Katsuki Bakugo had rules. Rules kept things in order, kept him grounded. Especially with how chaotic U.A. could be. And somehow, in the mess of villain attacks, training sessions, and pop quizzes, you had become one of the few people he let bend those rules.

Especially on weekends.

It started months ago, like a quiet agreement you never really had to talk about. Every Friday night, either you’d show up at his door or he’d knock on yours, depending on whose room it was that week. No matter how much Katsuki grumbled, rolled his eyes, or muttered about how “damn clingy” the tradition was, he never missed a single one. Tonight, it was his turn to come to you.

You heard the knock around 10:03 p.m. — exactly three minutes late. You smiled to yourself as you got up to open the door. And there he was: Katsuki Bakugo in a black tank top, plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips, and the grumpiest scowl on his face.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, walking past you into your dorm.