow. And that hurt worse than anything he could’ve said.