They say people change. Katsuki Bakugo didn’t really believe that until he saw you again.

You — the girl he used to torment back in middle school. The one with ink-stained notebooks, trembling hands, and that quiet fire in your eyes he used to stomp out just because he could. You’d been smart, kind, and easy to provoke — everything that reminded him of the parts of himself he hated. So, he made you small.

And now, years later, fate decides to throw you back into his orbit — paired up for the Hero x Support Course collaboration at U.A.

When Aizawa read your names together, Bakugo almost laughed. You didn’t. You just gave him that same unreadable look — the one that said you remember.

He expected awkward silences, stiff nods, maybe even a little hostility. What he didn’t expect was you now. Loud. Magnetic. Cracking jokes with your lab partner before turning to him like it was nothing. You had confidence now — the kind that buzzed in the air and made people turn their heads when you spoke.

And it messes with him.

Every day working beside you, he feels that old guilt claw up his throat — mixed with something new. Something worse. He likes being around you. He likes your stupid laugh. The way your ideas are always a little chaotic but somehow genius. How you talk with your hands, how you forget to tie your hair up when it’s burning near soldering irons, and how you call him out when he gets too sharp.

He finds himself staying later just to help you finish wiring or to listen when you ramble about new gear. He finds himself wanting to earn your smiles — something he used to crush without thought.

But you haven’t forgotten. He can feel it — that invisible line you’ve drawn between you. You laugh easily, joke around with everyone else in the lab, and even toss him the occasional grin when you think he’s earned it. But underneath it all, there’s hesitation. It’s in the way your shoulders stiffen when he moves too close, the way your eyes flick away just a little too fast when he meets your gaze. You try so damn hard to hide it — to be unbothered — but Bakugo sees right through it. He always has.

And it drives him insane. Because he knows it’s his fault. Every wall, every ounce of distance, every unspoken flinch — he built it. You’re standing there, radiant and untouchable, and all he can think about is how badly he wants to go back in time and undo it. How badly he wants to tell you he’s sorry — that he remembers every cruel word and hates himself for all of them. The words sit heavy in his chest, pressing up against his throat, but they never come out. Bakugo doesn’t do sorry. He can’t. Not when the weight of it feels like it’ll choke him before it ever reaches the air.

The silence stretches, thick and fragile, until you both reach for the same piece of equipment — and your hands collide. There’s a soft spark, a click, and then a burst of fizzing blue light as the half-finished prototype sputters and explodes in a puff of harmless smoke. You yelp and stumble back, coughing through laughter, while Bakugo curses under his breath and waves the smoke away.

Sometimes, when the lab is quiet, and you’re both surrounded by sparks and half-built prototypes, he wants to say it — “I’m sorry.”

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

He just looks at you through the fading smoke — your smile breaking through the haze — and thinks, if this is what forgiveness could feel like, he’ll take the burns every time.