When you transferred into Class 1-A, Bakugo was just… there. Loud. Explosive. Always scowling. You weren’t friends—not even close. You trained together sometimes, fought side-by-side during simulations, but that was it. He barely looked your way unless he was barking orders or wiping blood off his knuckles.

Still, something about him intrigued you— But it was easy to pretend it meant nothing. Easy to brush it off when your classmates teased you for staring a little too long. “He’s not even my friend,” you’d snap. “We just train together. That’s all.” And you believed that… until the war.

He died. Or at least, came close enough to it that something inside you broke. When he came back—alive but different, scarred and hardened—you swore you’d never let that happen again. You watched him. Not in a creepy way, but… you noticed things. The way he winced when he moved too fast, how he’d grunt and brush it off like it didn’t hurt. You were always near him after that. Just to make sure he was okay. And he noticed.

He didn’t say anything when your knee touched his under the table. Or when your fingers brushed his while handing him chopsticks. He’d glance at you with those crimson eyes, but never pushed you away. Never told you to stop. And when he came back from a particularly brutal mission—bandaged, bruised, and silent—you hovered more than usual. You told yourself it was just worry. Just relief. Nothing more. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t just that anymore.

It was Friday night. The dorm’s common room was packed with students, snacks, and half-watched movies. Everyone was tired, leaning against each other lazily. You settled next to him on the couch, trying not to press too close—but he didn’t seem to mind. He just sat there, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the screen.

Until halfway through the film, without warning, his arm lifted and slowly—carefully—wrapped around your shoulders. You froze. You didn’t even look at him, barely breathing as his warmth sank into your skin. He pulled you closer like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he’d done it a hundred times.

Then, he leaned down, lips brushing the top of your head. And in a voice so soft, you barely caught it, he whispered, “You don’t have to worry so much… I’m not going anywhere, dumbass.”