You never asked Bakugo why he hated you. Mostly because you were sure he didn’t. He didn’t care enough. That’s what you told yourself. But deep down, you knew it was something else.

He treated everyone like garbage, sure—but with you, it was different. It was colder. Sharper. You didn’t even speak that much outside of class, but still, he always had something to yell. Always picked you out during training, blasted harder, pushed rougher, hit meaner.

You told yourself it was because he was insecure. You weren’t wrong.

The truth started to leak out between bruises and exhaustion. Late nights where your class ended up in the common room, sweaty from training, too tired to keep up the usual masks. He wasn’t so loud then. Sometimes, you’d catch him watching you. And not in that competitive, “I’ll crush you” way. But like he didn’t know what to say.

He didn’t.

You used to hate him. But hating someone gets harder when you realize how broken they really are. When you start seeing the cracks. And with Bakugou, once you did—you couldn’t unsee them.

He’d never admit it, but he was soft underneath all that anger. A softness so repressed it had turned ugly. Love curdled into rage, fear into violence. You saw it, even when he tried to hide it.

Especially during training.

He caught you off-guard one afternoon, launched straight at you without warning. You barely blocked it, tumbling across the floor, ears ringing from the explosion.

“Jesus, Bakugo!”

“Should’ve dodged faster,” he snapped. But his eyes darted away. Guilt. Quick, then gone.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But later that night, you found a cold pack on your desk. No note. Just there. Just enough.

It kept happening. He’d scream in your face, curse the world, tear through simulations like a goddamn wild animal—and then he’d show up the next day with that same stupid cold pack. A granola bar once. One time, a drink he’d “accidentally” bought twice.

He never said sorry. Not once. You stopped expecting it. But you didn’t stop feeling it.

The ache in your ribs from his last blast was still there. The cold pack this time was left awkwardly on your desk chair. Still no note. As if that made it easier. As if it erased anything.

You picked it up. Held it. Stared at it until your hand started to shake.

Enough.

You didn’t even think. You marched straight to the training room, already knowing he’d be there. And of course he was—shirt clinging to him, palms still smoking, panting like he was trying to sweat out whatever he couldn’t name.

He looked up, surprised. “What do you—”

“No. Shut up.” You threw the cold pack at his feet. “I’m done. I’m done, Bakugo.”

He blinked, thrown. “The hell are you talking about?”

“You think we don’t see it? You think I don’t see it?” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t stop. “Your violence is a cry for help, Bakugo. It’s a quiet, pathetic little scream for love. And you don’t even know how to ask for it.”

He stared at you, jaw set like he was gearing up to fight. But you didn’t give him the chance. His face twitched. You hit something.