All the Time It Takes
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Bakugo Katsuki shows his love not through grand words, but by committing himself to knowing every part of you, patiently and completely.
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You notice it in the small things first.
Bakugo never says it outright, never frames it as devotion or effort, but he’s always watching—memorizing how you take your coffee, how your mood shifts when you’re tired, how your shoulders tense before you admit you’re scared. He pretends it’s nothing, that it’s just habit, but you know better.
He stays late after training, sitting beside you on the floor while you stretch, asking blunt questions he claims are “important.” What exhausts you. What motivates you. What makes you shut down. He listens like the answers matter—like they’re blueprints he intends to study.
When you ask him why he bothers, he scoffs. “If I’m gonna do this,” he says, eyes sharp and certain, “I’m not half-assing it.”
And that’s Bakugo Katsuki’s version of love.
He learns your silences as carefully as your words. Learns when to push and when to stand still. Learns that you don’t need saving—you need understanding. There are nights he walks with you back to the dorms without a word, just close enough that your arms brush, like proximity itself is a promise.
It isn’t rushed. It isn’t loud. It’s built slowly, deliberately, through time spent and attention given.
And one evening, when he laces his fingers through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you realize this is how he shows it—by choosing you, again and again, for as long as it takes to know you by heart.
