Cloud ❤️

His hair is freshly trimmed, the ash blond strands still slightly damp from his shower, pushed back messily from his forehead. The sleeves of his black compression shirt cling to his shoulders and arms while the expensive button-up he plans on wearing hangs neatly from the bathroom door beside pressed slacks he spent way too long picking out earlier. Even his watch sits carefully beside the sink instead of abandoned somewhere random like usual. The entire thing feels too deliberate. Too polished. Too much like he gives a shit.

Which he doesn’t.

Obviously.

Except his stomach has felt weird since he woke up this morning.

Not nervous. Definitely not nervous. 

He can’t pinpoint the exact moment he clocked off hero work or how much time he spent at the gym so he could show off a pump tonight, nor can he try to convince himself it isn’t for the reason he doesn’t want to admit. He just wants to look good.

And that’s it. Simple as it sounds. No reason for him to choke on stuttering breaths.

The razor scrapes harder against his jaw this time as he rinses it aggressively under the sink. Hot water rushes over his fingers, turning the tips of them pink.

The celebration dinner is stupid to begin with, if you ask him.

Shoto gets ranked top two after the downtown incident last month, Endeavor immediately turns it into some flashy media spectacle about family legacy and hero society, and somehow all of Class A gets invited because the public still eats up that “golden generation” garbage years later. Old classmates pretending they all still keep in touch more often than not. The entire thing sounds exhausting.

But you’re gonna be there.

That’s the problem.

For all he cares, it’s been—what? Three years?

Three fucking years since he’s properly seen you.

Not in passing through articles online. Not blurry photos people tag him in accidentally after hero events. Not hearing your name mentioned by Mina or Sero every couple of months when they gossip over drinks.

Actually seeing you.

As in, In person.

Close enough to touch.

Because when him and you were no more, instead of running back to him like you’d always do, you moved out of Japan, got a job somewhere else in the world. You blocked him on all socials, blocked his number —even the agency landline— and for a while, he didn’t care to contact you. He didn’t care to check up on you, because who checks up on someone who said they wished they never met you? He went out of your life as quietly as you went out of his. Not caring if his last words hurt you, like you did.

Katsuki braces both hands against the sink and stares downward as water drips steadily from the faucet. His reflection blurs at the edges from the steam still clouding the glass, turning him into something distorted and unfamiliar.

Pathetic.

The worst part is he doesn’t even know what version of you is walking through those doors tonight.

Maybe you’re angry.

Maybe you barely look at him.

Maybe you’ve become one of those calm, polished heroes that smile perfectly for cameras now, the kind that know exactly how to navigate crowded rooms without making enemies out of everyone in them.

Or maybe you’ll look through him entirely.

That thought digs somewhere unpleasant beneath his ribs.

Fair enough, honestly.

He earns that.

The memory still crawls up on him sometimes when it gets too quiet. Usually late at night after patrol when he’s too exhausted to keep his thoughts from wandering somewhere ugly.

In all honesty he did try to talk to you. Last year, after he found out he wasn’t blocked anymore. But he was angry, vulgar, everything you’ve ever said you hated about him. And for better or for worse you had only told him you knew he’d never change. And he had left it there, not pressing anymore, not needing anymore proof to accept you just weren’t coming back.

Maybe this is why he won’t wear the polished clothes he’s picked out for tonight. Maybe the Nike sweats he tumble dried this morning and a t-shirt will make him look more casual, put together in a way fancy clothes won’t.

Because tonight is casual to him. It should be, at least, amidst picking up Kirishima and Izuku in his new car. He shouldn’t even care that you’re going to be there.

He keeps staring at himself anyway.

Like maybe if he looks long enough, he’ll suddenly figure out why this feels so fucking strange.

The bathroom light washes his skin pale while steam curls slowly around the edges of the mirror, softening the sharpness of his reflection. Katsuki barely recognizes the version of himself standing there sometimes. Not because he looks different—he does, obviously, older and broader and rougher around the edges—but because somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-five, the anger inside him changed shape.

Less explosive.

Much more exhausting.

He reaches for the towel hanging off the counter and drags it roughly over his face before tossing it aside. The nick near his chin still stings faintly. Tiny. Irritating. His eyes flick toward the button-up hanging from the bathroom door again, then away immediately.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

The idea of showing up looking like he spent hours trying to impress you makes something hot crawl up his neck. It feels pathetic now. Worse now, somehow, after standing here spiraling like an idiot for nearly forty minutes over a dinner he doesn’t even want to attend.

Katsuki grabs the hanger off the door and shoves the expensive shirt deeper into the closet on his way back into the bedroom.

Fuck that.

The softer lighting from his room settles easier against his eyes compared to the harsh fluorescent buzz of the bathroom. Outside the windows, the city glows orange and blue beneath the darkening sky, traffic crawling between towering buildings while distant sirens echo somewhere far below. His apartment sits high enough that most nights the noise blends together into background static.

Tonight it all feels too loud.

He yanks open a drawer harder than necessary and pulls out the black t-shirt he wears for training. The fabric stretches tight across his shoulders when he changes, outlining muscle built from years of relentless schedules, combat drills, patrols, sleepless nights at the gym whenever his head gets too crowded to sit still inside his own apartment.

Not for you.

Obviously.

The thought comes so defensive it almost makes him scoff at himself.

The sweats are clean at least. Black Nike joggers fresh from the dryer this morning, soft at the inside, fitted enough that Kirishima once called them “boyfriend material clothes” before Katsuki threatened to blast him through a wall. Casual. Comfortable. Like he isn’t thinking about tonight at all.

Like he didn’t spend an embarrassing amount of time earlier deciding between watches.

His jaw tightens again.

This is ridiculous.

You’re just another person he used to know.

That’s it.

Three years changes people. Hell, maybe you aren’t even the same woman anymore. Maybe you cut your hair shorter now. Maybe you picked up some accent overseas since your Japanese seemed too weird the last time you talked. And— and maybe, like the thoughts that used to consume him before he ever reached out to you last year, there’s somebody else waiting for you back home after tonight, somebody softer than him. Somebody easier. Someone your shared friends know about but won’t let him know of.

That thought lands badly, like he woke a dragon from a millennial slumber. His chest immediately feels too tight for it.

Katsuki snatches his car keys off the counter before he can sit with the feeling any longer.

His hone buzzes again from the kitchen table as he passes by. Probably Kirishima. Maybe Deku. Maybe another last-minute reminder about tonight’s schedule.

He ignores it.

The kitchen still smells faintly like coffee from this morning, dishes abandoned beside the sink because he hasn’t had enough energy lately to care about cleaning immediately after meals. There’s protein powder spilled near the toaster from breakfast. A hoodie tossed over one of the dining chairs. Tiny signs of somebody actually living here instead of the spotless, polished apartment magazines keep trying to photograph whenever reporters sneak glimpses during interviews.

For a second, his eyes drift unconsciously toward the balcony.

You used to stand out there all the time. Especially during storms.

Wrapped in one of his hoodies with your arms folded over the railing while Musutafu lit up below you in blurred neon reflections. You always complained the city looked lonely from this high up.

Katsuki used to think that was stupid. Now he gets it.

His throat feels strangely dry.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath.

The worst part is he genuinely has no idea how tonight’s gonna go.

Maybe you’ll smile politely at him like he’s an old coworker and he’ll have to be casual about greeting you, though he doesn’t want to.

Maybe you’ll avoid him altogether.

Maybe Mina’ll force everybody into some obnoxious group photo and suddenly he’ll be standing beside you for the first time in years pretending his heart isn’t punching against his ribs hard enough to bruise merely at the thought of it all.

Or maybe—

Maybe you’ll just look heavenly good.

That’s the real problem, honestly.

Because he already knows you will.

Not because of makeup or clothes or whatever expensive shit pro heroes wear to these events now. You always looked good to him in ways that annoyed the hell out of him. Half-asleep in his shirts. Sitting on his kitchen counter eating takeout straight from the carton. Yelling at him from across the apartment while he ignored you on purpose just to hear you get louder.

Three years later and his body still remembers stupid things about you automatically.

The sound of your laugh.

The weight of your legs thrown over his lap.

The smell of your peachy shampoo lingering on his pillows after arguments where one of you stormed out dramatically only to come back two hours later.

Katsuki grips his keys tighter.

Nope.

He’s not doing this tonight. He’s not showing up already halfway dragged into the past because of somebody who made it painfully clear they didn’t want him in their life anymore.

That should matter.

It does matter.

And honestly, he understands why you left.

Back then he was still angry at everything. Angry at hero society. Angry at himself. Angry at how badly he wanted somebody and how terrified he is of needing them at the same time. Every conversation between you eventually turned into him snapping before you can get too close to whatever ugly thing sits underneath his ribs.

You called him cruel once.

Not loudly. Not even during a fight.

Just tired.

And somehow that had struck him worse than any screaming ever could. That’s when it clicked to him, that no matter how much you said you saw the good in him, you never truly could. Even if one of your last sentences to him was that you loved him, he didn’t believe you could ever love someone you thought was cruel, someone you wish you never met. 

Katsuki locks the apartment behind him harder than necessary before heading toward the elevator.

The hallway lights flicker softly overhead while he waits, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. His reflection stares back at him from the metal elevator doors—broad shoulders, tired eyes, black compression shirt clinging too tightly against muscle that suddenly feels more like armor than confidence.

Casual.

Tonight is casual.

Just old classmates catching up. Nothing more.

Then his phone vibrates again.

EIJIRO: don’t be weird tonight bro

A second message immediately follows; something about sitting shotgun in his new car.

Katsuki stares at the screen for a long moment. Then another vibration.

IZUKU: Kacchan are we still meeting downstairs in 20?

His jaw flexes hard enough to ache.

Because somehow, despite everything, despite all the years and silence and blocked numbers and ugly last conversations—

A part of him still feels twenty-two again. Twenty-two and convinced that no one could love the way he expressed himself.

______

By the time Katsuki parks outside the izakaya, the knot in his stomach has already settled into something meaner. Sharper. Musutafu glows around him and his friends in streaks of reflected neon against rain-dark pavement while a valet moves between cars beneath the izakaya entrance. The place itself is ridiculously upscale even if it is just traditional, all warm golden lighting spilling through enormous glass windows and polished black stone.

Kirishima lets out a low whistle from the passenger seat as he climbs out. “Can’t wait to see everyone.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Katsuki mutters automatically, already slamming the car door closed harder than necessary.

Cold evening air immediately brushes against the back of his neck. Somewhere nearby, traffic hums steadily through the city while muffled laughter spills from the izakaya entrance every time the doors open. Izuku smooths anxiously at the sleeves of his suit beside the car, glancing toward the building with that same nervous energy he’s carried since high school.

“Do we think Todoroki planned all this himself,” he starts, adjusting his tie, “or do you think Endeavor hired—”

“Deku,” Katsuki interrupts flatly, shoving his hands into his pockets, “if you start analyzing anything, i’m leaving.”

“I wasn’t gonna analyze the—”

“You literally were.”

Kirishima snorts loudly beside them, and normally the familiar bickering would loosen something in Katsuki’s chest. Tonight it barely registers because his attention keeps drifting toward the entrance before they even reach it, heartbeat strangely steady in a way that feels worse than panic. Like his body already knows something his brain is still trying to avoid.

The hostess opens the doors with a practiced smile, and warm air immediately wraps around them alongside the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses. The restaurant is crowded with heroes, old classmates that are lingering discreetly in sorted tables near the back, all surrounded by polished wood and amber lighting that makes everything glow soft and expensive.

Katsuki barely notices any of it.

His eyes find you almost instantly.

Of course they do.

You’re seated near the center of the room beside the girls, half-turned toward Mina while Ochaco laughs at something across the table. The lighting catches warmly against the side of your face, softening the curve of your expression while gold jewelry glints subtly against your skin every time you move. Your hair is longer now than the last time he saw you in person, falling over your shoulders while one hand curls loosely around a sake glass. You look comfortable there. Relaxed. Like you belong in rooms like this now.

And for one awful second, Katsuki genuinely forgets how to breathe.

Three years vanish instantly beneath the weight of recognition. His body remembers you before his brain does, something visceral and humiliating tightening beneath his ribs before he can stop it.

Fuck.

You look different, but not enough to feel unfamiliar. Older, maybe. Sharper around the edges in the way everybody becomes sharper with time. There’s confidence in the way you sit now that wasn’t fully there before, something steadier beneath your posture. You carry yourself like someone who’s finally learned how to exist without apologizing for taking up space.

Then Mina notices them entering.

“Oh my god, finally!” she calls immediately, waving dramatically across the room. “You guys are late as hell!”

Several heads turn at once.

Including yours.

Katsuki feels it immediately, that split second your eyes land on him from across the room. It happens so fast he almost convinces himself he imagined it. No widening. No visible surprise. No anger flashing across your face. Your gaze settles on him briefly before moving smoothly toward Kirishima instead.

“Oh, Eiji,” you smile warmly, standing slightly from your pillow as the group approaches. “Hi.”

The knot in Katsuki’s stomach twists tighter.

Kirishima grins instantly. “There she is. Damn, it’s been forever.”

“It literally has,” Mina groans dramatically. “This bitch abandoned us internationally.”

You laugh softly at that, embarrassed enough to duck your head slightly.

The sound lands somewhere dangerous in Katsuki’s chest.

Ochaco immediately stands to greet Izuku while the others start talking over each other all at once, greetings and questions colliding noisily together after years apart. You converse with everyone easily. Kirishima gets pulled into a quick side hug while you squeeze Ochaco’s hand excitedly across the table. You ask Izuku about agency work overseas, laugh when Kaminari nearly trips over a table trying to sit down, you smile politely at Jirou when she teases your accent sounding slightly different now.

But Katsuki gets nothing.

At first he tells himself maybe you just haven’t gotten there yet. Maybe it’s awkward. Maybe you’re nervous too and trying to settle into the conversation before acknowledging him properly.

Then Kirishima nudges him lightly with his elbow.

“Oi,” he mutters under his breath, “say hi, silly.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightens immediately.

His eyes flick toward you again, but you’re already sitting back down beside Mina, smoothing your sleeve absentmindedly while listening to Momo speak. Completely relaxed. Completely normal.

Like he isn’t even there.

Something hot immediately crawls beneath his skin, but it doesn’t feel like anger. Anger would’ve been easier to deal with. Easier to understand. This feels uglier than that.

Because you aren’t being cold.

You aren’t glaring at him or avoiding eye contact dramatically or making the tension obvious for everyone else at the table.

You’re just indifferent.

Clean, casual, effortless indifference that makes it painfully obvious you’ve already figured out how to exist in the same room as him without it affecting you at all.

Katsuki pulls form to his seat harder than necessary across from Kirishima, the sharp scrape of the table flinching away from him against the floor briefly cutting through the table conversation. Nobody reacts except Mina, whose eyes dart toward him automatically before flicking carefully toward you.

You don’t even look up.

Jesus Christ.

His chest suddenly feels too tight.

“You look good, by the way,” Mina says suddenly, leaning dramatically against your shoulder. “Like suspiciously good. What the hell are they feeding you overseas?”

You laugh quietly, almost embarrassed by the attention. “Literally just less stress, probably.”

The joke lands casually around the table. Kaminari laughs. Jirou snorts into her drink. Ochaco starts teasing you immediately about abandoning Japanese work culture.

Nobody else notices anything strange about the comment.

But Katsuki does.

Of course he fucking does.

Less stress.

Like loving him had exhausted you so thoroughly that leaving the entire country became the healthiest thing you’d ever done for yourself.

His fingers curl tighter around the edge of the menu sitting untouched in front of him.

“Still working with that rescue agency?” Izuku asks curiously.

You nod. “Mostly disaster relief now, yeah. It’s quieter than here.”

“Quieter?” Kaminari repeats incredulously. “Why would you want quieter?”

“Because some people enjoy peace,” Jirou answers dryly.

“Exactly,” you laugh.

And there it is again, that strange feeling pressing heavier against Katsuki’s ribs every time you smile. Because you do seem peaceful now. Not forced. Not pretending. Actually peaceful.

Your posture stays relaxed through every conversation. Your smile comes easier than he remembers. Even your voice sounds lighter somehow, no longer carrying that constant tension that used to sit beneath your words whenever the two of you argued. Back then, loving each other always felt loud. Intense. Like every conversation teetered dangerously close to becoming a fight neither of you knew how to stop once it started.

Now you just seem… calm.

Katsuki suddenly feels too large in his seat. Too rough around the edges for this version of you. His broad shoulders, his obnoxiously loud voice, the constant restless energy simmering beneath his skin all feel painfully obvious in comparison to the quiet ease you carry now.

Mina notices it first.

Her eyes flick carefully between the two of you once. Then again.

Her smile falters slightly.

Because now it’s becoming noticeable to everybody else too.

You still haven’t acknowledged Katsuki properly once since they entered the izakaya.

Kirishima notices next, judging by the awkward way he shifts beside Katsuki before clearing his throat.

“So, uh…” he starts carefully, eyes darting between you both. “Crazy seeing everybody together again, huh?”

“Mm,” you hum politely before taking another sip of your drink.

That’s it.

No tension sharpens your voice. No bitterness leaks through your expression. Nothing about your reaction feels forced or emotional at all. Katsuki Bakugo has somehow become just another former classmate sitting at the table across from yours instead of the man you once shared a bed and apartment and entire future with. 

You used to tell each other that by the time you’re twenty-five you’d surprise your friends and old classmates by popping a kid out of the blue in one of these events. You used to laugh at the thought of him flaunting a baby bump on you, dreaming that you’d hide your engagement ring from everyone until it was the right time to announce you’d get married.

In another life, it may have been different.

Instead of that, you and him are forcibly strangers now; the realization settles, once again heavily in his stomach.

At least showing hatred towards him would mean he still mattered enough to ruin your evening.

This indifference feels like being erased entirely.

______________

The longer the night settles around the izakaya, the more Katsuki realizes he completely misjudged what this dinner was supposed to be.

Not some polished, high-class event packed with cameras and stiff hero society bullshit.

Just an izakaya. Despite how fancy it is.

A crowded, noisy, familiar little place tucked between glowing Musutafu storefronts where the tables are too close together and the air smells like grilled meat, fried oil, spilled beer, and cigarette smoke clinging faintly to old wood. Somebody in the back is laughing loud enough to echo over the music while waiters squeeze through narrow spaces carrying trays overloaded with skewers and drinks. Half the group’s jackets are already tossed carelessly everywhere.

Casual.

Comfortable.

The kind of place Class A used to practically live in after internships.

Which somehow makes this worse.

Because you fit into it too naturally even if you’ve missed the majority of it.

Time passes eerily as Katsuki watches from across the table while Mina complains dramatically about agency interns stealing her skincare products, and you laugh so easily at something dumb Kaminari says that for a split second it genuinely feels like no time has passed at all.

Except it has.

He notices it in tiny things.

You don’t interrupt people as much anymore. Back then you used to talk over everyone whenever you got excited, eyes bright and hands moving while you argued passionately about absolutely everything. Now you lean back when people speak, quieter in a way that feels more intentional than shy. You still smile the same, though. That part hits him unexpectedly hard.

Same slight squint around your eyes. Maybe a few subtle wrinkles now, that still manage to look good on you.

Same habit of hiding your laugh behind your drink or your hand sometimes.

It’s awful how quickly he notices all of it.

A waiter slides another round of drinks onto the table, glass clinking loudly against wood.

“Bakugo,” Sero grins from farther down the booth, already flushed pink from alcohol, “you’ve been weirdly quiet all night. You sick or somethin’?”

“I’m always quiet,” Katsuki answers flatly before taking a long sip of beer.

The table immediately erupts.

“That is literally not true,” Jirou snorts.

“Shut up! It is!”

“Me when I lie” Mina snorts.

“You used to start fights with strangers in restaurants,” Kaminari points out.

“Correction,” Kirishima says, grinning, “he used to start fights with strangers everywhere.”

“I remember that guy at karaoke—”

“He deserved it.”

“You didn’t even know him!”

Katsuki barely listens.

Because across the table, you’re smiling into your drink again, shoulders shaking slightly with quiet laughter while Mina nearly falls sideways into Ochaco from laughing too hard.

And you still won’t look at him.

Not really.

Your gaze passes over him occasionally in that absent, polite way people acknowledge furniture in crowded rooms, but nothing lingers. No awkwardness. No tension. No visible effort to avoid him either still, which somehow stings too much.

It’s like you already adjusted to his presence within the first five minutes of arriving.

Meanwhile he feels painfully aware of every movement you make.

The way your rings tap softly against your glass.

The faint crease between your brows whenever you listen closely to someone speaking.

The small scar near your wrist he remembers kissing once while you laid half-asleep across his chest.

His stomach twists hard enough to make him irritated with himself all over again.

This is fucking ridiculous.

“Bakugo.”

His head lifts automatically.

Momo’s looking at him from across the table. “Did you hear me?”

“No.”

“I said,” she repeats patiently, “Shoto wants everyone at his agency anniversary event next month too.”

“Absolutely not,” Katsuki answers immediately.

Kaminari groans. “Dude, you say no to everything.”

“Because everything sounds terrible.”

“See?” Mina points accusingly toward you. “This is why our sweetie over here escaped the country. We’re emotionally exhausting.”

The comment is obviously meant as a joke and the table laughs.

Even you smile.

But Katsuki feels the words land somewhere unpleasant anyway.

Before he can stop himself, his eyes flick toward you.

For the first time all night, you finally look directly back at him.

It lasts maybe two seconds!?

Three, max.

Then, when Kirishima opens his mouth it’s as if he can’t stop being a moron. Like he never could have guessed what the context of ‘time and place’ is. He points at you, then Katsuki.

“Remember when you guys sneaked out during the winter festival and everyone thought you were kidnapped?”

The entire table immediately erupts.

“Oh my god.”

“They were gone for HOURS—”

“Because SOMEONE turned their phones off,” Kaminari wheezes.

“You guys came back looking guilty as hell,” Mina accuses dramatically.

Katsuki feels his shoulders tense instantly. He sees you shrink into a timely creature in your seat.

Back then, you’d dragged him behind the gym building because you were freezing and irritated and insisted his body temperature was “unnaturally useful.” He remembers pinning you against the wall afterward just to shut you up after you laughed at how red his ears got.

He remembers kissing you until neither of you could breathe properly. 

The memory hits hard enough to feel physical. Youthful kisses, teenage love— he remembers how it felt when he kissed you first and when he had kissed you then. He remembers making out in your dorm late at night when he should’ve been resting his injuries after the war.

Around the table, everyone’s still laughing.

Except you.

You’ve gone still beside Mina, fingers tightening almost invisibly around your drink before you take another sip.

Then, calmly, casually—

“So,” you interrupt smoothly, turning toward Ochaco and Tsuyu instead, “how’s hero life treating you two?”

Clean cut. Effortless for anyone who can’t read behind your eyes.

The conversation immediately shifts away from the topic entirely.

Like you did it on purpose. Like the memory embarrasses you now.

Katsuki drops whatever sits at the top of his tongue like it stung too much to be spoken out loud. Like he was given a sound reminder that his words are always unnecessary.

___________

Everyone eventually becomes too careless despite the fragility of the situation.

Alcohol warms the tables steadily, loosening voices and posture until conversations start overlapping loudly across the cramped izakaya booth. Kaminari is practically hanging halfway over Sero now while arguing about hero rankings nobody else cares about, and Kirishima’s laugh keeps booming loudly enough to earn irritated glances from nearby tables. Even more empty beer glasses crowd together beside greasy plates streaked with sauce while waiters weave expertly through the narrow aisles carrying fresh rounds of skewers and drinks.

Normally Katsuki would be right in the middle of it all.

Tonight he barely said a word, even if he found himself at your table for some reason.

Because every single time the conversation drifts naturally toward old memories involving the two of you, you choose to redirect it before it can fully land.

Always subtle enough most people probably don’t notice.

But he notices.

Every single time.

When Mina starts retelling the beach trip where the two of you once again disappeared from the bonfire for over an hour, you smoothly interrupt to ask Jirou about her latest music project overseas. When Kirishima almost brings up the apartment you used to share in the heart of the city, you casually wave down the waiter and ask if anyone wants another round of drinks before he can finish the sentence.

And the worst part is how effortless you make it look.

You aren’t visibly uncomfortable. You aren’t tense or bitter or awkward every time his name comes up paired with yours. You navigate around him cleanly, naturally, like you’ve already spent years learning exactly how to exist comfortably in spaces where even if Katsuki Bakugo is present, he can simply be erased.

The notion starts irritating him more with every passing minute. It sits tighter beneath his ribs by the second. Makes his heart beat in fragile, irregular beats.

A doctor had once told him to keep track of arhythmic beats like this. 

Tonight he does not. But usually, he does.

Across the table, you tilt your head back slightly while laughing at something Ochaco says, fingers still loosely wrapped around your glass. The soft amber lighting from the hanging lanterns catches against your face warmly enough that Katsuki immediately looks away afterward, jaw tightening hard.

Then your phone lights up beside your plate.

His eyes catch it automatically, assumption quick to replace every spec of vermilion in his irises.

A name flashes briefly across the screen before you casually turn the phone face down against the table.

It’s a nickname paired with a heart.

It could be a friend, but for that he’s unconvinced.

Something twists violently low in Katsuki’s stomach.

Immediate. Sharp enough to genuinely piss him off.

Three years.

Obviously there’s somebody else now.

What the hell did he expect? That you spent years overseas grieving a relationship that ended with both of you saying things cruel enough to permanently carve into each other?

His fingers curl tighter around his beer glass.

Mina notices instantly.

Her eyes flick carefully between him and you before she awkwardly clears her throat. “Okay, wow,” she says carefully, trying to laugh through the tension, “this table energy’s getting kinda weird.”

“Only because your face gets louder every time you drink,” Jirou answers dryly without looking up from her glass.

“No, seriously,” Mina insists now, glancing more cautiously toward Katsuki. “Everybody’s acting strange.”

“Nobody’s acting strange,” you answer calmly before finally looking directly at Katsuki for the second time all night.

And somehow that feels worse.

You really are fine. Not pretending. Not secretly emotional underneath the surface. Fi—ne. Almost too cold.

You are completely, genuinely fine sitting across from him after three years apart.

Something reckless rises inside his chest almost immediately.

“You got somethin’ to say?” Katsuki asks suddenly, attention fully turned to you. “Then say it to my face.”

For once, he manages to keep your eyes in his.

The table quiets.

Not completely, but enough that nearby conversations and clinking glasses start bleeding awkwardly into the silence between your group.

Your brows pull together faintly before rising. “What?”

“You’ve barely looked at me all night.”

“Why would I?”

When you respond, Kirishima visibly winces beside him.

“Bakugo,” he mutters quietly under his breath.

An effort for calmness that pays out fruitless soil. Katsuki barely hears him now that the irritation’s already pushing its way out.

“No, seriously,” he continues, eyes locked onto yours. “What’s the deal?”

The atmosphere around the table shifts immediately.

Mina looks horrified. Izuku suddenly looks like he wants the floor to physically open beneath him—he hasn’t said anything about you up till now. Not on the phone, not in the car when Katsuki snapped like broken glass at every single thing. He didn’t even say anything about you when Katsuki told him that if he treats everyone like they’re special, then no one really is special to him. (When does Katsuki ever get so emotional?)

Even Kaminari goes quiet for once.

You stare at Katsuki from across the table for a long moment, expression unreadable beneath the warm restaurant lighting. Then you blink slowly before setting your drink down carefully against the table.

“…There’s no deal. You made sure of that.”

The calmness in your voice instantly makes his irritation worse.

“You’ve been ignoring me all night.”

“No,” you answer evenly, “I’ve been talking to everyone.”

“Except me.”

The silence afterward settles heavily between you both.

Around the table, nobody moves. The noise of the izakaya suddenly feels distant compared to the pressure building in the booth. You lean back slightly in your seat, eyes finally holding his properly instead of sliding politely past him like earlier.

“What exactly are you expecting from me here, Katsuki?”

The question catches him off guard immediately.

Not because of the words but because of the exhaustion in your tone that has completely replaced anger.

“I dunno,” he answers flatly, defensive before he can stop himself. “Basic acknowledgement maybe.”

You stare at him another second before letting out a small breath through your nose. Not dramatic. Not emotional. Just tired.

“I said hi when you walked in.”

“No,” Katsuki says immediately, “you said hi to Eijiro.”

Kaminari audibly mutters “oh my god, bets. Bets now!” under his breath before Mina immediately kicks him hard beneath the table.

Your fingers tap once lightly against your glass before stilling again completely.

Then, finally, something shifts in your expression.

And it’s not sadness.

Just plain right resignation. Like you’ve already given up.

“You want honesty?” you ask quietly.

Something inside Katsuki’s chest tightens instinctively.

Because now everybody at the table is looking literally anywhere except the two of you. Kirishima suddenly becomes very interested in his drink. Ochaco stares fixedly at the condensation sliding down her glass. Even Sero awkwardly clears his throat under his breath.

“Fuck yeah, stop playing games.”

You hold Katsuki’s gaze the entire time when you speak again.

“I ain’t got shit to say to you in front of everyone.” You say, bluntly, “but since you say we don’t have to play games, I didn’t ignore you because I hate you,” you continue. “I ignored you because every single time I look at you, I remember the last conversation we had.”

The words land directly against his sternum. Heavy. Sharp like a swirly blade and enough that for a second he genuinely forgets how to respond.

The memory crashes back immediately whether he wants it to or not.

Rain hammering against pavement outside the apartment.

You crying so hard your voice kept shaking despite how badly you tried hiding it.

Him saying things he knew would hurt before they even left his mouth.

You standing there afterward like he’d physically reached inside your chest and twisted something apart with his bare hands.

“I wish I never met you.”

Katsuki remembers that part perfectly.

Worse, he remembers exactly what he said right before to make you say it. Something cruel. Something calculated. Something along the lines of “you’re lying to yourself when you say you love me.”

Because back then hurting each other always came easier than admitting how badly neither of you wanted things to end.

Across the table, your expression remains composed, but now he notices the strain sitting carefully beneath it. The effort it’s taking you to stay this calm. To keep your voice level instead of letting old wounds split open in front of everyone.

“I’m not trying to make tonight uncomfortable,” you continue more quietly now. “I came because I’m back in Japan and I missed everyone. That’s all.”

Everyone.

But not specifically him.

The distinction settles ugly and heavy enough inside his chest that he and everyone else in this room are short of words

The atmosphere around the table changes only when the emergency hero alert rings on everyone’s phones.

Around you, everybody moves at once.

Years of training erase the awkwardness almost instantly. Drinks abandoned. Jackets pulled on. Conversations cut short mid-sentence while tables scrape across wood flooring. The emotional wreckage sitting between you and Katsuki gets shoved violently aside beneath instinct and urgency.

You stand automatically too.

And for one humiliating second, relief floods through you so fast it almost makes your knees weak. Because now you don’t have to stay sitting across from him anymore.

You don’t have to survive whatever expression is currently sitting on Katsuki’s face after what you just said.

You don’t have to keep pretending your heart isn’t beating so hard it physically hurts.

The group spills out into the cold Musutafu night in a rush of noise and movement. Sirens already echo faintly somewhere ahead, reflecting red against rain-slick pavement while civilians stop to stare at the sudden crowd of pro heroes flooding onto the sidewalk.

You breathe in sharply the second cold air hits your lungs.

It helps. Barely. Your hands still feel shaky and so fucking stupid..

Because the worst part—the genuinely humiliating part—is that none of what you said was a lie.

You did ignore Katsuki because looking at him hurts.

But not in the way everyone at that table probably assumed. Everyone, including him, thinks it’s because you stopped loving him.

And honestly that—would’ve been easier.

The problem is, that standing across from Katsuki after three years still feels dangerously close to standing too near an open flame. Like one wrong moment of weakness could drag you straight back into him before you remember all the reasons you left in the first place.

And God—you wanted to.

That’s the pathetic part.

The second he walked into the restaurant tonight, broad shoulders filling the doorway, looking so pretty even if all the boyish charm had abandoned his face for good, while his eyes immediately found yours across the room, something inside your chest reacted so violently you almost forgot how to breathe.

Three years.

Three whole fucking years.

And your body still recognized him instantly.

You hated that.

Hated how good he looked. Hated how familiar his voice sounded. Hated that even now, after everything, some traitorous part of you still wanted to walk straight across the room and touch him just to prove he was real. Kiss him so you at least be able to go back to your friends overseas and let them know you got the kiss of closure you’ve been wanting so desperately. 

But you knew better now.

You had to know better now.

Because loving Katsuki always felt like standing too close to an explosion and convincing yourself the heat wasn’t burning you alive.

You pull your hair back quickly while jogging after the others down the crowded sidewalk, the heels of your boots striking wet pavement hard enough to ground you back into the present. Neon signs blur overhead while people move aside hurriedly at the sight of pro heroes rushing past.

Beside you, Ochaco glances over briefly.

“You okay?”

The question is gentle enough to make your throat tighten unexpectedly.

“Yeah,” you answer immediately.

Too quickly.

Ochaco’s expression softens in that awful way people look at wounded animals they aren’t sure how to help. That facade that all heroes put on when they’re helping a missing child find their mommy.

You look away to let her go before she can say anything else.

Ahead of the group, Katsuki is already moving faster than everyone else, irritation practically radiating off him in waves while sparks crackle faintly against his palms. The familiar sight hits somewhere deep in your chest with painful precision.

God.

There he is— Still carrying himself like the entire world personally offended him for existing.

And somehow you still love him enough it makes you feel sick.

You wonder briefly if he knows.

If he’s always known and if so, why he’s denying it.

Maybe that’s what made the breakup so unbearable in the first place. Katsuki understood exactly how much power he had over you, and every time he got scared of needing someone that badly in return, he lashed out before you could hurt him first.

________

The robbery cleanup drags longer than expected.

Statements. Damage reports. Civilians needing reassurance. Media helicopters circling overhead long enough to become irritating background noise.

By the time everything finally settles, the sky above Musutafu has turned that heavy shade of black and blue. The streets are quieter now, washed silver beneath streetlights while exhausted civilians slowly reclaim the sidewalks. Neon signs remain glowing in the background of it all.

Katsuki feels wrung out.

Not physically, though. Physically he’s fine. His heart, at least, has finally stopped palpitating. It’s everything else which isn’t his heart that's clawing at the inside of his chest that’s making him tired.

After an agonizing thirty minutes of broken communications on splitting the bill with everyone else, he gets dragged into easy conversation.

“Alright, alright,” Kaminari groans dramatically while stretching his arms over his head. “I’m officially declaring tonight cursed.”

“You declare everything cursed,” Mina replies instantly.

“Because everything is cursed.”

Kirishima snorts beside them while Izuku adjusts the strap of his gauntlets. “At least nobody got seriously hurt.”

“Yeah,” Katsuki mutters distractedly, digging his car keys from his pocket.

His mind hasn’t stopped replaying the familiar sound of your voice through your conversation for the past twenty minutes. The kind of familiar that dug straight under his skin and stayed there.

Katsuki hates how much those words affected him. Hates that part of him wanted to turn around and ask what the hell that tone meant after everything that’s happened between you before leaving for his hero duties.

Instead, he shoved it down where everything else goes. The pit of his dropping stomach.

The group behind him, after enthusiastically rejoicing and pleading for even a sight of his car, reaches the parking structure entrance together with him, footsteps echoing faintly through the concrete levels while fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Mina’s still talking about how good the food was. Kirishima’s half-listening while Denki complains loudly about tomorrow’s paperwork.

Normal. Everything feels painfully normal again.

Izuku has already left to chase after Ochaco. Katsuki gets to go home with one less friend to lash out on and half a heart.

“Later, man,” Kirishima says to a far away Izuku raising a hand.

Katsuki barely listens while waving him off with a lazy flick of his hand.

Then he sees you. And every thought in his head immediately cuts clean in half.

You’re standing beside his car. leaning against it casually. Not waiting in some cinematic pose.

Just there.

Hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket while cool garage lighting spills softly across your face. You look tired now. More tired than you did at dinner. Hair slightly messy. Faint smudges of eyeliner still near the corners of your eyes.

Real. That’s the first thing that hits him. Just you. Waiting for him.

Kirishima notices you first from the whole group.

“Oh, hi.”

Mina stops talking.

Denki’s eyes widen slightly before darting rapidly between both of you like he accidentally walked into live explosives.

Katsuki’s pulse kicks hard once against his ribs and his neck.

You look at him quietly before speaking.

“…Can we talk?”

Simple words. Calm voice. And somehow they hit harder than that joke of an argument earlier.

Nobody moves for about two seconds. Then Katsuki clicks his tongue sharply without taking his eyes off you.

“Oi.”

Kirishima straightens immediately. “Yeah?”

“Get lost.”

Denki nearly chokes.

Mina looks openly offended. “Wow? Rude.”

“I said leave.”

“Actually,” Kaminari says nervously, already backing away, “I think that’s a fantastic idea.”

Kirishima hesitates longer.

Katsuki notices it instantly.

The concern. The don’t blow this up worse look sitting all over his face.

“Tch,” Katsuki mutters. “I’m not gonna start shit in a parking garage.”

“That’s not super reassuring when you phrase it like that,” Mina says.

You huff out the faintest breath beside the car—almost a laugh.

The sound catches Katsuki off guard badly enough that his eyes flick toward you automatically. Because he forgot for a second what it sounded like when your amusement wasn’t forced. He’s forgotten what it was like when he used to make you laugh, being so caught up in the destruction of it all.

Kirishima notices too. Something in his expression softens before he finally sighs heavily and throws his hands up. “Alright, alright. We’re leaving.”

“But if either of you commits emotional crimes,” Mina warns dramatically while walking backward toward the elevator, “I’m intervening.”

“You say that like you’re emotionally qualified to help anybody,” Katsuki shoots back automatically. “Or like you have to wait around here.”

“See? This is why therapy should be mandatory for heroes!”

The elevator doors of the garage close over the sound of Denki cackling.

And then they’re gone.

Silence settles almost immediately afterward. Not awkward exactly.

The parking structure hums quietly around you both, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead while distant traffic echoes faintly from outside. Somewhere farther down the level, water drips steadily from a pipe into concrete.

Katsuki shoves one hand into his pocket to stop himself from fidgeting.

You still haven’t moved from beside his car.

Up close now, he notices the exhaustion sitting beneath your eyes properly. The careful composure from dinner looks thinner somehow. Like tonight finally wore through it.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then—

“You really think I hate you?” you ask quietly.

The question lands so directly he almost flinches.

Katsuki’s jaw tightens automatically. “You ignored me for four fuckin’ hours.”

“I ignored you because I was trying not to ruin my own night.”

That catches him off guard enough to shut him up briefly.

You look away first, arms folding tighter across yourself.

“I spent three years trying to get over you,” you admit quietly. “Do you understand how humiliating it is that seeing you again almost reset all of it instantly?”

Katsuki feels something sharp twist low in his chest.

Because your voice still doesn't sound angry. It  sounds like you’re simple frustrated with yourself.

“I didn’t know what version of you was gonna walk into that restaurant tonight,” you continue. “And honestly? I was scared that if I talked to you normally for even five minutes, I’d forget why we broke up in the first place.”

The parking garage suddenly feels too small, too warm. Katsuki stares at you, heartbeat starting to thud harder beneath his ribs again in a way that has nothing to do with fighting anymore. He starts thinking of every single moment today where his thoughts remained the same as yours.

You laugh softly then, but there’s no humor in it.

“And the worst part is,” you murmur, eyes dropping briefly toward the concrete floor, “I still wanted you to come sit next to me. I keep thinking I want the goodbye kiss that I never got. I can never fully leave you behind and I think it’s just because I don’t want to. Last year when you messaged me, I found myself excited at the thought of us getting back together.

The words hit him harder than any fight tonight did.

Just honest enough to split something open clean down the middle.

Katsuki stares at you like he genuinely forgot how to move for a second. Because he’d prepared himself for anger; —resentment, perhaps. Even the mischellanious instant where you’d be maybe telling him you moved on and he was pathetic for still carrying pieces of this -you- around like shrapnel under his skin.

He didn’t prepare himself himself for this right now in any of his overthinking scenarios.

You standing in front of him at nearly two two in the morning, exhausted and vulnerable and still admitting you wanted him back once too. The million dollar question is: do you still?

The fluorescent lights of the parking lot above you the two of you flicker faintly.  Somewhere deeper in the garage, a car alarm chirps once before falling silent again—Katsuki barely hears any of it.

“When I saw your message,” you continue more quietly, “I remember staring at my phone like an idiot for an hour before answering.” A weak laugh leaves you. “My friend literally had to pry it out of my hands because I kept rereading it.”

His chest tightens painfully.

Because he remembers sending that message.

Sitting alone in his apartment after patrol with alcohol burning down his throat while he typed and deleted different versions of I miss you for nearly twenty minutes before settling on something colder instead. Something easier.

“Why would you fucking unblock me?”

Pathetic.

“You sounded angry,” you admit softly. “But I still kept hoping maybe underneath it… maybe you missed me enough to try again.”

Katsuki looks away sharply, jaw flexing hard.

He did.

That’s the worst fucking part.

He remembers pacing around his kitchen waiting for your replies like his life depended on them. Remembers the stupid spike of hope every time his phone buzzed. Remembers ruining the entire conversation because the second things started feeling vulnerable again, panic crawled viciously straight up his spine and turned everything mean.

Same old him as always.

“You told me I never changed,” he mutters roughly.

Your expression shifts slightly at that. Not regret exactly. Something sadder.

“Because you hadn’t.”

The honesty stings immediately because part of him knows you’re right. Back then he’d still been treating love like a fight he needed to win before somebody could abandon him first. Katsuki drags a hand hard down his face before laughing once under his breath. Bitter. Exhausted.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Probably deserved that one.”

Silence settles again after that. Raw, void of the hostility every other silence between you tonight. However, this time, the hostility of any previous silence between you tonight, is missing. Everything is raw and open like an oozing, fresh wound.

Had that been the case, he’d known better of.

You’re still standing near his car with your arms folded tightly across yourself like you’re physically holding your own chest together. Katsuki notices your fingers trembling slightly against your sleeves.

You’re nervous.

That realization hits unexpectedly hard too. Because he also forgot what it felt like knowing he could still affect you like this.

“I hated you for a while,” you admit suddenly, voice quieter now. “Or—I tried to, at least, at least.” You shake your head faintly. “I wanted to, anyway. It would’ve made moving on easier.”

Katsuki doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t trust himself to.

“But then stupid things kept happening,” you continue, eyes unfocused now like you’re talking more to yourself than him. “I’d hear someone laugh like you at work and my whole day would get weird after. Or somebody would burn coffee and suddenly I’d remember your apartment.” Another soft, embarrassed laugh. “There’s this hero overseas that yells exactly like you during meetings. I almost walked out the first time because I started tearing up.”

Something dangerously warm starts spreading low in Katsuki’s chest.

Not ego. Not satisfaction.

Something worse—Hope.

Small and so fragile and so, so terrifying. and plainly—

You finally look back up at him then, expression open in a way he hasn’t seen in years.

“And honestly?” you say quietly, “I think part of me kept waiting for you to come after me.”

That one nearly knocks the air clean out of him.

Because he wanted to.

God, he wanted to.

He remembers standing in airports during patrol assignments wondering what country you were in. Remembers opening your chat box dozens of times— knowing which one it was simply by how many weeks ago was your last conversation— just to close it again before typing anything. Remembers seeing your name finally appear in his Instagram chat box instead of ‘User’ and feeling his stomach drop so hard he had to sit down.

But wanting something and knowing how to hold onto it were always two different things for him.

Katsuki swallows hard before speaking.

“You said you wished you never met me.”

Your face changes instantly. Pain flickers there, between your worried brows so quickly he almost misses it.

“I know.”

“You meant it?”

“No,” you answer immediately.

Too fast for it to not be honest. Katsuki would crack up a cocky smile if the sound of its admission didn’t hook directly beneath his ribs.

You inhale shakily afterward, eyes dropping again.

“I said it because I wanted to hurt you back,” you admit. “And because you’d just spent an hour making me feel stupid and calling me a liar for telling you i loved you.”

The words land heavy between you both. Katsuki feels nausea twist unpleasantly in his stomach because he remembers that night perfectly now more than any other time.

Not just the fight.

Your face.

The way you looked at him like you were begging him to give you one reason to stay softer with each other instead of turning everything into a bloodbath.

And he had spectacularly failed, spectacularly.

“You really thought I didn’t love you?” you ask suddenly, quieter now.

And since the answer to your question is humiliating, Katsuki’s throat feels tight.

“…Yeah.”

You stare at him for a long moment after that. Then you laugh again, but this time it sounds closer to heartbreak.

“Katsuki,” you whisper softly, “I moved across the world and still couldn’t stop loving you properly.”

That one hurts.

Not in a bad way.

Worse.

Because suddenly all three years between you feel unbearably visible at once. Every missed call never made. Every airport not boarded. Every message typed and deleted. Every lonely apartment. Every night spent pretending this wasn’t still sitting unfinished between you both. It never actually had to be that way. 

Katsuki looks at you standing there beneath harsh garage lighting with tired eyes and shaky hands and too much honesty spilling out at once and realizes, with horrifying clarity, that if you were to claim your goodbye kiss; if you so as kissed him right now, he genuinely doesn’t think he’d survive it quietly.

Neither of you says anything for a while after that.

The parking garage hums quietly around you, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in uneven intervals while rainwater drips somewhere deeper in the structure with slow, hollow echoes. The city outside has started slipping into that strange hour between night and morning where everything feels softer around the edges. Traffic is thinner now. The distant sounds of Musutafu blur together into something low and tired beneath the concrete silence.

Katsuki can hear your breathing.

Not because the garage is particularly quiet, but because he’s standing too close to you again after three years and his body keeps locking onto every tiny thing automatically.

The way your shoulders rise slightly every time you inhale. The faint tremble still lingering in your fingers. The exhaustion sitting beneath your eyes.

You look nothing like the polished, untouchable version of yourself he built up in his head over the past few years. Standing here now, you just look human again.

Real enough to ache over.

To you… Does he look that way too?

“Let’s go, I’ll take you home.” Katsuki shifts his weight once before dragging a hand through his hair roughly. “We should probably get outta here before Mina decides to come back and interrogate us.”

The corner of your mouth twitches faintly. “That implies she never actually left.”

“She’s probably hiding behind a concrete pillar right now.”

“She absolutely is.”

The tiny bit of shared amusement loosens something dangerously fragile between you both.

Katsuki unlocks the car with a sharp click of the key fob. Then you glance toward the passenger side before looking back at him again, uncertainty flickering briefly across your expression like you’re second-guessing whether this is a good idea.

Honestly, he’s wondering the same thing.

Because every second around you tonight has felt like standing near something unstable with no self-control left to keep his hands off it.

Still, he opens the passenger door for you anyway.

You hesitate only a second before climbing inside.

The interior of the car smells faintly like leather, rain, and burnt caramel coffee from whatever drive-through Kirishima dragged him through earlier this week. Soft dashboard lights glow low against the dark while droplets of rain slide slowly down the windshield overhead. The city reflects across the glass in blurred streaks of neon and gold.

Katsuki rounds the front of the car slowly, pulse thudding heavier with every step.

By the time he slides into the driver’s seat, the air inside already feels too warm.

You’re sitting angled slightly toward the window, arms folded loosely across yourself while the glow from passing streetlights softens the side of your face. Your makeup’s mostly worn off by now. There’s still a faint smear of eyeliner and mascara at the corner of your eye.

He has to physically stop himself from reaching over to wipe it away.

Silence settles again, but it’s different inside the car.

The enclosed space presses everything tighter together until even breathing feels too noticeable.

Katsuki rests one hand against the steering wheel without starting the engine. “So what now?”

You let out a quiet breath through your nose before leaning your head back against the seat. “I don’t know.” you sigh “I didn’t really think this far ahead.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Me neither.”

Rain starts tapping lightly against concrete again. Thin at first. Then steadier.

Your eyes drift toward the sound automatically. “It always rains when we talk about serious shit.”

Katsuki snorts softly before he can stop himself. “That’s because you always picked fights during storms.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

A small laugh escapes you then, quieter than before but real enough that something in his chest twists painfully around it. God, he missed that sound. Missed sitting beside you while conversations slipped this easily between silence and teasing without either of you forcing it.

A newer realization scares him a little; It would be so easy to fall right back into this. Too easy.

You turn toward him slightly then, knees shifting against the seat. “Can I ask you something?”

“Tch. You usually do anyway.”

Your eyes narrow faintly at the automatic attitude, but there’s no real heat behind it now. “Why didn’t you come after me?”

The question settles heavily into the space between you both.

Katsuki’s jaw tightens immediately.

Outside, headlights slide briefly across the windshield before disappearing down the garage ramp. He watches the reflections fade instead of looking directly at you.

“Didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Of course it isn’t.

You were always annoyingly good at pulling honesty out of him even when he fought it.

Katsuki exhales slowly through his nose before speaking. “Because I thought if I showed up and you looked happier without me…” He laughs once under his breath, rough and humorless. “Didn’t think I could handle that. It’d just fucking prove i’m hard to love and you’re better without me.”

The space between you afterward feels fragile.

When he finally looks over, your expression has softened into something unbearably tender.

Fuck, fuck—Fuck.

“You’re an idiot,” you murmur quietly.

There’s no cruelty in it. Maybe a tad of acceptance. A smear of sadness.

Your eyes flick downward briefly then back to his face, and suddenly Katsuki becomes painfully aware of how close you’re sitting. The center console feels too small now. The air feels thick with old history and exhaustion and everything neither of you managed to bury properly.

His gaze drops to your mouth before he can stop it.

He notices immediately when your breathing changes.

Slight.

Barely there.

But enough.

The tension inside the car shifts all at once after that.

Not explosive and immediate, like he’s used to. It’s slow and dangerous. Like something pulling tighter inch by inch.

Katsuki’s fingers flex once against the steering wheel. “Tell me to stop looking at you like that.”

Your throat moves subtly when you swallow.

“You first.”

Fuck. Shit!

The flirtiness in your tone hits him hard enough to feel somewhere low in his stomach.

Rain streaks slower down the windshield now, blurring neon lights outside into smeared ribbons of color while the heater hums faintly beneath the dashboard. The whole car feels suspended outside time somehow. Separate from the rest of the city. With nothing left to do but park at the side of the road, Katsuki swerves the steering wheel towards his new direction.

When he shuts off the engine, you’re the one who moves first.

Barely.

Just enough to lean a little closer and more tentative toward him. You’re giving him room to pull away if he wants to.

Katsuki doesn’t. Neither pull away, nor want to.

His hand reaches for your face almost automatically, rough palm settling carefully against your jaw like muscle memory never left him at all. The contact pulls a shaky breath from you instantly, and that sound alone nearly destroys whatever restraint he still has left.

He kisses you before he can think too hard about it.

And it feels exactly like coming home to something he convinced himself no longer existed.

Warm.

Familiar.

Devastating.

You make this tiny broken noise against his mouth the second the kiss lands properly, fingers grabbing instinctively at the front of his shirt like you need something solid to hold onto. Katsuki feels his entire chest cave inward around the feeling of you kissing him back just as desperately. His lips ache with buzzing numbness and he tries his very best to even remember the steps to a kiss he’s trained to fit perfectly into.

Three years of missing each other crashes together all at once inside that kiss.

His other hand slides against your waist, pulling you closer over the center console while rain drums steadily overhead. Your lips part against his almost immediately, breath shaky and uneven as the kiss deepens into something messier. Hungrier.

Katsuki kisses like he’s starving.

Always has.

Like every emotion he doesn’t know how to say properly gets forced violently through his hands and mouth instead.

You remember that instantly.

He feels it in the way your fingers tighten against him. The way your breathing starts breaking apart every time he kisses you harder. The way you lean into him like you missed this just as badly as he did.

When you finally pull back for air, neither of you gets very far.

Your forehead rests shakily against his while both of you breathe the same recycled air inside the dark car. Katsuki’s hand is still cupping your jaw. Your fingers are still twisted tightly into his shirt.

With one swift movement, Katsuki’s hand forces your jaw right into his, your lips slamming against each other's once again.

The kiss turns rough immediately.

Not careless —Never careless with you.

Katsuki’s just overwhelmed by the sheer force of finally having you this close again after years spent trying to convince himself he could survive without it.

Your breath catches sharply against his mouth when he kisses you deeper this time, fingers twisting harder into the front of his shirt while the center console digs awkwardly against your hip from how far you’ve leaned toward him. Rain continues sliding steadily down the windshield outside, blurring neon lights into streaks of gold and red across the dark interior of the car.

Katsuki barely notices any of it anymore.

All he can focus on is you.

The warmth of your mouth.

The familiar way you melt and tense at the same time whenever he kisses you too hard.

The shaky inhale you keep failing to steady every time his thumb brushes beneath your jaw.

His chest feels unbearably tight.

Because this isn’t nostalgia anymore.

It isn’t just memory. You’re actually here. Actually kissing him back with enough desperation that it almost hurts.

A strained sound escapes him before he can stop it, muffled against your lips while he pulls you even closer over the console. His hand slips from your jaw into your hair, fingers curling carefully at the base of your neck like he physically cannot stand another inch of distance between you both.

You break the kiss first this time, but only barely. Only enough for more air.

Your lips still brush his when you speak.

“Katsuki—”

His name falls apart halfway through your breath, soft enough that he nearly loses whatever remains of his self-control entirely.

Because you still say his name the same way.

But now he knows it means something. He can accept it means something.

Katsuki’s forehead presses hard against yours while he tries and fails to regulate his breathing. The inside of the car suddenly feels too hot, thick with condensation and recycled air and of unresolved feelings collapsing violently into each other all at once.

“You gotta stop lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters hoarsely.

Your brows pull together faintly. “Like what?”

“Like you and i will—” He cuts himself off immediately, jaw tightening hard enough to ache.

The words refuse to come out cleanly.

You stare at him for a second too long after that, your expression softening into something that almost looks painful.

“Katsuki,” you whisper quietly, “I literally just told you I couldn’t move on.”

Yeah. He knows.

And somehow hearing it still doesn’t feel real.

“But if we y’know—now,” he coughs “maybe you’ll regret it.”

His eyes search your face automatically like he’s trying to find evidence that this is temporary. That you’ll wake up tomorrow and realize kissing him again was a mistake. That eventually you’ll remember all the reasons loving him became unbearable in the first place.

The fear must show somewhere across his expression because your hand suddenly lifts toward his face.

Your fingertips brush against the side of his jaw where the faint razor burn still sits from earlier tonight, and the tenderness behind the touch nearly destroys him more effectively than the kissing did.

“Katsuki, are you talking about sex?” you murmur softly, whispering the last word extensively. 

A weak huff of laughter leaves him despite himself. His lower lip pouts out.

“You always get this line between your eyebrows whenever you get shy like this.”

Your thumb smooths unconsciously against the spot moments later like muscle memory. Katsuki feels his stomach twist painfully around the familiarity of it.

God.

He missed this.

Not even the kissing specifically. Not even the sex. (And he’s missed these two plenty)

Just this.

You knowing him so instinctively that his body reacts before his brain catches up.

“I wouldn’t regret it. I’ve wanted it so much even though I was convinced it’d never happen again. I can’t regret doing something that I want to do.”

Your words settle heavy enough in his chest that suddenly he needs to kiss you again before he says something humiliating.

His mouth crashes back against yours harder this time.

You make another soft noise into the kiss immediately, one that sounds dangerously close to heartbreak, and Katsuki swears he feels the sound straight through his ribs. His hand tightens carefully at the back of your neck while your fingers slide upward into his hair, slightly damp strands catching between your knuckles.

The angle is awkward across the center console.

Neither of you cares.

Your knee bumps clumsily against the gear shift while Katsuki leans further toward you, broad shoulders pressing you deeper into the passenger seat unintentionally from the sheer force of how badly he’s kissing you now. Every breath between you feels uneven. Messy. Shared.

Three years disappears frighteningly fast like this. Just temporarily drowned beneath the overwhelming relief of finally touching each other again.

Katsuki feels your hand trembling slightly where it cups the side of his face.

The realization makes him pull back barely enough to look at you.

Your lips are swollen now. Eyes glassy beneath the dashboard glow while your breathing comes apart in shallow bursts that mirror his almost exactly. Then your expression shifts suddenly, something vulnerable flickering across it fast enough to make his chest tighten again.

“What if we do this again?” you ask quietly. “What if we try again and it ruins us worse this time?”

The question lands hard because it’s real. Not dramatic or hypothetical. You’re genuinely afraid. Because it’s been over three years since you’ve kissed, even more since you were intimate with each other, since you held an actual conversation.

And honestly? So is he.

Katsuki stares at you in the dim car lighting while rain taps softly overhead, your fingers still resting against his jaw like you’re scared to let go completely.

Then, slowly, he turns his head just enough to press a kiss against the center of your palm,vermillion eyes locked in yours..

The gesture feels strangely vulnerable coming from him.

“I think,” he says roughly afterward, eyes still fixed on yours, too sceptical, “it already ruined us the first time.” His thumb brushes carefully against your waist, then, sensually across your ribs “Didn’t stop either of us from wanting it again.”

It feels strangely fragile now that the adrenaline of finally kissing each other has settled slightly. Not awkward exactly. Just painfully real in a way neither of you can hide from anymore. 

Neither of you seems fully willing to let go first.

You look mentally exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones and bleeds across the surface of your skin; heart beating fast, eyes wide open and desperate. Katsuki, for worse luck despite it all, probably looks the same.

Your eyes drift downward briefly before you let out a small breath through your nose. “This is probably a terrible idea.”

Katsuki huffs quietly. “Yeah.”

“But I really don’t care right now.” you admit “do you?”

“Hell nah!”

Katsuki Bakugo Masterlist

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //

Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3

Ending his workday means going home. And if he goes home, you’ll be there. And if you’re there, he’ll be reminded of your nasty argument from the other night. And if he thinks about that argument, he’ll have to face the fact that the two of you are still stubbornly refusing to speak to one another until the other apologizes first. It’s a ridiculous standoff—an unnecessary one, and he knows it. But neither of you seems particularly interested in ending it, and now his own apartment has somehow become the last place he wants to be. Every room feels charged with an uncomfortable tension. The living room is awkward. The kitchen is unbearable. Even lying down beside you at night feels weird, so Katsuki would rather avoid the whole thing if he can help it.

If he gets home late enough, you’ll already be asleep. Then he can shower, crawl into bed, and pretend the situation doesn’t exist for a few more hours. It seemed like a solid plan in his mind, but unfortunately, thanks to fucking Shitty-Hair, he has no choice but to head home and hang up his costume. 

And judging by the lights still glowing through the windows of his apartment, his luck has officially run out. You’re still awake. Of course.

He trudges in, and there you are—sitting stiffly on the couch in the living room, staring directly at him with your arms crossed and an infuriated glare on your face as you fix him with narrowed eyes. Great.

“Do you have any fucking clue what time it is?” you hiss without missing a beat.

Katsuki should’ve known you’d start nagging the second he walked through the door. Hell, he should’ve turned around and just left the moment he saw the lights on instead of coming in.

“S’not even ten,” he grumbles, kicking his boots off. “Would you fuckin’ drop it—”

“You were supposed to be home almost two hours ago!” Your voice rings through the apartment, sharp and incredulous, and Katsuki is so tired. So exhausted. Too exhausted to deal with this nonsense right now, of all times.

“Yeah, well. Now I’m home. There you go.”

The dismissal only seems to make you angrier. Katsuki practically watches the steam start pouring from your ears as you shoot to your feet, hands planting firmly on your hips. And he just knows your voice is about to get louder.

“That’s it?” you practically screech. He fucking knew it. “You’re out on patrol for an extra two hours, and I hear nothing from you—not even a text saying, I’ll be home late. I’ve been sitting here like an idiot, wondering what the fuck happened, or if you’re okay, and all you can say is now you’re home? Do you just get off on being an asshole or something, Katsuki?”

His shoulders tense immediately as he fixes you with an equally hard glare. There goes his wish for a peaceful, conflict-avoidant night. Of course, as always, you have to drag the conflict right to him and drop it at his feet, spike his temper, and make it ruin his evening. A simple shower and a good night’s sleep was all he wanted. But things are never quite that easy—not with you.

Katsuki feels a dull throb start behind his eyes as he shoots back, “What, was your phone broken or some shit? What exactly held you at gunpoint and stopped you from sendin’ me a text and asking, huh?”

Your jaw drops. “Are you serious?”

“I’m not laughin’, am I? Definitely no jokes here.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you scowl, and he snorts. There’s no humor behind the sound, however.

“Yeah, that’s real mature.”

“Oh no—you don’t get to tell me about what’s mature and what isn’t. Cause if you wanna talk about what’s mature, it’s not disappearing for two hours and acting like I’m insane for being worried!”

“I wasn’t disappearing, I was fuckin’ doing my job.”

“You were supposed to be done with that job hours ago!”

“Well, I wasn’t!”

“You have a smart little answer for everything, don’t you, Katsuki?” you smile sarcastically, “just think you’re so smart and above it all, huh?”

Katsuki doesn’t know if it’s the headache that’s been creeping on him, or the rage, or the pure adrenaline in his system, but he does know that for a short, fleeting second, all he saw was red. 

“Holy fuck, do you ever listen to yourself?”

Your expression hardens instantly. “No, I think you should listen to yourself. You might hear an idiot if you do.”

The apartment goes quiet. Dangerously quiet. 

“You know what?” he says coldly, “forget this. I’m goin’ the fuck to sleep—I’ve dealt with enough bullshit tonight—”

You throw your hands in the air, exasperated. There is a flash of hurt on your face that makes his chest ache, but the sharp stab of pain doesn’t last for long because as quickly as his heart bleeds, his mind makes him forget. It only lets him focus on the anger and the irritation and the way you’ve ruined his night, just like you ruined the one before. 

“Every single time I tell you something bothers me, you act like it’s a personal attack, and then you just dismiss me like I don’t matter—”

“Maybe I wouldn’t dismiss shit if every conversation with you didn’t turn into a fuckin’ laundry list of grievances you got with me!”

“You only take everything I say as a complaint because you refuse to communicate!”

“Because not everything needs to be a damn discussion like we’re in therapy!”

“Right,” you laugh bitterly. “Silly me. God forbid I expect basic consideration from you.”

Something ugly flashes across his face. He knows it. Katsuki knows that when he’s mad, he turns ugly—he’s always been that way. It’s the only way he knows how to be. For the longest time, he thought you were the only person he could hide it from. That you were the only person he could fight the urge to get ugly from because you are just that special. 

But Katsuki is who he is, and he’s learned that he’s a special kind of ugly just for you.

“Basic consideration?” he barks. “You’re sayin’ I’m not considerate?”

“No, sometimes you fucking aren’t and—”

“Oh, that’s fuckin’ rich! I break my back every day keeping this city safe—”

“Well, if the city is the only thing you can be considerate for, why the fuck are you even here?”

It’s silent as soon as the words leave your mouth. Katsuki goes completely still. He can feel it the second it happens—the way his expression shuts down. The way the anger drains out of his face and leaves behind something colder. Something worse. Something so ugly, he has to get out of here before you see it and realize he isn’t worth it. Isn’t worth you. 

“Yeah,” His voice is flat. “Why am I here, right? You know, you can just tell me to leave next time, it’d be a lot fuckin’ easier for you.”

“Katsuki—”

“No.” He grabs the strap of his duffel bag that carries his guantlets from where he’d dropped it by the door, throwing it over his shoulder as he bends down to lace his boots up again.

“Katsuki, that’s not what I meant.”

“Sure.”

“I was angry—”

“Clearly, you’re always fuckin’ angry at me. I’m always doin’ something the fuck wrong, aren’t I? Nothin’ I do is enough?”

Stop, stop, stop. His mind is screaming, begging him not to do this. To get out. To leave and fight that hideous part of him down until he’s far enough that you never, ever have to see it.

“Katsuki, don’t do this right now—”

“Do what?” His voice rises more than it should. Stop—stop now. But he can’t. The ugliest of him is already taking surface and showing his truest of colors. “What exactly am I supposed to say here, huh?” You flinch. He needs to fucking stop, but he doesn’t. “Because apparently, when I stay late to save people, I’m an asshole. When I’m home, I’m an asshole. I breathe, I’m an asshole. I exist, I’m an asshole.”

“That’s not—”

“So what’s the answer?” His laugh is bitter and so, so cold that he doesn’t recognize this version of himself. Not with you. He wants to stop desperately, but he can’t. Because Katsuki is an ugly, hideous, despicable person deep down. No amount of heroism on the surface can hide that part of him that’s on the inside, not from you. “Since you’ve got everything figured out, you tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do.”

“Katsuki, let’s just sit down and—”

He shakes his head. For a second, he wants it to hurt. He wants it to hurt for you. Stop, stop, stop— “Y’know what? I’m done.”

His hand closes around the doorknob, and your voice comes out shaky and panicked as you whisper, “Katsuki, please just sit down and—”

“I’m not fuckin’ doin’ this shit anymore.”

Then he yanks the door open and walks right back out, slamming it hard enough behind him to rattle the picture frames on the wall.

────────────────────────

Katsuki is six when he first asks his father what the fuck the old man even sees in the hag that is his mother. He remembers the conversation vividly. 

“Dad, why did you marry Mom? She’s grumpy and old, and she yells all the time,” little Katsuki asks, crossing his tiny arms over his chest. “Why d’you even like her?”

Masaru nearly chokes on his tea. “Katsuki,” he coughs. “Your mother isn’t old. You shouldn’t say that—it’s rude.”

“But she is,” he huffs. “She smells like an old lady, too.”

“Well, if she’s old, then I’m even older,” Masaru points out, taking another sip. “So that can’t be a very good reason not to like her.”

“Well, she’s mean.”

“She’s not mean,” his father chuckles, thoroughly amused. 

No matter how many times he sees it, Katsuki doesn’t understand it—the way his father gets that dumb, starry-eyed look whenever Mitsuki comes up. She’s always in a bad mood, and if she isn’t, she’s probably due for one within the next thirty minutes. Why his father would choose to marry such a sour lady is completely beyond his six-year-old comprehension.

“She yelled at me this morning,” he sulks.

“You tried to use your explosions inside the house,” Masaru reminds him, leveling him with a pointed look. “We talked about that. Rules are rules for a reason, young man.”

Katsuki pouts harder. His father is supposed to take his side.

“But she still yelled. And it was mean,” he argues back stubbornly. Masaru only smiles into his tea, shaking his head with fond amusement. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Katsuki presses again, “So what do you even like about her?”

The question seems to catch Masaru off guard. He pauses, thinking. “Well,” he says slowly, “she’s funny.”

Katsuki blinks. His father cannot possibly be serious. “Mom?”

“Yes.”

“She’s funny?”

“Very.”

“No, she isn’t,” Katsuki says immediately, deeply offended by the blatant lie.

Masaru laughs, “She is.” Katsuki stares at him like he’s completely lost his mind. Masaru only smiles wider. “She’s honest, too. You always know what she’s thinking.”

“That’s because she says whatever she thinks.”

“Exactly.”

“And she says it loud.”

“That’s true.”

“She says it really loud, Dad.”

Masaru nods solemnly, sighing. “Also very true, son.”

“She should shut up,” Katsuki huffs. His father fixes him with a stern look at that, and he shrinks back just a little. 

“We do not say that about our mother, Katsuki.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes but slumps deeper into his chair all the same. “Fine.”

“Your mother is wonderful,” his father says. “She works hard. She cares about people. She loves our family—she loves us. One day, you’ll see that. And when you do, I think you’ll appreciate her a lot more.”

Katsuki picks at the food on his plate, turning the words over in his head. 

His mother does love him—he knows that much, even if she is annoying. She remembers all the snacks he likes and somehow always comes home with them without him ever having to ask. Whenever he asks for money, she gives him more than he requested—even if it usually costs him an irritatingly painful pinch to the cheek. She wakes up early to bathe him despite complaining about losing sleep because he prefers morning baths to evening ones.

His mother loves him; he knows that to be true. But it’s only true because she is his mother, and he is her son. Mothers love their sons—it’s the rules. Why his father would willingly choose to love that woman remains completely incomprehensible, however, in his mind.

“Mom is super annoying,” he says bluntly.

Masaru’s smile softens. “I suppose sometimes she can be, yes.”

“See?” Katsuki perks up immediately, his entire face screaming, gotcha!

“But,” Masaru continues, “I’m sure I annoy her, too.”

Katsuki deflates on the spot. 

More than that, he simply cannot imagine such a thing being possible. His father is calm and nice and makes good food. Katsuki thinks lots of women would like his father—women who also would not find Masaru annoying. The only person allowed to find Masaru annoying is Katsuki himself, and that’s because his father makes rules that Katsuki has to follow. He thinks he’s earned that right.

His mother, however, has no such excuse.

“She gets annoyed with you?” he asks incredulously.

“Of course. Every day, I’m sure there’s something I do that annoys her at least a little.”

“Then why does she like you?”

Masaru thinks for a moment, carefully choosing his words, trying to explain this odd phenomenon that is love. “Because loving someone isn’t about finding a person who never annoys you,” he says finally. “It’s about finding someone who still sees your value even when you’re annoying. Someone who chooses you anyway. Does that make sense?”

His nose wrinkles immediately. “No.” His father stifles a chuckle when Katsuki adds, “That sounds dumb.”

“Maybe,” Masaru hums, eyeing him with bright, endeared eyes.

“I’m not gonna marry someone annoying when I’m all big. Because I’m smart!”

That earns him a full laugh from his father. It’s the kind of laugh that makes Masaru lean forward and wipe at the corner of his eye. In fact, he laughs so hard he nearly spills his tea. “You say that now,” his father says, setting his mug down, “but that’ll change. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“No, I won’t,” Katsuki grumbles. He doesn’t appreciate that he’s not being taken seriously.

“I think you will, son.”

“I definitely won’t.”

Masaru only smiles. He looks at Katsuki the way adults always do when they think he’s young and silly and doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And Katsuki hates that look. He’s smart—excellent, even. Just the other day, he caught his teacher’s mistake during subtraction when nobody else in his class noticed. At this rate, he’s well on his way to being smarter than most adults.

He absolutely knows what he’s talking about.

“Well, we’ll just have to see, Katsuki. If I’m right, you’ll take me out for ramen someday. Deal?”

“Fine,” Katsuki huffs, puffing out his chest confidently. “But you’ll never see that ramen.”

────────────────────────

Twenty years later, Katsuki sometimes wonders if he’s going to have to admit he was wrong and take the old man out for ramen after all.

You are, without question, the most annoying, irritating, vein-popping individual he has ever met. It’s like every decision you make is carefully calculated to inconvenience him specifically.

He has to keep an extra jacket in his car because you never check the weather before leaving the house. He has to double-check your grocery lists before you go shopping because if he doesn’t, you’ll somehow forget the one thing you actually need. He has to make sure you take your vitamins. Every night, he has to remind you to take your makeup off before bed because, apparently, that responsibility has become his problem—and if you wake up the next morning with mascara smeared under your eyes because you didn’t listen to him, then somehow you still find a way to blame him for not wiping it for you.

You are annoying. Every single fucking day, you annoy him. You annoyed him yesterday. You’ve annoyed him today. You’ll annoy him tomorrow. And he’ll tell you exactly that—he’ll call you a dumbass, and tell you to get your life together. Complain about the ridiculous thing you did this time, and accuse you of going out of your way to make his life harder on purpose. But after that, despite it all, he will still love you. 

Twenty years later, now that he’s older, Katsuki realizes he understands what his father meant. That loving someone doesn’t happen because they never annoyed him—loving someone happens because they annoyed him, and he still, despite that, sees nothing but the good.

He loves you. You are annoying and drive him up a wall, but Katsuki knows that you are good. The greatest good that there might ever be, and he might have just ruined it. He probably fucked it all up and lost all the good he had. All the good he’s ever wanted. All the good that he’s wanted to keep for the rest of his life and cherish.

The second the apartment door slams shut behind him, Katsuki regrets it. He regrets being the reason behind that look on your face. That brief flash of panic in your eyes right before he left. That way that your voice sounded when you said his name.

He can’t get it out of his head as he walks out of your building. “Fuck,” He runs a hand through his hair and keeps walking.

The only friends he’d willingly see right now are working, his parents are definitely sleeping (and would ask too many questions he doesn’t want to answer, even if they weren’t), and he is nowhere near calm enough to go back upstairs and just go home.

But his patrol route is still active. So instead of going home and into bed like a normal person who has morning patrol, Katsuki leaves his apartment building behind and heads toward work.

By the time he gets suited up again, it’s almost eleven. By the time it’s midnight, he’s still out. By the time it’s 1 AM, he should call it a night.

Instead, however, he keeps moving. One more block turns into one more street. Anything to keep himself from going home or thinking about the argument. About the way you looked at him. About the things he said. About the shit he ruined for sure.

His thoughts are loud enough in his head, turning him deaf to everything else. He misses things he normally wouldn’t—things like suspicious shadows and warning shouts from another hero.

By the time Katsuki realizes what’s happening for what it is, the villain goes down easily enough—too easily. He curses himself for being so naive, so rash. He’s been fighting as a pro for years. He was a war veteran before he was even a legal adult, for crying out loud. Still, despite all that, the second Katsuki realizes something is wrong, it’s already too late.

The construction site groans around him—metal screeches against metal, and his head snaps upward. All he sees is the upper half of the structure collapsing before he loses his balance and collapses with it. 

“Shit—”

The explosion leaves his palms a fraction of a second too late, and he doesn’t go propelling forward the way he’s supposed to. The half-built building comes down, and Katsuki goes down with it. 

Then everything goes dark.

────────────────────────

It’s 2 AM when you see it on the news. Kirishima sends you a text asking if you’d heard what happened, and by the time you’ve spammed him with messages asking what the hell he was even talking about, he’s gone silent. Something in your gut knows that he’s not answering because he’s too busy rescuing. Too busy being a hero.

Your heart tells you that the person he has to be a hero to tonight just so happens to be Katsuki.

The first report you see hits the news at 2:13 AM. The anchor’s voice is as smooth and polished as ever as she delivers the words that send your whole world crumbling around you. 

“We are receiving breaking reports of a major incident involving Pro Hero Dynamight.”

The footage that floods the screen makes you fall to your knees and muffle your sobs behind a shaky palm—collapsed concrete and emergency responders and heroes rushing in and out of the wreckage. The camera zooms toward the ruined construction site, and Katsuki’s body is nowhere to be seen on the screen. You don’t quite know if that’s a good thing or bad.

“Dynamight was reportedly responding to a villain incident when a structural collapse occurred. We are told he is trapped beneath the rubble. Emergency responders are currently on the scene, conducting rescue operations.”

At 2:37 AM, the hospital gives you a call as his emergency contact. You’re sick to your stomach, not sure how you’ll make the drive there when Kirishima finally texts you again.

Kiri <3: I already told his parents. They’re on their way so don’t worry about it Kiri <3: One of my sidekicks is outside your apartment. They’ll drive you down there Kiri <3: I still have to handle the aftermath and finish patrol so I won’t be there I’m sorry Kiri <3: Keep me updated?

You: Don’t apologize Kiri idk what I’d do without u You: Thank you and pls be safe You: I’ll lyk things as soon as I find out

Kiri <3: Take it easy okay? Kiri <3: He’s come back from worse. It’ll be alright

——

Kirishima’s sidekick gets you to the hospital efficiently, but you are still at your wits’ end by the time you can rush out of the passenger seat and bolt through the sliding doors.

Some part of you is grateful you didn’t have to drive here yourself because you know you would’ve sped dangerously over the limit, missed half the red lights, and probably would’ve gotten yourself pulled over. At the same time, you wish you could’ve been the one behind the wheel, just to get here faster.

“I’m here to see Kats—um, Dynamight,” you say in a rush. “Dynamight…I meant Dynamight.”

The woman at the front desk looks at you with a raised eyebrow, already typing away at her screen as she blandly says, “Valid ID, please.”

You curse under your breath, fumbling through your purse for your wallet, and then fumbling through your wallet for your ID like your hands suddenly don’t belong to your body anymore.

When you practically shove it toward her in your haste, she takes it too calmly for your racing heart and inspects it for a moment. Then looks at her screen. Then back to your ID. Then she types for what feels like an agonizing eternity before she finally hands the card back and says, “Fourth floor, room twelve. He’s stable, but he has some serious injuries that they’ll have to monitor and heal slowly due to his stamina—”

You’re already moving before she finishes. You’re bolting toward the elevators, heart slamming so hard it hurts. The ride up to the fourth floor is torturously slow. When you finally get out of the elevator, you’re halfway down the hallway before you even register the security guard stepping in front of you.

“ID.” Again. Of course. You suppose it is a good thing security is tight for the pro hero unit—even if it does add to your piling weight of anxiety. When you clumsily pull it yet again, he checks it for another cruelly long stretch of time, glancing between the card and the device in his hands before finally saying, “Go ahead.”

You’re already moving.

By the time you reach room twelve, your hands are shaking so badly you can barely hold yourself still. For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. Would Katsuki even want to see you? Is he fed up with you? Would you just make his already terrible night even worse?

You aren’t sure.

You don’t know why you’re in the predicament you’re in right now. You don’t know how you got here or why things escalated the way that they did. You don’t know what you do wrong to push his buttons the way you seem to, to upset him the way that he gets. You think you’re doing the right thing—that you’re doing what’s right for both of you—but somehow, you always seem to mess it up. Always seem to say the wrong thing. Always seem to ruin whatever good the two of you have managed to build between you.

But you love Katsuki, and if nothing else, you know that he loves you too, and you need to see him. So you force down the bile in your throat and push the door open. The first thing you notice when you see him is the bandages wrapped tightly around him. One arm heavily secured in a cast. Gauze lining his shoulder and collarbone that makes your stomach drop in a sick, immediate lurch. Machines hum quietly beside him, keeping track of his vitals.

You never see Katsuki hurt like this—he’s always been practically invincible when he’s on the field, always taking things down before they have a chance at even touching him. And then your brain, cruelly, supplies the thought: but he is not invincible. Not always.

“Katsuki,” you whisper, eyes already welling with tears.

He’s looking at you the second the door opens—but his tired eyes soften with relief, just a little, when they land on you. “You came,” he says, voice rough.

“Of course I came,” you say, sharper than you mean to. How could he think you wouldn’t? How far have you let things go that he could genuinely believe you wouldn’t show up for him? “What the hell happened?”

He sighs, almost embarrassed. “Just…work ‘n shit.”

You sniffle, and he lifts his good arm toward you. That’s all it takes. 

You’re at his side in an instant, squeezing into the small space beside him on the hospital bed and curling yourself against his chest. You’re careful not to disturb any of the machines surrounding him, but you can’t stop thinking about how wrong this feels. How you shouldn’t be the one being comforted right now. How he’s the one lying in a hospital bed, yet somehow he’s still the one rubbing your back and soothing your tears.

“I thought you were gonna die,” you sob. “I—I saw the rubble, and Kiri stopped texting back and...and I thought you got crushed.”

“M’not fuckin’ dying, babe,” he huffs, sounding mildly offended. “A stupid building isn’t killin’ me. That’s a dumbass way to go.”

“You don’t know that,” you shake your head. “You can’t promise that.”

“Listen—”

“And I was sitting there watching the news and thinking the last conversation I ever had with you was that stupid fight,” you continue, looking up at him with trembling lips.

His eyes soften. “I know, but—”

“And I don’t care about the argument anymore,” you say, your voice shaking harder now. “I don’t care about being right or winning or being apologized to first—I should’ve texted you, you’re right. You...you probably felt like I didn’t care, but I do. I care so much, and I love you more than anything.”

You take a breath that does absolutely nothing to steady you. Katsuki is trying to wipe your tears away with one weak arm.

“I love you too—”

“I just want you to talk to me,” you sob. “I know I’m annoying, and I nag and scold and get onto you all the time, and I’m trying not to do that as much—really, I am! But I just...I wish you’d tell me things, too. Y’know? I am the one person you’re supposed to do that with, Katsuki,” you add, your voice cracking all over again. “But sometimes, it feels like I’m the last person you want to do that with.”

His expression tightens. “That’s not—”

“And I want us to work because I’ve never liked someone so much—it stresses me out. Because I love you and I want this to work, and the thought of it not working makes me so anxious I wanna throw up, and...and you act like talking to me is harder than getting crushed under a fucking building—”

“Baby.” He squeezes your cheeks together and silences you as he pulls your face closer, pressing a kiss to your puckered lips. “You talk a lot, y’know that?”

You huff at him immediately, tears spilling down your cheeks even faster. “That is so rude, given the—”

“I’m sorry about the fight,” he interrupts. You pause, and he takes the opportunity to keep going, despite looking painfully uncomfortable the entire time. “And for...walkin’ out ‘n shit. That was fucked up. I don’t talk to you like I should. You’re right. S’weird for me, and I hate it sometimes. I don’t know how to just...say shit like you do. Okay?” He sighs. “But m’gonna try more because you’re right—I need to talk to you. But you gotta get outta your head so much—” He gives your forehead a small jab with his finger. You sniffle and swat his hand away with a watery scowl. It earns the faintest grin from him. “We’re gonna work,” he says. “’Cause we do. That’s all there is to it, okay?”

“But—”

“No buts,” he grumbles. “My ribs hurt. Jus’ let me be right.”

A watery laugh escapes you as you shake your head, cupping his bandaged face between your hands. “You’re really annoying sometimes, Katsuki.”

“Yeah,” he rolls his eyes. “So are you. Still love you, though.”

“Me too,” you breathe, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “Love you so much.”

He pulls you back down against his chest again, rubbing your back as you listen to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. You trace small patterns into his shirt. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. And things are okay—they are not beyond repairing. You’ll inevitably annoy him tomorrow, and he’ll annoy you the day after that, but you’ll still work. You will still find a way to keep things good the way they always are.

After a few quiet moments, he mumbles, “Hey.” When you look up, he says, “When m’all healed and shit, you gotta force me to go grab ramen with my old man. On me.”

────────────────────────

Katsuki waits almost a month after being discharged from the hospital before he finally makes the call. He’s been trying to stall it for as long as possible, but Katsuki, even at the tender age of six, has always been a man (or boy) of his word. He’s standing alone on the balcony outside his apartment with his phone pressed to his ear, wondering if it’s too late to hang up before the call goes through.

It rings twice. Then his father’s voice is as gentle and cheery as ever. “Katsuki!” Masaru answers immediately. “Hi, son!”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey.”

His father laughs. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I got discharged, didn’t I? S’been a whole month.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re sounding just like your usual self,” his father says. Katsuki can hear the smile in his voice. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’.”

“Katsuki, you never call for just nothing.”

He groans, rubbing a hand over his face with a sigh—it’s now or never. He can’t keep stalling, and Katsuki is, and always has been, a man of his word. If he promised his father ramen over a stupid bet he made twenty years ago, then he’s going to get his father that ramen. Even if it kills his pride. Demolishes it, even.

“Listen, I was thinkin’...maybe we could grab food sometime.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Masaru hums. “Let me ask your mother when she’s free and—”

“Not the hag. S’just you,” he cuts in, rubbing at his temple.

“Oh?” Masaru sounds amused. “Well, okay. I suppose it’d be nice to spend some time as just father and son. What kind of food?”

Katsuki pinches the bridge of his nose. Just say it. Just fuckin’ say it, his mind urges. Just rip the bandage off and say it. Say it. Say the damn word—he grits his teeth and forces out, “Ramen.”

There’s a pause on the other end. The silence stretches on long enough that Katsuki’s eye twitches.

“Ramen, huh?” Masaru finally says, and the way he says it makes a vein all but pop in Katsuki's forehead.

“Old man,” he says warningly, “don’t push it—”

He’s cut off when Masaru starts laughing. “I was wondering when this day would come.”

“Hah? You really kept that shit in your head for twenty years?”

“Of course I did. It was one of my favorite conversations I’ve ever had with you.”

“Why? ‘Cause you love bein’ fuckin’ right all the time?” Katsuki grumbles.

His father’s voice softens as he says fondly, “No. I just wanted you to find someone who made you as happy as your mother makes me. That’s all I wanted, son—for you to understand what being happy is like.”

The conversation is getting oddly sentimental, taking a turn that makes his chest feel strange, and his heart feel far too fragile. He hasn’t felt like this since after the war, and he doesn’t intend to sit with it any longer. So he mutters, “I still think Mom’s annoying. She yelled at me last week, so she never fuckin’ changes.”

Masaru laughs again. “No, she doesn’t.” Then, after a moment, “So, how does Saturday sound for some ramen?”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“Will my son be paying?”

Katsuki regrets this call more than anything when he says, “Yes. I’m fuckin’ paying.”

“You know, son,” Masaru murmurs, making Katsuki pause, “I’m glad you get it now. You’ve grown into a fine man.”

Katsuki swallows hard. He turns, eyeing you as you sleep soundly in your shared bed, hugging his pillow to make up for his absence. He can only hope that his father’s words are true—that he is a fine man to you, the way his father always has been to his mother. His eyes never leave your figure as he mutters, “Yeah, well…s’not like I had a bad example or somethin’.”