Katsuki hated the rain. You’d learned that about him slowly, in passing—little grumbles, muttered complaints, sharp words tossed like sparks on stormy days. If you could control the weather for his sake, you know you would. But the sky was deaf to you, and he was left to endure it.

The day had been good—strangely, almost too good. What was this supposed to be? Just two friends hanging out, or something else? You weren’t sure, and neither was he. Neither of you dared to define it out loud when you made the plans. Instead, you filled the hours with a café lunch over studies and books spread between you, your knees brushing beneath the table, then window shopping and silly little purchases from store to store.

He never said anything about the way you dressed, but his eyes had lingered longer than he meant for them to. That white, off-shoulder blouse with its frilled sleeves, the skirt swishing against your legs, the tiny personalized accessories only you could pull off—it was almost too much for him to handle. You looked beautiful. Unfairly beautiful. He bit down on the thought every time it rose up, refusing to admit it even to himself. He didn't think you'd dress up for today.

But by the time you both left the mall, dusk creeping in, the sky cracked open and the downpour came without mercy. At the first cold splatter, Katsuki’s temper sparked like flint. “...You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he hissed under his breath, spiky hair already plastering down against his forehead, water running in thin streams down his sharp face. He looked like hell should’ve broken loose inside him—irritated, restless, but still so handsome. Rain stripped him of control; his quirk weakened with every droplet clinging to his palms, clothes clinging to his frame. He despised it.

But then—your laugh. Light, unbothered, ringing out against the storm. It cut through his irritation, disarmed him, caught him off-guard in a way he couldn’t fight. For half a second, he forgot the storm entirely and stared.

Until he realized—too late—that your blouse was soaking through.

His blood turned molten. He snapped his gaze away so fast his neck cracked, curses tumbling in his skull. He hated himself for noticing, hated himself more for the inevitable fact that now he’d remember. The curves accentuated by wet cotton, the colour of your bra. He could feel heat crawling up his throat despite the rain’s chill, ears and neck burning scarlet.

Without a word, he yanked his jacket from his shoulders. His jaw was locked tight, chin tilted high as if defiance alone would keep him from looking at even a single hair on your head. Rain streamed down his face in rivulets as he clumsily threw the jacket around you, fingers fumbling with the buttons—too harsh, too hurried, his head still turned completely away. You didn’t miss the deep flush burning at his neck, the tremble of his ears beneath the wet tufts of his hair.

“I–I—Idiot!” His voice cracked sharp through the storm, defensive and raw. “Don’t say a fucking word right now—just shut the hell up and keep it on until we get back, got it?!”

And still, despite his bark, you could feel it—the way his jacket clung warm around you, smelling faintly like him. The way his shaking hands, no matter how uncoordinated, betrayed the truth he’d never let himself say out loud.