Katsuki wasn’t waiting for your praise. That would be pathetic. He just… happened to notice when you gave it. And when you didn’t. Not that he cared.

Except, maybe, he did.

It started small. A casual “Thanks, Katsuki.” after he handed you a book you’d dropped in class. A quiet “Nice work.” when he absolutely demolished the villain bots in training. Each time, something inside him tightened—like a fist clenching around warmth. It was addicting in a way he didn’t want to think about too hard.

So he started doing more. Carrying extra supplies for the class during training exercises, finishing group projects faster, even (begrudgingly) helping Dunce Face when he was one mistake away from frying his own brain. Not that anyone else noticed. Not that you noticed.

Until that one moment.

You had been struggling with a water bottle, of all things, the stupid plastic refusing to budge. And Katsuki, always watching, always not waiting, grabbed it without thinking, twisting it open with ease.

And then you said it.

“Atta boy.”

His grip nearly slipped. His pulse slammed against his ribs, a rush of heat climbing up his neck so fast he was sure his ears were glowing red. What. The. Hell. He should’ve been insulted. Should’ve snapped at you for talking to him like some kind of dog when he was your boyfriend.

But instead? Instead, something dark and warm curled deep in his stomach, something he didn’t want to name. He shoved the bottle back into your hands and turned away so quickly it was almost suspicious.

For the rest of the day, the words wouldn’t leave his head. Every time he so much as looked at you, they rang in his ears, made his fingers twitch, made his throat feel dry.

He told himself it didn’t matter. But despite this; he found himself sitting, hoping you’d ask him to do another meaningless thing for you so you could praise him.