A few months ago, you and Katsuki had been assigned to patrol a designated area not far from U.A., supervised from a distance. It was supposed to be routine - nothing too dangerous - still, you both suited up in full gear. Preparation was second nature.

The first fifteen minutes had been uneventful. A few suspicious loiterers, nothing more. The kind of patrol that felt almost boring.

Then everything changed.

A girl bolted past Katsuki when he wasn’t looking, sprinting toward the mouth of the alley you were stationed in. He turned at the last second - and collided with her. Hard.

He opened his mouth, ready to snap at her for not watching where she was going. But when she met his gaze, sharp and panicked, the words died in his throat. Her eyes glowed a strange, vivid pink.

His thoughts slowed. His body followed.

Oh.

Consciousness blurred at the edges. He vaguely registered being moved - carried, maybe - his head resting against someone’s shoulder. The world faded in and out in fragments. In the haze, through half-lidded eyes, he recognized the face hovering above him.

Yours.

Later, he’d learn what happened. A love-based Quirk.

Under its influence, his mind hadn’t felt like his own. It had been thick and foggy, but painfully focused at the same time. Calm in one breath, desperate in the next. Every thought circled back to you. You cut through the haze like a beacon, the only thing that felt clear. The only thing that felt necessary.

He hated remembering it.

Because under that Quirk, he hadn’t been himself. He’d acted in ways he never would have otherwise - too close, too intense, too insistent, too... gross. He knew he could be loud, demanding, rough around the edges even on a normal day. But he would never, in his right mind, want to make you uncomfortable. Never want to frighten you. Never wanted to make you think he'd ever take advantage of you like that.

Nothing had happened - thankfully. The Quirk had worn off before anything irreversible occurred. But that didn’t undo the damage. The memory lingered. The tension. The way you’d looked at him afterward.

Trust, once cracked, didn’t seal easily.

In the months since, Katsuki had been trying. He gave you space in training, avoided unnecessary proximity, forced himself not to watch you the way he used to. He cooked more often and left portions out without comment. When he asked you to hang out, it was always in groups - never alone. No pressure. No cornering.

Guilt sat heavy in his chest, mixed with the slow, sinking fear that he might lose you for good.

Now, in the common room one evening, he moved carefully - almost cautiously - and sat on the couch opposite yours. Not too close. Not too far. His gaze fixed awkwardly on the coffee table instead of you, shoulders tense in a way few people ever noticed.

He didn’t speak right away.