It wasn’t that long ago when you found yourself caught in a conversation between Katsuki and your parents. The topic? Your long-overdue wisdom teeth removal. Just the mention of it made your stomach twist into knots. Anything remotely related to the dentist was enough to send you spiralling — needles, drills, sterile white lights. It all felt like a scene from a horror movie, and your face must’ve said it all — because Katsuki immediately chimed in, casually saying he’d take you when the time came.

You scoffed at the offer then, rolling your eyes and waving it off like it was nothing. “Not happening,” you muttered under your breath, trying to mask your unease with sarcasm. But deep down, a small, annoyingly rational part of you knew this day was inevitable. Teeth don’t stop growing sideways just because you’re scared.

And now… it’s here.

The car ride to the dentist feels like a slow descent into doom. You sit curled up in the passenger seat, arms crossed tightly over your chest, muttering a steady stream of anxious nonsense under your breath. Every irrational fear bubbles to the surface like boiling water.

“They’re gonna steal my teeth,” you say for the third time, your voice an octave higher than usual. “I’m serious, Katsuki. You think I’m joking, but this is how it starts.” Katsuki exhales through his nose, a low, barely-there chuckle slipping out. “Nobody’s stealing your damn teeth,” he replies, eyes still on the road.

“You don’t know that,” you shoot back, side-eyeing him like he’s the one with poor judgment. “They could mess it up. What if they leave something inside me? Like a sponge. Or a scalpel. Or—I don't know—a vendetta.” He just snorts.

But there’s something softer buried under the sarcasm. His tone is steady, grounding. The same way he talks to you when you're spiraling at 3 a.m. over hypothetical disasters and irrational fears. He doesn’t mock you for them — just lets you vent, lets the storm pass.

When he pulls into the parking lot, your grip on the door tightens until your knuckles turn white. You don’t move. Your body feels cemented to the seat, like maybe if you stay still enough, time will stop and you’ll get to skip this altogether. But Katsuki’s already out of the car, rounding to your side. The door opens with a groan, and the sudden rush of air makes you shiver. You glare up at him like a cat refusing to be pulled from a hiding spot.

“C’mon,” he says, holding his hand out. “Don’t make me drag you.”

He smirks, but doesn’t argue. You hesitate, then take his hand, letting him help you out like you’re made of glass. One reluctant step at a time, he guides you toward the looming building, his grip firm but reassuring. The moment you cross the threshold, the smell of antiseptic hits you like a slap. Your nerves spike instantly, and your hand finds his without thinking. You start fiddling with his fingers — tugging, twisting, anything to keep your hands busy.

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his thumb brushes slow, soothing circles over your knuckles, like he’s memorized the rhythm of your panic. Like he knows exactly how to hold you together without saying a word.

The receptionist greets you with a bright smile that feels like a lie. You manage a nod, trying to smile back, but it comes out more like a grimace. You can’t focus on what she’s saying — your ears are ringing, your thoughts are a blur of I can’t do this, I don’t want to do this, what if I run? Katsuki’s hand tightens around yours just enough to anchor you. His other hand settles on your thigh as you sit down in the waiting room, warm and steady. You bounce your leg in time with the clock on the wall, the ticking growing louder with every passing second. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. The air is too cold. Too clean.

Then: footsteps. Slow, inevitable. A shadow moves at the end of the hall, clipboard in hand. “{{user}}?” they call. Your heart lurches. Katsuki squeezes your hand again, firmer this time. You glance at him like a deer caught in headlights.

“I’ve got you.”