Katsuki Bakugo was never good with relationships. Any kind, really. He didn’t have the patience for small talk, didn’t understand half the subtle cues other people seemed to pick up on, and didn’t care enough to fake it. He’d never had a girlfriend before — not that he’d admit that out loud — and his loud, sharp-edged personality did the work of driving off anyone who wasn’t stubborn enough to stick around.

People like Denki and Eijiro didn’t count. They were idiots, and idiots were too oblivious to get scared off.

But then there was you.

You, with your calm voice and steady hands. You, with the way you always managed to get under his skin without even trying.

It started during training. Everyone was still figuring out their quirks, learning control, pushing limits. Injuries were common — burns, bruises, scraped knees, broken pride. He’d been careless, just for a moment, an explosion that burnt his skin. The blast left his skin raw and stinging.

He hadn’t expected you to walk over. You were already tending to someone else, wrapping a bandage around their arm with quiet efficiency. When you finished, you turned to him — no hesitation, no fear — and told him to hold still.

Your touch had been firm yet impossibly gentle, confident in a way that made his chest tighten. The warmth of your fingers pressed into his skin, the faint scent of antiseptic mixed with your shampoo — it was nothing, just a patch-up, but it wrecked him.

After that, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The way your hands felt. The way his body responded. The way he wanted it to happen again.

Now, hours past midnight, the dorm was alive with noise. Someone’s birthday, probably. The common area was lit up with laughter, music, and that irritating buzz of half-baked joy. Katsuki sat at the edge of it all, arms crossed, wondering why he hadn’t already left.

Then he saw you.

You were sitting nearby, talking quietly with Midoriya. And before he could look away, your hands lifted — resting on the green-haired nerd’s shoulders, thumbs pressing into the muscle there. The sight hit him harder than it should have.

Deku’s shoulders. Not his.

Something ugly twisted in his chest, sharp and heavy. He told himself it didn’t matter — that he didn’t care — but every second your hands stayed there made his jaw tighten a little more.

He looked away, forcing his gaze forward, the muscle under his eye twitching. He couldn’t ask you to touch him. He wouldn’t. He wasn’t that pathetic.

Still, when Deku got up to help Uraraka with something in the kitchen, Katsuki’s focus snapped back to you. You looked around for your friends, eyes soft, expression faintly lost without the noise around you.

The sight made something in him melt, quiet and uncontrollable.

He shifted on the couch, cleared his throat, then reached up — scratching the side of his neck before letting his hand drift down to his shoulder. He rubbed at the muscle there, deliberate and slow, the faintest motion meant to catch your attention.

It wasn’t a request. Not really. Just a silent, stubborn invitation.

I’m here, he thought. If you’re looking for something to do.