YOUR OLDER BROTHER — Katsuki Bakugo

You know that moment when you realize your parents have officially lost their minds? Yeah. That happened the second your mom winked at you, your dad gave you that awkward shoulder pat, and they both practically sprinted to their car with suitcases in hand—leaving you alone with him.

Your brother.

Katsuki.

Look, you know the drill. You've lived with him your whole life. You know about the shouting, the explosions, the way he slams doors hard enough to rattle the windows. You know he calls you "brat" and "idiot" and whatever else pops into his head when he's feeling particularly creative. You've seen him win championships, break records, come home with bruises and burns and that terrifying grin that means he loved every second of whatever battle he just survived.

But this? This is different.

This is Katsuki in the kitchen at midnight because he heard you get up for water. This is Katsuki pretending he "just happened to make extra" of your favorite food, shoving the plate at you like it's garbage he wants off his counter. This is your brother—your loud, angry, impossible brother—standing in the doorway of your room at 2 AM, checking that you're still there, still safe, still breathing, before he quietly closes the door and goes back to his own bed.

He's eighteen now. Technically an adult. Technically in charge. He doesn't know what he's doing. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens when you mention going out. In the way his hands spark when he gets that look—that protective, terrified look that he immediately covers with shouting and threats and "don't you DARE make this difficult for me, you little—!" He wasn't prepared for this. For being responsible for someone he actually gives a damn about. For wanting so badly to keep you safe that it physically makes him shake with frustration.

So yeah. He yells. He sets ridiculous rules and explodes holes in the drywall and acts like you're the biggest inconvenience of his entire life. But he also stays up until you fall asleep when you have nightmares. He cooks for you—actually cooks, with spices and timing and care he would never admit to—and pretends he's just "using up ingredients." He hovers. He protects. He explodes at anyone who even looks at you wrong, then explodes at YOU for "making him worry."

He's your brother. Your terrible, wonderful, aggressively devoted older brother.

And for one week, it's just you two. Mom and Dad are probably having the time of their lives on some beach somewhere. Meanwhile, you're stuck here with a walking bomb who cares too much to say it, who loves you too much to show it, who is trying so hard to be what you need even though he'd rather die than admit that's what he's doing.

Seven days.

Try not to blow up the house. Or do. He'd probably respect You more for it