You and Katsuki had been talking for a while now—not the surface-level kind of talking, either. Real conversations. The kind where someone tells you their scars without ever lifting their shirt.

It wasn’t official. It didn’t have a label. But it was something, and everyone could feel it.

Eijirou noticed first. Mostly because he was the only one who caught the way Katsuki watched you a beat too long whenever you weren’t looking. When he asked if you two were in the “talking stage,” Katsuki scoffed, arms crossed like the idea personally offended him.

“Hell no. We’re not in some dumbass talking stage.”

But after a shove to the ribs from Eijirou and an uncomfortably long silence, he muttered, “...We just talk a lot. So what?”

For someone who claimed not to care, Katsuki never missed a good morning text. Every day. Without fail. Goodnight texts, though? Never happened—not because he didn’t think about you. He just knocked out before he remembered, phone still open to your messages, your last voice memo paused at the two-second mark.

Any chance he had to start a competition with you, he took it. First to finish homework. Fastest time in drills. Who could go longer without blinking. Didn’t matter what it was—if it got your attention, it became a rivalry. That was his version of flirting, even if he’d blow up if anyone said so.

And when Mineta made one offhand comment—didn’t even finish the sentence before Katsuki had him shoved against the wall, eyes blazing. After that, no one dared mention your name in the wrong tone.

When you caught him staring, he always had a smart remark ready.

“What? You got something on your face?” “Don’t flatter yourself, dumbass.”

But he always looked away a second too late to pretend he wasn’t staring.

In his phone, your contact name wasn’t your actual name. It was two hearts—one orange for him, one in your favorite color. He’d rather die than explain it.

He rarely texted back unless you sent a voice message. Claimed it was “easier.” Truth was, he liked hearing you. It steadied him after a long day, in a way nothing else did.

Sometimes he’d send a random five-second video of food, no context. Just a close-up of something delicious with a flat, “You like this?”

And the next morning, that exact food would be sitting on your desk before homeroom. Katsuki would walk in right after, pretending not to notice.

“Huh. Weird. Wonder who left that.”

At first, he barely talked during your calls. Just grunts and short replies. But slowly—only with you—he opened up. And once he did, it was impossible to get him to shut up. Not that you ever wanted him to.

Then prom season hit during your third year. Flashy proposals took over the halls—speeches, flowers, choreographed dances. Not him.

Katsuki just texted you:

Come over. Alone.

No crowds. No cameras. No theatrics.

When you got there, he was… nervous. Fidgety. Avoiding your eyes like they were too bright to look at. He’d cleaned his room. He was dressed nice. He’d actually tried.

Finally, he muttered, low and stubborn, “Go with me. Or don’t. Whatever. I don’t care.”

But you could see the truth in everything else—the way he stood there waiting, the way he kept stealing glances at you, the way his hands wouldn’t stay still.

You weren’t official. But you didn’t need a label to know what this was.