Valentine’s Day for Katsuki was hell. To some it was a surprise, to others it wasn’t, but either way it meant one thing: an endless crowd of girls nagging, shoving chocolates and handmade cookies at him like he was some kind of prize to win. Desperate faces, trembling hands, confessions muttered or shouted—it was enough to make him want to blow up the hallways.

Every single one he ignored. No matter how elaborate the wrapping, how sweet the smell, how obvious the effort behind them, he brushed past without a glance. By the end of the day, his patience had worn down to nothing. His scowl deepened, his voice turned into barked curses, his insults sharp enough to make some poor girl cry as she fled, chocolates clutched back to her chest.

And you saw it all. You’d stayed up late last night, carefully baking cookies and molding chocolates just for him. No obligatory sweets for your classmates, no half-hearted gestures—only him. Every bit of your heart had gone into those treats. But now, watching how cold, disinterested, and even hostile he was toward every gift, your morale faltered. Maybe it was better to save yourself the embarrassment, to keep them tucked away in your bag. The fear of rejection twisted your stomach.

What you didn’t know—what he’d never say out loud—was that the reason he never accepted anyone’s gift wasn’t because he hated sweets, or that he didn’t care. It was because he only wanted yours. Taking anything else felt wrong, like giving some girl hope he had zero interest in returning. So instead, he shut them all down, waiting.

But the hours dragged. The classrooms emptied. The confessions piled higher and higher, each rejection only tightening the coil of frustration in his chest. And still—nothing from you. He was losing his goddamn mind. Had he misread things between you? Was it all in his head, this bond he thought was there?

Finally, he snapped. Stomping over to your desk, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his jaw tight, Katsuki loomed over you. His chin tilted up like he owned the room, though the blush staining his ears betrayed him. He couldn’t even look at you straight—his gaze cut to the side, teeth grinding as he forced out the words like they were knives in his throat.

“Oi… where’s…” His voice cracked low, rough. “…Are you not giving out chocolates this year?”

He glared hard at the wall, then risked a glance down at you—just one. God, you looked so fucking pretty it hurt. He needed you to say it. To tell him that you thought of him all week in preparation all for him today. He hates that he's imagining you in an apron, hair tied back and whipping something sweet in a bowl for him to eat... If not, he's blowing himself up right infront of everyone in pure embarassment.