Chapter Text
The kitchen tiles are cold beneath your socks. You’re standing still, shoulders heavy, a dish rag in your hand and your phone tucked between your sweater sleeve and your ear. The screen is dark, but the soft crackle of the call through the app tells you he’s still there on the other end.
Barely breathing. Waiting for you to continue.
You haven’t said a word in five minutes. Just the faintest sniff here, a soft shuffle there. But he knows you’re there. And he knows what you’re doing, cleaning the damn kitchen at 1:37 am, because if you don’t, there’ll be more yelling. More guilt. More walking on glass in your own home.
“...You don’t deserve this shit,” he says, voice low and firm, like gravel ground smooth with care.
“Ya hear me?”
You do. You close your eyes.
“You are not a fucking burden. Yer not lazy. yer not broken. You’re tired. You’re overwhelmed. And they’ve got you thinkin’ that makes you worthless, when it just means you’re human as shit.”
The kitchen’s still, save for the soft dripping of the faucet you forgot to shut. Your sleeve trembles as you wipe your face.
“I don’t care what they say. yer not the problem. Not ‘cause you’re sad. you can’t take multiple hits everyday and smile through it. yer tryin’, every goddamn day, and that’s more than most people ever will.”
You press your sleeve harder to your cheek. Sniffling quietly. He can’t see it, but somehow you feel like he knows.
“I wish I could blow down that door right now,” he mutters, something raw slipping into his voice . “Drag you outta there and remind you what’s what. But I know you can’t leave. Not yet.”
His voice softens, rough edges melting into something heartbreakingly gentle.
“So just hang on. A little more. For me.”
A shaky breath leaves your lips.
“I’m so proud of you, y’know?” he adds, quieter. “For cleanin’ that damn kitchen when you’re falling apart. For still showin’ up. For holding on, even when it feels like nobody gives a shit.” You squeeze your eyes shut, nodding, while tears gather and run down your face. Katsuki can’t see you. But he hears the tiny sniff of agreement.
“You’re doin’ everythin’ you can,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna be out of there soon. School’s comin’ up, and I’ll be right there. I’ll fuse you together if you can’t do it yourself.”
You swallow hard. Press the phone tighter. Your voice stays small, silent. Katsuki sighs into the call, almost like he doesn’t wanna hang up. But he says,
“Go get some sleep. it’s late as fuck.”
The call ends and your line goes still.
Somewhere across town, both of you tilt your heads up to the sky at the same time, drawn by some invisible string. You staring up at the kitchen ceiling like God is staring down at you deciding your fate. Him out the window of his bedroom, wondering if what he said helped at all. The moon hangs quiet above it all, a soft silver witness to your aches.
Katsuki stares at it like he’s trying to beam his thoughts through the clouds. You close your eyes, breathing in that fragile moment of peace. That anxiety of when the line went dead and he had to go almost violently thrust another anxiety attack onto you. So you selfsooth by wringing and unwringing the dishcloth in your hands until the smell of soap and onions permeates into the skin of your palms. He presses his forehead to the widow in a deep scowl, wondering if he made the right choice there in hanging up.
Palms smoking, he picks up his phone again and turns the screen on to see your smiling face on the lock screen below. How strange and special, to be loved by someone that hates all. With a ‘tch’ Katsuki throws his phone onto his bed and stomps over before throwing himself into the mattress and trying to get comfortable and failing because he can’t get his mind off you.
You can’t physically feel his arms around you yet somehow that one sided conversation felt like he was there holding your hand in his large sweaty one. Tomorrow will come. And then one day will turn into a week, when you blink it’ll be a month, before finally giving way to the fall, beginning a new school year.
And even though you feel like you’re physically drowning right now because of your home life and mentally exhausted from school, it’ll be time to dorm soon. All your friends and safe places will be there.
And so will Katsuki.
So tonight… you hang on.
Just a little longer.
It’s hotter in the dorms than you remembered.
Maybe it’s the effort of hauling three different mega sized plastic and cardboard boxes up the dormitory stairs after your second trip, because the elevator had too long a line, or maybe it’s just the sun bouncing off the white polished stone paths like some kind of celestial punishment.
Either way, the air feels thick enough to chew, and your arms are starting to tremble a little from the weight.
You pause just inside the dorm lobby, one knee propped against the edge of a box stacked high in your arms, and inhale sharply through your nose. Dust and tape cling to your fingers, and the cotton of your Tshirt is damp against your spine.
“Waah dude, you need help? How many boxes did you bring?” Kirishima’s voice rings out, teasing but warm.
He’s standing at the bottom of the staircase, arms folded loosely across his chest, grinning up at you with eyebrows raised. Beside him, Hanta’s got a half empty bottle of iced tea in one hand, which he lifts to you like a toast.
“You moving into the dorm or taking over the whole building?”
You try to smile around the box’s edge.
“Just figured I’d bring what I needed.”
“Are you sure you didn’t overestimate how much space we actually have?” Momo’s voice is gentle as always, as she appears from the upper floor with a princess pink suitcase, the corners of her mouth tilting up in concern. Her sleeves are rolled neatly to the elbows, sweet and pristine even in this heat.
You shift the box in your arms and nod. “No, I just didn’t want my parents to waste money on shipping anything if I forgot something. Just in case.” The lie is smooth from practice, like butter over toast, but your throat still tightens a little.
Momo accepts it with a graceful nod, but something flickers in her eyes. Still, she doesn’t press the issue.
You make it halfway through your trips, four boxes and two duffels down, more to go, and the edge of your patience starts to fray. Sweat rolls down your temple and drips from your nose as you wrestle a suitcase with a bent handle out of the red pickup parked near the curb.
Nemuri leans against the truck's open door, sunglasses perched on her nose, lipstick unapologetically scarlet. She’s fanning herself with a piece of your bubble wrap and watching students pass with a casual indifference that only looks unbothered.
You catch her glance up at you every time you reappear on the path, checking, quietly watching like she’s waiting for something to go wrong, but you know that’s only the ugly little voice inside your head. Your stomach twists. You haven’t even unpacked yet and you’re already imagining the questions.
Why is your guidance counselor helping you move in?
Where are your parents? Why didn’t they come?
The answers feel too complicated and too humiliating to voice.
"Need help?" Kirishima asks again, trailing behind Sero as they both eye your wobbling pile of laundry bags. You shake your head too quickly. “I got it.”
"Really? We could at least take one—"
"I got it ,” you repeat, softer this time, and attempt to add a smile. It's polite, firm, and false. You’re just about to text Nemuri that you’ll come back down in five when a new voice cuts through the chatter outside.
“ Oi . Move.”
You turn toward the entrance in time to see him . Scowling as usual, box in arms, stomping through the front doors like the floor personally insulted him. He looks freshly showered, hair still damp at the tips, though the rest of him is dressed for war in a black tank top and loose cargo pants.
Behind him, a taller, brunette man with glasses carries another box and nods politely to the students lingering in the common room. “ Excuse us ,” he murmurs.
“Mr Masaru?” Kirishima says under his breath. “ Whoa .”
Matsuba’s smile is subtle and calm, only deepening when Katsuki grunts and shoves the dorm’s front door open wider with his foot.
“C’mon, old man.”
Matsuba chuckles under his breath and follows his son up the steps. A wild Iida appears, though, having just passed you on the stairs not long ago, adjusting his glasses and holds the door when he sees the duo approaching. After greeting and bowing to his elder, the class president gestured you forward.
“They seem to have a very unique father son dynamic,” he observes, as if narrating a wildlife documentary.
—
The sun is still unforgiving by the time you make your seventh trip up the dorm stairs. Even though the elevator is clear again, you've started to feel like the trek is penance. A slow kind of punishment for needing to come back here at all.
You’re sweating through the back of your grey tshirt now, the sleeves pulled over your shoulders more out of desperation than comfort, your palms burning slightly where the plastic corners dig in.
"That’s the eighth box, right?" Kirishima calls from the common area, peering up from the ongoing game of Mario cart. “Are you sure you don’t need help, bro?”
Denki leans over the couch edge beside him, his grin easy and teasing. “You trying to start your own dorm store or something?”
You force a little smile, adjusting the weight of the box in your arms. "Just wanted to make sure I had everything," you say lightly. “I just didn’t pack as neatly this time.”
Tsu, (the unbothered and unbeaten champion of the game with her green yoshi) is perched on a nearby armchair, folds her hands over her lap. Her voice is gentle, concerned but also a little intrusive.
“It’s not wise to refuse help. Are you sure you don’t need any?”
“I didn’t,” you reply too fast, too sharp. Then you soften it. “I just… like having what I need.”
They offer to help, again. Of course. Because they’re kind. Because they’re not used to someone saying no so quickly. And because you’re sure they’re raised in homes where everyone helps out, or they have someone to turn to.
But you weren’t.
“I’ve got it,” you tell them, meeting their eyes. “Really.”
You don’t.
And they can tell.
But you disappear upstairs again before they can say so.
—
You lower the box onto the edge of your new bed with a low groan, arms trembling slightly from the effort. Your muscles burn and your shirt clings damp to your back. Your heart won’t calm down, it’s beating too fast, too tight in your chest. Like it’s trying to leap out of you.
The room is a furnace. The AC is either busted or hasn’t been turned on yet, though with how much this school charges, it damn well should be . Heat clings to you like a second skin, stale and sticky. You tug at your collar and feel a bead of sweat trail down your chest. Briefly, you consider peeling off your socks and surrendering to the shame of borrowing Kirishima’s crocs just to survive the rest of the move in.
Before you can even fish your phone out to message Nemuri and tell her you’ll be downstairs in five minutes, a sharp knock reverberates through the door.
No, pounding .
Not the way Denki taps when he forgets his own key, or the way Sero raps out a lazy rhythm with his knuckles. It isn’t even like the time Iida came charging in during the fire drill, out of breath and full of urgent rules and righteousness because you slept through it.
You freeze halfway through your text. Your thumb hovers, your eyes narrow.
“…Mina?”
“No.”
The voice on the other side is raspy. Familiar.
And not hers.
You already know who it is.
You crack the door open and there’s Katsuki.
His box is gone, hands now folded across his chest, forearms flushed and dusted with a light sheen of sweat that catches in the mid afternoon light. His shirt is damp near the collar, sticking slightly to the sharp lines of his collarbone. Blond hair, tousled from the heat and the effort of carrying stuff upstairs, is matted at the roots, a little darker where it’s wet. Katsuki’s jaw flexes, like he’s trying not to say something too quickly.
His crimson eyes sweep over you, reading every inch. Your heat flushed face, your damp sleeves, the way you're trying not to look like you’re falling apart. His scowl deepens.
It could be irritation.
It could be concern.
With Katsuki, it’s always hard to tell.
Behind him, standing a polite step back, is a man who mirrors some of his features, warmer in presence, quieter in posture. Masaru offers a small nod, his expression calm but nothing short of kind. He’s holding nothing, just observing the scene without intruding.
“Got your other box,” Katsuki mutters. “Didn’t want you dragging it up yourself.”
You blink, the heat of the room now battling the sudden warmth building in your throat. You nod, because words feel like they might splinter. You don’t know how to say thank you without it sounding like you’ll cry.
So you open the door a little wider. Just enough for him to step in.
And just enough for you to breathe.
“Oh,” you say dumbly. “Thank you, Bakugou.”
Katsuki doesn’t wait.
“Where’s the rest of your shit?”
“ Katsuki, ” Matsuba says lightly, voice laced with a warning.
Katsuki huffs through his nose and clenches his jaw. His next words come through his teeth, ground down but still serious, “Where. Is. The. Rest?” Looking like he wants to commit a third degree felony.
Your hand tightens around the doorknob.
You hesitate, staring at him, and his dad, at the sweat dotting his brow, the way his shirt clings to the curve of his shoulder blades, the concern hidden behind gruffness and grit.
“…Outside. I’ve got three more boxes. I told the others I didn’t need help.”
Katsuki snorts. “Yeah, that’s bullshit. Move.”
Before you can argue, he’s already turned and is walking down the hallway again, calling over his shoulder.
“Old man, c’mon.”
Matsuba offers you a shrug and an apologetic smile, but he’s already moving after his son.
You’re still standing in the doorway when Nemuri texts,
Black widow: “I can start loading the last two. You doing okay, sweetheart?”
You exhale slowly, shoulders finally starting to drop.
Sweet pea: Yes, plz, thanks. And I got two friends coming down to help.
The next hour passed faster than you would’ve liked. Nemuri had been all smiles upon seeing Katsuki and his soft spoken father, her voice bright with something close to joy. You couldn’t thank them enough, though you tried, tripping over your words as Masaru waved you off with a kind laugh and Katsuki barked at you to stop fussing.
Once everything was done and dusted, the boxes moved, the sheets tossed on your bed, the essentials unpacked, the four of you headed out for sandwiches and ice cream. Simple, messy, and perfect.
Masaru paid for Nemuri despite her playful protests, and Katsuki paid for you, very much not playfully. He shoved a crumpled bill at the cashier before you could argue and glared at you so sharply it cut off your pathetic,“ But, I got it, ” mid breath.
Back at the dorms, goodbyes came too soon. Nemuri pulled you in tight, arms wrapped around your shoulders like she was the only thing anchoring you to the ground. “I love you,” she whispered into your hair. “I love you too,” you murmured back, and you meant it. Every syllable.
“See you soon, honey.” “Soon.”
Across the path, Masaru and Katsuki stood a few paces apart, the way men who love each other deeply but haven’t quite figured out how to say it often do.
“The weather should be clear next week,” Masaru said casually. “No rain. I’ve been thinking about picking up new camping gear. Tent’s getting a little sad.” Katsuki scuffed a rock with his sneaker and grunted.
“Fine. As long as it doesn’t rain.”
Nemuri leaned over and called, “Oh for god’s sake, hug him! ”
Both startled like she'd fired a gun in the air. Katsuki moved first, jerking toward Masaru, who caught him with a grin and a hand to the back of his head. Katsuki grumbled, resisting the way he always did, but didn’t pull away. His fingers curled slightly into his father’s sleeve.
“Feed the old hag,” he muttered against Masaru’s shoulder.
Masaru chuckled. “Every day, son.”
Katsuki peeled himself off and stomped back to you. You turned just in time to wave as both adults got in their vehicles and pulled away. Their figures vanished in the mirror of fading sunlight.
"You comin’ or what?" he asked.
You turned to look at him, backlit by that rich, gold orange light of late afternoon, the kind that made everything feel warm like a fuzzy dream. His eyes shimmered, hair damp and messy from the day, and his skin glistened slightly with sweat. His cheeks were flushed in the heat, brows slightly furrowed like he was always halfway to yelling.
But there was something about the way he looked at you then, like he'd just been slapped with a realization he wasn’t ready to name, that made you freeze.
You must’ve had something on your face, because he inhaled sharply and stared, almost like he couldn’t help it.
“What?” you asked, shifting your weight awkwardly.
“Just…”
He looked away fast.
“Just come on already.”
He turned toward the building, holding the door open behind him with his foot like it was no big deal. You followed, the heat hugging both of you as you stepped inside. The elevator ride was quiet. Just the hum of old machinery and the heavy press of shared silence.
By the time you reached the dorm floor, most everyone was asleep in the common area or nodding off. The halls were dark, the air cooler now, filled with the quiet thrum of fans and soft music playing behind closed doors. You padded softly down the hallway together, your feet dragging slightly.
At your door, you turned to say something, anything . It didn’t have to be clever. A thank you, maybe, or a dumb joke about how he manhandled your rock collection like it weighed nothing.
But Katsuki beat you to it.
“Hey, oh—!”
He opened your door, shoved you inside, and slammed it shut behind you. Your startled yelp was muffled by the plush landing. You blinked up from your spot, half sprawled on your enormous squishmallow, and caught the faint echoes of startled voices and stomping footsteps fading down the hall. The silence left in their wake was warm. And kinda stupid.
You sighed.
Then you smiled.
You take out your phone and thumb open your messages, the screen lighting up your tired face. A quick text to Fire Cracker :
It was nice to see you too, big foot.
You hesitate for half a second, hovering over the screen like it might bite, ( maybe he does ) then press send. A small smile tugs at your lips, but you don’t wait for a reply. You're too tired to handle whatever smartass thing he might say back anyway.
You think, briefly, about your family. You could let them know you're safe. You do. A short, no frills text, Made it. All good. Then your thumb lingers over the power button. Off. You don’t want the replies right now, whatever they may be. Not tonight. That is, if they reply at all.
Your body aches. The heat hasn’t let up and you seriously need a shower. The air in your dorm feels heavy still, like it's been holding its breath. You groan as you stretch upward, spine cracking, limbs sluggish from the long day.
Peeling off your sticky jeans and damp tshirt feels like shedding a second skin. You start the shower, the pipes groaning as the water sputters to life behind the thin door. It sounds almost apologetic for how late it is. Kneeling by your pile of stuff, you find one of the duffle bags, unzipping it and pull out your essentials, body wash, a faded loofah, your towel, and a soft set of pajamas that still smells faintly of home.
Or at least, of not here . You pause a moment, sitting on the edge of your bed, bare feet on the cold floor, letting the steam begin to curl around the room like sage in an old temple.
Just one more day. One more night.
Orientation’s tomorrow and school starts next week. You made it. You’re here. You're safe. Nemuri held you. Katsuki saw you.
Katsuki saw you.
Standing so fast you’re surprised that there’s no immediate black out, you burst through your own bathroom door and awkwardly step into the shower. The hot water hits your skin like a small mercy. You don’t give a fuck if it’s a million degrees outside, you need that lava water.
Steam curls around you as you stand there, letting it melt off the stress like wax off a candle. Your shoulders finally drop, muscles twitching in protest as you breathe in deep, and the scent of your body is familiar and comforting. The droplets drum against your collarbones as you begin washing away the sweat, the grime, the unkept fingerprints of a too long day.
For the first time since arriving, you're alone in a space that feels yours, even if temporarily, and you can finally exhale.
Meanwhile, across the building, Katsuki is hunched over on his bed in the half dark, phone in hand, glaring at the screen like it owes him money.
No reply.
Just those dumb words sitting there.
Princess Peach: It was nice to see you too, big foot.
What the hell does that even mean?
Did you mean it? Were you teasing him? Did you fall asleep?
He almost texts back almost but his thumbs hover above the screen like they’ve got stage fright. Instead, he locks the phone and throws it onto the mattress beside him. It bounces once, landing face down.
Katsuki exhales hard through his nose.
There’s nothing to clean here. No clanging pots to wash, no floor to mop, no countertops to scrub into oblivion with the same frantic energy he remembers from sneaky group calls. Just the dorm, sterile and silent. The common kitchen doesn’t need much cleaning, not unless it’s someone's turn on the chart. And even then you clean it better than anyone. Always did.
Fast too. Efficient. No complaints from Aizawas end.
He presses his palms together, elbows on his knees, staring at the wall like it might shift and show him a damn answer.
You’ve always been good at those kinds of missions. Low stakes ones that somehow turn high stress for the rest of the class when kids cry or old people panic. That’s where you shine. Not loud or flashy, just calm, quick, present . Hostage situations too, though he never liked watching you talk down someone with a knife at their throat or a trembling hand on the trigger, even if it was part of the training.
It always looked too easy for you, too practiced. He chalked it up to being Nemuri’s pupil. Just like Midoriya’s always chasing All Might’s shadow, or how Eyebags has become Aizawa sensei’s not so secret successor. He grumbles, dragging a hand through his hair, then scrubbing it down his face.
Why the hell is he thinking about any of this right now?
His mind flickers back to earlier that day, to the moment his dad, calm as ever, was unboxing a bento of home baked crap his mom insisted he bring. Katsuki had muttered something under his breath about you looking like you hadn’t slept in a week and were too damn stubborn to ask for help.
He didn’t even mean to say it aloud. It just slipped out.
Masaru had just smiled, soft and annoyingly perceptive, as he set the box on Katsuki’s desk. “ So ,” he said, adjusting his sleeves,
“You like stubborn girls too, huh?”
There was no teasing in his fathers voice.
No knowing smirk. Just sincerity.
Katsuki nearly exploded on the spot.
He’d spent the rest of the day trying not to. Which was not easy, considering how sweaty he’d gotten during that stupid move and dinner. His shirt had stuck to the back of his neck, and his knees kept bumping the table leg because he couldn’t sit still.
And you, of course, were being you . Polite, sharp eyed, unbothered. You had the best table manners of anyone in the damn class, he’d noticed that stupid detail months ago and now it won’t leave his head. You eat like you were raised to care about those things. Even when you’re exhausted. Even when it’s clear you’ve had a long day.
And then there was the moment after dinner, when you’d turned back from saying goodbye to your guardian, Nemuri’s laugh still echoing throughout the empty parking lot, and you looked at him.
The light from the setting sun hit you just right. Painted your features in orange and gold. Your eyes looked tired, but kind. And he swears his stomach did something weird, like the bottom dropped out for a second. Katsuki blamed it on the shitty diner sandwich.
But then you walked up the stairs with him, close enough to brush shoulders, and it felt like you were going to say thank you again, and he couldn’t take it. Not another soft word. Not with how hot his face felt or how loud his heart beat was in his ears.
So he just grabbed your door handle, shoved you inside before you could open your mouth, and tossed you into that stupid squishmallow onto your floor (the one he set down for you) like it offended him. The door slammed shut a little too hard behind you both, sealing the moment off before either of you could say something dumb. Something too honest.
It put him in a worse mood than he’d already been in. He stomped down the hallway, fists clenched and teeth grinding, not looking back once as he made a beeline for his room.
And now his palms are sweaty again. Great.
Katsuki stands up suddenly, pacing once around the room before stopping near the window. His hand clenches and unclenches at his side.
Why the hell did he answer your phone call that night?
Why did he stay on the line?
Why did he say any of that stuff—about being proud, about your family, like he was your boyfriend or something. You’re not even that close. You’re not Kirishima. You’re not Izuku or Shoto. But you’re not a stranger either. You’re… familiar.
You don’t treat him like a project. You don't try to fix him. If it came down to spending time with anyone else in the class, besides Kiri, he wouldn’t mind it being you. And at that sudden realization, Katsuki swallows. And he swallows hard.
Oh.
Oh no.
His inner voice is quiet, like he’s just uncovered something dangerous. Like a landmine with your name written on it. He picks up his phone again. Rereads your text.
Then yells.
“Fuck!”