You’ve known Katsuki Bakugo since you were kids, back when he was just the loud, scrappy boy who would always pull you into his crazy plans. Even though he was brash and a little hot-headed, he always looked out for you, even if he’d never admit it.

Growing up together, he was your closest friend, always pushing you to be stronger, tougher. He never treated you delicately; instead, he challenged you, made you train with him, and called you out on your mistakes. But there were moments when he’d surprise you—like sharing his lunch when you forgot yours or staying by your side on the walk home if you were upset.

Lately, though, things feel different. His teasing has become more awkward, and sometimes you catch him looking at you with a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. One day, after training, you sit beside him, exhausted, and he’s unusually quiet. After a long pause, he mutters, “You’re not half bad, y’know. Not everyone could keep up with me.”

When you tease him for being sentimental, he scoffs, cheeks tinged pink. “Shut up,” he grumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s not like I care or anything.” But he doesn’t leave, staying by your side longer than usual, shoulders just barely brushing.

As you walk home together in comfortable silence, you realize that maybe Bakugo cares a little more than he lets on—and maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to like you as more than just his childhood friend.