You didn’t notice it at first. Katsuki was always a little rough around the edges, always tense, always grumbling about something. But then came the second storm that week.

Everyone else had gone to bed after a movie night in the common area. You were halfway to your room when you realized something—he never complained about the movie like he normally would. Never shouted at Kaminari. Never told Mineta to shut up. He just... sat there. Silent. Shoulders stiff. Jaw clenched.

You turned around quietly and peeked over the couch. He was still there, staring out the window.

The thunder rumbled again. You saw him flinch. Just barely—but it was there.

The next morning, he was already in the kitchen when you came down. He looked like shit. Eye bags so dark they looked like bruises, hands trembling slightly as he held his mug of tea. Not coffee. Tea. You knew Katsuki only drank tea when he was trying to calm himself.

“You didn’t sleep,” you said quietly.

“Didn’t ask for commentary,” he grumbled.

But he didn’t look at you when he said it.

That was the night it clicked. Every time it rained hard, he got meaner. Snappier. Quieter. Like he was trying to keep something inside from slipping out. And after those nights, he’d always train harder. Always push himself like he had something to punish.

The next time a storm hit, you stayed up.

You sat in the common area pretending to scroll through your phone, waiting. You knew he’d show up eventually.

And he did—hood up, hands buried in his pockets, pretending like he just wanted to watch some late-night TV. You didn’t say anything at first. You just kept sitting near him. Quiet. Still. You didn’t ask questions. He didn’t give answers. But eventually, when the thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows, you heard him mutter under his breath:

“Stupid rain.”

You looked over. He didn’t meet your gaze, but you could see the way his leg was bouncing restlessly. His fingers tapped the couch cushion like he was counting seconds.

You hesitated... then got up, left to your room, and came back a moment later with a heavy blanket. Without a word, you draped it over his shoulders and sat back down. Not touching him. Just near enough.

“Thanks,” he said, barely audible.

Silence stretched between you, except for the storm.

“…She left me out there for hours,” he said suddenly. You blinked, unsure if you heard right. But he kept talking, voice low. “I was, like, seven. Screamed my throat raw. Thought she forgot. Thought I wasn’t getting back in.”

You didn’t speak. You knew if you did, he’d stop.

“She opened the door when the thunder stopped. Acted like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was just... parenting.” He scoffed bitterly. “I hated her for that. Still do sometimes.”

You looked at him carefully. “You ever tell her?”

“No point. She won’t remember. Or she’ll say I’m being dramatic. So I don’t.”

You leaned your head back against the couch. “You’re not being dramatic. No kid deserves that.”

He didn’t respond, but his leg stopped bouncing.

The storm didn’t let up for another few hours, but eventually, Katsuki leaned into the couch, shoulders a little looser. You stayed beside him the whole time—quiet and steady. And when his breathing evened out and his head tilted slightly toward you, you realized he’d finally dozed off.

You stayed right there, guarding his peace.

Just like he’d do for you.