He never told you what was really going on.

You learned to live with it—Bakugo’s silences. The way he came home with his jaw set tight and eyes unreadable. You’d ask how his patrol went, and he’d grunt something noncommittal. You’d offer comfort, and he’d brush it off like it annoyed him. Like your care was an inconvenience.

But you knew it wasn’t. You knew him better than that.

When he let you in—on the rare days he actually did—he was intense. Not soft. Never soft. But real. The way he held you, the way his hand would linger on your back when he thought you were asleep. The way he watched you like he was memorizing your face, just in case. You’d take those moments and hold them like they meant everything.

Because they did.

But tonight? Tonight, he came home pissed. You didn’t know why. He wouldn’t tell you. Just slammed the door, kicked off his boots, and muttered curse after curse under his breath. You didn’t ask. Not yet. You just followed him into the kitchen, grabbing his usual drink, setting it down beside him like always.

“I got that new curry you like—” you started.

“Did I ask you to?” he snapped, not even looking at you.

You blinked. “No. I just thought—”

“Yeah, that’s the problem. You think. All the damn time. Overthinkin’, overanalyzin’—you act like if you just try hard enough, you’ll get me to spill everything.”

Your chest went tight. “I’m just trying to be here for you.”

He turned, eyes sharp. “Yeah? Or are you just trying to make yourself feel better? So you don’t have to sit with how clingy you are? The way you need constant reassurance—shit, it’s pathetic sometimes.”

The breath you took was shaky. That one hit deep, and he knew it. You’d told him once—half a whisper in the dark—that you always felt too much. That every past relationship made you feel like you were too intense, too insecure, too needy. You’d trusted him with that.

And now he was throwing it at you like a grenade.

You swallowed hard. “You don’t mean that.”

He scoffed. “Yeah? Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

You stared at him. Really looked. The way his fists clenched. The way his shoulders were up, like he was bracing for impact. He wasn’t fighting you. He was fighting himself. Whatever had happened earlier—whatever he wasn’t saying—was eating him alive. And instead of facing it, he was turning it on you.

“Maybe I am too much,” you said quietly. “Maybe I care too loud. Love too hard. But at least I try. At least I want to let people in.”

He looked away.

“One thing I like about me,” you added, “is that I’m nothing like you. I want connection. I want to feel something without blowing it up first.”

Silence.

“You think hurting me’s gonna make you feel better?” You let out a bitter laugh. “It won’t. And you know it.”

He still didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

You took a step back. “I know you’ve never been good at this. At love. At talking. But I’m not your enemy, Katsuki. I chose you. I stay because I love you. But if you keep using my wounds as your outlet every time you can’t deal with your own—”

You shook your head. “Then I’ll stop showing up.”

That got him. His eyes snapped to yours, something wild behind them. Panic, maybe. Or guilt.

But you didn’t wait for an apology. You just turned, walked out of the kitchen, and left the curry untouched on the counter.

Behind you, Bakugo stood frozen. Teeth grit. Hands shaking. Because deep down, he knew you meant it.

And for the first time, he didn’t know how to fix it with fire.