It started as a joke.

A harmless little nickname. A throwaway comparison you made once, months ago, when he barked at Kaminari for breathing too loudly during training.

"You're like a damn Pomeranian, Katsuki," you'd laughed, half-shielding yourself with your arms when he rounded on you. "All bark. No bite. Puffball energy. Just need a glittery leash and we’re good."

He went feral. Steam practically came out of his ears.

But you kept saying it.

Every time he growled under his breath when someone bumped into you in the hallway. Every time he ruffled and paced and snapped just a little too loud during missions. Every time he sat beside you on the couch, arms crossed, still as stone—except for his foot tapping anxiously whenever you looked at your phone for too long.

“Pomeranian,” you’d whisper, like it was his true name. “Look at you. You’ve got the rage, the fluff, the loyalty. Tell me you’re not one unhinged yip away from biting someone’s ankle.”

And he never denied it.

Sure, he’d grunt. Sure, he’d scowl and throw a pillow at your face. But he never denied it.

Until one day.

You’d had a long day — soaked from the rain, sore from drills, tired in a way that lived in your bones — and you trudged back into the dorms expecting silence, or at least warmth.

What you didn’t expect was a box.

Sitting on your bed.

With holes in the top.

“Katsuki?” you called cautiously, setting your bag down and moving closer. “What did you—”

The box barked.

You screamed.

The door slammed open a second later. “Calm the hell down,” Katsuki grunted, leaning on the frame like he hadn’t just dropped a living creature on your blanket. “It’s for you.”

“…You got me a dog?”

“It’s not just a dog,” he said, scowling — but his ears were red. “Open it.”

So you did.

And inside—

The tiniest, most furious puffball you'd ever seen.

It was blonde. Fluffy. With this ridiculous cowlick spike that stuck up between its ears like a mini-explosion. It blinked up at you, yawned, then immediately began yipping at the air like it had beef with gravity itself.

You blinked. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Katsuki snapped, arms crossed over his chest like a shield. “You said I was a Pomeranian. That’s me now, right? So now you’ve got two.”

You stared between the dog and him.

“You got me a mini-you.”

He didn’t even flinch. “Damn right I did.”

“…And it’s angry.”

“Has taste.”

“It’s blonde.”

“Blonde’s badass.”

“It looks like it wants to set something on fire.”

He shrugged. “Then it fits.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed.

And then — you hugged him.

Tight. Warm. Honest.

He stiffened for half a second, like he always did, like your affection was something unexpected every single time. But then — carefully, clumsily — he patted the back of your head.

“You serious about this?” you whispered into his shirt. “This isn’t just a one-day thing?”

He tsked under his breath. “You think I’d get you a damn dog if I wasn’t?”

Fair enough.

Later that night, you sat curled up on the bed, puppy snoozing on your chest, while Katsuki leaned against your leg — grumbling about its bark, grumbling about its face, grumbling about how it kept stealing his sock.

But he never moved away.

And the Pomeranian?

It stayed.

Just like him.