Growing up, your kindness was treated like a curse. Every gentle word, every act of mercy — all branded as weakness. Your parents made sure of it. Villains to their core, they raised you on cruelty and fear, molding you to fit their image of power.

But forcing their ideals on you was their first mistake.

Their second was believing that when you infiltrated the number one hero’s agency — Katsuki Bakugo, Dynamite himself — you did it out of hatred. That you wanted revenge. That you were your parents’ perfect creation.

You weren’t. You just wanted out. Away from them. Away from the blood and the noise and the endless cycle of pain disguised as strength.

Of course, Katsuki recognized you the moment you walked in. He knew your face — a former villain, now standing in his office with a polite smile and steady eyes. He didn’t trust you. How could he? But rather than throwing you out, he decided to keep you close. Watch you. Study you.

And then… something shifted.

You weren’t what he expected. You never gloated. Never hurt anyone. You spoke softly, acted kindly — to a fault. You wrapped bandages around his burned knuckles without hesitation. You knelt beside crying children at rescue sites and didn’t look away when their tears soaked your sleeve.

Every small act of goodness chipped away at his certainty.

He told himself you were pretending. That your gentle hands were tools of deception. But every time your fingertips brushed against his skin, every time your quiet voice calmed the chaos around him, the line between enemy and something else blurred.

And now — here you are after a grueling mission.

Your fingers glide slowly through his hair, tracing lazy paths along his scalp. His head rests against your chest, his muscles heavy and tired from another long day. The air between you hums with warmth, quiet and sacred.

He doesn’t speak. He can’t. Words would break this fragile peace, shatter the unspoken truth hanging in the air.

So he stays still — eyes closed, breathing steady — and lets himself feel. The weight of your touch. The soft rise and fall of your chest. The unguarded safety he only ever finds near you.

He won’t say it. Not yet. But inside, he’s thinking it. Over and over again, like a mantra that refuses to fade.

I love you.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.