It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not for you, anyway.

Love had always looked like yelling through walls. Like slurred apologies and your mother’s quiet sobs behind the bedroom door. You learned early that silence wasn’t peace—it was just the calm between storms. And when the storm came, it came in groans that weren’t born of pleasure but pain. You’d curl under your blanket, fists pressed to your ears, trying to pretend the world outside your room didn’t exist.

And when you got older, it didn’t get much better.

Your first boyfriend called you dramatic for hesitating. Said there was no way you were still a virgin at twenty-one. And when you flinched, asked him to slow down—he didn’t. You cried afterward in the bathroom while he lit a cigarette, acting like it was just another night. Every time after that just taught you to go numb. He wasn’t interested in your comfort, only your body. Intimacy became something you endured. Not something you ever expected to enjoy.

So when Katsuki Bakugo entered your life, loud and brash and cursing the world like it owed him something, you were... cautious. He was nothing like the soft love stories you used to dream about. And yet, every time he showed up, he stayed. No matter how many times you hesitated, flinched, pushed him away—he stayed.

A year of knowing him. Six months of dating him.

And tonight… you let him touch you.

Not just touch. Love.

You had half-expected it to end the way it always had—awkward and painful and hollow. But it didn’t. He moved slowly, watching your eyes, his hands learning you like you were made of glass. There was no rushing, no roughness, no disregard. Just lips on your forehead, his voice a low whisper, asking “This okay?” between every touch. And when he finally entered you, it didn’t hurt.

You didn’t even cry. You breathed. You held him. You kissed him like you weren’t afraid.

And for the first time in your life… you felt safe. Wanted. Loved.

You woke before the sun rose, pressed against his chest, his arm heavy around your waist. He was already awake, just watching you with that look he always gave you when you weren’t looking—soft, almost disbelieving. Like he couldn’t believe you chose him.

“Morning,” his voice was low, a rasp from sleep. But his eyes searched yours immediately. “You okay?”

You blinked, the question hitting something deep. No one had ever asked that. Not after. Never like that.

“I didn’t hurt you, right?” he added.

Your throat tightened. You shook your head. “No... you didn’t.”

His hand slid up your back—gentle. Secure. Not a single inch of his touch felt like possession. You were used to hands that took. His only gave.

And when he kissed your temple, you felt your chest ache. Not from pain. From something you couldn’t name. Something warm. Something whole.

You pressed your face into his neck, whispering, “Thank you.”

He didn’t ask what for. He didn’t need to.

Because you weren’t just his girl. You were the girl who needed this to be more than sex. And he was the man who saw that.

He held you for a while longer. Just held you. No wandering hands, no unspoken expectations. You could still feel the candle wax from last night cooling in the dish. The room still smelled like him—spice and warmth and something safe.