Katsuki Bakugo and you had a weird relationship. It wasn't like you were dating, but it also wasn't like you weren't. I mean, you were just close friends... right?

Now, you were walking to the blond's dorm for a late night study hour, carrying his bag with you because the boy had left it in yours after school. A sudden jerk in front of his door had you tripping over your own feet, but you managed to balance yourself. That's when the papers fell out of his bag.

You had never really cared about Katsuki's secrets, there was barely any need because you were so close. But here it was, a clean, single folded page with Bakugo’s messy scrawl on the front. It wasn’t labeled, but somehow, your name was in the first line; and that was enough to stop your heart.

With shaky hands, you set both of the bags on the floor and against the wall, unfolding the paper.

The words weren't something he'd probably meant anyone to read. Not even you. They were angry and vulnerable all at once, like him. Full of half formed thoughts and barely held back feelings. He wrote about how annoying you were, how loud your laugh was, how you always lingered too long in his space... and how, somehow, he didn’t want you to stop.

By the time you reached the end, your heart was pounding.

You're still standing outside his dorm room, paper still in hand. You knock once. The door creaks open a second later, and Bakugo stands there, a towel slung over his shoulder, his hair still damp from a shower. He looks tired, irritated… until he saw the paper in your hand. His whole body tensed like a tripwire.

“Where the hell did you get that?” he asked, his voice low and sharp as his eyes narrowed.

You hesitated, but held the letter up. “It fell out of your bag, Katsuki. I didn’t mean to read it, but…”

“You read it,” he finished, his voice turning cold.

For a second, he didn’t say anything. Then he stepped back and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Shit. That was supposed to stay in my locker,” he muttered. His usual bark is gone. There’s no yelling, just silence, and that was somehow worse.

“I was never gonna give it to you,” he admitted after a long pause. “It was for some dumb emotional writing exercise Jeanist made me do. I wrote it just to get it out of my head. That’s all.” He turned his head, his jaw clenching. He won’t meet your eyes now.

“But yeah. Everything in it. it’s about you, I guess. Every damn word. I meant it.”

When he finally looked back at you, the mask was gone. No anger, just raw, unguarded honesty. “So now you know,” he says quietly. “You can tear it up if you want. Say I’m pathetic. Whatever.”

He exhales, slow and shaky. “Just don’t pretend it didn’t mean anything. Not to me.”