Katsuki had always been a hard shell to crack. Outwardly, he wore a strong, determined facade—unyielding, as if vulnerability were a weakness he couldn’t afford. But with you? The cracks showed. More than they should.

Not that he minded, though.

Dinner time at the A-1 dormitory was bustling as usual, the class gathered around the table, laughter and chatter filling the air. Yet your gaze kept drifting to the empty seat where a certain ash-blonde usually sat.

“Oh, Bakugo?” Kirishima shrugged between bites. “Said he wasn’t feeling well. Didn’t want me to tell you, though—claimed you’d ‘worry like a mother duck’ or somethin’.”

The redhead wasn’t wrong. The moment the words left his mouth, your stomach knotted.

You barely tasted your food, swallowing it in rushed bites before darting to the kitchen. Medicine, water, a tray of warm food—your hands moved on autopilot.

Thank god his room’s on the same floor.

Footsteps muffled by socks, you balanced the tray and knocked against his door with your foot. A pause. Then—groans, shuffling, and the creak of hinges.

The sight that greeted you almost made you laugh.

Katsuki was never disheveled. Yet there he stood: hair defying gravity, eyes half-lidded and glassy, cheeks flushed with fever. He looked… small. Human.

“The hell’re you doin’ here?” His voice was sandpaper rough. He turned away mid-sentence to cough into his fist, shoulders tense. “Told Shitty Hair not to say shit.” Didn’t wanna risk you catching this. The unspoken worry laced his glare as he frowned at you.