Angel

He had his camera open.

Selfie style pointed at you with half a side of him poking in.

You literally screeched and covered the middle of your face with your hand, using your other hand to pull him back by his hair as you pounced.

"Ouch woman!" He yelled, rolling onto his side as he grabbed the wrist gripping his hair. "Whats your problem?"

You used your free hand to try and snatch his phone to delete the picture. But he beat you to it.

"You monster," you hissed, still grappling for the phone as he held it just out of reach, his arm extended like some cruel taunt. He had that infuriating smirk, the one that made you want to both smack him and kiss him at the same time, and you settled for digging your knee into his ribs instead.

"Ow- Christ, alright!" He bucked under your weight, flipping onto his back with a grunt, and suddenly you were the one trapped between him and the mattress, his free hand pinning your wrist above your head. His phone dangled precariously over the edge of the bed. "Delete it," you demanded, squirming, but his grip was annoyingly firm. "Or I swear I'll-"

His grin widened, the kind of shit eating smirk that made your stomach flip in the worst, or best? way possible. "Or you'll what?"

"You'll regret it," you growled, twisting under him, but his weight was an immovable anchor. His phone still hovered tauntingly over the abyss of your bedroom floor. You could see the screen from this angle, your own wide-eyed panic immortalized in pixels, your nose the centerpiece of the shot. The one thing you hated about yourself, captured perfectly in high definition.

Bakugo's smirk faltered for half a second, his brows knitting together as he studied your expression. Then, with a scoff, he dropped the phone onto the bed beside your head. "The hell's wrong with you?" His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go entirely, his thumb brushing idly over your pinned wrist. "You look fine? Always do."

The weight of him pressed you deeper into the mattress, his thumb still tracing slow circles on your wrist. He was starting to sink you too much into the bed. You swallowed hard, eyes flicking between his face and the abandoned phone beside you. "You don't get it," you muttered, turning your head away so he wouldn't see the way your throat tightened. "It's-"

Bakugo scoffed. Changing his weight to one elbow so he could grab your chin with his free hand, forcing you to look at him. His force was gentle enough to feel soothing, even in his intense prescence.

"Spit it out."

You swallowed again, the warmth of his fingers tipping your chin upward making you shiver. His gaze made lying feel impossible, like he could see inside your head with just a glare.

"It's just... my nose," you muttered, voice cracking slightly. "It's too wide. Or crooked. Or- I don't know, wrong. Every time someone takes a picture from the side, I look like some kind of..." You floundered for a word, but Bakugo's expression stopped you cold. He wasn’t smirking anymore.

His grip on your chin loosened, but instead of pulling away, his thumb dragged lightly across the bridge of your nose, tracing the curve you'd spent years hating. "The hell are you talking about?" he grunted. "It's just a nose. Fits your face." His tone was so serious, like what he said was common sense. Or 'is the sky blue.'

Basically insulting you for insulting yourself.

You didn't think what you said was out of pocket. You truly saw everything wrong about your nose, which suddenly made you feel like he was just lying. Your heart wanted to drop, but you knew him.

"You think I give a shit about your nose? It’s just a nose. You’re fucking ridiculous." He says again after your silent moment of avoiding his eyes.

That was the thing about Bakugo, he never lied to spare feelings. If he said it didn’t matter, he meant it. You knew that.

But years of insecurities didn’t vanish because some explosive idiot decided to bulldoze through them. You had to doubt him. Your internalized hate of yourself made it impossible to trust him when it comes to this. You were entirely convinced it was horrible.

"It’s crooked," you muttered, turning your face away.

Bakugo let out a heavy huff, almost like a laugh but not quite. His hand stayed where it was, thumb still pressed against the curve of your nose like he was trying to smooth out the imaginary flaw you kept insisting was there. "Crooked," he repeated annoyed. Then, without warning, he flicked your forehead. "So the fuck what?"

You hissed, face scrunching from the flick as much as his grip allowed. He let you go when he felt you actually recoil away from him.

"So it is ugly," you snapped, frustration bubbling up hot and sudden. "So everyone notices. So every time someone takes a picture, I look like some-"

Bakugo cut you off with a rough kiss, his mouth crashing into yours with enough force to make your teeth click. His kiss wasn’t gentle nor sweet. They never were. It was him. Kisses always impatient and fierce, which served as a dangerous mix of trouble, and when he pulled back, his breath was hot against your lips. "Shut up," he growled, "You’re pissing me off."

His fingers dug into your hips where he’d grabbed you mid tirade, holding you in place like he knew you’d bolt. "You think I’d be here if I gave a shit about your nose? That I’d waste my time on someone I thought was ugly?"

You went completely still under him, your eyes widening and your nose scrunching. What he said felt like one of his explosions hitting you. Not because they were cruel or anything, but because they weren’t at all.

Bakugo didn’t do reassurances. He didn’t coddle. He said exactly what he meant, and right now, He meant this. You stared at him, your pulse hammering in your throat, and really, you didn’t have a retort.

Your sure you'll never like your nose. But you can't deny, this makes you feel a lot better. You truly couldn't even think of how horrible your nose was. Coming from his mouth allowed you to give yourself some delusion that he was right. The comfort to give yourself a break.

You opened your mouth to argue, to deflect, to something. But he beat you to it. "Tch." His thumb brushed over your nose again, this time slower. "You’re so damn stubborn."

He lifted you by your back to sit straight, seemingly getting tired of hovering over you. You could’ve pushed him away if you wanted to. But why would you? His fingers tilted your face away from your bedroom lamp, where your eyes went to avoid him.

"Look at me," he muttered.

You swallowed and furrowed your brows when Bakugo’s fingers tightened just enough to keep your face turned toward him, his grip insistent. The lamplight caught the sharpness of his jaw, the way his brows were furrowed harsher than yours. You could see his lower lip was slightly chapped from biting it when he was concentrating. And his scowl somehow different when it's pointed at you. All these tiny details you’d memorized, but right now, they felt overwhelming because he was looking at you.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said like it was a fact he was tired of repeating. His thumb dragged across your cheekbone as you sat straighter on your shins, feeling praised just by bathing in his gaze. “Not your nose, not your face, not-” He cut himself off with a scoff, shaking his head like the words were stupid even as he said them. “You’re so fucking hung up on this shit. It’s annoying.”

You wanted to argue. Really, you did. Wanted to say all the dark thoughts you considered truths. But the way his fingers lingered on your face made your throat tighten. He wasn’t one for tenderness, and yet here he was, tracing the ridge of your nose like it was something worth memorizing. The way his thumb brushed over your skin was almost reverent. Like he couldn’t fathom why you’d hate something so inconsequential.

"You’re serious," you mumbled, suddenly hyperaware of how close his face was to yours. His breath smelled faintly of mint, and you realized he must’ve chewed gum earlier. The thought was stupidly endearing. He also seemed to "never have any."

"The hell else would I be?" He said grinning now.

You barely had time to process his grin before his mouth was on yours again, this kiss softer than the last. He had pulled your head closer to him, your body almost falling on top of him as you followed your head. His lips moved against yours with a gentleness that contradicted everything he’d just growled at you. It was infuriating, how easily he could switch from explosive irritation to this amount of care. You melted into it despite yourself, your fingers landing on the hard muscle of his thighs to steady yourself.

When he pulled back, it was only far enough to mutter, "You done being stupid?" against your lips, his scent invading your inhales.

Your fingers tightened on his thighs as you let out a long awaited breath through your nose. That nose, still pressed close enough to his that you regretted dating someone as handsome as him. "Maybe," you muttered, barely audible. Bakugo's grin widened at your half assed concession, his fingers sliding from your face to tangle in your hair instead, tugging just enough to make you hiss. "Ow- hey"

His grip loosened immediately at your yelp, fingers uncurling from your hair to cradle the back of your head instead. "Tch. Drama queen," he muttered.

"You hungry pretty?" He says, leaning away from you and swinging his legs off your bed. He glanced back at you, unaware of what he just did to you. He waited for an answer, looking as if he didnt just call you something he's never done before. Like it made sense in his mind to call address you like that.

You loved it. "Mhm!" You hummed enthusiastically, dreading he would get embarassed and regeet his tenderness if you reacted strange to him.

He looked at you confused for a moment. But brushed it off and slipped into his slippers.

Bakugo stood, stretching his arms above his head with a groan that sounded more like a growl, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. You bit your lip, resisting the urge to poke the exposed skin, knowing full well he’d swat your hand away like an irritating fly. Instead, you swung your legs off the bed, padding barefoot after him as he stomped toward your kitchen like he owned the place. Which, in his mind, he probably did.

You watched him proud about your house, with your parents not home, and you now suddenly very satisfied. He looked irresistible.

"Kats," you whispered. And without a second to spare, you trapped him in a kiss.

"Let's eat."

Which is what brings him to your dorm. He knocks lightly a couple times, paying mind to the possibility that your sleeping. But not even a minute ago he had already decided to wake your ass up.

You barge in his dorm all the time. Now it's his turn.

He slowly creeps your door open, walking into a dark room with just barely some light peeking through your curtain from the streetlights outside, painting jagged stripes across your bedspread, illuminating just enough for Bakugo to see the lump of your curled-up form beneath the blankets. He hesitated for a second, something he never did, when he noticed how small you looked. Your usual energy, the loud-mouthed retorts and stupidly persistent texts, was conspicuously absent.

"You dead or what?" he muttered, but the bite in his tone was more than half hearted. He stalked closer, kicking a discarded hoodie out of his path (yours, probably; it smelled like your shampoo). When he yanked the blanket back, expecting to find you passed out with your phone in hand, he froze. Your face was pressed into the pillow, eyes puffy and red rimmed.

You weren't even sleeping. Just flat out ignoring him.

He stood there for a long second, entirely unsure what to do. Or what he was even witnessing. Bakugo's fists clenched at his sides before he finally ground out, "The hell happened?"

He didn't really give out comfort. He didn't do this sort of stuff. He wasn't well equipped for it the way Midoriya or Ochaco would be. Or literally anyone of your other friends, all except him. He didn't know how to help. It wouldn't stand.

He has to try. For you.

You were obviously fuckin' upset. That much was obvious.

Despite himself, his feet carried him to the edge of your mattress anyway, and he sat down hard enough to make the springs creak.

You didn’t answer him right away, just curled tighter into yourself, fingers twisting into the pillowcase. Bakugo’s knee bounced impatiently, but he didn’t snap again. For once, he waited. He wasn't sure what the plan was, because he has yet to say a word. Your both sitting in a dark room filled with silence, just sitting in each others presence. Then, muffled into the fabric: "Failed."

His eyebrow twitched. "The hell does that mean?"

You inhaled sharply, shoulders hunching inward even more. "Aizawa's surprise quiz," Your voice cracked, and Bakugo’s stomach did something weird and unpleasant. "I was ready. I studied. But I panicked when the civilian simulation started crying, and I -" A wet, humorless laugh. "Froze. Like some amateur."

Bakugo's first instinct was to scoff - that's what had you curled up like a wounded animal? But the sound died in his throat when you finally turned your head toward him, revealing the raw humiliation in your expression. He'd seen you pissed off, annoyingly cheerful, even exhausted after training, but never this. It made something primal in his chest tighten uncomfortably.

"Tch." He crossed his arms, glaring at the wall that was too dark to focus on, anything instead of your face. "So you choked. Big fuckin' deal." His tone was harsh, but the words themselves weren't, not really. "Happens to everyone."

"Not to you," you muttered, dragging the back of your hand across your eyes.

Bakugo’s jaw clenched. "The hell’s that supposed to mean?"

"You never freeze," you said, your voice heartbroken. "Not even when-"

"Bullshit," he interrupted. "You think I popped out the womb ready to blow shit up?" He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers drumming against his thighs like he was physically holding back from shaking you and knock some damn sense into you.

"First time I used my quirk, I damn near blew my own hands off. Screamed like a baby."

You blinked up at him, the tears in your lashes catching the dim light. "You… you never told me that."

Bakugo scoffed, turning his head away like the admission physically pained him. "Course I didn't. Not exactly something I'm proud of, dumbass."

He looked away from you, just when you finally lifted your head to him. He couldn't meet your eyes even in your most vulnverable moment. One that was now appartently becoming his. "Point is, even I fuck up. Difference is I don't let it bury me alive after."

The mattress lifted as he suddenly stood, pacing a tight circle beside your bed like a caged animal. You watched his silhouette cut through the stripes of streetlight. Then, without warning, he pivoted and jabbed a finger toward your face. "You know what your problem is? You give a shit too much."

You flinched back at his sudden movement, but Bakugo didn’t retract his hand. Instead, he let it hover there, finger still pointed accusingly at your nose. "You care about every damn little thing," he continued, voice dropping to something more condemnatory rather than comforting.

"Every failure, every mistake, you let it eat at you like it’s the end of the fucking world." His hand finally fell, but the intensity in his eyes didn’t. "Newsflash: it’s not."

His words ran around in circles in your mind, unignorable since coming from him out of all people. Something like this being screamed at you should've worsened your mood. But you know what he means, and his intentions, despite saying it the way he is.

You swallowed hard, pulling your hoodie sleeves further over your hands. "Easy for you to say," you mumbled, but there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion.

Bakugo’s lip curled. "Yeah, because I know what I’m talking about. You think I got this far by wallowing every time I screwed up?" He scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I got this far by getting pissed, pissed enough to work twice as hard so it wouldn’t happen again." He took a step closer, looming over you. "So get pissed, dumbass."

Bakugo was right, you did let every failure carve itself into your ribs like a damn tally mark. But hearing him say it made something uncomfortable rise and settle in your throat.

"You don't get it," you said, voice cracking. "It's not just the quiz. It's-" You bit down hard on your lower lip, cutting yourself off before you could spill the rest. The way your hands had locked up mid-rescue simulation. How Aizawa's disappointed glance had lingered a second too long. The whispers from your classmates that maybe you weren't cut out for hero work after all. (none of that happened, you barely even messed up.)

Bakugo knows you overthink, and about your anxiety. He has been witness to it multiple occasions throughout his life.

Bakugo's fingers tapped at his sides before he abruptly grabbed your wrist, yanking your hand away from where you'd been gnawing at your own sleeve. "Stop that," he grunted, releasing you just as quickly. "You're gonna wear a hole in your damn clothes."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, then dropped onto the bed beside you with enough force to make you bounce. "Look," he said, staring resolutely at the opposite wall, "you think I don't know what's going on in that dumbass head of yours?" His hand landed at the crown of your head, feeling your soft hair like a reflex that wasn't new.

His fingers tangled in your hair for a second too long before he jerked them away like he'd been burned. The sudden loss of contact made your scalp prickle. Bakugo cleared his throat awkwardly, and you realized he was avoiding your eyes again, staring at the wall.

"You're spiraling," he muttered. It wasn't a question. "Over nothing. One fuckup doesn't define shit." He said it so easily, like it was a fact. You were beginning to just soak up all his words to make yourself feel better, even if you still felt disappointed in yourself.

A restless energy coiled tight under his skin. He hated this, the helplessness, the way your shoulders still trembled even though you'd stopped crying. He was built for action, for explosions and victory, not for sitting still while someone he - whatever - suffered right in front of him.

"You're wrong," you whispered, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. "It wasn't nothing. I froze. What if that'd been real? What if someone died because I-"

Bakugo's fingers dug into his thighs hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents in the fabric. "Shut the hell up," he growled, but there was no real venom in it. "You're alive, aren't you? Still breathing?" His palm smacked against your chest, right over your pounding heartbeat, and you startled at the contact. "Means you got another shot. Another day. That's how this shit works."

You opened your mouth to argue, but he steamrolled right over you. "And newsflash, dumbass, you didn't freeze today." He scoffed when your eyebrows shot up. "Everything is fine, your making it out to be more than it is. You're here. Talking. Breathing. Bitching. It'll be alright." His hand lingered against your sternum for a second longer than necessary before he snatched it back, wiping his palm on his pants like he'd touched something contagious.

You thought he couldn't be any cuter.

Bakugo’s hand hovered awkwardly in the air between you for a second before he shoved it back into his pocket, as if embarrassed by his own uncharacteristic gentleness. Another awkward silence took over, most due to him grappling with how much he cared, you grappling with how much he showed he cared. It was almost funny, in a twisted way, how the two of you could bicker like siblings one moment and then sit in this heavy, trembling quiet with so much unease.

"You’re such a pain in my ass," he muttered. He sounded almost fond, like he was complaining about a habit he had no intention of breaking.

"What made you come over?" You mumbled, lifting yourself up in a position to lean back on your headboard.

Bakugo stiffened at the question, his shoulders squaring like you'd just thrown a punch instead of a simple inquiry. The streetlight caught the sharp line of his jaw as he clenched it, his eyes flicking sideways toward your window, anywhere but at you once again. "Tch. Don't flatter yourself. Just didn’t feel like dealing with your whining tomorrow when you finally crawled out of this pity party."

You snorted, dragging your sleeve across your nose. "Liar. You were worried."

Bakugo's head whipped around so fast his neck cracked. "The hell I was," he snarled, but his ears flushed crimson under the dim light. He shot to his feet, pacing another tight circle. "You didn't text. That's it. Annoying as shit, having to come over here and- " He stopped speaking, opting to just roll his eyes and sit back down on the bed next to you. "Whatever. Point is, don't make it weird."

You wiped your cheek with the back of your hand. "It is weird," you said softly. "You never check on people."

He opened his mouth, probably to snap, but nothing came out. Just a sharp exhale through his nose as he stared down at his hands. "Shut up," he finally muttered.

You wiped your damp cheeks with your sleeve, watching him. You watched the way his knee kept bouncing restlessly against your mattress. "Wanna sleep here tonight" you whispered. Your question so hesitant.

You and him haven't done that since you were in middle school. When you'd sleep near each other on his moms couch or forcefully in his or your bed. It used to be a normal thing, but so much time has passed. Your both still close, but its different. Your both teenagers now.

As you got older, you started seeing each other in differentl lights. Not so innocent lights.

You both undeniably liked each other.

Bakugo’s knee stopped bouncing mid-air. He just looked down at you for a quiet pondering second before speaking, "Tch. Like I got shit else to do," he muttered. Acting like it was inconvient, as if he didnt leap to accept your proposal with the speed he kicked his shoes off.

He kicked off his shoes with an unnecessary force too, sending them skidding across your floorboards. "Move over, dumbass. You’re hogging the whole damn bed."

You scrambled sideways, pulling the blanket with you. The mattress dipped under his weight as he flopped onto his back beside you, arms crossed behind his head like he was trying too hard to look unaffected. He sat up halfway to lift his sweatshirt above his head, his hoodie taking his shirt along with it.

He didn't bother to fix it or put his shirt back on. Was it intentional?

"Its hot," you mutter, fisting the blanket up close to your jaw, burrowing yourself like a little rabbit.

You couldn't stop staring at him, his bare skin. Broad back and large biceps. Toned arms. his hands, his wasit. His abs…

Bakugo exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling onto his side to face you with all the grace of an irritated panther. "Quit staring," he grumbled, he didn't bother explaining himself. The streetlight caught the curve of his collarbone, the dip between his pecs, details you'd definitely noticed before, but never from this close.

"You're the one who flashed me," you shot back, voice muffled by the blanket.

Bakugo seemed like he was resisting the urge to throttle you. "The fuck I did," he growled, with that same flustered irritation that made him look away from you. He turned onto his back again, staring dead at your ceiling. "Just shut up and go to sleep."

You didn’t. Instead, you watched the way his chest rose and fell a little too quickly for someone supposedly relaxed. His breathing didn’t even out. Neither did yours.

"I'm hot," you mumbled. Tugging at your hoodie and kicking off as much blanket as you could without bothering his share.

Bakugo scoffed. "No shit," he muttered. he turned his head over to look beside him, at you. His hair smushing against the pillow, already becoming a hot mess. He stared at your figure for a second with his slim crimson eyes, assessing you and your layers. "Take all those damn clothes off," The words slipped out before he could bite them back, and his entire body went rigid the second they hit the air between you.

You froze mid-fidget, your fingers still tangled in the hem of your hoodie.

He wanted to snatch the words back, or maybe shove them further down your throat. Because it's not like he hasn't thought of that before.

He suddenly barked out a laugh so forced it made you flinch. "Fuck’s sake, not like that," he spat, his forced confidence disappearing quickly. He doesn't know why he doesn't think before he speaks. "Just- you’re sweating through three layers like some kinda idiot."

You exhaled shakily, but didn’t move. Something unreadable flickered across his face before he abruptly sat up, shoving a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Christ, forget it," he growled, swinging his legs off the bed. "I’m getting water."

You sat up just as quickly, grabbing his arm and spinning him back around towards you. You lifted your self to stand on your knees, your face just below his as you stared up with a glare.

"Your mad I wont take your suggestion n take my clothes off, hmm?" You said, suddenly gaining nerve after your meltdown earlier. After he stats silent, brows furrowed in confusion and a scrunched up nose. You lift your hoodie over yourself, except your shirt doesn't follow suit. Staring up at him with a unwavering determined expression. Daring him to spit back at you with his usual rudeness.

Bakugo's breath hitched audibly, a tiny, traitorous sound he'd deny until his grave, as your hoodie slid off and pooled around your elbows. You were wearing a tanktop. He caught the curve of your bare shoulders, the dip of your collarbones, the way your shirt rode up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above your waistband. His gaze flickered down, then back up to your face so fast it should’ve given him whiplash.

"Tch." His voice came out rougher than intended. "The hell’s your problem?"

His fingers flexed at his sides like he wanted to grab something. Maybe you, maybe the blanket to throw over you, maybe his own hair to tear out in frustration. You didn’t back down, tilting your chin up so your noses nearly brushed. Bakugo’s breath was warm and uneven against your lips.

"You’re my problem," you whispered, and watched his pupils blow wide as he stared straight into yours. You were clearly joking, he knew that. But he also knew you liked playing games. A annoying sign you were back to normal.

Bakugo's entire body locked up, his pulse hammering so hard you could practically see it in his throat. For once, the bastard was speechless. Mouth half-open, breath shallow, eyes unmoving from you. You could feel the tension radiating off him, the way his muscles coiled tighter with every second your faces stayed inches apart.

"Take more off then," he finally ground out, tone so cocky now as he smiled at you.

Your hands froze midair, the fabric of your tank top twisted between your fingers where you'd been about to lift it. Bakugo's smirk twitched wider, the bastard knew what he was doing, and he leaned in just enough that his breath fanned hot across your lips. "Scared now?" he taunted, voice low.

You swallowed hard. God how much you wanted to kiss him.

When he noticed you stopped, his glare softened and his shoulders fell. "Com'on, lets lay down. Take whatever off, I dont mind brat."

Your fingers loosened on the hem of your tank top, letting it fall back into place. Bakugo's smirk faltered for half a second before he clicked his tongue and flopped back onto the mattress, making the bedframe groan. "Knew you wouldn't do it," he muttered, but the usual bite in his words was absent, replaced by something almost… disappointed.

You settled beside him, knees brushing against his thigh as you both stared at the ceiling. Streetlight shadows striped across Bakugo's bare torso, highlighting the way his abs tensed when he breathed. You counted the rhythm: in, out, in, out. Too fast for someone trying to sleep.

Bakugo moved so fast you barely had time to blink before his palm was sliding up your spine, his large hand unbearably warm against your skin. His fingers splayed wide, pressing into the dip of your lower back as he hauled you up an inch, just enough to drag your tank top over your head in one motion. The fabric caught briefly on your elbows before he yanked it free and tossed it somewhere behind him without looking. You shivered as the air hit your bare shoulders, but his hand stayed firm against your back.

"Quit squirming," he muttered, his voice was uneven, like he was the one struggling to stay still. His thumb brushed the knobs of your spine, dragging upward until his palm settled between your shoulder blades.

"You're one to talk," you breathed, nodding pointedly at his hand trembling against you. Bakugo's nostrils flared, but instead of snatching his hand back like you expected, he curled his fingers tighter, pulling you forward until your forehead bumped against his collarbone.

Bakugo stayed frozen over you, his palm still pressing your forehead into his bare chest. Your tiny breaths fluttered against his skin. His pulse hammered so loud he was sure you could hear it. This was too much. Too close. Too everything. The scent of your shampoo mixed with his scent, and he hated how familiar it was, how right it felt to have you tucked under his chin like some goddamn keepsake.

"You're sweating," you mumbled into his collarbone, and Bakugo nearly jolted off the bed.

"Shut up," he hissed. He should shove you away. Should roll over and pretend this never happened. Instead, his thumb traced absent circles between your shoulder blades, like his hands had a mind of their own.

Being so intimate with his childhood bestfriend that he's always liked, sent his mind racing.

He wasn’t built for stillness. Neither were you, not with his fingers sketching nonsense patterns along your spine, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

"You’re gonna pass out if you keep holding your breath like that," you murmured, lips grazing his collarbone. Bakugo’s entire body seized, his grip on you tightening reflexively before he forcibly relaxed it, exhaling through his teeth in a slow, controlled stream.

Bakugo suddenly rolled onto his back with a huff, dragging you with him in one jerky motion. Your stomach pressed against his left rib. Your leg hooking over his thigh instinctively as he manhandled you into position, half sprawled across his bare chest, your arm draped over his stomach. His skin burned against your cheek where it nestled into the crook of his neck, the rapid flutter of his pulse thrumming beneath your lips.

All you could focus on right now was his heartbeat, so close and personal. You could feel the drum of his heartbeat under your cheek, fast and relentless, betraying the carefully curated indifference in his voice when he finally spoke.

“Don’t get used to this,” he muttered, but his arm curled tighter around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The contradiction was so him that you huffed a laugh into his collarbone, lips brushing skin. Bakugo stiffened, his grip turning almost painful. “The hell are you laughing at?”

"Nothing, I'm going to sleep," you mumbled into his neck.

Bakugo made a noise in the back of his throat, something between a scoff and a growl, but his fingers didn't loosen their grip on your hip. If anything, they dug in harder.

"Goodnight," you whispered when he didn't answer.

Bakugo didn't say goodnight back. He just exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound ruffling your hair. He meant to say it back, but for some reason he couldn't speak right now. Too occupied by your proximity. It only took a few minutes for him to see you fell asleep, your body finally letting go on top of him.

Bakugo waited until your breathing evened out completely before he dared to move. Even then, it was just his fingers tapping against your hipbone. He didn't sleep. Couldn't. Not with your warmth seeping into his skin like this, not with your heartbeat syncing up against his ribs in a way that felt terrifyingly permanent.

The bass pulsed through your ribs like a second heartbeat, too loud and too close, but Nemuri's grip on your wrist kept you together as she wove through the crowd. "Two shots of tequila," she shouted over the music, slapping her credit card onto the bar before you could protest. The bartender barely glanced up -- Nemuri was clearly a regular here, her confidence effortless in a way that made your chest ache with something between envy and exhaustion.

The first shot burned worse than you expected, the second worse than the first, but Nemuri’s grin was worth the way your eyes watered. Behind her, Hizashi was already halfway through a story, hands waving wildly enough that Aizawa had to duck to avoid being smacked in the face.

Aizawa’s gaze flicked to you the moment you coughed after the second shot, his fingers tightening around his untouched whiskey. He looked unfairly put together in the dim neon lights, his usual scowl softened by the way his dark hair fell slightly loose from its tie. You caught him staring again and again, and the fourth tiime, he didn’t look away.

Your sure he was just checking on you, like he often does when you get quiet. Especially when your hanging out with the two most extroverted people on the planet.

The third shot was a mistake. You knew it the second the liquid hit your tongue, some syrupy sweet concoction Nemuri had ordered with a wink. But you tipped your head back anyway, letting the burn chase away the lingering tightness in your chest.

The fourth shot was a blur of neon pink and sticky lips, the rim of the glass catching on your teeth as you threw it back. You weren’t even sure what it was -- something fruity and potent that made your knees wobble when you stood.

Hizashi’s laughter echoed loud enough to vibrate through the floor, but you didn’t look up from your fourth drink. Nemuri was draped over his shoulder, whispering something scandalous into his ear while he turned an impressive shade of red. They hadn’t noticed you slip away from the table on your own.

The bar counter felt cool under your palms as you leaned into it, fingers curling around another glass the bartender slid your way without asking. You didn’t remember ordering it. The ice cubes clinked mockingly as you swirled the amber liquid, watching the way the overhead lights fractured through it. Pretty. You wondered absently if Aizawa would think so too.

You just keep ordering drinks.

The glass was halfway to your lips when a familiar hand wrapped around your wrist, halting its ascent with a firm grip. You didn’t have to look up to know it was Aizawa, his calluses scraped against your skin in a way that sent a traitorous shiver down your spine.

"Enough," he said. His thumb pressed into the bones of your wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you acutely aware of how serious he was.

You wrenched your arm free with a violence that startled both of you, liquid sloshing over the rim as you snatched the glass back. "I decide when it’s enough," you spat, the words sharper than you’d intended. The look on Aizawa’s face, something between concern and quiet fury, made your stomach twist. You didn’t want his pity. Didn’t want him seeing you like this.

Aizawa’s fingers twitched at his sides, his jaw tightening like he was physically biting back words. For a heartbeat, you thought he’d walk away, let you drown in whatever self-destructive spiral you were chasing. But then his hand settled on the small of your back. "Outside," he said, not a request. "Now."

The night air hit your face like a slap as Aizawa steered you through the club’s back exit, his grip harsh but not unkind. It was, of course, extra chilly. Your heels caught on the uneven pavement, and his arm shot out to steady you before you could stumble. "Careful," he muttered, his breath lacking the smell of alcohol. Of course he didn't drink.

Aizawa’s hand was still pressed to your back, steadying you as you swayed. You could feel the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of your dress, his touch almost infuriating. You craved more to drink, he was preventing that. At the moment, you thought of him as arrogant and selfish. But that wasn't the truth, you just didn't care to realize it.

He brought you to his car, letting you lean all your weight against the outside of his passenger door.

The car door was cold against your bare back the metal biting into your skin as you slumped against it. You were wearing a dark purple, backless long dress that ended at your ankles. Aizawa stood close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, his arms crossed in a way that made his biceps strain against his sleeves. You wanted to hate how good he looked under the flickering parking lot lights.

Aizawa’s fingers flexed at his sides, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder like he couldn’t trust himself to look at you directly. "You’re smarter than this," he said finally.

You blinked up at him. The alcohol making his features swim, his sharp jawline, the way his eyebrows knitted together just slightly, and his lazy bun. It was all too apparent now.

His jaw worked silently for a moment before he exhaled through his nose. "Getting wasted won’t fix anything," he said, a little too patronizing.

His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the faint scars that crisscrossed his forearms. Old injuries you’d never asked about. You wanted to trace them now, just to see if he’d flinch.

The moment your fingers brushed his forearm, Aizawa froze. His skin was cold beneath your touch, the raised scars rougher than you'd imagined. "What are you doing?" he asked.

Your fingers lingered on his forearm, tracing a particularly jagged scar just above his wrist. "I've always wondered how you got these," you murmured, the alcohol making your words slur together.

He didn’t pull away, but his fingers twitched like he was fighting the urge to catch your wrist mid-trace. "Training accident," he muttered, gaze fixed on your fingers rather than your face.

"Liar," you whispered, tilting your head up. His eyes were darker in the dim parking lot lights.. "You don’t get scars like this from training."

Aizawa's pulse hammered when your fingers skimmed higher, following the map of old wounds toward the crook of his elbow. "You're drunk," he said, but it sounded more like a reminder to himself than to you. A reminder that he has to keep his head straight, for your sake.

The moment your fingers reached the bend of his elbow, Aizawa moved. Not away, but toward. His hand snapped up, fingers curling around your wrist with light touch despite the suddenness of the motion.

"Enough," he said, but his thumb brushed absently over your skin like he couldn't help himself. And he really couldn't, this was exactly the intimacy he dreamed of having with you. All the times he would think about it, but never actually had a chance.

You tilted your head back to meet his gaze properly.

"You keep saying that," you murmured, stepping closer until the toes of your shoes bumped against his boots. "But you haven’t actually stopped me yet."

Aizawa exhaled sharply through his nose, his free hand lifting like he meant to push you back, but his fingers barely grazed your waist before curling into a fist at his side.

"You’re going to regret this tomorrow," he muttered, voice scraping low.

Your fingers flexed against his wrist where he still held you. "Maybe," you admitted, leaning in until your breath ghosted over his jaw. "But tonight I just want --"

His mouth slowly leaned into yours before you could finish.

His grip on your wrist tightened briefly before releasing, his hand instead cradling the back of your head. Careful, always so careful, even as his lips moved against yours with barely restrained hunger.

You made a soft sound against his mouth, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. His stubble scraped against your chin, rough enough to send a shiver down your spine at all the contact. His other arm slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

Aizawa broke the kiss first, though he didn’t pull far. He kept his head low, his eyes anywhere but you. "That was a bad idea," he said, voice wrecked.

Aizawa pushed your hand away. The neon sign above the club’s back exit flickered, casting his face in alternating shades of red and blue, and you could see the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard. "You don’t want this," he said.

"You don't know what I want," you murmured, the words slurring together as you grabbed his collar. The night air was too cold, the alcohol too warm in your veins, and Aizawa’s hand around your wrist the only thing you can focus on.

"I know you don’t want this," he repeated, voice dipping lower as he stared at your wandering fingers ghosting his skin. "Not really."

"You’re not thinking straight," he muttered.

His teeth worried at his lower lip for half a second before he caught himself. "You're not sober enough to be making decisions," he said, voice strained. "And I’m not selfish enough to take advantage of that."

You blinked up at him, the alcohol still swimming in your veins, but suddenly clearer at the edges.

His thumb brushed the inside of your palm, an absent motion that sent heat curling up your arm.

You could see the exact moment his resolve fractured. "You should hate me," you murmured, your fingers still curled loosely in his grasp. "For being like this. Weak."

His dark eyes burned into yours, closer now than they’d been all night. "Don’t call yourself that."

He slid his fingers down to intertwine with yours in a movement so fluid it stole your breath.

The streetlight above you flickered, casting his face in fractured gold. His thumb traced your knuckles. "Come on," he murmured, "Let’s get you home."

Home. The word stuck to your ribs. You weren’t sure where that was anymore.

You didn’t protest when he guided you into the passenger seat, his palm hovering at the small of your back like he was afraid you’d freak if he touched you too hard.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It never was with him. But tonight, it felt different. You pressed your forehead against the cool glass, watching your breath fog it in uneven patches. Aizawa’s grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly when you shivered, before he reached over and cranked the heat higher without a word.

The hum of Aizawa’s car engine faded into the background, replaced by the rhythmic tap of rain against the windshield. You watched the droplets streak sideways as the car slowed once you reached back home. Neither of you had spoken since he’d buckled you in, his fingers brushing your waist briefly, like he couldn’t decide if touching you was a kindness or a betrayal.

Aizawa killed the engine but didn’t move, his hands lingering on the wheel like he was waiting for permission to speak or move. You swallowed hard, the alcohol in your veins making the silence feel heavier than it should. He knew it wasn't, but you felt you were doing something wrong.

You probably were doing something wrong, like always. That's why you were cheated on.

“I can walk myself up,” you said, fingers fumbling with the seatbelt clasp, he unclicked it for you, and you helplessly surrendered. You were a bit too drunk.

Aizawa’s hand gently caught your wrist before you could push the door open. “You’re still drunk,” he said, voice low. “And it’s pouring.”

The rain had soaked through Aizawa’s shirt by the time he managed to wrestle you up the dorm steps, your laughter muffled against his shoulder as you nearly tripped over your own feet. “You’re a menace,” he grumbled, his grip on your waist tightening when you wobbled again.

Your laughter dissolved into a hiccup as Aizawa guided you through the dormitory hallway, his arm a solid around you. "Stop squirming," he muttered when your heel caught the edge of a floor mat, his grip shifting to haul you upright with embarrassing ease.

The dorm hallway swayed in your vision as you stumbled against Aizawa’s side, your fingers clutching at his drenched sleeve for balance. His arm around your waist didn’t falter, even when your knee buckled on the third step up. “Almost there,” he muttered.

"Is my makeup ruined?" you mumbled, tilting your head up to look at him.

Aizawa looked back down at you. The moon's glow caught the smudged liner beneath your eyes, the faint glitter clinging stubbornly to your cheekbones. "Yes," he said flatly. Then, after a beat too long where his thumb brushed a stray fleck of mascara from your temple: "It looks better like this."

You started silently giggling to yourself, head nudging into his chest as you leaned your entire weight against him. He was practically dragging you up the stairs and down the hallway now. He seriously considered just picking you up and carrying you like a baby in his arms.

Your door clicked behind you both loudly, Aizawa having to kick it shut since his hands are full.

Aizawa released your waist reluctantly, fingers lingering just a second too long before withdrawing to flick on the dim bedside lamp. The golden light caught the rainwater still dripping from his hair onto his collarbones, tracing paths down his already soaked shirt. You stared, mesmerized by the way droplets clung to his jawline before falling.

Aizawa's fingers hesitated at the hem of his shirt, hovering like he couldn't decide whether to peel it off or endure the discomfort. His eyes flicked to you -- slumped against the doorframe with smudged mascara and rain-damp curls, and something in his jaw tightened. "Sit down before you fall," he grunted, nodding toward the bed.

"Help me?" You pleaded, a coy smile on your face as you feigned helplessness, which wasn't entirely false. But you were capable.

Aizawa exhaled through his nose. His hands twitched at his sides before he stepped forward, fingers curling around your elbow with care, like you were something fragile he might break.

"You're insufferable," he muttered, but there was no heat in it as he guided you toward the bed, his hands ready at your back to help you fall when your knees buckled slightly.

Rainwater trickled from your hair onto your thighs where the dress had ridden up, the cold contrast making you shiver. His gaze lingered on the sight before he abruptly turned away, carelessly picking clothes from your dresser.

"How is your room still a mess Y/n," he mumbled, no judgement actually there.

He threw you a sweatshirt and pants, not taking much time to look through the choices. Aizawa stood rigidly near the door, arms crossed like a sentry, his damp shirt clinging to the planes of his chest in a way that made your stomach flip. "Change," he repeated, his voice gruff as he jerked his chin toward the bathroom. "Properly."

"No dummy, I want something less hot."

Aizawa blinked at you, his fingers pausing mid air where they'd been about to toss another sweatshirt your way. "Right..less hot" he repeated, voice dangerously flat. He then handed you a tank top and shorts, something he often sees you wear during the summer time.

Later when you emerged from the bathroom, Aizawa had stripped down to his undershirt, the damp fabric clinging to the hard lines of his shoulders. His capture weapon lay abandoned in a sodden heap by the door.

You came back to see him cleaning up your desk a bit. Throwing trash looking peices in your bin, clothes that were on the floor now in your hamper.

And as soon as he turned, you were all up in his space. Looking up at him with those endearing eyes and captivating smile.

The moment Aizawa turned toward you, the desk lamp caught the exhaustion in his posture. The slight slump of his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed as if aching from hours of grading papers. But his expression sharpened when he took your appearance in, the skin tight tank top leaving no imagination. Along with your bare legs.

Aizawa's breath stilled when your fingers curled into his undershirt, his body going rigid beneath your touch. "You should sleep," he muttered, but his hands settled on your hips anyway, thumbs pressing into the dip of your fat like he couldn't stop himself from touching you.

The rain had cooled his skin, but beneath your touch, heat bloomed like embers catching fire. "You're still drunk," Aizawa murmured, but his fingers tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. The protest sounded weak even to his own ears.

"Still drunk, Y/n," Aizawa repeated, more urgency in his tone for you to actually hear him. To know his attempt at refusing you is serious and filled with good intention, but his hands betrayed him, fingers splaying across your lower back as if mapping the curve of your spine through the thin fabric of your tank top.

"You're shaking," you murmured, pressing closer until your forehead bumped against his chin. His breath hitched, a sound that went straight to your already swimming head.

"You're not thinking clearly," he gritted out, but his pulse jumped wildly beneath your fingertips where they'd slipped beneath the hem of his undershirt.

Aizawa exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers digging now into your back. "You need to sleep," he muttered, his thumb tracing idle circles over your hipbone.

You could feel the rapid thrum of his pulse beneath your palm where it rested against his chest. "I'm thinking just fine," you murmured, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

Aizawa's grip tightened when you swayed forward, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh above your hips. "You're not," he said. The words vibrated through his chest where your palm still rested. "You're drunk, and you're hurt." His jaw clicked shut, the sentence left to die between his teeth.

His breath warmed the crown of your head where you'd tucked yourself beneath his chin. You lifted your head to look directly up at him.

"You should push me away then," you murmured.

You lift onto your tip toes just to reach him, the details of his face becoming closer and closer. So slowly, it was agonizing for him. His features took over your entire view, until you finally went for it, shut your eyes and met your mouth on his.

Aizawa’s kiss was nothing like the rough edges of his voice, his pace was leisurely, the kind of careful precision that made your knees weaken before you remembered they already were.

It was clumsy, your teeth scraping his bottom lip, your fingers clutching his undershirt too tight. Aizawa went still, barely feeding into your kiss.

For one terrifying second, you thought he'd push you away. Then his hands slid up your spine now from under your shirt, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades as he angled his head and kissed you back properly.

His thumbs pressed crescent moons into your skin. When you made a noise against his lips, something small and broken, his grip spasmed.

"Aizawa, stop being selfless for one second-" you said, cutting yourself off by pulling him into another kiss, having him bend just to meet your lips.

Aizawa broke the kiss first, but didn't pull away. He couldn’t do that much. His self control wasn’t strong when it came to you.

"This is a mistake," he murmured, but his hands still rubbed your back.

Aizawa exhaled sharply through his nose when your fingers tangled in his damp hair, pulling him closer with a desperation that made his stomach twist. For a heartbeat, he resisted -- hands braced against your shoulders as if he had the will to stop you. But then your teeth caught his lower lip and he groaned, his resolve crumbling like wet paper.

The mattress dipped under Aizawa’s weight as he followed you down, one hand cradling the back of your head before it could hit the pillow. His mouth was insistent against yours, his restraint fraying at the edges with every hitch of your breath. You arched into him instinctively. He made a low, wounded noise against your lips when your nails scraped his ribs under his shirt. He's not even sure when your hands slipped under there.

The bed hit the backs of your knees abruptly, Aizawa’s hands guiding you down with a force that betrayed how close he was to losing his restraint.

Aizawa pulled back just enough to press his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged. "You dont mean this," he says, voice wrecked, but his fingers were already curling tighter under the hem of your tank top.

"We can save this for another time," he says, already lifting himself off of you. Trying his best the ignore the pout in your lip, and the almost betrayal on your face.

"I don't want you like this," he murmured, "Not when you won't remember it tomorrow." His gaze remained locked on your mouth, swollen from his kisses. He thought it was such a pretty sight, your mouth rosey red from him.

The moment Aizawa pulled away, the absence of his warmth felt like a physical wound. "Another time? Are you just saying that…?"

"I'm not saying it to placate you," he said, a light huff as he found your drunk pouts humorous.

"Sleep," he repeated, the word more command than suggestion.

Aizawa stood, his damp undershirt clinging to every taut muscle as he moved toward the door. You reached out blindly, fingers catching the fabric at his waist before he could retreat. "Wait, stay tonight," you mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion and lingering intoxication.

Aizawa flicked off the bedside lamp with a sigh, plunging the room into a darkness broken only by the occasional flicker of lightning through the curtains. The mattress dipped as he settled beside you, careful to keep distance between your bodies despite how your protested. You had a queen bed, enough room to stay apart. Yet you were still all up in his space. Legs immediately tangled into his, your head dipped into the crook of his neck.

He looked to the side, pondering. "You're impossible," he said after a moment, but there was no bite to it. His fingers closed over yours.

He exhaled before turning back toward the bed with the reluctant grace of a man losing an argument he hadn’t even planned to have. "Fine," he muttered. "But only if you behave, and sleep. I can see your eyes getting heavy."

"She was so beautiful Sho," you mumbled, your tone weak and obviously hurt. It was so quiet, he almost dismissed it as aimless blabbering.

He dipped his head to get a better look at you. "Who?"

"She had these… dimples," you slurred, pressing your cheek deeper into the hollow of his throat as if trying to erase the memory with his skin. "And he - he kept saying it didn't mean anything. Like that made it better."

The name spilled from your lips in a whisper, you started to describe her - some woman with glossy hair and a laugh like wind chimes. The way you described her made his stomach twist. Not with jealousy, but with something darker: the urge to find your ex and break every bone that had ever touched you wrong. And to prove this faceless woman has nothing on you.

Aizawa's hand tightened around the back of your neck, fingers pressing into the base of your skull in a way that was almost punishing - almost. His exhale was hot against your temple. "Stop" he muttered, the word came out gruff, but almost tender. The mattress creaked as he shifted, rolling onto his side to face you fully. "You’re comparing yourself to someone just to justify his actions. Your worth more than both of them."

Aizawa's fingers slid from the back of your neck to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing the dampness from your cheekbone before you even realized you were crying.

Aizawa's thumb lingered there rough with callouses from years of handling capture weaponry, yet impossibly gentle against your skin. The contrast made your breath catch. How could hands meant for combat touch you like this? You leaned into his palm before you could stop yourself, chasing the warmth of him like a dying star would chase dawn.

"Im not taking off my pants Y/n." Aizawa said, while lifting his shirt over his head and tossing it onto your floor. You were already resting on top of him the second he leaned back into his pillow.

"Take this off, its wet," you mumbled into his neck, fingers pecking at his damp under shirt, and his pants.

You were already starting to doze off, typical for someone as drunk as you. And your voice was starting to get raspy and cracked.

"Just take em' off, gettin' my bed wet." you muttered, body relaxing as sleep started to cling to you.

Aizawa waited until your breathing evened out before he dared to move. The rain outside had tapered to a quiet drizzle, the occasional droplet tapping against the window like a metronome keeping time with your exhales. His fingers hovered at the waistband of his soaked pants, hesitating.

You shifted slightly, nose pressing into the hollow of his throat with a quiet sigh. Aizawa froze, watching the flutter of your lashes against your cheeks -- waiting for any sign you might wake. When none came, he worked the button loose, sliding the damp fabric down his legs and kicking them off the edge of the bed. The boxers he wore, dark gray and loose enough to pass as shorts, were barely damp by comparison.

He fell asleep eventually, the only image in his head is the one he captured after minutes of staring at you in his arms. Your messy hair and smudged makeup. You looked better in his arms, he was more than grateful you made your moves. He wouldn't have made it this far otherwise.

He was physically restraining himself from touching you. Your cheek pressed against his bare chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat the only constant in the spinning room.

His fingers later found themselves playing with your hair, petting the crown of your head as he became sleepier. His fatigue allowing him to indulge in his feelings for you.

All he can think of is waking up next to you, and how wrong it is at this time in your life.

Ignore this

You were taking peeks at him, eyes half lidded, staring up at him without shame.

No thought of any wrong ideas your starry eyes could give him. Though your just friends. Your gaze should be harmless and friendly, yet it feels so seductive.

"You always notice the dumbest things," you mumbled into your arm, not lifting your head. There was something glittery on your arm, and a nice smell to you -- maybe the perfume you'd spritzed on hours ago for a date that didnt end up happening.

"Mmm," he hummed, eyes searching your face and looking away whenever you'd open your eyes. "You said you were alone. Yet, you have a boyfriend."

You opened your eyes fully now, head straightening with your chin now propping your head up.

"That's the thing," you said, fingers tracing the condensation on your glass. "Having someone and being alone aren't mutually exclusive. Not when it's…" You stopped yourself, suddenly aware of how much you were about to say.

His prescence calmed you, let your guard down. So much that you felt convinced you could say anything around him.

Aizawa's fingers tapped once against his thigh, a rare tell. He didn't fidget. But now, the rhythm was off, like he'd missed a step somewhere. "Not when it's what?" he asked, voice a lower grumble than usual.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, fingers tightening around your glass of juice until the chill bit into your skin. "Not when it's hollow," you admitted, voice quieter than you intended. Aizawa didn't react immediately, but the tap of his fingers stilled entirely.

"Something’s going on?" he asked. He said it as an opening for you to talk to him, because he's here for you. He wants you to know it.

Despite how your boyfriend makes him feel.

Aizawa shifted slightly, his posture loosening as if to make himself less imposing - an unconscious gesture, one you’d seen before when he was trying to coax a scared kitten out from under a dumpster. The comparison almost made you laugh, but the weight in your chest kept it lodged in your throat. "You don’t have to tell me," he said, shrugging one shoulder. "But if you want to, I’ll listen."

Aizawa’s gaze never left your face, always patient. He made your chest ache.

You swirled the juice in your glass, watching the liquid cling to the sides before sloshing back down. A small procrastination.

"He’s not -" you started, then stopped, pressing your lips together. How do you explain something you haven’t fully admitted to yourself? "He’s not mean. Just… absent. Even when he’s there."

He paused, afraid to say something that might stray you away from him. But his opinions on this topic are far from sweet.

Aizawa exhaled through his nose like he was counting seconds in his head. His brow twitched before he finally spoke. "Absent is worse than mean," he said, voice rough. "Its not my place to say anything, but Y/n.."

He could see the way your face fell, the smile and shine of your eyes withering away slowly. "You deserve better," he said finally, the words leaving his mouth before he could swallow them down. It wasn’t what he’d meant to say, not really, but it was the truth, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise.

He wishes there was something he could do, anything better to say than what he just did. He's been here with you before, many times since you've been dating that fool. But he's powerless, all he can do is clench his fists and think of all the ways he could do better for you.

He's selfish. When it comes to you at least. He knows it, he craves you so badly. Your happiness is something he truly prioritizes. Your someome who actually deserves better than what your receiving.

Aizawa’s words lingered like a bruise you hadn’t realized you’d been nursing. You took a slow sip of your juice, the sweetness turning cloying on your tongue. "Better," you repeated softly, almost to yourself. "What does that even look like?"

He's well aware of your boyfriend's lingering eye. It hurts his soul.

Like someone who actually fucking looks at you, he wanted to say. Like someone who memorizes the way your nose scrunches when you laugh at bad jokes or smell garlic, or how your voice goes soft and slurry when you’re exhausted but refusing to admit it.

... Like someone who wouldn't appreciate every other woman except you.

He wanted to say more -- should say more -- but the weight of what he felt kept his tongue heavy. He doesn’t want to be the one to break your heart. But whethet he told you or not, you'd still be hurt.

Instead, he reached out, hesitating for a fraction of a second before his hand settled gently over yours, still curled around the cold glass. His touch was tender.

You didn’t pull away, and that simple fact sent a jolt through him - stupid, reckless hope flickering in his chest before he stamped it down.

His fingers curled slightly around yours, rough from years of handling his capture weapon but careful now, like he was holding something fragile. Of course it was you, your the fragile one now.

You dont want to be looked at this way. But from him, it didnt hurt. It almost felt nice to be seen

The warmth of Aizawa’s hand over yours was a quiet contradiction, firm but gentle. Hesitant but comforting.

"It would look opposite of what your receiving," he says.

You now felt awkward, this was unusual, especially from him.

Aizawa’s thumb brushed absently over your knuckles, a barely-there motion that sent warmth curling up your arm. You wondered if he realized he was doing it. And what message it gave you.

You suddenly felt stiff, reluctant to make eye contact with him. But he wasn't looking at you, just staring at your hand before he met your eye.

"Are you trying to say something? Aizawa I dont understand your point." You said, sheepishly leaning away, but keeping his hand on yours. You chuckled, not an actual laugh, but a pathetic attempt to hide your disappointment. Your feelings.

His gaze, usually so guarded, flickered with something unreadable, something that made your pulse stutter. It was so foreign.

Aizawa’s hand was stil over yours, but his fingers lifted before he withdrew, tucking his hand back into his pocket as if he’d been burned. You missed the contact immediately, the absence of his touch leaving your skin strangely cold.

"My point," he said, "is that you shouldn’t have to settle for someone who makes you feel like an afterthought."

The words stuck to you, heavy with implication, and for a moment, the kitchen felt too small, you didn't know what to say. How to be around him without revealing your vulnerability.

Tears started forming in your eyes. Your mouth downturning automatically, out of your control. Your heart felt so heavy, you couldnt hold it anymore.

The tear that slipped down your cheek was hot, betraying you before you could blink it back. Aizawa’s breath hitched just enough for you to notice, and then his hands were on your face.

Your eyes were stuck to the floor, you didnt even notice when he moved his chair to connect to yours.

His thumbs brushing the wetness away with a roughness that didn’t match the careful way he held you. "Don’t," he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice graveled with something desperate. "Don’t cry over him."

"You think that's why I'm crying?" you whispered, voice cracking as his thumbs stilled against your cheeks. Aizawa's fingers tensed against your skin, his dark eyes searching yours.

"Im crying because of me. Im well aware just how horrible he is, yet im so pathetic… I stay. I stay and wish for things to change. Im crying because this doesnt feel like me, I cant live like that." You rambled, hands flying in the air in circles as you tripped over your words. Each one turning further into a rasp as your tears reached your throat.

Aizawa’s hands didn’t leave your face. His thumbs pressed into the hollows beneath your eyes, swiping away the tears before they could fall. "You’re not pathetic," he said like the words were being dragged out of him. "You’re just… too damn patient with people who don’t deserve it."

The space between your forehead and his chest was barely there. Aizawa’s hands trembled against your skin before settling. You could feel his heartbeat through his shirt.

"Just trying to comfort you. Let's put you to sleep, I promise you'll feel better in the morning," he mumbled, hands dropping away from your face, down to your shoulders. That barrier back, whatever slipped through now distant. Whatever it even was.

"What is this?" You whisper, eyes boring into his shirt, your shoulders dropping and your fingers loosening.

"Mhm," you complied as he lifted your arms as to guide you to your bedroom. This intimacy between you was familiar, easy.

You let Aizawa guide you down the hallway, his hands firm on your shoulders but his steps purposely slow, matching your sluggish pace. The weight in your chest hadn’t lessened, but the warmth of his touch seeped through your dress, something you couldn’t help but lean into, even as your mind spun with unspoken questions.

The bedroom door creaked slightly as Aizawa nudged it open with his shoulder, his hands still steadying you as you stumbled over nothing in particular, just exhaustion and the weight of everything you pretended didnt exsit. All your problems you ignore.

Your bed was unmade, sheets tangled and makeup and dresses everywhere. And the dim glow of the streetlamp outside cast long shadows across the floor.

The mattress dipped as Aizawa guided you onto the edge of the bed. His hands lingered a second too long before retreating, like he was afraid to touch you now. What a joke.

He turned toward your closet, rummaging through the mess until he found an oversized sweatshirt you didn’t remember owning. "Change. Then sleep."

When you cleared your throat, he pivoted just enough to confirm you were decent before kneeling to yank the comforter free from where it was wedged under the mattress.

Aizawa turned his back while you peeled off your dress, the fabric sliding down your skin and pooling at your feet. You tugged the sweatshirt over your head soon after.

Aizawa tugged the blankets up to your chin with a precision that bordered on obsessive, tucking the edges around your shoulders like he was securing you against some invisible storm. His fingers lingered at your collarbone for half a second before he straightened, shoving his hands into his pockets as if they’d betrayed him. “You good?”

The sweatshirt smelled faintly of coffee and the cedar shampoo Aizawa used, super comforting in a way that made your throat tighten. You didn't realize how much of Aizawa you had. You dont even remember taking this from him. Or did he give it to you?

You curled into yourself, pressing your nose against the sleeve as he hovered at the edge of your bed. "I'm good," you lied, voice muffled against your pillow.

Aizawa exhaled through his nose, like he was counting the seconds before he could trust himself to speak. “You’re a terrible liar,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it.

"Go to sleep," he repeated, softer this time, as if he could will exhaustion to take you under.

Aizawa hesitated by the door, one hand braced against the frame like he was physically forcing himself to leave. Everything that still lingered in the way his fingers had lingered on your face, in the way your breath had caught when his thumb brushed your cheekbone.

"Goodnight Aizawa," you mumbled, eyes closing as you nudged your nose into your sleeve.

"Night, come find me tomorrow." He said, waiting for your hum.

"Mmmm" was all he heard. He watched you carefully as you stilled, chest starting to rise slowly. Hair falling all over your face and your mouth falling open.

Aizawa lingered in the doorway longer than he should have, watching the rise and fall of your shoulders beneath the borrowed sweatshirt. The scent of him clung to the fabric - subtle, but unmistakable. Something possessive twisted low in his gut at the sight of you wrapped in his things, in his space, he remembers giving you that sweatshirt.

A sweet moment he cherish more than this one, the sight of you right now. And whatever the fuck happened between you both tonight. He knew now what he really felt.

He wanted to be the one you went to. The one you spent all evening getting dressed up for. The one you wanted. He's fallen for you without meaning to.

The door clicked shut behind Aizawa very softly, as he's afraid to stir you. He walked back to his dorm with his hands stuffed in his pockets, his usual scowl unable to be found.

You lay there, curled around the scent of him embedded in the sweatshirt. You woke from your light aleep, eyes fixed on the ceiling where streetlight shadows stretched and warped. Sleep felt impossible once he left. Not when your skin still tingled where his thumbs had brushed away tears, not when his words rattled in your skull like loose change.

You shouldn’t have to settle.