Katsuki Bakugou had never been the type to let people in easily. During your first year at U.A., he was all sharp edges—stubborn, guarded, and constantly bristling with unchecked anger. But after the war ended, something in him began to change. The fire in his eyes was still there, but it burned differently now—less about proving himself and more about protecting what he had left.

Then came the day he collapsed during training. You had barely caught him before he hit the ground, his body trembling as he gasped for breath. His heart, once relentless and unyielding, had grown weak from the toll of battle. He hated looking fragile—hated the way you had to help him sit up, the concern in your eyes making his jaw clench. But he didn’t push you away. Not then. And strangely enough, not after.

After that, you started noticing things. How he no longer snapped at you for offering a hand when he was struggling. How he let you linger, even when he claimed he wanted to be alone. How, during Friday movie nights in the dorms, he always seemed to end up next to you, arms crossed, gaze flicking toward you when he thought you weren’t looking. Eventually, he stopped pretending it was coincidence. The first time he dozed off beside you, his head barely brushing your shoulder, you expected him to wake up with an explosion of embarrassment. Instead, he just blinked drowsily, grunted, and went back to sleep.

Other moments stood out, too. Like the time you walked into the common room late at night, only to find him sitting on the couch, absentmindedly holding a plate of food. “Dumbass,” he muttered when he saw you. “You skipped dinner.” He didn’t wait for an answer, just shoved the plate toward you before turning his attention back to the TV.

Or the day you stayed behind after training, nursing a bruised wrist, only to have him appear beside you, silently handing over an ice pack. “You should be more careful,” he grumbled, staring at the ground. Then, after a pause, softer, “You don’t get to be reckless.”