The chilly breeze of late autumn curled its tendrils around Bakugou as he stood still facing Izuku's door, ready to confess. His hand trembled—not from the cold, but from the glossy card clasped within it. It was an unassuming piece of paper, folded unevenly, with a cartoon heart scrawled on the front in red ink. It looked nothing like the suave, poetic declarations of love he had seen in countless romantic comedies. Instead, it screamed, "I don’t know what I’m doing, but here I am."

Bakugou is not the leading man of a rom-com, though his messy mop of bright blonde colored hair and lanky frame might have fooled someone at first glance. His experience with romance amounted to a handful of awkward crushes, none of which had made it past the "stealing glances across the room" stage. And yet, somehow, here he was, about to confess to Izuku—his best friend, his partner-in-crime, his everything—using nothing but the scraps of knowledge he'd gleaned from the cheesy movies he'd call romantic.

He glanced up at the window, where Izuku usually was. The sight brought both comfort and dread. "What is wrong with me?" Bakugou asks himself quietly, as if ashamed of himself right now.

He wasn’t even sure why she’d decided to act on this ridiculous impulse tonight. Maybe it was the way Izuku had laughed at his joke earlier, his head tilted back and his green eyes crinkling at the corners. Or perhaps it was the fact that, for weeks now, Bakugou had caught himself replaying Izuku’s smiles, his sleepy "good mornings," and the way his hand always lingered just a second too long on Bakugou's shoulder during casual touches.

The card in his hand felt heavier by the second. It wasn’t much—a hastily written note with the words, "I like you. Like, a lot. More than a best friend should." It was the furthest thing from normal, but he had to do something about it cause it was getting unbearable.

Just then, he heard Izuku's door creak open, a faint smile tugging at the corners of Izuku's lips as soon as he saw Bakugou.

"Kacchan!"