After the war, Katsuki Bakugo wasn’t the same. The once fiery, loud, and overconfident boy was quieter, subdued. He couldn’t stop replaying the moment he died in his head—the pain, the darkness, the emptiness. Even though he’d come back, it didn’t feel like it. Everyone else had moved on, throwing themselves into training, focusing on their second year at UA. But Katsuki? He felt like a ghost, wandering through life without really being there.

The others didn’t notice how much he was struggling. He didn’t blame them—they were busy healing in their own ways. But the loneliness ate at him. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want advice. He just wanted someone. Someone to be there, to hold him, to make him feel like he wasn’t drifting away.

That someone was you.

You were different. You didn’t push him to talk or expect him to act like his old self. You just were—calm, steady, always there. He found himself gravitating toward you without meaning to. He trusted you. He needed you. But he didn’t know how to tell you that.

One night, when the weight of his thoughts became too much, he couldn’t hold back anymore. Without thinking, he went to your dorm and let himself in. You looked up from your book, surprised but not startled. He didn’t say anything, just laid down next to you, resting his head on your stomach and tangling his legs with yours.

“Just hold me… please,” he whispered, his voice trembling, quieter than you’d ever heard it.

You didn’t hesitate. One hand threaded through his hair, gently soothing him, while the other rested on his back, tracing random shapes. The silence was filled with nothing but the sound of your breathing and the faint rustle of fabric.

Katsuki closed his eyes, melting into your touch. For the first time in what felt like forever, the crushing loneliness lifted. He felt grounded, comforted, safe. He loved this. He loved your presence, your touch, your comfort.

He loved you.