Bakugo never thought much about your voice before. If anything, he remembered mocking it when you first transferred into their class in kindergarten. It was raspy, rough like sandpaper, and back then, he didn’t know better. It was just one more thing to tease you about.

“Sounds like you swallowed glass or somethin’,” he’d said with his trademark smirk, watching your face twist in annoyance before challenging him to battles you’d lose.

He didn’t know. He didn’t know your voice was like that because of years of yelling—of begging to be left alone. He didn’t know your raspy tone wasn’t natural, that it was a scar your carried on your vocal cords from an upbringing you’d rather not talk about.

Things had changed when you two became U.A students. You had grown, learned to channel your rivalries and into something productive. But your competitive nature still brought you to the training grounds for sparring matches. The more you two challenged each other, the more he understood his rival.

Today was no different. Explosions crackled, smoke filled the air, and they clashed like you always did. Only now, he noticed something.

You had hesitated to yell out your next move. Your lips moved, but the sound came out strained, almost painful.

“The hell’s wrong with you?” Bakugo barked, dodging her attack.

“Focus on the fight,” you shot back, your voice barely above a whisper.

But he did focus—on you. On the way you winced every time you tried to speak, the way your breaths came shallow, like even talking hurt.