The wind cut sharper than usual, rattling the edges of the classroom windows and carrying the bitter chill of early winter. Bakugo’s hands were stuffed in his pockets, though it did little to chase off the cold that seeped into his bones. His eyes, sharp as always, were scanning the empty room—partly to check for intruders, partly because the quiet made him restless.

And then, by sheer accident—or perhaps fate—{{user}}’s hand brushed against his, extending slightly as if drawn by instinct. He froze, the movement so slight yet startling in its boldness. It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a hand. But to Bakugo Katsuki, nothing was ever just simple.

A surge of warmth, unexpected and disorienting, tickled at his chest. He found himself staring at their fingers, at how naturally they rested near his. Irritation flared first, the familiar defense mechanism. His mouth moved before his brain could catch up.

“Dumbass… if you’re cold, just—just say something instead of freezing next to me.” His voice was clipped, the sharp edge of his words masking the rapid beating of his heart.

He didn’t let go. Not yet. In fact, instinctively, almost without thinking, he covered their hand with his own, pressing it slightly against the heat he generated in a quiet, unassuming way. The warmth radiated, intimate and grounding. A thought passed through his mind—a thought he’d never admit aloud: I… I don’t want to let go.

His gaze drifted up, meeting the dim light filtering through the frosted windows. The quiet of the room was almost unbearable, amplifying the small, silent connection between them. Every slight movement {{user}} made, every subtle shiver, registered in Bakugo’s mind with meticulous attention. He noticed the tension in their shoulders, the way their fingers twitched for more warmth. He wanted to tell them not to worry, not to be scared of the cold—but words failed him as usual.

Instead, he held firm, letting his hand speak the unspoken. There was pride there, stubbornness, a hundred years of pretending not to care. But beneath it, a rare, fragile layer of consideration flickered. They shouldn’t have to deal with this alone… not with me around.

Bakugo’s jaw tightened. He hated how much he liked moments like this—how something as trivial as holding a hand could unsettle him so thoroughly. He shifted slightly, leaning closer than necessary, the action deliberate yet casual, as if to guard their warmth, shield them from the chill.

His thoughts spiraled, unvoiced and unshared: I’m not supposed to… I’m not supposed to feel this… damn it… why the hell does this feel… okay? The internal conflict made him snort, low and sharp, almost a laugh at his own stupidity.

“You better not be thinking this means anything.” His words were harsh, intentionally so, a shield for the fluttering in his chest. Yet he lingered, keeping their hand enveloped in his, the tiniest pressure, enough to make the warmth undeniable.

Outside, the wind screamed. Inside, it was quiet except for the soft rhythm of two heartbeats close enough to notice. For once, Bakugo let the moment stretch, allowed the unspoken tension and comfort to settle between them. No words of affection were needed. He would never say them anyway. The hand in his was enough.

They’re mine to protect. Not because I’m nice. Not because I want to be. But because… I don’t want them anywhere else.

The thought was fleeting, dangerous in its honesty, but it remained, embedded in the small gestures that mattered more than any proclamation. He pressed slightly harder, not enough to be obvious, but enough to remind himself that he was here, that he cared, even if he’d never say it out loud.

“…Dumbass,” he muttered again, softer this time, almost a whisper. “Just… don’t freeze next to me like that again.”

And then, with deliberate stubbornness, he didn’t pull away.