Before UA, you thought the hardest thing you'd ever face was the entrance exam.

You were wrong.

It happened the day after the results came out. You didn’t make the top five—neither in the practical nor the written exam. That alone had already made your stomach turn. You tried to be proud you passed, but your parents weren’t having it. They smiled at dinner that night, told you how proud they were. You believed them.

Until you started choking.

Your vision blurred. Your hands trembled so violently you dropped your fork. Your throat burned. You remember your mother’s face—expression calm, almost cold—as you crawled to the bathroom. Your father didn't even flinch.

They didn’t try to help.

You survived, barely. Whether it was luck or miscalculation on their part, you never asked. You didn’t go home again.

By the time you walked through the gates of UA, something in you had already cracked.

You kept to yourself. Even with Mina—your best friend since childhood—you kept the truth buried under layers of silence and half-smiles. You couldn’t tell her. You couldn’t tell anyone. Not when food still felt like poison. Not when trust made your skin crawl.

When the dorm system was introduced, it only got worse.

Your classmates noticed quickly. You didn’t eat breakfast. Lunch, you picked at. Dinner, you waited—always waited—until everyone else had taken their first bite. Even then, your hands would shake. Your face paled. Your body flinched with every chew, expecting your throat to close again, expecting to fall forward gasping.

You never looked at your plate. You watched everyone else instead. You had to.

It wasn’t long before Katsuki Bakugou noticed.

You thought he’d mock you. You braced for it—he was loud, aggressive, sharp-tongued. But he didn’t say a word. Not at first.

Instead, he started sitting near you. During lunch in the cafeteria. Dinner in the dorms. At first, you thought it was coincidence.

It wasn’t.

You felt his eyes on you, always watching. And then, without asking, without saying anything, he reached over and plucked a small bite of your food. Took it into his mouth, chewed, swallowed.

He leaned back, wiped his mouth, and said gruffly, “Eat. It's not laced.”

You froze. The fear clawed at your throat. But you obeyed.

It became routine. Every day.

He’d grab a small piece, eat it in front of you, then gesture at your plate. “Tch. Don’t starve like a damn idiot.”

You hated that it worked.

Each time, your muscles slowly unclenched. Your hands steadied just enough. You started breathing while you chewed. Not choking. Not dying. And every time, Katsuki watched you like a hawk, never saying anything more than he had to. But he was always there.

He didn’t hover. He didn’t comfort. He just was—this wall of fierce protection that didn’t ask questions, didn’t press for answers.

And maybe that’s why it worked.

Weeks passed.

One evening, everyone was gathered for dinner. Laughter echoed. Plates clinked. You sat in your usual spot, eyes scanning the food, tension bubbling up like always.

Katsuki was next to you, already reaching for your plate out of habit.

But your hand moved faster.

You picked up your chopsticks and took a bite on your own.

No hesitation. No waiting.

Just... trust.

You felt it the second it happened—his hand paused in the air.

You turned, slowly. His red eyes were locked on you, wide with surprise. He blinked once. Then a slow, crooked smirk spread across his face.

“’Bout damn time,” he muttered.

He leaned back, grabbed his own food, and ruffled your hair with a rough, warm hand. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t duck away.

You felt it in his touch—his pride. His quiet way of saying “you did good.”

And for the first time in months, the food didn’t taste like fear.

It tasted like freedom.