The Weight of a Secret

The afternoon sun cut across the kitchen counters, throwing long shadows over the spot where Katsuki learned to cook, to swear, to survive. She stood with her back against the fridge, arms crossed so tight her knuckles went white. Mitsuki leaned against the opposite counter, coffee mug forgotten in her hand, eyes sharp as broken glass.

"I'm pregnant."

The words landed hard. Mitsuki didn't move for a second. Then she set the mug down with a deliberate click.

"Pregnant." Flat. Unreadable. "How far along?"

"Eight weeks. Almost nine."

"And the father? Do I know him? Does he know? What are you going to do? Are you keeping it? Are you—"

"Ma." Katsuki's voice cracked, and she hated it. Hated the tremor that betrayed the fortress she'd built. "One question at a time."

Mitsuki's face softened, barely, but enough. She pulled out a chair and sat, gesturing for Katsuki to do the same. When Katsuki didn't move, she sighed.

"Sit down, brat. You're shaking."

Katsuki sat. The chair felt too hard, the air too thick. She stared at her hands, at the calluses from training, from fighting, from reaching for something she'd never been able to name.

"It's Deku," she said, the name scraping past her teeth.

Mitsuki's eyebrows shot up. "Midoriya? Izuku Midoriya? The kid you've been chasing around since you were four? That Deku?"

"Don't make it weird."

"Make it weird? You just told me you're pregnant with your childhood rival's baby, and I'm not supposed to find that a little strange?" Mitsuki leaned forward. "How long has this been going on?"

Katsuki's jaw tightened. She didn't answer.

"Katsuki."

"Since third year."

"Third year? That's—that's almost two years ago. You've been together that long and you never said a word?"

"We weren't together." The words came out bitter, tangled. "It was... it wasn't anything. Just once. And then we couldn't figure out what to do with it. And then I found out, and—"

She stopped. The memory was already rising, unbidden, pulling her back.

---

Third year. U.A. Late autumn, air crisp with the promise of winter. The sports festival was over, and the locker rooms were empty—or so they thought.

Katsuki had been in a foul mood all day. She'd come in second in the individual finals, beaten by a technicality that still made her blood boil. She slammed her locker shut, not caring if the metal rattled, and heard a voice behind her.

"Kacchan?"

She spun. Izuku stood three meters away, gym bag slung over one shoulder, freckles stark against his flushed cheeks. He'd won. He'd placed first. He'd beaten her.

"What the hell do you want, Deku? Come to gloat?"

"No, I—" He took a step closer, then stopped. His eyes were earnest, too earnest, the way they always were when he was about to say something she didn't want to hear. "I wanted to check on you. You seemed really upset after the match."

"I'm fine."

"You're not. You're shouting. You always shout when you're hurt."

"I'll show you hurt—"

She lunged, because that's what she did. She attacked when she didn't know what else to do. But Izuku caught her wrist, and instead of pushing her away, he pulled her close. His chest was warm, his heart hammering against hers.

"Stop," he whispered. "Please. Just stop fighting for a second."

She should have shoved him. Should have cursed him out and stormed away. But she was tired. So tired of the constant war inside her head, the need to prove herself, the fear that if she stopped being the strongest, she'd be nothing.

"Why?" she asked, her voice small.

"Because I don't want to fight you anymore." His hand came up to cup her cheek, gentle, hesitant. "I never wanted to fight you. I wanted... I wanted you."

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. He leaned in, and she let him. His lips brushed hers, light as a question, and she answered by grabbing the front of his gym shirt and pulling him into a proper kiss.

It was clumsy at first—teeth and breath and desperation. But then he sighed against her mouth, and her knees went weak. He pushed her back against the lockers, and she felt the cool metal through her shirt. His hands slid under the hem, fingers tracing the line of her spine, and she arched into him.

"Not here," she managed, breathless. "Someone could come in."

He pulled back, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. "The locker room in the west wing. It's abandoned. No one uses it."

She didn't ask how he knew. She just grabbed his hand and dragged him through the corridors, past the empty classrooms, down a narrow stairwell she'd never noticed. The west wing locker room was dusty, the lights flickering, but the lockers were intact and the benches were clean enough.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, and she let herself fall. She let him unbutton her shirt, let him run his hands over her chest, let him press her down onto the bench. Her pride was a distant memory, drowned in the heat of his mouth on her neck, his teeth grazing her collarbone.

"I want you," he murmured against her skin. "I've wanted you for so long."

"Then stop talking and do something about it."

He laughed, a soft, breathless sound, and then his hands were on her pants, pulling them down her hips. She helped, kicked them off, then reached for his belt. They fumbled together—awkward, eager—until there was nothing between them but skin and want.

He kissed her stomach, her thighs, and then his mouth was on her, and she gasped, gripping his hair, a litany of curses and moans spilling from her lips. He was gentle, but insistent, learning her body with a reverence that made her chest ache. When she came, she cried out his name—not Deku, not nerd, but Izuku.

He crawled up to kiss her again, and she tasted herself on his lips. "Your turn," she said, pushing him onto his back.

She returned the favor, taking him in her mouth, feeling him twitch and gasp. He whispered her name, over and over, until he was trembling, and she didn't stop until he begged.

Then she straddled him, and he looked up at her with something like wonder.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Shut up and fuck me, Deku."

But there was no heat in her voice. She guided him inside her, and the feeling of him filling her made her gasp. They moved together, slow at first, then faster, building a rhythm that felt ancient and new all at once. She leaned down to kiss him, open-mouthed and messy, and he held her hips, helping her ride out the storm.

When they both came, it was together—a shared gasp, a mutual surrender. She collapsed onto his chest, breathing hard, and he wrapped his arms around her.

For a long time, neither spoke. Only their ragged breathing and the hum of the flickering lights.

"That was..." he started.

"Don't say it was good. I know it was good."

"It was perfect."

She didn't argue.

They dressed in silence, and as they walked back toward the main building, his hand brushed hers. She didn't pull away. But neither of them knew what to say.

---

The memory faded, and Katsuki was back in the kitchen, Mitsuki's eyes boring into her.

"So you slept together once, and that was it? For two years?"

"It wasn't that simple." Katsuki's voice was rough. "We talked. We agreed it was a mistake. But we couldn't stay away from each other. We started meeting in secret. Training together. Study sessions that ended with... that."

"And you never used protection?"

"Not the first time. After that, yes. But it only takes once."

Mitsuki rubbed her temples. "And you never told me? You never told him?"

"I didn't know how." The admission scraped out of her throat. "I was scared. I'm still scared. What if he doesn't want this? What if he thinks I'm trying to trap him? What if—"

The doorbell rang.

Katsuki's heart stopped. She knew who it was. She'd texted him an hour ago, a single line: We need to talk. Come to my house.

"I'll get it," Mitsuki said, her voice unreadable.

She left the kitchen, and Katsuki sat frozen, listening to the door open, to Mitsuki's curt greeting, to Izuku's polite, nervous response. Then footsteps, and he appeared in the doorway.

He looked the same as always: green hair a mess, freckles stark on his worried face, eyes soft and searching. He was in civilian clothes—a worn hoodie and jeans—and he clutched his backpack strap like a lifeline.

"Kacchan?" He glanced at Mitsuki, then back at her. "What's going on?"

Katsuki stood. Her legs were shaking, but she forced herself to meet his eyes.

"I'm pregnant."

The words hung in the air. Izuku's face went through a dozen expressions in two seconds: shock, confusion, disbelief, dawning understanding. Then something else. Something that looked like hope.

"Pregnant?" His voice cracked.

"Eight weeks. It's yours. It was that first time, it has to be, because we were careful after that and I—" She stopped, her throat tight. "I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner. I was scared."

He crossed the room in three strides and took her hands. His palms were warm, calloused, familiar.

"Scared of what? That I wouldn't want this? Kacchan, I've been in love with you since we were kids. I never stopped. I thought you knew."

She blinked, and a tear escaped, sliding down her cheek. "You never said."

"I thought you'd punch me."

"I still might."

He laughed, wet and relieved, and pulled her into his arms. She buried her face in his chest, breathing in the scent of him—sweat, grass, and something clean, like rain.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into her hair. "I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry you had to deal with this alone. But I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere."

Mitsuki cleared her throat. "So you're the father."

Izuku straightened, but kept one arm around Katsuki. "Yes, ma'am."

"And what are your intentions?"

"Ma," Katsuki snapped.

"It's okay, Kacchan." Izuku squeezed her shoulder. He looked Mitsuki in the eye, steady and sincere. "I plan to be by her side. For the baby. For her. Whatever she needs. I'll move in if she wants. We'll figure out the rest together."

Mitsuki studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Good. Because if you hurt her, I'll skin you alive."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

The tension broke. Mitsuki sighed and walked to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. "You two have a lot to talk about. I'll be in the living room. Don't do anything I wouldn't do—and that's a low bar, so be careful."

She left, and then it was just the two of them. Izuku turned to face Katsuki fully, cupping her face in his hands.

"I love you," he said, simple and true. "I've always loved you. And I know this is scary, but we can do this. Together."

She wanted to argue, to deflect, to hide behind her anger. But she was tired of fighting. She leaned into his touch.

"I love you too, you nerd."

He kissed her, soft and sweet, and she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

That night, after Mitsuki went to bed, Izuku helped Katsuki carry a duffel bag from his apartment to hers. They stood in her bedroom, looking at the small space, already feeling smaller.

"We'll need a bigger place eventually," he said.

"Shut up and hold me."

He wrapped his arms around her from behind, his hands resting on her still-flat stomach. She leaned back against him, closing her eyes.

"We're going to be parents," she whispered.

"We're going to be great parents."

She laughed, a real laugh, and turned in his arms to kiss him again. This time, no desperation, no fear. Just two people, finally on the same page, facing an uncertain future with their hands intertwined.

And for the first time in her life, Katsuki didn't feel the need to fight alone.