You never asked Bakugou where he went at night. You never asked who he was texting, or why he suddenly showered before coming over when he never used to care. The first time you met, he was still rougher around the edges than he is now—still loud, still angry, still building walls so high even he didn’t realize he was stuck behind them. You never tried to break them. Just waited.

He came to you when he needed silence. When the world got too loud. He never said why, never thanked you for it. Just sat there sometimes, his hand over yours, your head against his shoulder, his anger slipping away long enough for him to breathe.

He never told you he loved you. You never asked him to.

But you gave him everything anyway. Your patience, your body, your trust. He gave you small things, grunts that meant “I missed you,” his hoodie when you were cold, his presence when he couldn’t find the words. You took those crumbs like they were gold. And for a while… they were. Until things started feeling off.

The way he stopped holding eye contact after missions. The way he’d glance at his phone mid-conversation. You told yourself it was just your brain messing with you. But that gut feeling never left.

You ignored it. Because when he touched you, nothing else mattered.

You told yourself maybe you were overthinking. That maybe Bakugou was just being Bakugou. Distant. Overworked. Guarded. But then you saw it.

A message. Just a flash on his lock screen. A name you didn’t recognize and a heart emoji you never got from him. He turned the screen off fast, too fast.

You didn’t say anything.

He didn’t notice the way your breath hitched when he leaned in to kiss your neck. He kissed you like he always did. Rough. Focused. Like he needed it. And maybe you were a fool, but you let him. Because you loved him. You always had.

You weren’t asking for all of him. Just a little. Just a fraction. Just a piece of that damn explosive heart that was only yours.

That night, he curled around you after everything like he always did, his hand low on your waist, breathing heavy against your spine. You could barely hear yourself speak. "Was she worth it?"

He didn’t move. Not right away. Then slowly, like his entire body had gone tense, he pulled back a bit. "Don’t start," he muttered.

You rolled over to face him. "Too late." His eyes met yours for a second, then dropped. You watched his jaw lock, his hands ball into fists. Classic Bakugo, always ready to fight anything but the truth.

"I didn’t mean for it to happen," he said low. You let that sink in. Let it rot in your chest. "Do you love her?"

"...No." He said it quickly, too quickly. Almost like he had to get it out before it turned into a lie.

"Do you love me?"

That time, he didn’t answer. Just stared at you like the words physically hurt.

You nodded slowly. "That’s what I thought."

You got up, not to leave, because you never really could, but just to breathe. Threw on one of his old shirts. It still smelled like him. Burnt sugar. Sweat. Like long nights in bed and quiet mornings after.

He sat there, propped on one elbow, eyes following your every move but saying nothing.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t yell. You didn’t have to. "I know I’m not the only one. But I am one. And that’s… enough. I guess."

You should’ve walked out. Told him he didn’t deserve you. Slammed the door so hard he’d remember the echo.

But you didn’t.

You crawled back into the bed like nothing had changed. Even though everything had.

He wrapped an arm around you without speaking. Pressed his forehead to your shoulder. His grip was tighter this time. Not possessive but desperate.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Or maybe it meant everything.

But in that moment, you pretended his love was real. Pretended that the girl on the screen didn’t exist.

Because you were a fool. His fool. And even if his love wasn’t whole, even if it came splintered and bruised... You’d still take every piece he gave.