A month after that fateful night out, you'd chosen to stay home over the weekend. Katsuki, in that intimate moment when he'd cummed inside you, had asked you if you'd like to be his girlfriend. You, still feeling heavy, told him you needed time: certain decisions can't be made in a couple of days. You asked him to wait, to let you think.
So, as the days passed after that evening, you noticed that Katsuki was slowly fading away. His face was often crossed by a hint of melancholy, as if something inside him had cracked. Meanwhile, you kept meeting him outside the institute, together with the other teachers, just as you had agreed, fucking like there was no tomorrow, with him acting as your shameless master. But something was changing in him, something that weighed on him but he didn't want to tell you. Something that not even you could understand.
In the last week of the month, however, you noticed that Katsuki had stopped coming to class altogether. In the previous weeks, his absences had been sporadic — one day on, three off; three on, one off — but this time was different. His absence, lasting the entire week, weighed on you more than ever before.
One afternoon, you tried to reach him — texting him over and over — but the messages never went through. His phone seemed to be always off, forever unreachable. It was during those days that you realized how little you actually knew about him: you didn't know his address, or whether he lived with both his parents... in truth, you knew nothing at all.
After eight days of his absence, you were still at school, teaching a class like any other. The tension and worry for Katsuki were now visible in your eyes. You had already decided that, that afternoon, you would search the whole city — looking for a clue, his car, any sign that might tell you he was okay. When class ended, you felt the agitation rising inside you — you needed to get out of that classroom, to breathe, to reach the teachers' lounge and calm yourself, if only for a moment.
"Attention, please. Tara Shimura sensei, you are requested in the vice principal's office. I repeat, Shimura sensei, please report to the vice principal's office."
Your eyes widened and your pace quickened. You walked with your head down, trying to hide the anxiety twisting in your stomach, but every breath betrayed your nervousness. When you stepped through the office door, you were still standing, a pile of homework clutched under your arm, breathless. You tried to appear composed, despite the frantic beating of your heart.
"There's... Bakugo's mom here for you," Principal Nezu said softly. "She asked to speak only with you."
Your breath caught for a moment, a sharp blow to your chest. "With me?"
The principal nodded, his gaze uncertain. "She's at the front desk. She says it's nothing disciplinary. But... she seems determined."
You couldn't believe your ears. The principal was there, at the desk, his glasses perched on his nose. "Can I...can I put this pile of homework here... for a moment..."
"Sure, sure. Go ahead," he replied, smiling tenderly.
"Okay. Tell her I'll be right there. And...thank you, Principal Nezu."
The walk to the entrance seemed longer than usual. Every step weighed on you, as if you were tripping over thoughts scattered across the floor. Your heart was in your throat, your anxiety skyrocketing. You found her there, leaning against the reception desk: her blond hair was short and spiky (the same as her son's), she was wearing a light-colored overcoat and her arms were crossed, with the air of someone who was used to not being walked all over. Her eyes—the same, unmistakable ones as Katsuki's—rested on you, and for a moment you noticed her breath catch as soon as she saw you.
"Good morning, Shimura-sensei," she said with her dry tone. "I'm Mitsuki Bakugo."
"Good morning, Mrs. Bakugo." You tried for a professional smile, but your hands betrayed you with a barely perceptible tremor. "Can we talk in my office?"
She shook her head. "I'd prefer somewhere... less conspicuous. I'm guessing this isn't a hallway conversation."
You pointed to the inner garden. "There's a small interview room near the greenhouse. It's quiet."
You walked in silence. Outside, the wind was strong, the sun hidden behind clouds that threatened rain. You closed the glass door of the small room and pulled two chairs slightly away from the table, as if to create the proper, human distance. Mitsuki stood for a moment, staring at the empty walls with a grimace you didn't understand, then sat down with a short sigh, more resigned than tired.
She wasted no time.
"I know everything," she said. "About you and Katsuki."
The silence that followed was thin and painful. You'd just opened your mouth to say something, but your voice caught in your throat. Your gaze flickered toward the window for a moment, searching for any sort of support.
"Did he tell you?" you managed to ask.
"Yes." Her voice wasn't harsh, but had a directness that got straight to the point. "He couldn't keep what was in his head down anymore. It was… too much. Now he's not sleeping, he's not eating as he should. He's nervous, more than usual. And he's not just nervous: he's… scared, even though he'd never admit it. I know him."
You clasped your hands together, intertwining your fingers to keep them still. As you looked down, it struck you that Katsuki was hurting because of you — that perhaps the idea of someone else being able to possess you wounded him more deeply than you had ever imagined.
"I'm not here to judge you," Mitsuki continued. "I'm no one to do so. Your life is yours. He's deeply in love with you, and what you're doing is beyond his ability to stomach. As you know, my job is to protect my son, even from himself when necessary. And right now, I feel like he's drowning."
You swallowed hard. "I didn't mean to make him feel bad. I already told him that..."
"I know. I know it's not easy for you." She bowed her head slightly, as if to give you that space. "And he knows it, too. But intentions sometimes mean little. What matters is what remains in the days afterward. And in the days afterward, he wasn't well. He held back just for you."
You ran your thumb along the edge of the table, feeling the wood scratch your skin in a thin line. "What do you want from me, Mrs. Bakugo?"
She looked you straight in the face. "I want you to come to our house and talk...To him. Not on the phone, not through texts. Face to face. He didn't ask me… But he needs it, and I… I somehow got it out of him. If he hadn't talked to me, he would have ended up really blowing up, and I don't mean his Quirk."
Part of you wanted to shut down, to say it wasn't the time... but the other part—the more sincere, the more fragile one—knew you couldn't back out. Not after everything you'd seen in his eyes, that oscillation between pride and surrender that had seared your memory. Not after his confessions, his longing for you, your unique love.
"Okay," you said softly. "I'll come."
Mitsuki's face relaxed an inch, no more. It didn't look grateful, or at least not yet;
"Tonight?" she asked.
You hesitated. "After the supervisory shift. Around seven."
"Seven-thirty." She pulled a card from her pocket and handed it to you. On one side was an address written in bold handwriting, on the other a phone number. "If you're late, send me a message. I'll open the door. He doesn't know I'm here today. I… I didn't mean to rush him. He doesn't handle surprises well these days."
You nodded. "Okay."
For a moment, Mitsuki looked uncertain. Her hands, which had been unmoving until then, fidgeted with the hem of her coat, as if she didn't want to leave. "You know, when he was little, he almost never cried. He got angry, yes, but he almost never cried. And when it happened, it was quiet. He didn't want us to hear it. It's the same now, only he has more muscles to hold it all in. And that's not always a good thing."
You felt the weight of her words, your eyes shining. "I understand."
"No," she replied honestly. "I don't think you fully understand. But maybe… maybe you can. And that might be enough for now." She rose from her seat. "I won't force you to be with him. I won't tell you what to say—or what not to say. Do you love him? Fine. Then treat him like a boy in pain, not a problem to be solved."
You stood up too. "I don't want to hurt him."
"Then don't hurt him… don't make him do that anymore." She put a hand on your shoulder, a brief, surprisingly warm gesture. "Seven thirty. And eat something before you come. You look like you skip meals."
You almost smiled. "I will."
You walked out together into the light of the hallway. At the entrance, Mitsuki paused for a moment. "Thank you for listening to me."
"Thank you for coming," you replied. "And for... telling me that."
"I don't know any other way." The stern line returned to her lips, but her gaze softened. "See you tonight."
You nodded. "Ah, sensei!" she called back. You turned around. "My son really has extraordinary taste. You look gorgeous."
Your shyness made your cheeks flush red. "Thank you, thank you so much."
You watched her walk away down the avenue, her coat flapping in the wind. Only then did you realize you were still clutching the note, pressing it between your thumb and forefinger. When you noticed, it was all crumpled. You smoothed it out, took a deep breath, and went back inside.
***
TOC-TOC
You knocked on the door of the Bakugo residence. It was exactly 7:30 — the evening air cool and still. The tall, silent gate reflected the moonlight as you tried to control the frantic beating of your heart. About ten seconds passed before the door opened, revealing Mitsuki, Katsuki's mother, dressed in comfortable house clothes and wearing yellow gloves. Her face was the same as it had been that afternoon — maybe just a little more relaxed: sharp features, a watchful but tired gaze.
"Katsuki! Come downstairs for a minute!" she called in a firm voice.
For a moment, in the woman's husky, firm tone, you recognized the same inflection as his. But from inside the house, no response came—only a thick silence, hanging in the air.
Mitsuki turned to you with a faint smile, which didn't quite hide a hint of uneasiness. She shrugged, then opened the door a little wider, inviting you in.
"Just a moment, he'll be down soon. Come in, I'll make you some tea."
Without needing to be asked twice, you stepped across the threshold of Katsuki's house.
Inside, the air was warm and clean; a faint scent of citrus and detergent wrapped around you at once. The pale walls caught the light from the chandeliers—most of them still lit—but the silence hung heavy all the same.
You nodded and stepped inside, accepting the slippers Mitsuki handed you and slipping them on with a hesitant gesture. They were warm and comfortable. Before you, the entrance opened onto the living room and kitchen. You sat on the sofa, trying to appear calm, your gaze wandering over the neatly arranged furniture and the family photos hanging on the walls.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Suddenly, a loud thud made you jump. The door of the upstairs room flew open, the handle striking the wall with a sharp bang.
"What the f...?" he was about to ask, but the words died in his throat.
Katsuki was there, at the top of the stairs. Standing still, his shirt wrinkled and his hair disheveled, as if he'd run his hands through it hundreds of times, trying to stay awake, or calm down. But it was his eyes that struck you most: red, puffy, marked by sleepless nights or tears held back too long. He looked empty, as if he'd spent hours—maybe days—staring into space, struggling with something he could no longer keep inside.
"What the fuck are you doing in my house?" His voice was a low, broken, scratchy growl. It wasn't just anger you felt: there was something cracked, deeply hurt.
You opened your mouth in a vain attempt to reply, but he silenced you with a brusque wave of his hand. His knuckles were white from gripping the stair railing.
"Save yourself the bullshit. I already know what you're going to say. That everything's okay, that we can talk about it, that you understand!" He laughed, a bitter laugh that came from his throat as a strangled, confused sound. "You don't understand shit."
You took a step closer, close enough to smell his acrid odor, a mixture of nitroglycerin and gunpowder. He hadn't washed, he hadn't taken care of himself: you could tell by the disheveled hair, the wrinkled shirt, the dull look in his eyes. It looked like he'd spent days locked in there, pacing back and forth across the room like a caged beast unable to find a way out.
"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to hurt you. Why didn't you tell me it bothered you?"
Your voice sounded steadier than you felt. Each word left your mouth slowly, deliberately, as if you were walking a tightrope over a drop, aware that one word too many could send it all tumbling down.
Katsuki snorted, his eyes burning at you. "Ah, there you go. Now you're here doing what? Comforting me? Telling me everything's fine while you screw half the world?"
His voice cracked on the last word; for a second, it seemed like he was about to collapse. But then he straightened, his shoulders tense, his fists clenched at his sides. "It doesn't work like that. I don't want any more of this crap."
You didn't back away. Not that time. You moved closer, close enough to see the veins pulsing in his neck, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. "I know you're hurting... and that's not what I want. So... do you prefer not to see me anymore?"
"Oh, yeah, sure. You're sure I'll feel better if we just stop seeing each other, huh? If I suffer?"A short, broken laugh escaped him—almost hysterical. "Fuck, yes, I suffer. Every damn time I look at you, every time I think of you with them, every time I realize I can't have you all to myself…" He ran a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the strands. "You're driving me crazy, Christ. I can't get you out of my head. I can't stop wanting you. And this—" he gestured vaguely between you, as if trying to grasp all the rot hanging in the air. "This is killing me."
He brought a hand to his face, hiding the tears. His words hit you like a slap. It wasn't just anger anymore, in that moment. There was desperation, there was a 22-year-old boy who was opening up to you like no one else had ever done. Someone who was willing to do anything to receive your love. There was a boy in front of you who was crumbling, piece by piece, and you didn't know how to stop him.
And then, without thinking, you reached out.
Katsuki flinched, as if the feeling of your hand on his body had burned him. But he didn't pull away. You remained still like that, suspended in that moment, your fingers inches from his chest, both of you breathing heavily.
"Let's go upstairs," he bellowed, wiping his eyes. You nodded and followed him into his room.
"I want you to know," he growled, closing the door behind him, "that if I touch you now, I won't stop. I don't care about anything. I don't care if my mom hears us. I don't care about anything... except you."
And, God, how you wanted it too!
But there was something you had to say. Something that had been burning inside you for a few days.