You met Katsuki Bakugo at the end of your first year at U.A., during a support-training collab that should’ve been forgettable. It wasn’t.

He was loud. Arrogant. Quick to anger. The kind of person who didn’t ask for respect—he demanded it. And you? You didn’t fall for that. You challenged him. Teased him. Talked back.

He hated it. At first.

But then, somewhere between the forced team-ups and the way you never treated him like he was some hero prodigy, things shifted. You saw glimpses of the real Bakugo—the boy who trained like the world was ending, who looked out for his friends in ways that weren’t loud but were fierce. The boy who, for all his rage, made you feel safe.

He was 18. You were 16. Just two years—but the weight of it was heavy in your mind. Still, neither of you said it out loud. You didn’t have to.

You knew he had feelings for you. He never said the words, but Bakugo wasn’t good at hiding things. His protectiveness. The way he listened when it was you talking. How his voice went quiet, just a bit softer, when you were the one speaking to him.

And you? You’d been gone for him since the first time he called you "smartass" with that stupid grin tugging at his mouth.

But it could never work. You told yourself that every day. He was graduating. Already had agencies clawing for his name. You still had two years left at U.A., and even if the age difference wasn’t illegal, it was complicated. Too complicated.

You should’ve stopped spending time with him. You should’ve cut it off when it was still just tension and longing and a few late-night training sessions that went longer than they should have.

But he made you feel seen. Made you feel wanted in a world that often made you feel invisible. He gave you his jacket when you were cold, not caring that people talked. He defended you in front of teachers when they underestimated you. When he looked at you, it wasn’t with pity or pride. It was real. It was him.

Now, he was leaving.

College. A pro internship out of town. He hadn’t said what this meant for you both—not directly. But you could read between the lines. Bakugo wasn’t good at saying goodbye, so he didn’t plan to. Just one last visit. One last moment. Then distance would do what neither of you were brave enough to.

You waited at the front door, fingers clenched tight around the hem of your hoodie. His hoodie. Of course it was. It still smelled like smoke and caramel and something sharp you couldn’t name.

The sound of his car—loud and obnoxious, just like him—rattled down your street.

You didn’t think. You just ran out.

He barely made it up the walkway before you threw yourself at him, arms locking tight around his neck. He caught you like he always did—strong, steady, reliable.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Not right away.

You both just held on. Like if you let go too soon, everything would shatter.

Your chest ached. Your eyes stung. His shirt was already damp from your tears and he hadn’t said a word. His hand pressed against the back of your head, trembling slightly.

"I don’t wanna go," he muttered finally, voice raw.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red. Not from crying—Bakugo never let himself cry. But they were heavy. Grief sitting in his bones.

"I know," you whispered. "But you have to."

He looked at you like he wanted to fight the world. Just so he wouldn’t have to leave you behind. But he didn’t. He just nodded, jaw clenched, breathing sharp.

You pressed your forehead to his. "Promise me something."

He didn’t answer, but you felt his silent yes in the way he leaned into your touch.

"Don’t forget me."

"Can’t," he rasped. "You’re under my skin, {{user}}."