#bkg

The director kept going. "We believe Apex is developing a drug capable of permanently removing a person's quirk."

The room went a different kind of silent—the kind where everyone is still catching up to what they just heard.

A quirk wasn't just a weapon. It was identity. Career. Family history. For some people, it was the reason they were alive at all. And someone had figured out how to take that away.

The screen changed again. A security feed. A person stood inside a testing chamber, hands trembling, a researcher watching from behind reinforced glass.

The person activated their quirk. A flame bloomed in their palm.

Then, a few seconds later —

It vanished. Not weakened. Not suppressed. Gone.

"Our concern is that this isn't simply research," the director said. "They're preparing for distribution."

Your stomach dropped. If a drug like this got out, heroes wouldn't be the only ones at risk. Anyone with a quirk could become a target.

Your phone stayed silent for the first time since you'd walked in. Even Kirishima had nothing to say.

"The only way to confirm the scope of their operation is to go in ourselves."

The screen changed one last time.

OPERATION HOLLOWPOINT

The director looked around the room. "You will not be entering as heroes." A beat. "You will be entering as scientists."

That was when your phone finally buzzed again.

"-The organization recently expanded their research department and is accepting new members from international teams. We have created identities for a group of American researchers who have been recommended for the position."

Three folders were pushed forward.

One toward you. One toward Bakugou. One toward Kirishima.

"You will infiltrate together."

This time, nobody texted.

Because that was exactly what you all wanted to hear.

Together.

You opened your folder first.

A new face—your face, but scrubbed of any hero history—stared back from a laminated ID badge. A name that wasn't yours sat under it in clean block letters. A short bio followed: a background in biochemistry, a fabricated research history at a university that technically existed but had never heard of you, two fake publications with real-sounding titles.

"Cover identity," the director said. "Dr. Elena Cross. Specializing in cellular regeneration."

Kirishima flipped his open next, grinning despite the weight still hanging in the room. "Dr. Marcus Reed," he read aloud. "Structural biophysics. Huh. Fancy."

"Try not to sound surprised you can read it," Bakugou muttered, not looking up from his own folder.

"Dr. Adrian Voss," the director continued, nodding at Bakugou. "Pharmacology. Aggressive research style, short temper, difficult to work with." A pause. "We didn't have to change much."

Kirishima snorted. Bakugou didn't dignify it with a response—which, from him, counted as a concession.

"You'll travel together, arrive together, and check into the facility on the same day as six other incoming researchers," the director said. "But once you're inside, you'll be assigned to overlapping departments. That was not easy to arrange, and it will not happen twice. Do not waste it."

The room went quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet now. Focused.

"Memorize your files tonight. Every publication, every colleague listed, every gap in your résumé. Apex vets their new hires carefully—background checks, technical interviews, possibly a probationary period before you're given real lab access." The director's eyes moved between the three of you. "If your story cracks, even slightly, you will not get a second chance to fix it. This organization has resources. If they think you're compromised, they won't call the police."

Your grip tightened on the folder.

"Any questions?"

Silence — but not the paralyzed kind from before. The kind where everyone was already three steps ahead, running through what came next.

"Good," the director said. "You leave at 9am."

///

You spent most of the day packing, pausing every so often to finish off the last of the milk in your fridge before it went bad. Between folding clothes into a duffel bag that definitely wasn't going to hold everything, you tried on outfit after outfit—because apparently even undercover operatives needed to agonize over what a fake scientist would wear on a plane.

That was when your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You snapped a mirror selfie—glasses, a green turtleneck, a lab coat, and dress pants—sending it off in the group chat. You looked yourself over one more time in the reflection. Not bad. Just a fancier, slightly nerdier version of you.

The response took like five minutes to come in.

You smiled, sinking back into the mattress. The ceiling blurred at the edges as your eyelids grew heavy. Somewhere on the nightstand, your phone lit up and buzzed once, then again — but the thought of reaching for it felt impossibly far away. Whatever it was could wait.

You let your eyes fall shut, and just like that, sleep pulled you under.

////

The knock on your door came exactly on time, which meant it was Bakugou. Kirishima would've texted first. Bakugou just showed up.

You pulled the door open, greeting already forming on your tongue before it caught somewhere in your throat.

Kirishima stood in front of you wearing the same familiar smile he always did, one hand already reaching for your duffel bag before you'd even had the chance to say hello, but everything else about him felt... different.

His hair.

Gone was the bright crimson that had become so synonymous with him over the years. In its place was a deep, inky black that framed his face in a way you'd never seen before, softer somehow, yet strangely more mature. It made his sharp features stand out in a completely different light, and for a split second your brain struggled to register that it was actually him.

He looked every bit the accomplished researcher he was supposed to be impersonating. A crisp white button-down was tucked neatly into charcoal slacks, the sleeves rolled just below his forearms as though he'd spent the morning buried in experiments instead of preparing for an undercover mission. A navy blazer rested comfortably over his shoulders, and a thin silver watch peeked from beneath his cuff. Even his usually rugged demeanor had been toned down, replaced by an approachable professionalism that somehow suited him embarrassingly well.

"You okay?" Kirishima asked with a chuckle, tilting his head. "You're staring."

"I..."

Heat rushed into your face before you could stop it.

"I just...almost didn't recognize you."

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Had to wash the dye out for the mission. Scientists don't usually walk around with bright red hair."

"...Right."

You hated how flustered that simple explanation made you. It was just hair. It was still Kirishima.

So why did he suddenly look so—

Your thoughts were cut short by an impatient sigh from behind him.

Bakugou stood a step behind Kirishima with his arms crossed, looking as though he'd been born to intimidate people in business attire. His fitted black dress shirt contrasted sharply against the light gray slacks pressed without a wrinkle, while a tailored charcoal blazer hung open across his broad shoulders. A slim black tie sat perfectly centered beneath his collar, though judging by the slight looseness around his neck, he'd clearly fought with it before giving up on making it perfect. Thin silver rectangular glasses rested on the bridge of his nose—not because he needed them, but because they completed the image of Dr. Adrian Voss. They somehow made his permanent scowl look even more severe.

His crimson eyes flicked toward your duffle bag, giving it a once-over like it had personally offended him.

"That's it?" he asked. "One bag?"

"I packed light."

"Good."

He was already turning to head back down the hallway.

"Nice to see you too," you called after him.

"I said good, didn't I?"

Kirishima laughed, hoisting your bag like it was nothing.

"Oh—you didn't have to do that," you said, reaching for the handle anyway. "I've got it."

"Too late, already got it." He was already walking backward toward the elevator. "Besides, gotta earn my keep somehow."

"You're not my luggage boy, Ejiro."

"Nah, but I could be. Very reliable. Great tipping policy, though—I accept compliments only."

"That's it?" You smiled.

"And maybe that smile. I'm easy to please."

Bakugou, already a few steps ahead, didn't turn around. "Get in the elevator and stop flirting," he grumbled.

"See, this is why I'm the friendly one," Kirishima said, throwing you a wink before jogging off after him.

The car ride started with Kirishima calling shotgun before you could get a word in, which left you in the back seat with your bag on your lap and a window to watch the city slide by. Bakugou drove the way he did everything—sure of himself, one hand loose on the wheel.

"You get any sleep?" he asked, eyes flicking to the mirror.

"Yeah, I slept early. Then I woke up around one and read the file over and over again."

"Tch." But his mouth twitched, almost a smile, gone before it could fully land.

Kirishima twisted around in his seat, arm braced on the headrest. "Are you nervous?"

"...A little."

"Don't be. We've got you," he said it easily, like it wasn't a big deal and like it was just a fact. "Both of us."

You caught Bakugou's eyes in the mirror—just for a second; he didn't say anything, but he didn't look away first either.

Somewhere past the second highway exit, without a word, he reached over and turned the AC vent so it pointed more toward the back seat, toward you, muttering something about the sun being in your face. You hadn't said anything about the sun.

"Thanks," you said quietly.

"Didn't do it for you." He kept his eyes on the road. Ears a little red.

"Sure you didn't," Kirishima said, grinning, and for once Bakugou didn't even bother telling him to shut up—just reached over and shoved his shoulder instead, hard enough to make Kirishima laugh again.

You smiled out the window, feeling steadier than you had all morning. Whatever nerves you'd walked out your front door with, they'd quieted somewhere between the duffel bag and the highway, tucked in beside the easy noise of the two of them—Kirishima's chatter and Bakugou's silences, both somehow saying the same thing underneath.

We've got you.

The airport signs came into view up ahead. Three fake names.

The airport was busy in that specific way mid-morning flights always are—rolling suitcases, boarding announcements, and the smell of coffee from three different kiosks competing with each other. Kirishima insisted on carrying your duffel bag all the way to the check-in counter, only handing it over when the airline attendant actually asked for it.

"Destination?" she asked, scanning your ticket.

"Kyushu," Bakugou said before you could answer, sliding his passport across the counter.

You already knew the broad strokes—a small island off the southern coast, remote enough that Apex's facility could operate without curious eyes, close enough to the mainland that supply routes made sense. The kind of place that looked, from a distance, like nothing at all.

Security took longer than expected, mostly because Kirishima's belt kept setting off the metal detector and he found this endlessly funny, and Bakugou did not.

"It's my belt buckle, I told you—"

"Take it off next time."

"I did take it off—"

"Then take off something else."

"That got freaky fast," you said, and Kirishima nearly choked laughing while Bakugou just looked mildly annoyed.

By the time you all made it to the gate, you had almost an hour to kill. Kirishima claimed three seats by shoving his backpack onto one before anyone else could take it and dropped into the right one himself, which put you on his other side and Bakugou next to you.

"So," Kirishima said, stretching his arms over his head. "Small island, huh. Bet there's good food."

"We're not there for the food," Bakugou said.

"I know that. Doesn't mean there won't be good food."

"You're unbelievable."

"I'm hungry, is what I am." He turned to you instead, giving up on Bakugou as an audience. "You ever been to Kyushu?"

"Once. When I was a kid. I don't remember much of it," you yawned out.

"We'll have to make new memories, then." He said it lightly, like it was nothing, but something about it settled warm in your chest anyway.

Bakugou, beside you, had his arms crossed and eyes fixed on the departure board, jaw tight.

"You good?" you asked him, quieter, not meant for Kirishima.

"Fine."

"You sure? You've got that face."

"What face."

"The one where you're thinking about something and refusing to talk about it."

That got the corner of his mouth to twitch, just barely. "It's nothing. Just going over the file again. Making sure we've got the cover stories straight."

"We've been over it four times."

"Then we'll go over it a fifth." But his shoulder had relaxed slightly against yours, just barely, the two of you sitting closer than the armrest technically allowed for. Neither of you moved.

Kirishima, watching this exchange with the subtlety of a man who had none. He opened his mouth—

"Don't," Bakugou said, without even looking at him.

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were about to."

"I was going to ask if anyone wanted a snack before boarding, actually, but sure, assume the worst."

"...Get me something salty."

"See, was that so hard?" Kirishima grinned, already standing, and looked at you. "You want anything?"

"Surprise me."

"Okay, I'll be back." He wandered off toward the nearest kiosk, weaving through the crowd, and for a moment it was just you and Bakugou, sitting shoulder to shoulder, the boarding announcements humming overhead.

"Four weeks," you said, mostly to fill the quiet. "Feels like it's not enough time to prepare."

"It's not." He said it plainly, no reassurance dressed up around it, which somehow made it easier to hear than if he'd lied. "But we've done harder with less."

"Comforting."

"Wasn't trying to comfort you. Just telling you the truth."

"That's very you."

"Would you rather I lied?"

"...No. I guess not."

He glanced at you then, just briefly, something unreadable behind it. "We'll be fine. All three of us. I don't plan on losing anybody on this mission."

It wasn't soft, not in the way Kirishima's words were soft, but it carried the same weight underneath. Steady and certain.

The boarding call for your flight rang out overhead. Kirishima jogged back just in time, arms full of snacks he definitely overbought, dropping into the seat beside you and handing over something in unmarked wrapping.

"What is this?"

"No idea. Guy said it was popular. Live a little, yeah?"

You unwrapped it as the gate agent began calling zones, Bakugou already standing, slinging his bag over one shoulder, and for a second, watching the two of them—one steady and quiet beside you, one loud and warm ahead of you—you thought that whatever waited on that island, at least you weren't walking into it alone.

"That's us," Kirishima said, nodding at the boarding zone on the screen. "Ready?"

You stood, snack still in hand, and fell into step between them.

The flight to Kyushu was just under two hours, which didn't sound like much until you were actually crammed into an economy row with two broad-shouldered heroes on either side of you, knees already fighting for space before the plane had even left the gate.

"This is not enough legroom," Kirishima said, shifting for the third time since sitting down.

"Then don't be so tall," Bakugou muttered, arms crossed, already looking like he resented the entire concept of air travel.

You settled in between them and tried not to think too hard about how little space there actually was—your shoulder brushing Kirishima's on one side, your knee bumping Bakugou's on the other every time the plane so much as shifted.

Takeoff went fine. Bakugou stared straight ahead the whole time, jaw tight, hands flat on his thighs, but that wasn't unusual for him—focused and controlled, the way he approached most things. You didn't think anything of it until you hit the first patch of turbulence twenty minutes in, a small dip that had your stomach lurching for half a second before evening out.

Bakugou's hand closed around the armrest between you hard enough that his knuckles went pale.

You glanced over. He wasn't looking at you—his jaw was even tighter now, his eyes fixed on the seatback in front of him like it had personally wronged him.

"You okay?" you asked, quiet enough that Kirishima, headphones already in, probably didn't catch it.

"Fine."

"You're gripping that armrest," you pointed out.

"It's turbulence. It's fine. Planes are designed for it." He said it like he was reciting it from memory, which, you realized with a small jolt of surprise, he probably was.

"Bakugou Katsuki. Are you scared of turbulence?"

"I am not scared of anything."

"That wasn't a no."

"Drop it."

You almost did. Almost. But there was something oddly endearing about it—the great explosion murder god dynamite, fearless Bakugou, gripping an armrest over a little shaking in the cabin—and you weren't quite ready to let it go yet.

"For the record," you said, softer now, "it's okay if you don't like it. Flying's weird. You're strapped into a metal tube thousands of feet up with no control over anything. That's a completely reasonable thing to be uneasy about."

He didn't answer right away. The plane dipped again, smaller this time, and his hand flexed against the armrest.

Without really thinking it through, you moved your hand over his.

He went still, eyes snapping to where your hand was.

You almost pulled back, worried you'd overstepped, some instinct kicking in that said too much! Too fast! You're supposed to be taking this slow! But then his hand turned under yours, fingers threading through yours.

Neither of you said anything about it as you brought the entangled hands into your lap. You weren't sure there was anything to say that wouldn't ruin the moment. Some things felt like they needed to stay unspoken to stay real, tucked quietly between the two of you where no one could poke at it and make it smaller than it was.

On your other side, Kirishima, apparently more perceptive than his headphones let on, glanced over, took in the sight of your joined hands, and grinned, but didn't say a word either. He just shifted slightly, his knee settling more firmly against yours, easy and warm, like he wanted in on whatever this was without needing to make it a whole thing.

You let yourself lean into it. Into both of them. The plane hummed steadily around you, the seatbelt sign blinking off somewhere over the water, and you found yourself thinking—not for the first time since the debriefing room—that this whole taking-it-slow agreement was becoming a very loose interpretation of the phrase.

You thought about the mission waiting on the other end of this flight. The facility. The drug. One day you'd spent memorizing a stranger's name until it felt almost like your own. You thought about how easy it would be to be terrified of all of it—and somehow, sitting here with Bakugou's hand wrapped around yours and Kirishima's knee pressed warm against your own, it felt further away than it should have.

Maybe that was the point of this. Not distraction, exactly. Just a reminder. That whatever waited on that island, you weren't walking into it as three separate people wearing three separate names. You were walking in as this. Whatever this was becoming.

Bakugou's thumb moved once, absent, against the back of your hand. You wondered if he even noticed he was doing it.

Somewhere past the hour mark, the cabin lights dimmed for the rest of the flight, and the adrenaline of the morning, the airport, and the customs line finally caught up to you all at once. Your eyelids grew heavy despite you.

You must have drifted, because the next thing you registered was your head tipped against Kirishima's shoulder, his arm having shifted at some point to make room for it, and Bakugou's hand still wrapped firmly around yours in your lap, unmoving, like he'd decided somewhere in the last hour that letting go wasn't an option he was willing to consider.

When you cracked your eyes open somewhere near the descent, you caught him watching you—not Kirishima, not the window, just you—with an expression too soft for a man who'd deny it existed if you called him on it. He looked good in glasses.

"Go back to sleep," he murmured, barely audible over the hum of the engines. "We'll wake you up."

You did just that.

///

The gentle jolt of the landing gear meeting the runway pulled you from the last traces of sleep. You blinked slowly, lifting your head from Kirishima's shoulder as the aircraft rolled down the tarmac. Beyond the window, Kyushu stretched beneath a sky washed bright with afternoon sunlight, the airport nestled between rolling green hills and a coastline that shimmered against the sea. It looked peaceful—almost painfully so. If someone had shown you a postcard of this place a week ago, you would've believed it was nothing more than another quiet island tucked away from the rest of Japan.

Now all you could see was the organization waiting somewhere beyond it.

Bakugou had already let go of your hand, though the warmth of it still lingered against your skin as he reached into the overhead compartment for his bag with the same practiced efficiency he brought to everything else. Beside you, Kirishima stretched with a quiet groan.

"I don't think airplanes were designed for people with legs."

"They weren't designed around you specifically," Bakugou replied dryly.

"I'm just saying."

You laughed quietly, following them into the aisle as the line of passengers began moving toward the exit. The cabin buzzed around you—families discussing vacation plans, business travelers checking their phones the second service returned, flight attendants thanking everyone for flying—but the three of you stayed mostly silent, conserving whatever calm you'd managed to build somewhere above the clouds.

By the time you stepped through the aircraft door, warm coastal air had already replaced the recycled chill of the cabin. The terminal bustled with travelers arriving from every direction, polished floors reflecting the afternoon light pouring through enormous windows overlooking the runway, announcements echoing overhead in both Japanese and English while luggage wheels rattled endlessly across the tile.

You'd barely taken a dozen steps before Bakugou slowed—not enough to draw attention, just enough that you and Kirishima instinctively matched his pace. He adjusted the simple silver frames resting on the bridge of his nose, eyes fixed ahead on the moving crowd.

"When we leave this airport," he said quietly, "Katsuki, Ejiro, and Y/N stay here." His voice wasn't harsh, just clinical. Controlled. Professional. He looked ahead. "I'm Adrian Voss."

Silence lingered only a heartbeat before Kirishima answered, his easy smile softening into something more reserved—not gone completely, just refined, the loud confidence he'd always carried naturally settling into the composed confidence of someone who spent his life presenting research instead of fighting villains.

"Marcus Reed."

You reached up, absentmindedly adjusting your own glasses. The plain black frames had become oddly familiar over the last twenty-four hours; you'd worn them nearly nonstop around your apartment, forcing yourself to stop feeling like you were wearing a costume.

"I'm Elena Cross." Your voice sounded strange saying it aloud.

Bakugou finally glanced toward the two of you. "If we're alone, use our real names." His gaze swept briefly across the crowd. A family passed by, children laughing as they hurried toward baggage claim, and only once they'd disappeared did he continue. "If anyone else can hear us—" He didn't need to finish. Those names no longer existed. Not for the next four weeks.

Immigration moved steadily despite the crowd. When your turn came, the officer accepted your passport with an easy smile, scanning the information before looking back up at you.

"Purpose of your visit, Dr. Cross?"

The title didn't surprise you anymore—you'd heard it enough times over the last day, forcing yourself to answer to a life that had never belonged to you.

"Business."

"What brings you to Kyushu?"

"I'll be joining Apex Biotechnologies' regenerative medicine division for a collaborative research project."

The answer came naturally. Not memorized. Remembered.

"Length of stay?"

"Four weeks."

The officer nodded, stamping your passport with a sharp thunk before sliding it back across the counter. "We hope you enjoy your stay."

"Thank you."

You stepped aside just as Bakugou approached the neighboring station, and watching him was almost unsettling. He didn't hesitate once—every answer came immediately, every detail matched perfectly. Even the way he stood had changed. His shoulders remained squared, but there was none of the quiet challenge he normally carried; instead, he looked exactly like someone accustomed to presenting pharmaceutical research in front of conference halls full of colleagues. Kirishima was equally convincing—friendly, approachable, and professional without sounding rehearsed. If someone had told you yesterday they'd only been given their identities twenty-four hours earlier, you never would've believed them. Neither would anyone else.

Outside the terminal, a sleek black shuttle waited beneath the covered entrance, a man in a charcoal suit standing beside it, tablet in hand, checking names as arriving passengers approached. His eyes lifted the moment the three of you stopped before him.

"Dr. Voss," Bakugou gave a polite nod. "Dr. Reed," Kirishima returned the gesture. "And Dr. Cross." He checked each name against his list before offering a courteous smile. "Good afternoon. Welcome to Kyushu. Transportation has been arranged for all incoming researchers. You'll be staying at the Seaside Meridian until orientation tomorrow morning."

Orientation. The word alone made your stomach tighten—not because you were worried, but because tomorrow was when pretending stopped feeling like pretending.

"Your accommodations have already been prepared," the man continued. "Each researcher has been assigned a private room for the duration of your stay. Breakfast begins at six, and transportation to Apex headquarters will depart promptly at seven-thirty every morning."

Four weeks of waking up as Elena Cross. Four weeks of answering to a name that wasn't yours. Four weeks without slipping.

The shuttle door folded open with a quiet hiss. Inside, nearly every seat was occupied—researchers from across the world chatting quietly amongst themselves, laptop bags resting beside polished shoes and neatly folded jackets, the conversations drifting through the cabin sounding exactly like what you'd expect from people gathering for an international research program.

"...protein stabilization..."

"...genetic sequencing..."

"...clinical data..."

"...cellular differentiation..."

You slid into an empty row with Bakugou beside the window while Kirishima claimed the seat directly across the aisle. No one spoke for several minutes as the shuttle eased away from the airport, the city slowly unfolding beyond the tinted windows.

Eventually, the woman seated a few rows ahead turned with an easy smile. "First time working with Apex?"

"It is," you answered politely. "I've followed several of their publications over the last few years. Their work on regenerative tissue recovery has been... impressive."

"It really has," she agreed enthusiastically. "I'm hoping they'll let us tour the cellular research wing."

"I'm more interested in seeing how well those regeneration models perform outside controlled laboratory conditions," Bakugou said evenly.

The woman blinked. "Actually," she admitted with a small laugh, "that's exactly what I was wondering."

Kirishima leaned forward slightly. "If their structural models hold under long-term observation, it could completely change how regenerative therapies are approached."

"Especially if the extracellular scaffolding remains stable," you added.

The conversation flowed effortlessly after that, one topic folding into another—published journals into conference discussions, conference discussions into debates over methodology. You found yourself referencing one of Elena Cross's fabricated research papers almost instinctively: Comparative Cellular Recovery Following Quirk-Induced Tissue Trauma. You could still remember sitting cross-legged on your apartment floor the night before, highlighting paragraph after paragraph until nearly sunrise, forcing yourself to memorize studies you had never written and colleagues you had never met. One day—that was all the agency had given the three of you to learn entirely new lives.

Listening to Bakugou calmly discuss pharmacological variables with another researcher while Kirishima debated structural protein resilience across the aisle, you almost forgot none of it was real.

Almost.

Because beneath every conversation, beneath every polite smile, beneath every carefully chosen word, the three of you were waiting for the same thing: the moment someone finally looked a little too closely.

///

The lobby of the Seaside smelled faintly of citrus and sea salt, with all soft lighting and marble floors polished to a mirror shine. At the front desk, the concierge greeted each of you in turn, her voice pleasant and practiced.

"Welcome, Dr. Cross." A small stack of keycards slid across the counter toward you. "Dr. Voss." Another set toward Bakugou. "Dr. Reed." The last toward Kirishima.

You glanced down at the keycard in your hand. DR. ELENA CROSS—ROOM 1427, printed in clean, official lettering, like it had always belonged to you.

The thought settled somewhere low in your chest as the three of you crossed the lobby toward the elevators, still moving with the same measured, professional ease you'd worn since the airport. It wasn't until the doors slid shut and the elevator began its climb that Kirishima finally let his shoulders drop, exhaling like he'd been holding his breath since Kyushu.

"I was waiting for one of us to get grilled," he admitted.

Bakugou snorted, leaning back against the mirrored wall. "That would've meant one of us wasn't prepared."

"You really memorized all three hundred pages?" you asked, glancing at him.

"Three hundred and twenty-seven," Bakugou corrected.

Kirishima groaned and dragged a hand down his face. "Don't remind me. I was reciting synthesis pathways in my sleep."

"Better than forgetting them in front of a room full of actual scientists."

"Speaking of ridiculous," Kirishima said, brightening again, "did you know I apparently won an award in Switzerland?"

"Congratulations," you said dryly.

"Thanks. Didn't know until yesterday." He shook his head, half-laughing. "Marcus Reed's had a better career than I have."

It was such a small, stupid joke, but it loosened something in your chest anyway—a reminder that underneath the glasses and the fabricated CVs, you were still exactly who you'd always been. The elevator chimed at the fourteenth floor, and the three of you spilled out into a hallway just as quiet and expensive-looking as the lobby below.

Your room was, frankly, absurd.

The door clicked open onto a suite that could have belonged in a travel magazine—floor-to-ceiling windows framing a view of the coastline, the ocean catching the last gold light of the afternoon. A king bed sat piled with pillows against the far wall. A welcome basket rested on the table, wrapped in cellophane and ribbon, beside a vase of fresh flowers that definitely hadn't been there an hour ago. An espresso machine gleamed on the counter, the kind you'd only ever seen in specialty cafes, and beside it sat a handwritten note on heavy cardstock.

Welcome to the Apex family, Dr. Cross. We're thrilled to have you join us. — The Apex Research Team

Everything about it screamed money, comfort, hospitality—like Apex wanted its researchers to never want to leave. You set your bag down slowly, running a thumb over the edge of the note, and found yourself wondering what exactly a pharmaceutical company got out of treating strangers like honored guests before they'd done a single day of work.

You didn't have long to sit with the thought. Your phone, the one the agency gave you, buzzed on the nightstand.

You huffed a quiet laugh and typed back a quick yes, then went to find your shoes.

Downstairs, the three of you met again—not as heroes, not even quite as yourselves, but as three coworkers walking into a restaurant together for the first time. The hotel's dining room had been half-taken over by Apex's incoming researchers, tables pushed together, glasses of wine and sparkling water clinking as introductions passed back and forth.

You ended up seated across from a woman named Priya, who talked animatedly with her hands and introduced herself as a structural biologist before she'd even sat down properly; she'd go on, you suspected, to become the person you spent the most time with in the lab. Beside her sat a chemist who barely made eye contact and answered most questions in single words, and across the table, a younger researcher with an easy smirk clearly enjoyed being the smartest person in most rooms, correcting people's terminology before they'd finished their sentences. Further down, someone sat quietly, listening more than talking, laughing at the right moments but volunteering nothing about themselves. You didn't know yet which of them mattered. Neither would anyone reading your story, if there'd been anyone to tell it to.

Somewhere between the appetizers and the second bottle of wine, the conversation drifted toward logistics—badges, schedules, lab assignments—and Priya waved a hand dismissively.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to the security checks."

You blinked. "...Security checks?"

She paused, glancing between you and the others. "Oh." A beat. "They didn't tell you?"

"No."

"...Never mind." She smiled again, too quickly, and reached for her glass, already steering the conversation somewhere else entirely.

It happened again not ten minutes later, when the quiet researcher at the end of the table mentioned, almost in passing, "Try not to wander after curfew."

"...Curfew?" Kirishima echoed, brows lifting.

Nobody answered that one either. The subject simply changed, smooth as water finding a new path around a rock, like the words had never been said at all.

You might have let both comments slide—chalked them up to corporate paranoia, NDAs, the usual bureaucratic nonsense that came with pharmaceutical work—if you hadn't glanced at Bakugou and caught the look on his face. He wasn't laughing along with the table anymore. His eyes had gone sharp, flicking briefly toward the corner of the ceiling, then toward the entrance, then back to his plate like he'd never looked away at all.

You leaned toward him under the noise of the table. "What is it?"

He didn't answer right away. Later, once dinner had wound down and the group began peeling off toward the elevators in twos and threes, he finally murmured it against your ear, low enough that only you could hear.

"Cameras in every corner of this room. Guards posted by both exits, badges even at dinner, like they can't stand to take them off. And that black SUV outside hasn't moved since we got here." His eyes cut toward the window, toward the dark shape parked just beyond the glass. "They're watching before we've even set foot in the facility."

You glanced around at the laughing researchers, the wine glasses, and the warm lighting—and it suddenly all looked a little different. "...You think so?"

"I know so," he mumbled under his breath.

The elevator ride back up felt quieter than the one before dinner, the three of you standing shoulder to shoulder as the numbers climbed, none of you quite ready to say out loud what that meant. When the doors opened on the fourteenth floor, Kirishima was the first to break the silence, offering a tired but genuine smile.

"See you two tomorrow."

You murmured a goodnight and turned down the hallway, Bakugou falling into step beside you since his room sat only a few doors from yours. Neither of you said anything until Kirishima's door had clicked shut behind him.

At your door, Bakugou stopped.

"Get some sleep," he said, quiet in a way that had nothing clinical left in it.

"You too," you said, smiling despite everything.

He started to turn, then paused.

"...Elena."

You looked back at him.

He smirked, just barely, whispering loud enough for you to hear. "Don't answer if somebody calls you Y/N."

Then he was gone, walking down the hall without waiting for a response, and you stood there a second longer before laughing quietly to yourself and shaking your head. You slid the keycard into the lock. The door clicked open, and you stepped into the dark room beyond it.

The television turned on by itself the moment the door shut behind you.

Not sudden enough to be frightening—just programmed, timed, deliberate. A smiling woman appeared on the screen, her voice warm and rehearsed.

"Welcome to Apex Biotechnologies, Dr. Cross."

The lights brightened automatically around you, the room glowing to life as though it had been waiting for you to arrive.

"Tomorrow, you'll help shape the future."

You stood very still in the middle of the room, glasses catching the light of the screen, and thought—not for the first time that day—that you weren't entirely sure whose future they meant.

Another chapter out and ready! This was originally the way I wanted the fic to go but I never seemed to find the right time to do this mission. I'm so happy that now that the confession is out the way, I can start developing everything into a nice red bow!

Made this chapter shorter since the last one was so long, I'm writing another DRABBLE! but I'll post that later!

Thank you for reading Blind spot! It means the world to me! 🫆🥹

TAGLIST: @themultifandomgirl @geektastic84 @little-miss-existencialcrisis @kirishimaeijiromyman @luvmxo @corvid007 @disappointment-of-the-fam @multiversejo @mangionesgirl @thedevilsincarnate @dreampurpledreams @neutralizeeverymaninsight @anabanana-26 @gaylittleboi69 @inkycapps @dazingcas @puppyminnnie @katthekat1234 @olliesnewhome @sleepisfortheweakpooh @nasyagetoffyourphone @yoloforlifeee @anabanana-26 @general-fandom-fanatic @fennecspage @ipukegiltters

@funsized-lyz @1ts-v1xx @lialovesyouso @vanillaboop

Ever since you can remember, Katsuki Bakugou has been with you. Playing in the sand? Katsuki is there too. Going to school? Katsuki is going as well. Reading in your room? Katsuki somehow ends up there too, reading. There is nothing that will stop him from seeing you, talking to you, following you.

Katsuki is the grumpy type, one with an enormous ego, pride, and an aggressive temper. Although he has every attribute that could make even the most patient person on earth scream at him, he doesn't seem to use any of those on you. He loves teasing you and fighting you, but he knows which line not to cross, at least that's what you have been seeing in his actions.

You know he's a stubborn person, but you would never have taken him for someone who would casually flirt with a girl and never stop demanding she date him. Katsuki is really an unexpected one, isn't he...

Ever since the first day of UA, he has been constantly trying to (but failing to) flirt with you, asking you out as well in a grumpy yet soft manner.

Unlike always, you are stuck with his constant angry blabbering and grunting about why he's the best for you and why you should be talking and flirting with him instead of that "ugly, egoistic, crazy" Monoma. You sigh while rubbing your temples, sitting on the couch in your dorm room. You called him because you weren't feeling well and now he's becoming the reason you're not feeling well.

"I don't even get why you would let yourself be stupidly washed away by that self-in-love psycho copy bastard! There are obviously way better people than that jerk!" He paces in front of the couch angrily, not even noticing your headache or your efforts to calm him down.

"Katsuki, just calm down for a minute, will you...?" You softly ask to not rile him up more but he is just too obsessed and focused on changing your mind on Monoma, your current flirt. You started flirting and texting with Monoma after the sports festival and he doesn't seem to be a bad guy, besides his obsession over himself and how he looks down on people.

"Do not try to shut me up! I know I'm right! I'm always right whenever it's about that bastard and you never even care to listen to me while I'm the only rational one!" Katsuki angrily points at himself to show he's the "only rational" one. What a joke...

"Katsuki—" you sigh and stand up to shut him up but in a softer tone however he ends up interrupting you again.

"I'm here! He's not so why are you even still doting over him when I, the almighty Explosion Murder God Dynamight, am standing right in front of you!? Tell me for once!"

And this time, you can't hold back. You do what you never do and snap at him.

"Because we're friends!" Katsuki freezes. His eyes widen in pure shock at your words.

"Friends...?" Even you have never heard him sound this soft and weak rather than the rough voice he was letting out just moments ago.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell." Your voice immediately falters when you notice your mistake. Katsuki told you he likes you during the first months of UA and you never stopped him, continued giving him hope just like that. And now, you are hurting him.

"You don't get to apologize after that, dammit." Katsuki spits like he is angry but it shows on his face. He is upset more than he can be angry at you.

You walk over to him and place your hand on his stiff shoulder. When he doesn't look at your face, your hand finds his jaw to softly turn his face towards you. His strangely soft eyes meet yours. "You knew I liked you." Katsuki changes the topic once he sees your eyes and your soft expression that can melt him right away. "Yet you never stopped me. Every time I told you to be with me, you just rolled your damn eyes and continued acting like nothing was wrong when everything was so fucking wrong."

"You are important to me. I didn't want to ruin it by saying the wrong things." Your fingers caress his jaw before pulling back softly, leaving him without your touch.

"Like what you just said didn't ruin anything..." He says gruffly as he watches your hand move away from his jaw. And then, suddenly, his hand flies towards yours and catches your wrist. "I don't want your stupid friendship, not anymore. So either give me my damn relationship or fuck off." Katsuki's voice may come out as rough but his hand is soft against your wrist, almost shivering.

"Your hand is trembling and getting sweaty." You point out because actually, you don't know how to answer those words.

"AM NOT!" He snaps again but doesn't pull away his hand yet he tries his best to still it. You sigh and shake your head at his stupid effort, his pupils dilated to their full extent just by watching you and he probably doesn't even notice it. Poor blondie.

After seeing him swallow in surrender, you step forward and take him into your arms. "Give me time..." Your whisper makes him slightly shiver before relaxing against your body. But from how he relaxes into your touch, it's obvious that he eventually calmed down.

"I gave you enough time, you end up telling me we're just friends. We both know we aren't just friends..." Katsuki's voice lowers into a much softer and gentler tone, one no one would hear if they weren't you. Because you are you, you are special and his significant other he can't and will never let go of, no matter what.

There's a moment of silence, just hugging before you break it with your words again. "You really like me?"

"You know I do... you can't keep acting dumb on purpose to avoid me. I'm not dumb." He closes his eyes while resting his head in the crook of your neck while his arms are around your lower waist.

"I want to hear it from your mouth. Not something like 'you know I have feelings for you' or something like what you just said." You shrug your shoulders while still holding him, giving him a safe zone.

Katsuki lets out a groan. "Fine," he sighs, "I like you." He pulls away to just slightly see your reaction. The pout on his face is so unlike him that you want to chuckle but can't. "So don't tell me we are friends." He leans in to plant a soft kiss on your lips that automatically ends the conversation. Your eyes widen when you finally come to your senses about the kiss. Even he is surprised with what he just did like he wasn't waiting for himself to do such things to you in this moment. And his lips find that smirk again.

“kat," she said after. she looked at him with something only a few degrees removed from pity, and poorly removed at that.

he attempted a halting non-apology. he attempted a real apology. failed at both.

"it's okay, you know," she said. "to not like it."

he scoffed even though he wasn’t entirely clear on what she meant by it, because there was so much he didn’t like. “i like it just fine.”

“if that was liking it, I’m honestly worried about your capacity for enjoying life in general.” it wasn’t a joke. her bluntness was something that'd made katsuki think he could push his boundaries with her. all of her thoughts were laid out plain for him to read, an open-source journal. “i'm just saying you don't have to like it. and you don’t have to force yourself to do things you don’t want to do. don't fuck yourself over for someone else's happiness.”

kyoka still texts him often, checks in, invites him to drinks with their friends. she’s kind. she’s normal. she doesn’t have this weird, shredded thing inside her that makes her balk at the idea of someone’s hand on her skin. that makes her think she's doing something wrong, even if she's not the one that initiated the touch.

when you started your job at the front desk of katsuki’s agency, he never thought that he'd be here, wishing above everything that he could just be normal. just for one fucking day, so he could laugh at your shitty jokes and maybe brush his knuckles across the back of your hand in passing and take you on a date where he could kiss you in his car after driving you home and the thought wouldn’t make his skin crawl, wouldn't tear up his insides to pulp.

because he fucked everything up. he's standing in his empty office where you'd been spending time with him and he fucked it up and hurt you and he's not sure how to unfuck it.

the thing is, he could grin and bear it. he could deal with the odd thing inside him that hates the contact and white-knuckle it through every kiss, every caress. but he’s never been a great actor. he wouldn’t be able to hide that from you.

(kyoka told him, years later, that it’s not that the sex itself wasn’t fine—what made it nearly unbearable for her was the fact that she could tell, only after it was too late, that being physically vulnerable with her pained him far more than he was willing to reveal.)

no one wants to feel like the person they’re with is grinning and bearing it. that they’re white-knuckling it through. katsuki knows this. he knows he’s basically a fucking virgin all but in title at thirty and that he’s got the personality of a dried-out fig you find in your fridge weeks after its last edible moments. he doesn't have much to offer.

but he walked into work one day and nodded at you, curt, a grimace on his face—and you smiled at him so kindly that his stomach twisted.

with you, it wasn't the feeling of something being torn apart. it was different, lighter. leaves wrenched into the sky by a strong breeze. still a kind of tearing, but different—less destructive.

he was wearing a deep carmine sweater his mom sent him in one of her bi-monthly care packages (as if he’s not an adult, and a pro-hero on top of that), and you said, “that’s such a nice color on you. is it new?”

there was that breeze inside his chest, strong, pulling at his bones. “yeah,” he grunted. then slowly, as if remembering how: “thanks.”

it was the attention, he thought at first, that piqued his interest. he wasn't used to it. people always watched him from afar, and he had fans online that were borderline obsessive, but people didn’t approach him. they didn’t say that’s such a nice color on you. they didn’t smile the way you smile.

he’s always had a shallow streak. it’s not like he doesn’t know this. it’s become a little muted over time, a little discouraged by the visible scarring on his face and body from his time in the field, but it’s never fully been eradicated. so it was simple, he thought. you paid him attention and stroked his ego, and he preened like a self-obsessed bird of paradise.

and then you started making these little origami whale sharks.

fucking stupid. it bothered him an annoying amount. you had a bunch at your desk, all different colors and sizes, some taped to your desktop monitor, some hung up with little pieces of string under the desk's storage overhang. you drew dots on the back of each one, a distinct spotted pattern that was unique for each shark. and you made them for everyone but him. eijirou bought you a pack of high quality origami paper and you made him his own fucking school, all with little faces, winking or surprised or angry, their wide paper mouths gaping and empty, the lines of their bodies pressed careful and sure.

he hated it. it was annoying and a waste of company time and he usually didn’t ever use dumb corporate slogans like “a waste of company time” but you were really pushing his fucking limits.

it was definitely just the attention he liked, he told himself, because surely someone doing something as dumb as this would annoy him to no fucking end if he spoke to them.

and then he spoke to you and he was wrong.

he asked why you made the damn things in the first place and you told him, “i like whale sharks. but to be totally honest, i just run out of things to do."

and he saw that as a challenge. you were running out of things to do? rest assured he could find more shit for you to take care of. so he did. tasks that he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, they were so dull and time-consuming. and you were so achingly competent that it drove him up a fucking wall. you completed everything he asked of you in half the time it would take someone else, and you always reported back with a smile, and you always did good work, and he could see himself having a conversation with you about something other than work but he didn't want to try because he was worried he'd begin to like you as a person.

you're pretty. really fucking pretty. he can see that now, and he sure as fuck saw it then. you're hardworking. you're just likeable, and that's something katsuki had never been. it (reluctantly) impressed him. worse than that, it turned his feelings for you into a sort of interest.

but he knows he's not normal when it comes to things like this.

he tried to distance himself from you because of it, but it turns out that asking someone to do work for you means you do have to speak to them sometimes. and sometimes turned into a lot of times.

sometimes turned into bringing him coffee in the morning, not because he asked you to, but because you're sweet like that. sometimes turned into being the person he bounced ideas off of when he had a board meeting coming up or something otherwise boring and meticulous. sometimes turned into you laughing at his prickly comments rather than going quiet because of them. turned into you saying suck it up, dynamight, this is what it means to be the boss when he complained about doing paperwork.

sometimes turned into staying late with him at the office, getting take out for the two of you to share while you finished filing claims and damage reports and other stuff he hated taking care of by himself. sometimes turned into him asking you to stay late just because he wanted you there. because even when he was quiet, you'd tell him about your day, about things that happened in the office, about how much you like the book you'd both been reading. he loved listening to you talk. felt comfortable enough to tell you things about himself when he'd never felt comfortable doing that before.

sometimes turned into you holding out a piece of fried tofu from your take-out container for him to eat while he was approving time-off forms that he should have looked at much earlier that week, and you being so close that he could notice how good you smelled, and the warmth of your body basically radiated towards him, like all your energy was focused on him, and your smile was small but somehow even more lovely than usual, a secret for him to tuck away and keep, and when you finished feeding him and he had a little sauce on the corner of his mouth and you reached forward to wipe it off for him and your hand lingered there for a moment and your eyes fell to his lips and what if you try to kiss me and i'm wrong and you hate me for it and what if i can't give you what you want and what if i'm not actually what you want what if i've disappointed you already what if—

it was too much.

so he fucked it up. your thumb was so soft against his skin. he reeled backwards in his chair, rolling it whole feet clear of you, and he felt the tearing again, the bad kind, like paper unevenly shredded by clumsy hands, and he had to leave. he had to leave. he needed to leave so badly that it felt like pulling his skin off would be preferable to being in that office with you.

hiding in the bathroom was fucking pitiful. he remembered his breathing exercises. he remembered to ground himself. and when he came back to his office, you were gone.

if he was normal—and he wants to be normal, god fucking damn—he could have stomached your proximity. he could have eaten out of your fucking hand. he could have touched you back like a normal person probably would have and he wouldn't be here, alone, looking at a little purple sticky note you left him that says i finished organizing the pto forms. i hope you feel better!

he doesn't know whose pride you're trying to save with that. as if you didn't leave because he made things so fucking awkward by running away from you when you touched him. when you—maybe, if he was reading the room correctly—were about to kiss him.

and you don't speak to him for days. he doesn't want to push so he doesn't—just watches you out of the corner of his eye whenever you're both in the same room, which is arguably worse. he's not sure. he's just itching to fucking talk to you because he misses it.

he misses you. in a more-than-friends way.

it takes a while for him to realize this. when he does, it hits him like a metal rod up the side of the head. it's fucked up of him to miss you the way he does when he doesn't feel like he can provide you with the things a normal person could. and though he's worked on his patience over the years—worked on understanding that he can't have everything he wants—it doesn't stop him from being selfish and finally pulling you aside to talk.

and baffling as fucking ever, the first thing you say is sorry. "i know i should've talked to you about it earlier. i just—i shouldn't have done that. and i know it. i shouldn't have assumed that—i don't know. that you..."

you look helpless. it's one of the very few times that katsuki has ever felt the compulsion to touch someone. not because he wants the touch, per se, but because he wants to be able to provide comfort. he never figured out how to do that with words. he's so focused on his inability to comfort you that he barely has any idea of what you're actually talking about. instead of doing anything at all, he just stands there like a fuckwad.

"i just want you to know that i would never—like never—have touched you, or tried to... if i didn't think there was like, a vibe?" you shake your head, exasperated with yourself. "god, even that sounds so bad. i'm sorry, i just—"

"wait, what are—?" and then it clicks, because he's been slow on the uptake figuring out his shit when he should have been focusing way more on yours. "there was..." katsuki says, and he fucking hates that he can't find better words for what you were both feeling in his office, "a vibe."

the way your face changes when you're flustered is one of katsuki's favorite things, but it's not as enjoyable when he feels just as flustered as you look. "i—oh? so... so you—?"

his ears feel like they're being attacked by two heated straightening irons and he knows they're red as hell right now. he's gonna have to say this plainly even though he'd rather get his teeth pulled out one by one with a pair of pliers. "it's not you."

your expression loses any sort of hope it once held. you press your lips together and sigh, maybe a little exasperated. he's doing his best here but he knows his best is shit. "i can handle a non-cliché rejection," you tell him. "honestly, i'd prefer a non-cliché rejection—"

"i'm not trying to reject you," he says, and it's selfish of him. because he's really not. he isn't comfortable with the things you'd want from him, but he still wants you in some capacity. "i just don't—do shit like that."

"kissing?"

somehow knowing for sure that you did want to kiss him in his office makes him want you more. he likes that you're bold. he likes that you're not ashamed of that. he wants to be different than he is. "any... of it," he struggles to admit.

"at all?"

he nods.

"just—like touching, and stuff?"

it sounds so juvenile that he can't help but laugh through his nose, roll his eyes. "yeah. touching and stuff."

"oh."

you're disappointed. of course you are. it's not like he expected anything different, but—sometimes he fucking hates his life. hates that he can't be the thing people need him to be. hates that trying is so difficult, that it flings his stomach into space, like a throwing stone skipping across a still lake.

"so you don't go on dates, or anything."

"haven't tried."

"do you not want to?" you ask, and he can tell it's more of a genuine question than anything. you're curious about him, like you always are. it's more than he deserves, for all he can offer.

"doesn't make sense to."

"that's not what i asked."

it's not. and so katsuki listens as you ask your question again, and he really takes a moment to think.

considering the answer to your question leads him to his first date with you. and his second, and his third—his fourth, and he's keenly aware that his last fourth date ended with what he expects all dates are supposed to end with.

he takes you to the aquarium. because of all the fucking origami whale sharks. you still haven't given him one and it sticks in his craw like a bone. in front of the backlit tank that holds sharks of all types, shapes and sizes and teeth he's never pictured possible of a living creature before, he asks, "why sharks?"

you look at him, brow raised. "i don't know. they probably needed the biggest tank in the aquarium. and this looks like the biggest tank."

"no, dumbass—your sharks. the ones all over the fuckin' office."

"what, you don't like them?" you ask, but you're smiling, sly.

he shrugs. he thinks they're dumb as hell. he wants one to hang up at work, like the ones you've got hung up at your desk. "they're whatever. they clutter the fuck out of ei's office. and he's already got issues organizing." you've just made eijirou so many at his point, and it's getting ridiculous. "but what—are they easy to make, or something?"

you laugh a little. "no. not at all, actually." a whale shark swims by, its spotted hide shimmering in the tank's eerie blue lighting, and you watch it intently. "but it'd be boring if it was too easy."

this date ends with him walking you home from the aquarium a few blocks from your apartment and you smiling at him and telling him that you had a really great time, and he feels like a fucking freak because you don't even expect more. you don't wait for a kiss. don't look disappointed that he doesn't try to give you one. the way you look at him holds so much affection that he doesn't deserve and he has no idea how to reciprocate it to you, and somehow he lands on, "make me one."

"one what?" you ask, but he thinks you already know what he's asking. you like to play coy. he likes it when you play coy. when you're enjoying yourself.

"one of your little fuckin' paper things," he mutters, because admitting that he wants one of those dumbass sharks feels somehow demeaning. he doesn't want you to know how much he's wanted one. "ei's got a million of 'em."

your hand was on your door handle, but it falls to your side. he's keenly aware of its proximity to him. he doesn't feel that terrible ripping in his gut and its absence is almost frightening to him. your fingers tighten into a fist. it's cold out. "ah, and you're jealous?"

"no," he says, knee-jerk. "i just don't get why everyone gets one but me."

you smile when he says this and he could live in this image of you, delicate and small and made for him. he goes home and thinks about it until he falls asleep. thinks about it even beyond then, feels that strong breeze inside him tearing every leaf from its grounded perch.

here's the thing—nothing against jirou, but unlike his other fourth date, this one was enjoyable. more than. he loved watching you be amazed by the size of the whale sharks, and he loved watching you put a bunch of coins into the penny press and cranking the machine until one was squeezed out into the pattern you wanted, and he loved watching you lay your hand against the glass where the rubbery wings of a flood of stingrays battled for your attention, and—

he loved watching you. that's weird, right? he sounds like a fucking lunatic thinking that.

but he does. he hadn't realized until now how difficult it had been not only to touch people, but to look at them. maintaining eye contact, watching someone do a simple task out of interest instead of staring them down in an attempt to intimidate them. he's so much more fucked up than he thought but what makes it bearable is that he can do it with you. he can watch the way you enjoy things and feel like he's not intruding on something he shouldn't. without even trying, you make him feel welcome—wanted.

that's it. you make him feel wanted.

the realization affects him in a way he doesn't understand. at work the next day, when you smile at him over the top of the front desk, he feels something incredibly strong—something like instinct—that tells him to touch you. small. a thumb brushed across your cheek. his fingers grazing yours. he wants it in a way that can't be right because he's never wanted to touch someone like this.

he doesn't do it, but he thinks about it all day. your little smiles when you notice him watching you on your dates, the way your fingers graze your lips when you cover your laugh, the softness in the way you regard him. you're quiet, reserved, but when you laugh you laugh hard. he wants your soft, your quiet and your loud, he wants the feeling of your fingers on his lips, he wants your smallest smiles, all things he wishes he could fold up and keep and later display somewhere he can always see them. a school of paper fish, gaping mouths and drawn-on spots and such carefully pressed lines.

so on the eleventh date—(he knows it's ridiculous to count, but he's never spent this much time with one person before, not like this)—he reaches for your hand when you're walking alongside the bay, the air turning cold in the wake of the sunset that the two of you had just witnessed. that's romantic, you'd teased when he asked you to watch it with him. he'd rolled his eyes, shrugged you off.

but maybe he wanted it to be romantic. maybe he wanted to make this as normal as possible for you because nothing has been normal between the two of you so far.

you pull back when he reaches for you, as if on instinct. look up at him, confused, when he reaches out again. "katsuki..." you say, and it sounds as if he's done something wrong.

he tries not to let his brain spiral but thoughts drip inwards. water meeting a dented hull. what has he done this time? what else has he fucked up by being fundamentally wrong?

"you know..." you start, and you lose your words.

he thinks of kyoka, years ago. it's okay, you know. to not like it. he wonders if you'll still text him like she does.

your lips pull into a frown before you speak and katsuki can't breathe. "i was never gonna ask on my own because i know you don't like talking about things like this if you don't bring it up. but—um. katsuki—do you think i expect something from you?"

"huh?" he asks, dumb. breathing is still something he fails to do.

"i know that this is—different. i know you have some things going on that make the physical part hard for you." you look up at him so earnestly, and he loves looking at you. he loves looking at you and doesn't want to have to stop and he's worried that this is it. the moment he'll have to stop. you try to smile and it's small and he wants it all for himself. careful. delicate. secret, for him. "i'm not gonna lie to you. i don't know what a relationship without that kind of stuff looks like. but that doesn't mean i'm not willing to find out. it's—i don't need you to try to do something you think i want you to do."

"i'm not."

"it makes me feel a little sick, kat. honestly. it makes me feel like, i don't know—like i'm taking advantage of you, or something—"

"you're not."

"you don't have to do things like that to keep me around." you look flustered, eyes darting from his face to the skyline. "if you want me, i'm—you know."

it's okay, you know. "i don't know."

"i'm yours," you say, and cringe immediately at your words. "or like—i could be, you know, kind of whatever you wanted, if you—if that's what you want. would want."

katsuki can only remember a few times when his head was this quiet in the presence of someone else. when he trusted someone enough to let his mind go blank, to let himself act on instinct. "can i kiss you?"

you sigh. "this is what i was saying. i don't want you to—"

"no," he says, quiet, and he's closer to you than he's ever been. he likes the way you smell. he's not gonna apologize if that's weird. "i just want—god, i feel pathetic asking again. can i just—?"

just, just, just. just a touch, just a kiss, just a moment of your fucking time—it's all he wants. and he's never wanted like this. he's never trusted like this. his head has never quieted entirely because he's so sure that he's not going to disappoint you, or be something you don't actually want, or be wrong.

you've shown him that he can't be wrong with you, regardless of whether or not something within him is broken.

your lips are warm, a little chapped from the dry air, and he tries to remember what kissing chastely is but it's like something breaks in him further the second the two of you touch. his hands are cradling your face, his tongue is gliding against your tongue, his teeth are clacking against your teeth, and he knows the kiss is bad and wrong and messy but he suddenly needs it. he needs to feel you.

you make a noise against him and worry slices into his stomach before he realizes it's a quiet, breathy moan, and maybe you've been okay without the touch but that doesn't mean you don't enjoy it when you receive it. he can tell he hasn't made his boundaries clear enough—your hands circle his wrists, too cautious to go further, too hesitant to grip him like he thinks you want to. like he wants you to want to.

his teeth hit yours again and you laugh, and he pulls back, stomach tight. there's a hope in him that's ready to be torn.

you see it in his face—the fear. "i love kissing you," you blurt out, as if it's the only reassurance you can think of in the moment. "i mean—you're just." you laugh again, and he realizes it's nerves. you're just as nervous as he is. "can i—can we go somewhere warm? and maybe do this more? or—if this was enough—"

he's pulling you towards his apartment before you can get another word out.

kissing you is easy because you make him feel like it's relatively new for you as well. maybe that's how it feels for everyone every time, but he wouldn't know. he just feels comfortable with you. like you're not so much better than him, like you're not waiting to laugh at him when he fucks up, like you're touching him because you really want to.

so he takes you to his apartment and puts you on his couch and kisses you until your back is against the armrest and he's looming over you and you feel comfortable enough that your hands stray from his wrists to his shoulders to his hair and he didn't even know touching someone could feel like this.

put aside the fact that he's nearly finished in his fucking jeans three times just from your fingers running across his back, from the way you cup his cheek when he pulls back for air because he keeps forgetting to breathe—just having you close is intoxicating. he wants to bury his face in the curve of your shoulder, he wants to bite marks into your skin that'll stay vibrant for weeks, he wants to etch himself into you so deeply that he doesn't have to leave. these wants aren't even sexual—it's something about having you be his. i'm yours, you'd told him, and he hadn't even known that it would be exactly what he needed to hear.

he's in love with you, which isn't shocking to him, but he knows he shouldn't be in love with you yet because people that aren't fucked up in the head don't feel shit like this so quickly. he's not gonna tell you this for a very long time, but he knows—so completely and confidently—that he will reach a point when he can tell you.

"you sure you want this?" he asks, breathy, between kisses.

you stop kissing him, brows raised in surprise. "katsuki, we don't... this is a lot for one night. we can take it slow, still."

"that's—i'm not talking about that." he gives in, then—lets himself bury his face in the crook of your neck, lets himself breathe in deep, lets himself find your hands and intertwine your fingers, and you can probably feel that he's hard as fucking metal for you but that's not what's important right now. it sure as hell makes it awkward to try to have a serious conversation, though. "you sure you wanna deal with all... you know. my stuff."

"are you sure you wanna deal with all of my stuff?" you counter, and he pulls back to look at you. kissed rotten and smiling. "of course i want to deal with it. i like you."

and he likes you too. god, he likes you so fucking much.

the next morning, long after you've left for home, he finds a little orange whale shark hidden behind the alarm clock on his bedside table, stars in the place of eyes, and the trace of you is enough to make him feel warm. to hope that over time his apartment becomes full of the little paper creatures until his home is its own aquarium, until everywhere he looks is a memory of all you've brought him—pieces of you, perfectly arranged and delicately folded by your careful hands, much too gentle to tear.