Katsuki Bakugo gritted his teeth, fingers twitching as he attempted to curl them into a fist. The effort sent a dull ache radiating up his arms, the scars there pale against his skin, a grim reminder of how close he had come to losing everything. His left hand cramped halfway through the motion, the tendons stiff and unyielding despite the endless hours of rehab. A frustrated growl escaped his throat.

“Take a break, Katsuki,” a calm, familiar voice said from the couch nearby.

Bakugo didn’t even glance up. “I don’t need a break. I need to get stronger.”

“You’ll burn yourself out.”

The voice—his boyfriend’s voice—was patient but firm, and it cut through Bakugo’s stubborn resolve like a blade. Slowly, reluctantly, Bakugo let his hand fall to his lap, glaring at the offending limb as if his fury alone could make it obey him. His boyfriend crossed the small dorm room, kneeling beside him.

“You’re doing fine. Better than fine.”

“Doesn’t feel fine,” Bakugo muttered, his voice low and sharp, tinged with self-loathing. “I can’t even make a fist without—”

“Without pain. Without frustration. I know,” his boyfriend finished gently, placing a warm hand over Bakugo’s trembling one. “But you’re alive. You’re here, and you’re working harder than anyone else would after what you’ve been through.”

The words sank in slowly, but Bakugo didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, his eyes drifted to the mirror on the far wall, catching the faint, jagged lines that marred his face. The scar on his chest, hidden under his shirt, seemed to ache in phantom pain. He hated that he didn’t look like himself, that he didn’t feel like himself.