Chapter Text
It was just like any other Thursday as you sit in the middle row of the lecture hall, the one spot where you can sit and pretend you're not completely exposed. The tiered seats rise behind you like a silent row of judges and the fluorescent lights buzz overhead, making everything feel too bright. Your notebook lies open on the flip down desk. The pages are worn on the left side but filled with neat little diagrams of reaction mechanisms and color coded arrows that used to make sense to you…now they just feel like mockery to everything you've ever tried to do.
Advanced Organic Chemistry 310. The class everyone warned you about. The one that separates the serious STEM kids from the ones who thought they could coast on high school AP credit and sheer willpower. You chose this major because you loved the puzzle of it. How molecules dance, how bonds break and reform, how tiny invisible shifts create everything from medicine to explosions. You still love it, somewhere under the panic. But love doesn't pay the bills or keep your scholarship.
You shift in your seat, the chair creaking under your weight. Your thighs press against the armrests, the fabric of your jeans straining just enough to remind you that standard lecture-hall desks were not built with bodies like yours in mind. You tug your oversized cardigan down over your stomach more, as a small shield. It's not that you hate your body. It's just that on days like today, when everything else is falling apart, the extra weight feels like one more thing the world hasn't quite made room for.
The professor drones on about nucleophilic aromatic substitution, chalk scratching across the board in sharp, impatient strokes. You try to focus, but your mind keeps drifting back to the email notification that buzzed your phone ten minutes ago. You haven't opened it yet. You know what it is ...the midterm grades that Dr. Eri posted early because she likes to keep her students motivated ...yeah right.
Your stomach twists and you glance around the room. It’s all just a sea of faces you technically know, but don’t have many names to place with them. Most of the same age as you, thinner and prettier you notice painfully. A guy in the front row is already packing up, confident smirk in place. A cluster of girls near the door whisper and laugh, their notebooks barely touched. You wonder if any of them are failing too. Probably not.
The lecture ends with the usual rustle of bags and laptops snapping shut. You stay seated, heart thudding too loud in your ears. Finally, you pull out your phone, thumb hovering over the email. One deep breath. You tap.
Your score stares back at you: 58%, a D-. Not even close to passing.
The air leaves your lungs in a rush. Your vision blurs at the edges. You press your palm to your forehead, trying to hold everything together. How did it get this bad? You studied. You pulled all-nighters in the library, coffee going cold beside your open textbook. You rewatched every lecture recording twice. But the mechanisms slipped through your fingers like sand. The stereochemistry flipped on you at the worst moments. And now the scholarship that lets you stay here, far from home, is hanging by a thread.
You don't notice Dr. Eri approaching until her sensible leather loafers stop beside your desk.
"Stay a moment," she says, voice low but firm. Not unkind, Just professional.
You nod, throat too tight to speak. The room empties around you until it's just the two of you and the faint echo of footsteps in the hall.
She pulls a chair from the row in front, sitting so she's level with you. "You saw the grade. We need to talk about your options."
You swallow. "I know I messed up. I just... I thought I had it."
"You have the potential," she says. "Your earlier assignments showed real insight. But the midterm is a wall for a lot of students, and you're hitting it harder than most. If this trend continues, you'll lose eligibility for your scholarship. The department can't afford to lose someone as bright as you."
You blink back the sting in your eyes. "What can I do?"
"Tutoring. Immediate and consistent. I've already spoken to the best student in the course. He's agreed to take you on, though he's not thrilled about it."
Your stomach drops further. "Who?"
"Katsuki Bakugou."
His name hits you like a punch, everyone knows that name. Hes the star forward on the hockey team, the guy who checks opponents into the boards like it’s his only passtime. President of Delta Sigma whatever-the-hell it’s called that sits on fraternity row. The one house on that block that is well known to throw the liveliest and rowdiest parties that still get talked about months later.
This guy was loud and explosive, built like he could bench press the entire goal net if he wanted. And apparently, according to rumor and the grading curve, a secret genius who aces every exam without breaking a sweat.
You shake your head. "He won't want to tutor me. I'm not... I'm sure he has more important things to do in his free time."
Dr. Eri raises an eyebrow. "He's not getting a choice. This is mandated by the department. Three sessions a week, minimum, until your next exam shows improvement. He'll meet you tomorrow at seven pm in the library study room 204, don't be late. And don't let his attitude throw you. He's rough around the edges, but he knows the material better than most TAs."
You want to argue, to say you'd rather struggle alone than beg for help from campus royalty. But the D- on your phone screen is still there, burning.
"Okay," you whisper.
She stands, gathering her notes. "You're capable. Don't forget that. Now go home and get some rest. You'll need it."
You watch her leave, the door clicking shut behind her. The lecture hall feels bigger now, emptier. You close your laptop, sling your bag over your shoulder, and stand. Your reflection catches in the window. Tired eyes, the way your body warps just a little too much at your hips, and you shove at the hem of your cardigan to hopefully help cover the flaws you think you have. Your hair is a mess and you look like someone who just weathered a storm you weren't prepared for.
You sigh as you make your way out the door and down the hall towards the exit. The lights a soft yellow glow as you finally make it to the street. The campus walking paths are already darkening when you finally leave the lecture hall, the November air sharp enough to bite through your cardigan. You keep your head down, bag slung across your body, shoulders hunched like you can make yourself smaller if you try hard enough. The failing grade is still burning like a coal in your pocket. And every time your phone vibrates it's almost a painful reminder that you failed at something you are supposed to be good at.
You could have taken the bus but you didn’t. Walking feels like punishment, and right now punishment is the only thing that makes sense.
The sidewalks are crowded with people who look like they belong here. Laughing in groups heading to the dining hall, couples that are holding hands as they walk side by side. The Athletes from the various sports teams jogging in a wide formation with their official college issued hoodies and confidence on full display. You do your best tot keep to the edges of the walking path when some of them need to pass. Murmuring sorry even though it’s not your fault they are taking up so much room.
Your thighs rub together between your jeans with every step, a small, familiar friction that usually you ignore. Tonight it feels loud, embarrassing, like your body is announcing itself when all you want is to disappear.
By the time you reach your off-campus apartment, the sky has gone dark purple. You climb the three flights of stairs slowly, each step heavier than the last. The hallway smells like someone’s burnt popcorn again. You fumble your keys, let yourself in, and shut the door like you’re sealing off the world.
Inside it’s quiet, too quiet. Your roommate is at her boyfriend’s for the week, so there’s no one to pretend for. You drop your bag by the couch, kick off your shoes, and stand there for a long minute, staring at nothing.
Then the tears came.
Not dramatic or loud, but silent and hot on your face as they fall. Your bottom lip quivers and you try your best to remain on your feet as you let your head fall to your chest. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes and rub, hoping to wipe away the evidence of being so weak and stupid…but it only makes it worse. You hate this…Hate the fact that one stupid fucking test can unravel everything that you’ve built for yourself. Hate that youre supposed to meet Katsuki Bakugou tomorrow like a fucking charity case. You especially hate that your body feels too big for the space that it takes up tonight, like the room isn’t meant to hold someone of your size.
You strip out of your clothes in the bathroom, avoiding the mirror. The shower is scalding, steam so thick it hurts to breathe. You stand under the spray until your fingertips prune and the water starts to cool, letting it wash away the salt on your face but not the ache in your chest. When you finally step out, you wrap yourself in the biggest towel you own, the one that’s soft from too many washes, and pad back to your room.
You throw on the same shirt you had laying on the bed from this morning and slip into your pajama pants. Crawling into bed and curling into a ball. You deserved a pity party right now, and you were going to make sure that you suffered just a little bit more for your failures. The sheets are cool against your skin. Your phone stays face-down on the nightstand before you finally pick it up and scroll Tik Tok for a while, then Instagram. Watching reels and shorts of people living their lives that look so fucking perfect and effortless. You feel the tiny amount of hate creep into your mind, not just at that but directed at yourself too for not being just as perfect.
Eventually your stomach growls, loud and insistent. You haven’t eaten since breakfast. The thought of cooking makes you want to cry again, so you open the app that will let you order from the local pub down the road instead. You order the greasiest thing on the menu: a double cheeseburger with extra fries, onion rings on the side, and a chocolate milkshake. Comfort food. The kind of thing you know is bad for your health, but will hopefully heal something in your soul tonight.
Forty minutes later you're pulling on leggings and an oversized hoodie that you stole from one of your brother's friends before you moved to campus and shove your feet into some slides. You lock the door behind you as you make your way to the double doors that lead to the street. The night air is colder now, but you don’t care. You just want the food and then bed again.
The pickup spot is outside the campus bar-and-grill hybrid everyone calls “The Ant.” It’s a tiny but well loved spot by many people, not just the students that frequent it. It’s busy tonight, because of course it would be on a Thursday night. The music thumps through the open garage style doors, laughter spilling out onto the sidewalk where you stand. You stand off to the side, arms crossed over your chest, trying to look like you’re not waiting for anything important.
That’s when you hear them.
A group of girls, maybe four or five, stumble out of The Ant in a cloud of perfume and giggles. They’re all tiny crop tops and high ponytails, the kind of pretty that gets free drinks and Instagram likes without trying. One of them spots you waiting with your phone out and nudges her friend.
“Oh my god, look at her,” she stage-whispers, just loud enough. “Ordering takeout again? Some people never learn.”
They laugh, high and sharp. Another one chimes in, “Bet it’s, like, a whole pizza for one. Tragic.”
Your face burns. You keep your eyes on the sidewalk, pretending you didn’t hear. But your hands are shaking now, gripping your phone too tight. You’re normal kitchen guy walks out and smiles up at you when he spots you. Thank god, and you step forward to grab the bag, murmuring thanks without looking up. You don’t wait around to chat this time with him, and you can see the small frown on his as you turn around to leave.
The Ant’s front windows glow like a stage under the streetlights, all that warm yellow light spilling out onto the sidewalk and turning the whole night into a spotlight you never asked for. You’re frozen just outside, the paper bag from the diner burning against your chest with greasy fingerprints already soaking through, the faint smell of salt and fried regret rising up like evidence. The girls’ laughter from two minutes ago is still ringing in your ears, sharp as broken glass.
And now, through the glass, you see exactly where they ended up.
The corner table is a shrine to everything you’re not. Hockey jackets slung over chair backs like trophies. Empty pitchers sweating rings onto the wood. And in the middle of it all was Katsuki Bakugou.
He’s sprawled back like the whole bar belongs to him, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw set in that permanent scowl you’ve only ever seen in grainy campus photos and highlight reels. The girls from outside have already claimed him. With one perched on the arm of his chair like she owns the real estate, manicured fingers tracing the sleeve of his hoodie. Another leans in so close her lips brush his ear, whispering something that makes her friends giggle. Their hands are everywhere. His shoulder, thigh, casual and so fucking entitled. He doesn’t shove them off. Doesn’t even glance at them. Just stares straight ahead.
Straight at you.
Your eyes lock through the condensation-fogged glass for what feels like a full minute. Though it can’t be more than a heartbeat. Those crimson eyes, sharp enough to cut, the exact shade burned into every poster on the athletic center walls, don’t blink. There’s no smirk. No nod. No anything. Just that flat, dissecting stare that peels you open layer by layer. The oversized hoodie suddenly feels paper-thin. The way the waistband of your leggings digs in after the mockery outside feels like a neon sign screaming fat. The bag clutched to your chest might as well be a flashing billboard: Look at the pathetic girl stress-eating her feelings after bombing her midterm.
He knows, he has to know. The tutoring session tomorrow isn’t some secret campus service. It’s mandatory because you tanked that exam so hard the professor practically begged him to take you on as a favor. The Katsuki Bakugou. Star forward and campus legend. The guy who probably never failed anything in his life except maybe basic human politeness. And now he’s been saddled with you. The girl who just got laughed at for daring to exist in her own body.
One of the girls on his lap glances up. She follows his line of sight. Her glossy lips curl into the exact same smirk she wore outside. She leans in again. Murmurs something against his ear. His expression doesn’t change. But his gaze doesn’t either. It stays pinned on you like he’s cataloging every flaw for later.the way your shoulders hunch, the grease stain already blooming on your hoodie, the panic you can feel crawling up your throat in real time.
Your stomach twists so violently the milkshake in the bag sloshes. Heat floods your face, burning hot. The kind of blush that won’t fade for hours. You can already picture tomorrow. Sitting across from him in some quiet library corner while he stares at you exactly like this. Except now there’s no glass between you. Now he’ll have to speak to you. Hear your shaky voice try to explain derivatives or whatever the hell you’re supposed to be learning. Watch you fumble with notes while the memory of this exact moment hangs in the air between you like smoke.
Tragic and pathetic. Not even worth pretending to be civil to.
You rip your gaze away so fast your vision blurs. The bag crinkles loudly in your death grip, it’s too loud. Like everything about you is suddenly amplified. You spin on your heel and walk. Then you’re speed-walking. Then you’re half-jogging. Slides slap wetly against the pavement. The cold night air stings your wet eyes. Every step feels like he’s still watching. Like the entire hockey team is watching. Like the girls are already texting screenshots of the “fat failure who ran away” to the group chat he’s definitely in.
You don’t look back, you refuse. Being perceived by him, even for that single, endless heartbeat, feel like someone poured acid straight into the rawest parts of you. Like you can already tell he’s decided exactly what you are before you even get the chance to open your mouth. Before he’s forced to sit there and tutor the girl who couldn’t even order food without becoming a campus joke.
By the time you slam your apartment door behind you, your lungs are burning worse than your face. The bag hits the bed as you throw yourself into it. Opening the bag with one hand and pulling out the contents one by one. You roll onto your back and take a sad little sip of your milkshake as you feel the tears start up again. And as you sit up you feel them fall freely down your face as you eat. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to convince yourself it doesn’t matter. That tomorrow is just two hours. That you can keep your head down, take the notes, and never look him in the eye again.
But the lie tastes like grease and shame. And the worst part, the part that makes your chest cave in, is that you already know it won’t work. You shove food into your mouth and let your mind sit there with the shame of binge eating and trying to fill some hole in your heart that the food never fixes. You barely remember to shove the wrapper into the bag and toss it into the bin before you crawl under the sheets and force yourself to just sleep. Finally full but feeling worse because of it. And sleep takes you, but not carefully. The entire night you feel yourself toss and turn, sleep wrecked with nightmares of every failure you’ve ever had.
And by the time you wake up in the morning the light gray of a cloudy day greets you. Your eyes feel swollen, gritty. The fast food bag is still halfway hanging out of the trash bin by your bed, like it was just the cherry on top of the endless pile of defeat you had.
The alarm on your phone is still going off, soft piano notes that usually feel gentle but today just sound mocking. You slap it silent and lie there on your back, staring at the ceiling cracks you’ve memorized. The scholarship deadline is three weeks away. The next exam is in twelve days. Katsuki Bakugou is waiting for you tonight at seven sharp.
You have half a mind to skip out, send Dr. Eri an email with some excuse that you are sick, or you had a family emergency…anything to buy yourself just another day or two. But the thought makes your stomach twist worse than the greasy food ever did. Hiding won’t fix the failing grade, and it sure as hell wont keep you in school.
There is no other way about it.
You drag yourself out of bed. Shower again because yesterday’s doesn’t count anymore. You pull on the softest things you own: high-waisted leggings that don’t pinch, a long-sleeved tunic top that drapes instead of clings, and the same oversized cardigan from yesterday because it still smells faintly like cupcakes. You fix your hair into place and make sure even if there is humidity that it will stay in place today. You skip makeup entirely and grab your backpack. The midterm printout is still in there, folded small so you don;t have to look at the bold red ink.
The day passes in fragments. Morning lecture where you sit in the very back and take notes on autopilot. Lunch alone in the library with a protein bar you barely taste. Afternoon lab where you fumble a titration and your partner gives you a pitying smile you pretend not to see. Every hour feels like it’s stretching toward seven p.m., the study session looming like a guillotine.
By six fortyfive you’re walking across campus toward the library, your stomach knotted so tight you’re not sure you will be able to speak when you get there. The building is quiet as you expect a library to be, even if it is a Friday evening. Most people are at parties or pregaming, or just doing anything but organic chemistry. You take the stairs to the second floor because the elevator seems to be too loud when you approach it.
And when you finally make it to room 204, you notice that the solid wood door has a little glass window, you pause outside, heart hammering not just from the steps, but from who is sitting just inside.
He’s already there.
Katsuki Bakugou sits at the table like he owns it, legs sprawled, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. He’s in a black compression shirt that clings to every line of muscle he earned on the ice. Broad shoulders and defined arms, the kind of build that makes people stare even when he’s just sitting still. Black sweats hang low on his hips. His books and notes are spread out in front of him. a battered copy of the textbook with tabs sticking out, loose-leaf pages covered in sharp, angry handwriting, even a molecular model kit half-assembled into what looks like a benzene ring. He’s tapping a pen against the table, fast and irritated, eyes on the door.
You look down to your smartwatch and see that you are still technically two minutes early, and you try to force a smile on your face as you finally push the door open. His head snaps up, crimson eyes locking on you immediately, narrowing with frustration already and you hadn’t even said hello yet.
“You’re late,” he says, voice rough like gravel.
There are no plesantlies like you foolishly hoped for, just an instant jab even though you had just walked in the door.
“I’m… two minutes early.”
“Ten minutes late by my clock.” He jerks his chin toward the empty chair across from him. “Sit. We’re wasting time.”
You hesitate for half a second, then drop your bag and slide into the seat. The table is small enough that your knees almost brush his under it. You keep your legs pressed together, careful.
He doesn’t waste breath on small talk. “Dr. Eri sent me your midterm. Fucking disaster. You blanked on half the mechanisms and butchered the stereochemistry. We’re starting from the ground up tonight, no shortcuts. You fuck this up again, it’s on you, not me.”
You swallow. The words sting, but they’re not new. You’ve been saying worse to yourself for days.
“I know,” you say quietly. “That’s why I’m here.”
He stares at you for a beat longer than necessary, like he’s waiting for you to argue or cry or bolt. When you don’t, he huffs and shoves a blank sheet of paper toward you.
“Draw the SNAr mechanism for 2,4-dinitrochlorobenzene with methoxide. Step by step. No looking at your notes.”
You pick up the pen. Your hand shakes at first, but you force it steady. You start with the addition step, the arrow pushing from the nucleophile to the carbon, the negative charge building on the ortho nitro group. It’s messy, but it’s correct.
He watches without comment until you finish.
“Not terrible,” he mutters. “You at least remember the charge delocalization. Most idiots forget that part and turn it into some magic electron-sucking void.”
You blink. Was that… a compliment?
He doesn’t give you time to process. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and taps your drawing with one scarred finger. “Here. You curved the arrow too wide. Makes it look like the charge is floating instead of stabilizing. Fix it.”
You do.
He nods once, short and sharp. “Better. Now explain why the meta nitro doesn’t participate the same way.”
You take a breath and start talking. Your voice is small at first, but the words come. He interrupts twice. once to correct your wording, once to make you redraw an intermediate, but he doesn’t mock you. He just demands precision, the same way he probably demands it on the ice.
Half an hour in, he sits back and crosses his arms. The compression shirt pulls tight across his chest. You try very hard not to notice.
“You’re not as hopeless as your score made it seem,” he says gruffly. “You’ve got the basics. You just panic and second-guess every fucking step. Stop doing that.”
You look down at the table. “Easier said than done.”
“Yeah, well, tough shit. Panic on my watch and I’ll call you on it every time. We’ve got ten more sessions minimum before the next exam. You’re not wasting my time, so don’t waste yours.”
You meet his eyes then. There’s no pity in them or charity case there. Just the same intense focus he gives everything else…hockey, grades, apparently now you.
Something in your chest loosens, just a fraction.
“Okay,” you say.
He grunts, flips to a new page in his notes. “Good. Now let’s do the fucking Cope rearrangement. And this time, don’t half-ass the chair transition state.”
You nod and lean in.
For the first time in days, the knot in your stomach feels a little less like dread, and a little more like determination.
The clock on the wall ticks past eight-thirty. Your hand is cramping from redrawing transition states and arrow-pushing mechanisms, but the pages in front of you are starting to make sense again. Not perfect, nowhere near it. But it’s starting to look less like hieroglyphs and more like a language you used to speak fluently.
Bakugou leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, the compression shirt pulling tight enough that you can see the faint outline of old scars across his chest. Something that looks like it was old but still had to hurt from the star shaped pattern you idly notice. He’s been quiet for the last ten minutes, just watching you work through the last problem set he threw at you. No more barking corrections. Just that steady, unblinking stare.
You finish the final arrow, set the pen down, and slide the paper toward him without a word. He scans it quickly, giving it a decent look over and then grunts in approval.
“It’s not shit,” he says. “You fixed the flip on the Cope. And you didn’t draw the methoxide like it’s a goddamn balloon animal this time.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Thanks. I think?”
He doesn’t respond to the thanks. Instead he starts gathering his things. stacking notes, snapping the molecular model kit shut, shoving everything into a beat-up black backpack that looks like it’s seen more hockey rinks than libraries. You start packing too, slower, waiting for the inevitable dismissal. But when you both stand, he doesn’t head straight for the door.
He stops, one hand on the back of his chair, and looks at you in something that isn’t instant dismissal he gave you when you first walked in.
“Listen,” he says, voice rougher than before, like he’s forcing the words out. “There’s a thing at the house tonight. Delta party. Nothing crazy, just the usual bullshit. Beer, music, people being loud. You could… come. If you want.”
You blink, unsure if he realizes just who exactly he invited to their worst nightmare. Loud music and people being even louder? With alcohol and possibly drugs? That wasn’t your scene, but even if it was there was something that would just make it feel awkward showing up to a stranger's house like that.
He keeps going, eyes flicking away for the first time all night. “Not saying you have to drink or whatever. Just-there’s food. And it’s closer than trekking back to your place in the dark. Could crash on the couch if you get tired. We'll pick up tomorrow anyway.”
The offer hangs there, awkward and unexpected. You can picture it all the thumping bass, with bodies pressed too close together, the smell of cheap beer and sweat and whatever body spray the hockey guys douse themselves in. And you…standing in the corner with your cardigan and your backpack, trying not to look like you wandered into the wrong universe.
He’s still watching you, but there’s no smirk. Just… something almost like consideration. Like he knows exactly what your answer’s going to be, and he’s asking anyway.
You shake your head, gentle but firm. “I… don’t think that’s my scene. Thanks, though. Really.”
He shrugs, like he expected it. “Yeah. Figured.” he says after a beat. “Tomorrow, then. Same time, right here. We’ll hit the actual books and go over every goddamn question you bombed on the midterm. No excuses, no shortcuts. You show up prepared or don’t bother showing up at all.”
You nod. “I’ll be here. On time.”
“Good.” He shoulders his backpack, already turning toward the door. His phone buzzes in his pocket—loud, insistent. He pulls it out, glances at the screen, and answers without breaking stride.
“Oi, shitty hair,” he barks into the phone. “Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving the library now. Keep your pants on. Party’s popping off? Then stop calling me every five minutes like a lost puppy.”
You hear a muffled laugh on the other end, bright and unbothered. Bakugou rolls his eyes, but there’s no real heat in it. He pauses at the door, one hand on the frame, and glances back at you.
“Bookworm,” he says, the nickname landing somewhere between insult and… not. “ Don’t stay up stressing over mechanisms. Save that for tomorrow when I’m there to yell at you about it.”
You open your mouth to maybe say thanks again, maybe say something snarky, but he’s already gone. The door swinging shut behind him with a soft click. You stand there for a second, alone in the empty study room, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. Your backpack feels heavier now, but not in a bad way. The knot in your chest from last night is still there, but it’s looser. Smaller.
You sling the bag over your shoulder and head out into the night.
Tomorrow you’ll face him again. Tomorrow you’ll sit across from him and let him tear apart your mistakes until they stop hurting so much.
And maybe…just maybe that won’t be the worst thing in the world.