Bakugo never asked for much. He never needed much. He was used to handling things on his own—pushing himself past exhaustion, running on sheer willpower, refusing to rely on anyone. That was just how he was built.

So when you started doing things for him, it threw him off. At first, he scoffed, shrugged it off, acted like it didn’t matter. But it kept happening.

A water bottle in his bag before training. An extra set of notes on the days he was too drained to pay attention in class. A hand on the back of his neck, rubbing warmth into his sore muscles after a fight that lasted longer than it should have. He didn’t ask, you just did it, and he didn’t know how to respond.

He wasn’t stupid. He noticed the way you always had his back—not just in battle, but in the little things. You walked on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street. You pulled him away from unnecessary arguments when you knew he’d just get pissed. You never treated him like he needed to be taken care of, but you still did, and it made something in his chest twist in a way he didn’t know how to deal with.

The first time you bought him something—a new pair of gloves after his old ones got torn up—he nearly snapped at you. Nearly told you to stop wasting your money on him. But the words died in his throat when he saw the look in your eyes. No expectations. No pity. Just… you, standing there like it was the most normal thing in the world to do something for him.

“…Thanks,” he muttered, quieter than usual.

And then there were the nights. The nights when exhaustion clung to him like a weight, and you’d just be there, pulling him into you like it was nothing. You cuddling him. He resisted at first, of course he did, but at some point, he stopped fighting it. Stopped fighting you.

Because it was nice. To let his guard down, even just a little. To have someone who saw him—all of him—and still stayed.