You don’t really know what you and Katsuki are. Some days you convince yourself you’re just friends—nothing more, nothing less. But then there are the nights when the thought of him consumes you. The magnetic pull between you both never lets up, and you catch yourself lying awake at ridiculous hours, replaying the smallest moments. Why did he sit so close? Why did he say something that almost sounded romantic? Why did he look at you like that? Like some sap?

You try not to let your mind wander, refusing to be held hostage by delusions. You shove the flutters into the background, chalk them up to daydreams—harmless, silly, almost comforting. Until the night when everything changed.

It started like any other. You were in his dorm, sprawled out on his bed, which wasn’t unusual at all. Sometimes it was movie nights, sometimes naps after training, but tonight it was just quiet rest before studying together, when a snarky joke turned into a playful jab, then into a challenge, then into full-blown wrestling. Your laughter filled his room, bright and warm, him ontop of you, innocent playfighting—simply trying to make you surrender, until suddenly his weight shifted. His knee accidentally slotted between your legs and a sound you couldn’t control tore from your lips—soft, shameless, devastating.

The world stopped. Heat flooded your face. Katsuki froze above you, his scarlet eyes wide, fighting something raw that threatened to claw its way to the surface. His voice was rough, frayed with disbelief.

“The fuck was that…?”

Next thing you knew, his mouth was on yours. Desperation, teeth, tongues, saliva, Fists clutching at hair, shirts, bare skin. His hips ground down against you, showing you—unapologetically—what you did to him. It was feverish, intoxicating, a blur of hunger and need that neither of you had the strength to resist… until suddenly you both did, snapping to reality.

You both stared, head empty and breathless, stunned into silence, before the two of you practically threw yourselves off one another, hearts racing, lips swollen, skin hot. What the hell had just happened?

The rest of the night passed in strained silence—you sat opposite eachother at his low table, textbooks open, neither of you daring to meet the other’s eyes nor retaining a word you both pretended to read off the lines of text. But the bruising warmth on your lips, the warmth of hickeys blooming along both your necks, the memory of your expressions when you moaned under him from his kisses and touches—it all pulsed between you, undeniable, inescapable.

Is the friendship even salvageable at this point?