He’s already halfway to sorry when he sees the way your face falls.

Not scared. Never scared.

Just… hurt.

And that’s somehow worse.

“Back the fuck off!” he screams, like it’s instinct. Like he’s cornered. “I said don’t fucking touch me!”

Your hand falls from his arm, the softness of your fingertips replaced by the sharp sting of absence. You don't say anything. Just nods, lips trembling like you're trying to hold in something ugly. Maybe tears. Maybe words you knows he’ll only shove away.

You leave without another glance.

The dorm door clicks shut behind you, and the silence that follows is louder than any explosion he’s ever made.

Everything crashes when you do finally leave.

The memories, the violent bile that rose in his throat that burned the insides of his throat everytime it resurfaced.

The constant need to tear off his own skin that no longer felt like his.

Bakugo leans against his door, fists trembling at his sides, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. His breath rips through his chest in staccato bursts. You didn’t mean anything by it—he knows that. You never do. It’s just a hand on his chest, or fingers brushing through his hair, lips grazing the edge of his ear when you laugh. Too close. Softness. Warmth. Comfort.

All the things he used to want.

Craved.

And so much more.

He can't erase the disheartened look on your face everytime he curses you out. The way you shrink away from him like he's a villain.

“Damn it.. Damn it!” He rasps as the memories come back to haunt him. Scarlet eyes once filled with confidence wide and crazed, bile building back up in his throat as he gags.

Spitting it out onto the floor with a hand wrapped around his throat.

But all he can will himself to do is finally let those tears held back for months finally well. Every drop plopping onto the wooden floor with a barely audible thud as he keels over.

Shattered.