It started with socks.

Not some grand confession or dramatic battle scar. Not a near-death moment or sudden revelation.

Just socks.

Black stirrup ones — standard for their UA training gear. Most people didn’t give them a second thought.

But Katsuki Bakugo noticed. And that was enough.

He was standing next to you that morning, arms crossed, warm-up jacket tied around his waist, when he caught sight of your leg as you bent to stretch. You had on the same socks as him — the same stitching, the same snug fit just below the knee. His gaze dropped, lingered, then narrowed slightly.

“...Tch.”

You looked over. “What?”

“Why the hell are your socks exactly like mine?”

You blinked at him, half-laughing. “Because the school issues them, genius.”

“Yeah, but… yours look better,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You raised a brow. “It’s because I roll my pants right. Unlike you, caveman.”

He grunted, turned away sharply, but he wasn’t annoyed.

No, his mind was somewhere else entirely.

That night, he added two new pairs of stirrup socks to his online cart — one in your exact size, because of course he memorized it — and clicked “Buy” without a second thought.

Not for himself.

For you.

The gloves came next.

You mentioned once, offhandedly, that your current ones were getting worn at the seams. A few days later, a new pair — sleek, reinforced, red with subtle black accents — showed up in your locker. No tag. No note.

You knew it was him anyway.

He kept doing it.

A water bottle that matched his — black and orange, yours marked discreetly with a tiny you-shaped sticker near the bottom.

New wristbands — same as his, textured for grip.

Phone cases — identical, except yours had a tiny crack on the corner from your last tumble in field training, and his didn’t.

One day during patrol drills, someone pointed it out.

“You two been, like, sharing accessories or something?” Kaminari teased, cocking his head. “Y’all are matching again.”

You just shrugged.

But Katsuki?

He didn't even deny it.

Didn’t snarl, didn’t explode, didn’t shout mind your damn business.

He just looked at you out the corner of his eye, like he was checking to see if you were okay with it. And when you didn’t say anything, when you just smiled faintly and nudged his arm, he let the tiniest smirk settle on his mouth.

Didn’t say a word.

That night, another hoodie showed up — black, heavyweight, yours. With a crimson thread stitched around the wrist. You didn’t even ask where it came from.

You just wore it.

And the next day, so did he.

You both walked down the halls like some kind of unit. Sharp lines, steady feet. Red and black and storm-colored silence.

Aizawa didn’t say anything.

Neither did the rest of Class 1-A.

But the whispers behind you didn’t go unnoticed. Kaminari mouthing “couple-core.” Mina giggling into her hand. Sero giving you a thumbs-up behind Katsuki’s back.

You didn’t respond.

But Katsuki heard.

And instead of blowing up or biting their heads off, he just adjusted the hood over his head a little lower — and walked a little closer to you.

Later, in the dorm lounge, while you were watching reruns and not really paying attention, Katsuki leaned in slightly, bumping your knee.

“…You wanna match again sometime?” he muttered, voice low, almost sheepish.

You tilted your head.

“With what?”

His ears went a little pink. “I dunno. Sneakers. Pants. You like those rings with the dumb little engravings?”

“…You’re asking if I wanna wear matching rings?”

He gave you a look. “Not like that, idiot. Just like. Shut up. You know what I mean.”

You grinned. “Yeah, Katsuki. I do.”

And when he shoved his hands deep into his hoodie pocket — and found yours already there, waiting — he didn’t pull away.