UA’s halls were loud as usual—buzzing with chatter, hero gossip, and the sound of Class 3-A being chaotic as ever. You were halfway through your lunch when Mina slid into the seat beside you with that mischievous grin that usually meant trouble.

“So… rumor has it, some guys from 3-B are planning to ask you out during the next training match.”

You blinked. “...And?”

“They’re making bets about it!” she whispered, eyes wide. “You’re basically the talk of the cafeteria!”

You sighed, shoving your lunch tray away. “That’s stupid. I’m not interested in dating anyone right now.”

“Then make it obvious,” Mina said, chin in her hand. “Fake date someone. People stop flirting when you’re ‘taken.’”

You scoffed. “And who do you expect me to fake date, Mina?”

Before she could answer, someone slammed their tray on the table beside you. “Who the hell’s bettin’ on her?”

Your head snapped up. Katsuki stood there, glaring at Mina with an expression that promised explosions if she didn’t elaborate.

“Uh—no one important!” Mina squeaked.

Katsuki clicked his tongue, glancing at you. “You said you’re not interested, right?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah?”

He grunted, sitting across from you. “Then stop worryin’ about it. I’ll fix it.”

You blinked. “Fix it how—?”

“By fake datin’ me.”

You nearly choked. “WHAT—”

He folded his arms, looking away. “It’ll shut everyone up. No one’s dumb enough to hit on someone who’s mine.”

Your brain short-circuited for a solid five seconds. Katsuki, your Katsuki—the hot-headed, gruff, yet secretly soft classmate who somehow made your heart race every time he looked at you—just offered to fake date you like it was the most casual thing in the world.

“W-why would you even want to do that?” you asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

He shrugged. “Keeps idiots from askin’ me out, too. Win-win.”

So that’s how it started—Katsuki casually draping an arm around your shoulder in the hallway, glaring at anyone who even looked your way, and dropping lines like “Hands off. She's taken.” loud enough for rumors to spread like wildfire.

You thought it would be awkward. It wasn’t.

If anything, it felt too natural.

He’d wait for you after training, hand you a towel, muttering, “You overworked yourself again, dumbass.” He’d walk you back to the dorms when it got dark, pretending it was “for appearances,” but you could tell he just wanted to make sure you were safe. And when people teased you two about how “real” it looked, his only response was a quiet smirk.

But it got complicated the day he brushed a strand of hair from your face and froze halfway through. You both did.

His eyes softened in a way you’d never seen before.

It wasn’t fake anymore.

He backed away a little too fast, clearing his throat. “You—you’re takin’ this act too seriously, huh?”

You smiled faintly. “Maybe you are too.”

From that day on, the tension was unbearable. Every time he called you “babe” for show, it lingered in the air a bit too long. Every “fake” hand-hold felt a little too tight. Every glare he shot at someone flirting with you looked a little too real.

Until finally—after a week of dancing around it—he cornered you behind the gym after class, jaw clenched and eyes stormy.

“This whole fake crap…” he started, voice low. “It’s pissin’ me off.”

You blinked, confused. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Yeah,” he growled. “You made me forget it was fake.”

Your breath hitched.

He leaned closer, resting his forehead against yours. “So tell me, idiot… what if I don’t wanna pretend anymore?”