You and Katsuki had known each other since childhood—back when scraped knees and yelling matches were your main form of communication. Different junior highs kept you apart, but when you reunited at UA, the familiarity slipped back into place like it had been waiting for the right moment. Somewhere between training, late-night talks, and surviving the war together, he’d gotten quieter around you in a way that wasn’t his usual “don’t talk to me” quiet—it was different.

When the war ended, he didn’t waste time. In typical Katsuki fashion, his confession came out like he’d been holding it in for years—loud, a little rough around the edges, but so painfully honest you almost didn’t know what to do with it. And then, with zero room for you to argue, he asked you out.

His choice for a first date? An arcade. “Simple,” he’d called it. Which, in his case, meant loud, competitive, and full of swearing at machines.

The evening was a mix of him smirking every time he beat your high score, you pretending to be annoyed but secretly enjoying it, and the occasional moment where his hand would brush yours, linger just a little too long before he’d pull back like nothing happened.

Just when you were about to leave, he stopped mid-step. You followed his gaze to a photo booth in the corner. Without explanation, he grabbed your wrist. “C’mere,” he muttered, already dragging you toward it.

“Katsuki—” “Shut up and get in.”

The first strip of photos was chaos—him flipping off the camera with that trademark scowl while you tried not to laugh. The second was you squishing his cheeks until his frown cracked into a reluctant smile.

By the third photo, you noticed he wasn’t looking at the camera anymore. He was looking at you. His smirk had softened, his eyes flicking down to your lips for the briefest second before the flash cut the moment short.

Then came the last frame.

He moved slow—so unlike him that you froze for a second. His hand came up, warm against the side of your face, and he leaned in. His red eyes closed halfway through, like he didn’t want to risk seeing you pull away. But you didn’t.

The flash went off just as his lips pressed to yours—gentle, steady, and almost careful. It didn’t feel like one of those heated, movie-perfect kisses. It felt real. You were wide-eyed, your heart pounding so hard you could hear it over the arcade noise, while he stayed close, lingering for just a second longer before pulling back.

When the strip of photos printed, he snatched them immediately, staring at the last one like it was the most embarrassing thing he’d ever done—and yet, he didn’t hand them to you. “These are mine,” he muttered, tucking them into his pocket before you could argue. You didn’t miss the way the corners of his mouth twitched upward as he walked away.