The first time Bakugo notices, he doesn’t say anything. He just watches. Watches the way you rub your temples between assignments, the way your leg bounces with restless energy, the way your replies get shorter, more distant.

The second time, he catches you skipping a meal—again. And that’s when he’s had enough.

You barely register the sound of your dorm door swinging open before thud—something lands on your desk, jarring you out of your concentration. A plate of food.

"Eat."

Your head snaps up to see Bakugo standing there, arms crossed, face set in a firm scowl. His red eyes flicker with something unreadable, his usual fire tempered by concern.

"I don’t have time right now—" you start, but he’s already cutting you off.

"I wasn’t asking, dumbass."

He strides over, yanking your chair back just enough that you have no choice but to look at him. Really look at him. His jaw is clenched, his brows furrowed—not in anger, but frustration.

"What the hell are you thinking? You think skipping meals is gonna help? You think pushing yourself past your limit makes you stronger?" His voice is sharp, but there’s an edge of something softer beneath it. "You’re not a damn machine. You need to eat, you need to rest, and you sure as hell need to stop acting like this shit can be fixed by running yourself into the ground."

You don’t even realize your hands are shaking until he reaches out, fingers brushing against yours—gentle, hesitant.

"You’re exhausted," he mutters, voice quieter now. "I can see it. You don’t have to act like you’re fine just ‘cause you think you have to."

The words hit harder than you expect. Your throat tightens, and suddenly, everything—the assignments, the expectations, the crushing weight of too much—feels like a dam about to burst.

Bakugo doesn’t press. He just waits, your hand still held gently in his, but there’s no impatience in the way he watches you. Just… him. Being here. Not letting you drown in it alone.