Could it be worse?

The night took King's Landing without warning, swallowing the last amber light from the hills and settling over the Red Keep like a burial shroud. Its corridors, restless all day with servants and knights, were devoid of any human interaction, until the only sound were shadows.

The heavy wooden door of the small council room closed beneath Baelor's back, a deaf thud echoing in the empty stone corridors. With his books and parchments tucked safely under his arm, he sighed with relief as he walked back through his chambers, exchanging polite glances with the guards on duty.

He was tired, and his features were so weathered that he looked older than his years. Being an heir to the Iron Throne was a duty and a burden he had learned to bear like armour from the age of ten and four. Serving as Hand of the King had honed his skills further, hardening his mind and steeling his resolve in ways that childhood never could. State affairs were thorny by nature, tangled up in ambition, mistrust and the ever-present threat of ruin, and no matter how great a king was, he needed men of sound judgement standing beside him.

Baelor had seen with his own eyes how power could corrupt a man's mind, in the same way a wounded soldier become attached to the milk of the poppy — clouding his judgement, making him believe he was omnipotent. When greed threatened to stain the values of nobility and chivalry, someone had to take on the onerous task of being a moral compass to restore balance for the well-being of the realm. Baelor was that kind of man.

Yet, despite his mind failing to acknowledge it, the comfort of his private quarters was a well-earned balm for his weary soul, lifting his spirits and restoring the youth that his duties had hidden from him for so many years. There, he would be cared for properly, with slender hands gently rubbing his worn cheeks and the soft scents of gillyflower, lilac and lavender filling his nostrils and dancing pleasantly around him.

When Baelor opened the door to his chambers, he was greeted by the sweetest vision: his beloved wife, wrapped in a silky nightgown and blankets, with her curls loose and a book on her lap. He watched with awe and amusement as your face scrunched up in concentration — a side of you that was both adorable and endearing.

He tried to take his steps as lightly as possible, being careful not to break her concentration. But the echo of his footsteps was enough to make you look up, your eyes tender as they rested on him.

"Forgive me, my wife." Baelor began, leaving his heavy pile of books on the table behind. "I did not want to be a nuisance to your evening reading."

You blinked at him and lifted the corners of your mouth into a timid smile. "You are never a nuisance," you said, meaning it without reservation. You shifted in bed and gently tapped the covers. "Come, I have felt your absence since this morrow."

Without thinking, Baelor's body was pulled towards the bed. Once his boots had thudded to the ground, he climbed onto the bed. You felt the bed dip under his weight, and then his warmth and tiredness enveloped you. Your faces were so close that your breaths mingled and emerged together.

His lips met yours in a sweet, lingered kiss which carried all the guilt he felt in that moment — the reluctance to leave you alone, surrounded by nothing but servants and ladies-in-waiting, the knowledge that he was depriving you of his warmth and love for the sake of the realm.

When he pulled back, his eys fell to the book you had abandoned, its pages open and unhurried. The handwriting was neat, glyphs and accents were eerly familiar to him: he remembered when in childhood he used to read those pages along with his brothers, admiring Aerys' steel memory, inviting Rhaegel to read with him and gently admonishing Maekar's indulgence in learning. It made him raise an eyebrow in delight.

"High Valyrian." the Prince of Dragonstone hummed, his calloused fingers tracing the words of his pages with surgical precision. "Not many outside this family bother with the old tongue anymore."

Your eyes are saddened at his casual declaration, catching that hint of nostalgia in his tone. "It is still part of your family's tradition." You retorted in such an innocent and honest way Baelor felt warmth blooming in his chest. "I married you, it is my duty to honour every tradition that is yours."

Baelor snorted through his broken nose, genuinely touched by your devotion. "You don't need to learn an extinct language to honor me and my family." pulling you close and trailing his lips along your exposed collarbone. "High Valyrian belongs to royals and dragons, and unfortunately the latter has been absent from this world for far too long."

Your eyelids fluttered, breath uneven as you leaned your head back, allowing him to indulge in your skin for as long as he wanted. "Yet, the blood of the dragon still runs through your veins," you replied earnestly. "They may have gone forever, but your House still honoured them by the banners they proudly show in every corner of the castle."

You managed to free yourself from his grasp, shifting the book on your lap and lying down in bed, holding your head with one hand. You stretched out your other hand towards him, inviting Baelor to lie down next to you; your touch and the pull were both delicate.

"I would like you to speak in High Valyrian, my heart." you murmured, your gaze locked with his. "Maekar has told me how you were impressively fluent in your youth."

A light chuckle escaped Baelor's lips, clearly unimpressed by his brother's unpredictability. "Maekar always says things to flatter me, mind him less," he murmured. "I did spoke few words in High Valyrian, albeit only for academic purposes."

"But if you wish," Baelor continued, sighing as he felt the tiredness draining him, "I could teach you a few words. But you must forgive your dear husband. The council has been quite demanding."

Despite swallowing the protests down your throat — it wasn't rare for you to see Baelor so fatigued —, the stubborn part of you longed for his touch and his warmth. It had been too long since you last lay together, and his planned visit to Dorne would considerably increase the physical and emotional distance between you: soon, you would wake up alone in a cold bed, haunted by the ghost of his presence.

You let your stubborn side get the better of you and prevented Baelor from surrendering to slumber.

"Kostilus, Baelor," you murmured softly, closing the distance between you, "Vīlīts… nyke āo emba… ragon bisa bantis." (Please, Baelor. Let me take care of you tonight.)

Baelor listened silently as you spoke High Valyrian for the first time, a glint of pride crossing his dark eyes. Your words were marked by a rough, foreign accent typical of non-native speakers. Yet the courage you showed in learning his native language released something inside him that he had not realised was tied up. He had been fluent out of duty his entire life; until now, he had never been spoken to so softly in his mother tongue by someone who had chosen to learn it.

The candles were the only lights allowed in your chambers, softening the Hand's features. Baelor reached out to you, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. "You impressed me," he said, expression stoned in wonder. "However, I must admit that there are some pronunciation errors. A princess who wants to learn such a noble language should not fail in these flaws."

A little smirk curved the corner of your lips, amused by his boldness masked by his composure. "Then it will be your burden to teach me, ñuha vala ābrazȳrys." (My lord husband.)

There was something in the lightness of your tone, in the way you batted your eyelashes in such a feigned innocence that made his eyes darken with desire. A crack had begun to splinter through his apparent earnestness under the warmth of your teasing.

A long silence passed between you, broken only by the soft guttering of the candles. Baelor's hand remained still against your hair, then trailed down your cheek and jaw until his thumb traced the soft, plump contour of your lower lip.

It had been so long since he had seen you like this: completely vulnerable by his side and eager to please with aching tenderness. Baelor had never forced himself on you, nor had you done the same. Your love was like a fairy tale, beginning against the odds and culminating in the birth of two well loved sons.

Baelor leaned towards you, eyes darkened with desire and shining with trepidation. His lips curled, the sounds coming from your throat made your body shiver. "Gevie."

"What word is this, my prince?" you whispered softly, eyes half closed.

"It means 'beautiful'." Baelor explained kindly, foreheads touching. "And I meant any word of it. Your beauty has never stopped flourishing, not since the first day you were brought to this court, not through a single season that has passed since."

He carefully intertwined his fingers with yours, bringing your palm near his lips and lingering there. "Nyke jēda dēvī māzīnon, se pōnta āo nyke dōratas."He whispered, and something inside you snapped. He pronounced every word with the confidence of a scholar, rolling the "r" deliciously on his tongue. He spoke words that had no meaning for you, but which seemed full of devotion and love. (I will always be thankful to the gods, for they gave you to me.)

Slowly, the control you both struggled to maintain snapped clean in two. You surged forward and he met you halfway, his hands finding your face with a certainty that undid you entirely. The book laid forgotten in your bed, mind too clouded from lust and desire as your lips met together in a heated kiss.

Your lips both moved in unison, fastly and with a rising urgency, as if you both tried to revive all the intimacy lost, when duties weren't suffocating and Valarr and Matarys were nothing but distant memories.

The kiss became sloppy, Baelor's teeth nibbling your lower lip and the tip of your tongue timidly teasing his, asking for indulgence inside his mouth. Baelor gently approved, and soon your tongues met in a languid, unhurried dance. You cradled the nape of his neck with one hand, pressing him close to you, while the other hand rested steadily on his chest, feeling his racing heartbeat beneath your palm. Baelor's hands steadied on your waist, his fingers dipping into your silk and flesh. His grip was bruising, but not enough to hurt you: you knew that tenderness was the defining characteristic of your intimate moments together, and Baelor was the epitome of chivalry, even in bed.

The kiss broke between ragged breaths, his forehead touching yours as he prepped the tip of your nose. "Ābra qelbar pōntys." He ordered in High Valyrian, fingers slowly unfastening the laces of your nightgown. (Remove your clothes.)

Soon, your nightgown pooled on your knees, exposing your holy flesh under the gentle candlelight and pale rays of moonlight. Baelor felt his mouth go dry and his eyes widen in admiration at your beautiful body, which was still stunning despite the flaws and stretch marks you had acquired during your two pregnancies.

"Gevie." The prince repeated, lips trailing down your body, kissing your cheeks, jaws, collarbone and every inch of your breast. One hand gently squeezed one breast while his mouth captured your hardened nipple, licking and sucking it without hurting you, his teeth nibbling it gently.

You struggled to keep your breath steady, throwing your head down and hitting the pillows as you squeezed your legs, feeling the heat blooming at the pit of your lower abdomen.

"Baelor," his name escaped your lips like a prayer as your slender fingers trailed over his short hair and tugged it gently. This made Baelor groan against your skin, but he didn't stop what he was doing. Once he felt his breeches were too tight, he stood up and took off all his clothes, leaving them on the ground along with your nightgown.

He still had an impressive body, each scars and bruises forging the royal knight he became. His broad chest was a map of all his victories, each scar a word in a language written in iron and endurance. You had seen men proud of such marks, quick to recount the battles behind them. Baelor wore them silently, the way he wore most things with the dignity that made him beloved by his family, nobles and small folk.

One of your fingers traced the scar on his hand, which he received while fighting in the Battle of the Redgrass Field. Although losses were heavy to bear, it was a decisive victory against the rebel branch of the Blackfyre. Baelor never spoke proudly of how he and Maekar had led their army; he kept the memory of the fallen allies inside him, a burden he still struggled to release completely.

"Gevie...?" you asked tentatively in High Valyrian, afraid that calling a war scar beautiful might offend him. Fortunately, Baelor smiled and nodded in devoted silence, leaning close again to capture your lips in a more tender, less heated kiss.

Your body tensed as you felt his thick head pressing against your velvety folds, a mixture of whimpers and moans escaping your lips without your consent. This made Baelor freeze on the spot, his hands cradling your face as he searched for any sign of discomfort.

"Was it too much?" he whispered, earning a shake of your head as a reply.

"It is just…" you said, lowering your gaze as your cheeks turned red for embarrassment, "it has been so long, Baelor. I am afraid my body is not as accustomed as it was before."

There was no accusation in Baelor's face, just pure love and understanding as he kissed your brow. "Then I will be gentler than I have been during our first nights."

He drew back to look at you fully, his thumbs brushing your cheeks with a patience that made your eyes sting unexpectedly. "There is no hurry," he said softly. "There never was."

And he kissed you again and waited, with all the stillness of a man who has learned that some things cannot be taken, but only received.

When he felt you relax under his touch, he began moving again, slowly entering you. At first, your eyes squeezed shut as your lower body burned, adjusting to a stretch it had not experienced since your last conception. But the pain soon faded, replaced by a pleasant warmth as you looked at him, silently begging him to move.

Baelor's hips moved in a slow, steady rhythm. The pleasure was so intense that it made you roll your eyes back: you forgot how much you had missed him. It wasn't just this; it was the warmth of him, the weight of him, and the devastating patience with which he loved you.

You dug your fingers into his hair, and he breathed out slowly and deeply against your skin. You pulled him closer, afraid that if you loosened your grip, even slightly, he might come to his senses and pull away. Instead, he let you wrap your legs around his waist, pressing his body close enough to reach places inside you that he had long forgotten.

A low, guttural groan left his lips, the sound so deep you thought a true dragon was fucking you. "Ñuha zȳhon riña", he switched back to High Valyrian, his face hidden in the crook of your neck as he slowly fastened his pace, leaving a trail of hisses or holding your hands, his way to take care of you during the lovemaking. "Ñuha brȳzȳna hāedar. Ñuha gaoma."(My beloved, my beautiful wife, my everything.)

"Baelor." you whispered, moaning and whimpering as you felt your body bouncing against his, the bed creaking beneath your weight. One of his hands trailed down to your abdomen, rough palm flat against your womb, the one he once accommodated Valarr and Matarys' lives.

"Skoros brȳzȳna kessa," the Prince said, voice filled with awe, "se bantis hen zaldrīzes sagon." (How beautiful would it be, to have another dragon in the family.)

Your mind was too busy processing your building climax to grasp the meaning behind your husband's words. Now, the only language your body understood was his: the press of his hand against your abdomen; the steady, devastating rhythm of him; and the low sound he made against your throat, which you felt more than heard.

His name left your lips one final time, broken and breathless, and then the world came apart at the seams. Baelor followed shortly after, his forehead dropping to yours as he emptied inside you with hot white ropes, impregnating your womb once again, with the same innocence as the first time.

Baelor collapsed next to you, bodies still tangled as his arms squeezed you in a delicate embrace, kissing your sweaty temple and rubbing the small of your back soothingly. You waited for your body to stop shaking and for your breathing to stabilize before looking him straight in the eyes.

"Those words… what did you say?"

Silence followed, Baelor's gaze lost in thoughts as a hum escaped his lips. He then looked at you, his gaze intense on you. "I said that it would be wonderful to welcome a new little dragon into our family."

His lips brushed against yours, a featherlight touch that made your skin tickle, giggling in reply. "Perhaps the gods will give us a girl. As brave and beautiful as her lady mother."

You hid a smile against his shoulder and felt him smile against your hair in reply, are entirely yours.

"Then the gods had better listen," you whispered. Baelor pressed his lips to your brow and held them there, a long and wordless promise. "They will," he said simply.

And in the warm, guttering dark of your chambers, with his arms around you and the night spread soft and endless outside your window, you felt safe and content in his embrace.

now he knows you’re doing this on purpose, after looking around the street to check if anyone else notices you, the man does stare. he stares and doesn’t look away. your naked upper half for him and him only.

he inhales deeply when your hand brushes over your perked nipple. chews on his lip when you pinch one. he forgets completely why he has driven to this area in the first place when your hand splays across your stomach.

he’s not sure why he’s been given this show. why he’s been chosen this random morning when he’s just supposed to be doing his job. the gift of seeing a beautiful woman’s body.

it’s risky, inappropriate and erotic. especially, when you decide to drop the robe to your feet and reveal yourself completely to this stranger outside your apartment. he knows he’s not supposed to see this, you know you’re not supposed to be exposing yourself but your hand dips into your open tub of cream and you smother the white all over your arms. down the length of one, then the other.

it’s a rather methodical process, a boring one you dread and wish it wasn’t necessary when you came out the shower. but this man still hasn’t shifted from his spot. his eyes are unable to be pulled away from you. another dip in the cream and you’re rubbing your chest. your stomach. your body is catching a glow from the sunshine and you’re golden every time your body shifts and contorts. back bending to rub cream into your shins, then your thighs. kneading your flesh because the result requires this daily effort.

when you are finished, after a show of ensuring all is absorbed into your ass cheeks, you wonder if he too is aroused. this stranger standing by his car. if his cock is hard against his shorts. you can only assume shorts in this weather because he is still behind his car. you can guess his height since you can see the majority of his upper body.

you wonder if he finds you attractive. doing your daily morning chore, now sexual with the eyes of a voyeur. or perhaps the attraction is in the fact that this isn’t something that is allowed and upon noticing him staring you should have slammed your curtains shut.

though he is still there. unmoving minus his mouth. his teeth sunk into his bottom lip. then his tongue running across it. tongue poking his cheek and his upper lip brushing against his septum.

you cock your head at him, then grab panties from your drawer. it’s one of your normal hipster navy pairs. nothing sexy about them unless you make it so. you shimmy your hips when you pull the fabric up and you spot a clean tee to throw on top. so girl next door. you want to believe you look like a fantasy. it feels like you are from how he’s yet to do a thing. so you wave.

three waves of your hands back and forth and it is only when your hand is down that his rises. he gives you two waves, then his hand drops.

that seems to wake him up. as if he realises you are in fact real and he is alive. he can now feel the burn of his cheeks and the vibration of his phone in his pocket. you think he is reading something on his phone. he shoves the device away, then circles his car to make his way to your apartment building.

shorts. he’s wearing shorts. you wonder if he’s crazy, if he’s about to find you, search every floor for your door and if your show was an invite for more. it wasn’t. you don’t think it was?

he’s gone. you pull on some shorts of your own.

it’s about ten minutes later and somebody knocks on your door. you’re flicking your radio to put on some music whilst you start your breakfast. you enjoy choosing the station but not the songs like those apps.

you swing open your door. careless. not closing your curtains and not checking your peephole. it’s the guy from outside. up close and personal. though less personal than when he was across the street.

he doesn’t expect it to be you. you can tell from how his eyes widen and his mouth drops. same plush lips. the berry red of his cheeks have sprung back, or maybe never left.

“oh, shit, oh… i didn’t think…,” voice gruff, every word slightly mumbled. he’s looking at your clothes like he’s shocked they’re there. like he’s used to them being off.

“your neighbour isn’t in.” he completes.

you blink a few times, then reply, “really? she’s elderly, she rarely leaves unless she’s going to the bodega.”

he’s attractive. blonde, which isn’t your type but everything else he’s got makes up for it. stubble across his jaw. biceps the size of your head. you wouldn’t predict that he’d be nervous.

“fuck,” he sighs, rubbing his forehead roughly. you notice the scars on his hands. “she must have forgot i was seein’ her today.”

“what’s it for?” you reply, because now you’re curious.

he doesn’t seem like he’s lying about wanting to see your neighbour, but you don’t know the guy.

“i’m a hero, i do checks on citizens if they were about during an attack.”

that wasn’t what you were expecting. it does, however, explain the scars and the build. you wonder what colour his eyes are behind those sunglasses.

“oh. well do you have a business card? you can pop it in her letter box or i can give it to her when i see her next.” you offer.

“yeah, i’ll do that.”

he nods like a solider, grabbing his wallet from his pocket and grabbing two from the sleeve. one for your neighbour and one for you.

“you’re beautiful. i dunno if you do what you did to everybody—,” you gasp like you’re the pinnacle of innocence, “but, fuck.”

“i don’t.” you blurt like you need to defend yourself and it’s the right time for him to pull of his glasses. pretty ruby gems meet your eyes. you can’t sense any judgement from him.

you’re rewarded with a slow smirk. so slow that he manages to bite it down half way. “i’m not sayin’ you wanted anythin’ from me but if you ever do, then here’s my number.”

you snatch the business card out of his hand. it’s that expensive card with pointy corners and rough, reminiscent of the tree it came from. he is a hero, that wasn’t a lie. you get his hero name, his real name, an email address and a phone number.

“huh.” you breathe, “and if i happened to want anything… this won’t go to your receptionist? i assume you have one?”

he shakes his head, a little amused. “i have one but it’s my personal number.”

“okay.”

he allows the smile to break out. all sharp canines and a singular gold tooth. did he break a tooth or is it purely cosmetic? you’d love to know how it will feel against your tongue.

“nice.” he replies, then backs away from your door. “see you later possibly. i’ll be back in a few days again for your neighbour so you don’t think i’m a stalker. i can take rejection.”

that makes a laugh burst out of you. “okay.” you repeat because what else is there to say.

“good.” then he begins to walk down the corridor, “see you. possibly.”

“see you.”

Your voice felt heavy, weighted by all the unsaid things that had been piling up between you two.

He did this often— finding reasons to blame you for the tiniest things.

You didn’t know which part of him urged it. Was he stressed about his hero work? Upset over something you had missed? Or did he just… like to push your buttons? You didn’t know. And you probably never would, because every time you tried to get him to open up, he reminded you of how sensitive you were, how “fragile” your feelings could be and how you were the one pushing him.

“If I don’t deal with it now, I’ll just have to hear you complain about it later. Spare me,” he grumbled, finally taking the turn towards his house.

You stayed quiet.

His voice wasn’t harsh this time, but it carried a certain fatigue, like he was tired of everything— including you.

His words lingered in your mind, cutting you like ice. Your voice barely above a whisper, you asked, “Am… Am I a nuisance for you, Katsuki?”

“What? I never said that.” He stole a quick glance at you, but your head stayed turned towards the window, tracing the blurred city lights as they rushed past.

“You don’t need to say that. It’s just… obvious you think like that,” you murmured, almost too quietly for him to hear.

“Hey, don’t put words in my mouth—”

“If I can’t even tell my partner about my worries, or my day, or anything that happens to me… then what is even this? A relationship is based on communication, Katsuki.”

You paused.

A shudder ran through your chest.

“…Sure, I tell my friends stuff, we keep in touch, but I want you to know too. I want you to know what I’m feeling… what I do… but you… you clearly see it as tiring. Like me talking your ear off,” your voice cracked on the last words, sharp and high-pitched, the knot in your throat growing heavier.

“You don’t really need to tell me every small thing—”

“I don’t need to do this, do that, you’re never happy with what I do!” you snapped, and the words hung in the air, jagged and raw.

“It’s just—”

“Take me home,” you cut him off, your voice trembling.

He exhaled sharply, jaw clenching.

After a few moments, he took another turn, changing the course.

“I don’t even have any damn clothes at yours,” he muttered, voice low and annoyed.

His comment got under your skin.

“You don’t need to stay. You can go back to your place,” you said quietly.

“The fuck?” His confusion was quick, but there was a pause, like the words had hit him harder than he wanted to admit.

“I need to be alone,” you clarified, swallowing hard, the words scraping your throat on the way out.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeve, nails digging in like you needed the pain to ground yourself.

“Because of some bullshit?” Katsuki scoffed, a sharp, humorless sound. His grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as he leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Come on. Since when did you become so sensitive? This is literally why we fight every fuckin’ minute.”

He frowned, jaw working like he was chewing on the rest of his words, eyes flicking towards you— searching — but you kept your gaze locked on the window, watching your reflection blur and disappear between passing streetlights.

“You think I like this?” he continued, voice rising despite himself. He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging at it in frustration before letting it fall back to the wheel with a dull thud.

“I’m tired too. I’m not used to this—” his breath stuttered, anger slipping into something rougher, rawer, “—but you want so much from me. All the time. It’s makin’ me fuckin’ crazy.”

The car filled with the sound of his breathing, uneven now, chest lifting hard under his shirt. He glanced at you again, a bit longer this time, irritation mixing with something he didn’t have the words for.

“Hey—” His voice dropped, losing some of its bite, rough around the edges. “Would you look at me at least?”

You still don't answer.

His jaw tightens, loosens, tightens again. His thumb taps against the steering wheel once. Twice. The engine hums steadily, streetlights flashing across his face in harsh, uneven intervals.

The tapping turns into a sharp flex of his fingers. He exhales through his nose, annoyed, restless. Silence— your silence— has always done this to him. He doesn’t know how to fight it. Doesn’t know where to aim.

“Tch,” he clicks his tongue, glancing at you again. “You gonna say somethin’ or just keep starin’ at the fuckin’ window?”

You don’t answer. Your lips stay pressed together, breath shallow, eyes unfocused on the blur of asphalt and neon signs outside.

That does it.

“Fuck—” He jerks the wheel slightly, irritation flashing hot and sudden.

Without warning, he signals and veers off the road, like his life depended on it. He quickly pulled the car into the closest parking lot. The tires crunch softly against gravel as he parks too hard, the car rocking once before going still.

The engine keeps running.

You blink, confused, your body lurching forward slightly with the stop. Your head turns towards him instinctively, brows knitting together. “What—?”

Katsuki kills the engine.

He turns to face you fully now, one arm slung over the steering wheel, the other clenched tight against his thigh. His expression is sharp, eyes burning, chest rising faster than before.

“No. We’re not doin’ this shit,” he says, voice low and strained. “We’re gonna talk about this.”

For a second, you just stare at him.

Then you laugh.

It slips out broken and breathless, halfway between a sob and something hysterical. Your shoulders shake as tears finally spill over, hot and unstoppable, blurring your vision as you lift a hand to your face.

“Oh,” you choke, laughing through tears, disbelief cutting deep. “Oh— now you want to talk?”

The laugh collapses in on itself, turning sharp, breath hitching painfully in your chest. You scrub at your face with the heel of your palm, like you can wipe the moment away, but the tears keep coming anyway— spilling, burning, relentless.

“What about all the times I wanted to talk?” you demand, your voice climbing despite your attempt to rein it in. Your hands come up, fingers splayed, shaking in front of you like you don’t know where to put them. “The times I begged you to listen to me?”

Katsuki stiffens, shoulders pulling tight, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

“What about the times I asked you to open up?” Your chest heaves as you lean forward, the seatbelt biting into you. “I was right there. I waited. I tried to be patient, tried to understand, tried not to push—”

Your hand curls into a fist and comes down against your thigh, once, hard. The sting barely registers.

“But now,” you laugh again, wet and broken, shaking your head in disbelief, “now you suddenly want to talk because you feel like it?”

You turn to him fully then, eyes red and shining, tears clinging to your lashes. “Now it’s important to you?” Your voice cracks on the word, splintering. “What about when it was important to me?”

Silence slams back into the car.

Katsuki’s jaw clenches so hard it looks like it might break. His hand tightens on the steering wheel again, leather creaking under his grip. He drags in a breath through his nose, sharp and shaky, like he’s trying to keep himself from exploding.

You shake your head slowly, shoulders curling inward now, the anger draining into something rawer. Smaller. “You don’t get to decide when this matters,” you whisper, the words landing heavier than the shouting did. “You don’t get to ignore me until I stop talking and then act like that’s the problem.”

Your hands fall back into your lap, trembling, fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes as if holding onto yourself is the only thing keeping you upright.

Katsuki opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

For once, it’s him who doesn’t know what to say— and the realization hits him hard, settling heavy in his chest as he stares at you, finally seeing just how long you’ve been screaming into the void.

And this time… he can’t pretend he didn’t hear it.

Katsuki doesn’t snap back this time.

He just… stops.

The anger drains out of his face slowly, like someone pulled the plug on it.

His jaw works once, then stills. He stares at the dashboard instead of you, eyes fixed somewhere just past the speedometer, like if he looks at you any longer something in him might give way.

Your words replay in his head, ugly and unavoidable.

What about when it was important to me?

His grip on the steering wheel loosens, fingers trembling before he clenches them again— harder this time, nails digging into the leather like he’s trying to punish himself. His chest feels tight. Too tight. He drags in a breath, but it sticks halfway, sharp and unsteady.

Fuck.

He swallows, throat burning. There’s a pressure behind his eyes he doesn’t recognize at first— until he does, and the realization makes his teeth grit together in panic. He blinks once. Twice. Like that’ll make it go away.

It doesn’t.

He turns his head slightly, just enough to look at you from the corner of his eye. You’re curled in on yourself now, shoulders hunched, hands clenched in your lap like you’re holding something together that’s already splintering. And it hits him— harder than anything you said.

You look tired.

Not angry. Not dramatic. Just… worn down.

And that’s on him.

“Fuck…” he mutters under his breath, the word coming out rough, wrecked. His hand leaves the steering wheel, dropping uselessly to his thigh. He rubs at it once, like he doesn’t know what to do with it, then stills.

You were right.

About all of it.

He had been a jerk. Short-tempered. Self-centered. Acting like your patience was infinite, like you’d always be there no matter how often he brushed you off, snapped at you, made you feel like you were asking for too much just by wanting to be heard.

Like you were the problem.

His vision blurs for half a second and he sucks in a sharp breath, jaw tightening as he leans back in his seat, staring up at the dark ceiling of the car. He presses the heel of his hand into his eyes, hard— too hard— like he can physically force the feeling back down.

Saying sorry feels useless now.

So he doesn’t.

He reaches for the key instead.

The engine turns over, loud in the cramped space, the sound filling the gap where words should be. He grips the steering wheel again, tighter than before, knuckles pale.

“I’ll take you home,” he says at last.

His voice is flat. Controlled. Too controlled. Like if he lets even one more thing slip, the whole damn thing might come apart.

He pulls out of the parking lot without waiting for a response, eyes fixed on the road, jaw set hard. The streetlights streak across his face again, but now they catch the tight line of his mouth, the tension in his brow.

It’s not dismissal.

It’s retreat.

And you feel it— that this is all he can give you right now. Not an apology. Not reassurance. Just the act of getting you where you asked to be, because staying here any longer might force him to admit something he’s not ready to face.

The car moves forward.

But something between you has already shifted, cracked open— and both of you know what will happen once your ways part.

The ride home is silent.

Not the sharp, tensed kind that follows a fight— but something emptier. Like the air itself has been scooped out of the car, leaving behind only the low hum of the engine and the steady slide of the city passing by.

Katsuki drives with both hands locked on the steering wheel, posture rigid, eyes fixed forward. He doesn’t look at you. Not once. Streetlights streak across his face in pale flashes, catching the tight line of his mouth, the tension pulled hard across his shoulders.

You sit still, hands resting limply in your lap.

Your chest aches, but it’s a distant pain now— muted, like your body already knows there’s no point in reacting anymore. Somewhere between a red light and the familiar turn onto your street, the truth settles in with a quiet finality.

This is the end.

Not because of tonight alone. Tonight was just the moment you stopped holding it together by yourself. You think of all the times you fought for this— how often you explained, waited, softened yourself, carried the weight of both of you just to keep things from falling apart.

You were tired. Just like him.

You wanted too much, but he could only offer so little.

Your building comes into view, grey and familiar, and your stomach drops anyway. Katsuki slows the car and pulls up to the curb. The engine idles.

He says nothing.

So do you.

You reach for the door handle. The click sounds louder than it should. Cold air brushes your face as you step out, grounding and cruel all at once. You shut the door quietly— too quietly. Like you don’t want to disturb something that’s already dead.

You take a step towards the entrance.

Then another.

You don’t hear his door open. No footsteps behind you. No voice calling your name.

You don’t look back.

Inside the building, the door closes behind you with a soft, final thud. The sound echoes down the empty hallway and your legs give out, your back pressing against the door as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Your breath breaks.

The sob comes out of you all at once— sharp and ugly, tearing through your chest as your hand flies to your mouth, trying and failing to keep it quiet. Your shoulders shake, knees weak, tears spilling faster now that there’s no one to hold them back for.

There’s no one left to fight for this.

The realization hurts more than anything else.

You fought enough. You waited. You bent. You carried patience like a burden and called it love. And when you finally put it down— when you went quiet, when you stopped trying to fix what wasn’t yours to fix—

Everything ended.

Because you were the one holding it together.

And without you carrying the weight, there was nothing left to save.

You slide down the door slowly, curling in on yourself as the crying takes over, the hallway empty, the night outside still moving on without you.

And somewhere, a few streets away, Katsuki is still sitting in his car—

but you don’t know that.

Every muscle seizes at once, like his nerves have been hijacked, like someone flipped a switch inside him and turned him off. His boots scrape uselessly against the pavement as dizziness slams into him hard enough to make his vision tilt. 

What type of fucking quirk was he hit with?

Paralysis? Poison? Some kind of suppression quirk?

Fuck.

The main villain has a quirk that tears through defenses, the other with a reverse gravity quirk but there was one still lurking—one with an unknown ability that just struck him—and he has absolutely no fucking idea what it’s doing to his body. 

He only knows his muscles have locked, his limbs won’t obey, and he cannot spark his quirk no matter how hard he tries. Panic claws up his spine, ugly and feral, because he knows what this battlefield is like and he knows what villains do when they spot a weakness. And right now, he’s a liability.

What if they notice he’s down? What if the others—especially the unknown one that just hit him—go for you next? What if he’s stuck here, frozen and useless, while someone lays a hand on you? 

The thought makes his vision blur white around the edges, rage and terror boiling so violently it almost cuts through the pain, because he can feel himself being broken from the inside and all he can think is you, you, you.

A high pitched ringing floods Bakugo’s head, drowning out explosions, shouting, everything but the sound of his own pulse. His head tips back without his permission, teeth clenched so hard his jaw throbs. He refuses to fall, refuses to give them that.

No.

Not like this.

He might feel like he’s dying right now, body betraying him, but he’ll be fucking damned if he lets that be the end.

He clenches his fists so hard his nails split skin, sharp pain blooming in his palms as he tries to force his quirk to answer him. Anything. A spark. A flicker. He thinks of you like a prayer he is screaming into the void, again and again, your name beating against his skull in time with his heart. He thinks of surviving. He thinks of standing up. He thinks of getting back to you.

Please. Please. Please.

Time stretches until it feels wrong, thick and suffocating, like he is drowning upright. His lungs burn. His vision swims. And then something snaps.

The screaming starts.

It’s a raw sound tearing itself apart on the way out, and Bakugo knows that sound before his brain can catch up. His eyes fly open so hard it hurts, tears stinging instantly as his body is fucking finally wrenched free from whatever trance it was locked inside.

The battlefield reforms around him.

The villain stands a few feet away.

And you are in his arms.

For a split second, Bakugo’s mind flat out rejects it as he desperately tries to rearrange the image into something that makes sense, he tries to fix the picture or even swap you for someone else. Anyone else. 

Except it’s really you. The villain has you in his arms and Bakugo can do nothing about it.

The villain’s fingers dig into your jaw, cruel and possessive, forcing your head back. Your hands claw weakly at his wrist, boots scraping uselessly against the pavement.

“No,” Bakugo says, or tries to. It comes out shredded, swallowed by the ringing still screaming inside his skull. “Put her down,” he chokes. “Put her the fuck down.”

He tries to move. His legs buckle. His quirk sputters uselessly, a dead thing in his veins. Panic detonates in his chest so violently he thinks it might split him in half.

The blade starts dragging.

Bakugo watches it happen in slow, merciless detail. The metal presses in, dimpling skin for half a second before dragging. Blood spills immediately, hot and dark, soaking through your costume, pouring down your chest, splattering onto the ground in thick, obscene drops that look impossibly loud.

“No,” he gasps, stumbling forward on useless legs. “No no no no—wait—wait—fuck, please—”

Your mouth opens like you are trying to say his name.

Nothing comes out.

“Don’t,” he begs, panic slurring his words. “Please don’t. I’m right here. I’m right fuckin’ here! Take me, not her!”

The villain lets you drop like discarded trash, your body hitting the ground with a loud thud, your head rolling away into the dirt like it never belonged there in the first place. Bakugo can’t stop staring at how still you are, how your chest doesn’t rise, how there’s so much blood.

He lunges.

Or tries to, except nothing happens.

His legs lock up completely, knees shaking so hard they almost give out. His hands jerk at his sides, sparks sputtering uselessly, his quirk dead and silent like it abandoned him too. His heart slams against his ribs so violently it hurts.

“Move,” he snarls at himself, teeth clenched so tight his jaw aches. “Move, you piece of shit. Fuckin’ move!”

The villain laughs loudly at him. 

“Too late,” he says, already fading, his body dissolving into black smoke. 

“No!” Bakugo screams, the sound cracking straight down the middle. “Get back here. Get the fuck back here. I’ll kill you. I’ll tear you apart. I swear to god I’ll rip you fuckin’ limb from limb.”

The villain disappears completely.

Bakugo barely registers it as he runs towards your fallen body and drops to the ground.

The scream that tears out of him does not sound human. It rips straight from his chest, raw and ruined. He slams to his knees beside you so hard it rattles his bones, gravel biting into his skin as his hands hover uselessly over your body.

His hands press to you, frantic and clumsy, smearing blood everywhere. His palms come away slick and red and there is so much of it that his vision swims.

So much red.

“Oh god,” he sobs, breath shuddering violently. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. There’s so much blood. Why is there so much fuckin’ blood?!”

He presses harder, hands trembling as if pressure alone might undo what just happened, like he can shove life back into you by force.

“Breathe—shit, please,” he begs, forehead dropping to your chest. “Please breathe. C’mon. C’mon, baby. You’re strong. You always get up. You always get back up, okay. Please.”

He sparks again, desperately, blindly, explosions popping uselessly around his palms.

“I’ll blow the whole fucking field apart,” he cries. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll quit. I’ll stay home. I won’t fight anymore. Just wake up, baby.”

His hands come away slick and red and he loses it.

A broken, hysterical sound tears out of his chest as he collapses over you, gripping your uniform in his fists like he’s drowning.

“Please,” he sobs into the dirt. “I can’t lose you. I can’t fucking do this again.”

His forehead presses into the ground beside your shoulder, body shaking uncontrollably.

“You can’t fucking die on me, you brat,” he whispers frantically. “I swear I’ll protect you. I won’t hesitate. I’ll kill anyone who looks at you wrong. Just don’t be gone.”

His voice drops to a hoarse, broken whisper.

“Don’t leave me alone,” he begs. “Please.”

***

The battlefield is chaotic when it happens.

Smoke, fire, ice splintering the ground, pros shouting orders you can barely hear over the roar in your ears. You spot Katsuki across the street just in time to see him stiffen, eyes rolling back as his body goes eerily still.

“Katsuki!” you yell, already moving.

You sprint for him, dodging debris, heart slamming against your ribs hard enough it hurts. Shoto and Midoriya surge past you toward the villain, Aizawa snapping his capture weapon through the air as he shouts something you don’t catch.

You grab Katsuki by the arms.

He is rigid and completely unresponsive.

“Katsuki?” you say again, panic clawing up your throat as you shake him. “Hey—hey, look at me. What’s happening to you? Katsuki, please.”

His eyes are open but empty, staring straight through you like you are not even there.

Your grip tightens as your vision blurs. “Please wake up,” you sob, words tumbling over each other. “Please. Oh my god, please. Bakugo, look at me. You’re scaring me! Please.”

He doesn’t move.

Behind you, someone screams.

You turn just in time to see the villain tear free of Shoto’s ice, black mist already curling up his arm as he looks straight at you. Your stomach drops. You barely have time to shove yourself in front of Katsuki before he raises his hand.

The mist engulfs you.

It is cold and burning all at once, sinking into your skin like ink, and the world tilts violently as the sound cuts out.

Your last thought before everything goes dark is his name, tearing through you as you’re suddenly locked out in a trance.

-

-

-

Your eyes open to silence.

You suck in a sharp breath and push yourself upright, heart already racing as your gaze snaps around in frantic, searching sweeps.

“Bakugo!” you call, voice echoing too loudly. 

Nothing answers.

A cold dread slides down your spine as you stagger to your feet. Just moments ago the street had been alive with motion, heroes shouting, quirks detonating, concrete shattering beneath ice and smoke. Now the city looks abandoned, buildings gutted and split open, cars overturned and burning low, ash drifting through the air like dirty snow.

“Katsuki?” you try again, louder now using his name, desperation creeping into your voice. “Where are you?”

Your breath fogs in front of you, the air suddenly icy against your skin. That is when you hear it.

At the far end of the street, the wreckage rises like a burial mound, concrete slabs crushed together and metal spears jutting at every angle, cars folded into themselves, smoke drifting through the air, and your body moves before your mind can argue, boots slipping on glass and oil and blood as you run, lungs screaming, heart hammering so violently it makes your vision pulse.

The smell hits you halfway there.

Blood, sharp and metallic, layered over burned fabric and scorched flesh, and bile floods your throat as you stumble to a stop.

Bodies are everywhere.

They are crushed beneath rubble, impaled through the torso by twisted rebar, half buried with limbs sticking out at angles that make your head swim, fingers broken backward, bone split through skin, faces frozen mid terror and half erased by debris, and your hands curl uselessly at your sides as your breath starts to come too fast and too shallow.

A familiar strip of fabric catches your eye and your knees nearly give out.

Aizawa’s capture scarf is tangled around a broken beam, stretched tight like it tried to drag him free, soaked so thoroughly with blood it looks black.

“No,” you whisper, the word barely surviving your throat. “No, no, no.”

Your gaze keeps moving no matter how hard you try to stop it.

Shoto’s hero suit peeks out from beneath cracked concrete, white fabric stained dark red and brown, his arm bent wrong at the elbow, fingers curled like they froze mid reach. 

Farther back you see green fabric burned and shredded beyond recognition. Midoriya’s costume scattered in pieces, his mask warped and melted, a single glove lying empty on the street like something discarded without thought.

Everyone you’ve ever loved lies there dead in a pile.

Your gaze keeps moving, frantic and unwilling, until it lands on him.

Katsuki lies a few feet away from the pile, his body twisted on the asphalt like he was thrown there without a second thought. He is still breathing, shallow and wet, soft whimpers slipping past his lips with each broken inhale.

You don’t remember hitting the ground. You just know you are suddenly there, knees slamming into the street so hard it hurts, hands shaking as they hover uselessly over him.

He is covered in blood.

Too much blood.

Stab wounds tear across his torso and arms, fabric shredded and stuck to skin, some shallow and angry, others deep enough that you can see muscle split open beneath them, and bullet holes pepper his side and stomach, dark and leaking steadily, the blood pooling beneath him and spreading outward, soaking into the cracked pavement.

Your hands shake violently as cold creeps into your fingers.

You don’t want to touch him.

You have to touch him.

Then you see it.

A thick metal rod juts straight through the center of his chest, driven clean through him, pinning him to the ground like an insect. Blood bubbles weakly around the entry wound every time he tries to breathe.

“Oh my god,” you sob, hands finally finding him, pressing uselessly against his chest, his shoulders, anywhere you can reach. 

“Help is coming,” you sob even as the street stretches empty around you. “I promise, I promise it is, just don’t let go, just stay, okay.”

His eyes flutter open, unfocused and glassy, struggling to find you. His mouth moves, blood staining his teeth as he drags in a rattling breath. 

“Quit—quit cryin’.” he rasps, the words barely there. “M’right here.” 

You shake your head violently, tears spilling down your face as your hands clutch his, fingers numb with cold and fear. “Don’t talk, don’t move, please, Katsuki, please don’t leave me, I can’t— can’t do this without you, I can’t.”

His fingers twitch weakly around yours, grip faltering. “Always… makin’ a mess.”  he breathes, a ghost of his usual bite slipping through. 

His breathing stutters. His eyes lose focus, staring past you into nothing.

“Katsuki…” you choke, shaking him gently, then harder. “No. No, look at me. Look at me!”

His hand slips from yours.

You press two fingers to his neck, panic screaming through your veins as you search for a pulse that never comes. His chest goes still. The whimpers stop.

He is gone.

Your scream tears through the empty street, raw and animal, ripping itself out of your throat until your voice breaks. You cling to his body, rocking back and forth as sobs wrack you, blood soaking into your clothes as you cling to him like you can somehow force him back into existence.

Footsteps crunch behind you.

You whirl around, vision blurred with tears, fury igniting through the grief as the villain approaches, black mist coiling around his limbs like a living thing. You snarl and try to rise, ready to throw yourself at him with everything you have left.

The mist slams into you, pinning you in place, crushing your chest until you can barely breathe.

You scream and thrash uselessly as he laughs, the sound echoing and cruel.

“Look at you,” he taunts, circling slowly. “So helpless. Everyone you love is dead, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

Darkness takes you hard and fast.

You barely have time to register the movement before pain explodes at the side of your head, white and blinding, and the world cuts out like a switch flipped.

***

When you wake up, the light is the first thing that hits you.

It is painfully bright, glaring straight down from above, bleaching your vision until tears sting behind your eyes and you have to squeeze them shut again. Your head throbs in time with your heartbeat, every pulse sharp and insistent, and for a few seconds all you can do is lie there and breathe through the ache.

Then the sound reaches you.

A steady, rhythmic mechanical beeping cutting through the fog in your head.

You turn your head slowly, neck stiff and sore, and your eyes land on the heart monitor beside the bed, green lines spiking and dipping in an even pattern. Tubes snake from your arm, an IV taped in place, and the sterile smell finally clicks; you’re in the hospital.

The realization settles in your chest, and then everything else crashes back in all at once.

The bodies. The blood. Katsuki in your arms, broken and bleeding, his eyes going empty while you begged him not to leave. The villain’s laughter ringing in your ears as the world ended around you.

You gasp sharply and jerk upright with a broken cry, hands flying to your chest as the monitor explodes into frantic, rapid beeping. Panic floods you, hot and suffocating, and you claw at the IV lines without thinking, yanking at the tape as tears spill down your face.

“No, no, no,” you sob, fingers shaking violently as they fumble for the IV, ripping at the tape without thinking. “I survived. I survived and everyone’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead, he’s—”

Your breath stutters and catches completely, chest heaving uselessly as black spots swarm the edges of your vision.

The door slams open.

“Hey, stop, stop, easy,” a voice snaps urgently as two nurses rush in, hands closing around your wrists, trying to keep you from tearing the lines free. You thrash weakly, panic lending you strength and stealing it at the same time, tears streaming down your face as your lungs refuse to work right.

“I have to go,” you choke, words tumbling over each other. “Please, I have to see him, I have to, he can’t be alone, I can’t—I can’t breathe—”

A familiar hand settles on your shoulder.

“Look at me,” Aizawa says, his voice low and steady in a way that refuses to bend to your panic. “You’re in a hospital. You’re safe right now.”

The nurses work quickly, reattaching the IV, adjusting the monitor as you shake beneath their hands. You sob uncontrollably, fingers curling into the sheets as the panic slowly loosens its grip enough for you to actually see him.

Really see him.

You stare at Aizawa, mouth parted, chest hitching. He is standing there. Breathing and uninjured except for bandages and exhaustion etched deep into his face.

“You,” you whisper hoarsely. “You’re… alive?”

He pauses, glancing briefly at the nurses before looking back at you. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I am.”

Your hands won’t stop shaking.

The blanket is twisted tight in your fists, knuckles white, chest hitching like you forgot how to breathe properly. Your eyes burn. Your throat feels raw, scraped empty from screaming yourself awake.

“How,” you choke out. “How is this possible? I saw you. I saw everyone. You were all there and then you were all…”  Your voice breaks completely. You swallow hard, trying again. “You were all dead.”

He pulls a chair closer and sits, resting his elbows on his knees. “It wasn’t real,” he says, voice low and steady. “None of it was.”

You shake your head immediately, too fast, too desperate. “No. Don’t lie to me. I felt it. I felt his blood on my hands. I felt his pulse stop.”

“I know,” Aizawa replies gently. “That’s exactly why the quirk is so dangerous.”

Your stomach twists, nausea rolling through you as he continues.

“The villain you encountered has a hallucinatory quirk,” he explains. “When activated, it forces the target to experience their deepest fear. Not just see it, but also live it. Your brain doesn’t know the difference, so it fills in every detail; sound, touch, pain, even loss.”

Your breathing comes in broken gasps, each inhale sharp and shaky, your body trembling like it does not trust his words.

“You need to breathe with me,” he tries to calm your panic, unflinching. “In through your nose. Slow. Out through your mouth. You’re spiraling.”

You try, even as your chest rebels, breath stuttering and uneven, tears dripping down onto the sheets.

“I can’t,” you whisper hoarsely. “I can’t stop seeing it.”

“I know,” he repeats, softer now. “But you’re not there anymore.”

The door opens again, more carefully this time, and a familiar, hesitant voice slips into the room.

“Um,” Midoriya says, and your head snaps toward the sound like you’ve been struck.

He stands just inside the doorway, arm in a sling, face pale and drawn, eyes red-rimmed like he has been crying for hours, but very much alive. He freezes when he sees you sitting up, shaking and surrounded by nurses.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he says, voice breaking slightly. “I-I was worried I missed it.”

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out at first. Your chest tightens again, panic threatening to surge back, and a strangled noise slips out of you.

“You’re not..?”

Midoriya shakes his head quickly, stepping closer. “N-no. I am okay! We all are. Bakugo, too. He’s hurt, but he’s alive, I promise. He kept asking about you.”

Alive.

Your hands clutch the blanket as your shoulders fold inward, a sob tearing out of you so violently it makes your whole body shake. The nurses ease their grip as your panic shifts into something rawer, grief and relief crashing together until you can barely stay upright.

Aizawa steadies you again. “There it is,” he murmurs. “That’s the truth.”

Midoriya hovers awkwardly at the side of the bed, eyes shining. “I thought… I thought we lost you,” he admits quietly. “When they brought you in, you weren’t waking up and I just—”

You shake your head weakly, tears still falling as your breathing finally starts to slow, uneven but real. “I thought you were all gone,” you whisper. “I watched it happen.”

Aizawa exhales slowly. “We’re all okay, no one is hurt, and you’re safe,” he says. “That’s what matters right now.”

You nod faintly, exhaustion crashing over you as the adrenaline drains, your body finally realizing it is no longer in danger, even if your mind is still catching up.

“I need to see him,” you say, voice shaking but fierce, the words scraping their way out of your throat. “Right now. I need to see him breathing. I need to see him.”

Before anyone can stop you, you swing your legs over the side of the bed, heart slamming wildly against your ribs as dizziness washes over you.

Aizawa’s hand comes out immediately, firm but careful as he stops you. “You can’t.”

You snap your head up, panic flaring sharp and sudden. “Why?” you demand, breath hitching. “Why not?”

Midoriya stiffens beside the bed, eyes flicking to Aizawa, then back to you, his hands twisting together nervously. “Bakugo woke up before you.”

Your stomach drops.

“And the first thing he saw,” Aizawa continues, “was an empty bed.”

Your chest tightens painfully, the air feeling too thin again.

“We told him you were in surgery,” he says. “But the quirk hadn’t fully worn off yet. He thought…” Aizawa pauses, jaw tightening. “He thought you were dead.”

Midoriya steps closer without thinking, voice cracking as he adds quietly, “He was really scared. I’ve never seen him like that. He kept asking where you were, and he even exploded the heart monitor when the nurses tried to calm him down.”

Your vision blurs, tears burning hot and fast.

“He panicked,” Aizawa says. “Tried to use his quirk. Tore his stitches and nearly reopened internal injuries. We had to restrain him before he hurt himself worse.”

You shake your head helplessly, a soft, shattered sound slipping out of you. “He thought I was gone?” you whisper, the words barely holding together.

“He didn’t believe us when we said you were alive. He just kept screaming that we were lying.” Midoriya says, swallowing hard.

Your throat closes completely.

“So we sedated him,” Aizawa finishes. “For his safety. And yours.”

Tears spill freely now, silent and unstoppable as they track down your cheeks and into your hair. “I should be with him,” you whisper. “He shouldn’t wake up alone. He shouldn’t ever think I left him like that.”

“You won’t,” Aizawa says immediately. “He’s in the room next to yours. Medical staff are with him at all times.”

Midoriya nods quickly. “I stayed until they made me leave,” he adds. “He’s not alone. I promise.”

“When he wakes up,” Aizawa says, stepping back toward the door, “we’ll explain everything. And then you can see him.”

You nod shakily, wiping at your face with the back of your hand, your voice barely holding steady. “Okay. Okay. I can wait.”

Then, quieter, almost breaking, “Please don’t let him wake up thinking I’m gone.”

Aizawa pauses with his hand on the door. “I won’t,” he says. “I promise.”

You sink back against the pillows, body trembling as the weight of it all finally settles. Katsuki is alive. You are alive. The nightmare is over, even if the fear still clings to you like smoke.

Sleep takes you before you realize it has, exhaustion pulling you under like a tide you no longer have the strength to fight.

***

You do not know how long you have been out when the sound hits.

An explosion cracks through the air somewhere down the hall, rattling the walls hard enough to jolt you awake with a gasp. Your heart leaps straight into your throat as the echo fades, replaced almost immediately by shouting. Nurses calling for help. Footsteps running. Alarms begin to scream.

Aizawa jerks awake in the chair beside your bed, already on his feet.

“Stay here!” he says sharply, already moving for the door. “Do not get up.”

The door swings shut behind him.

Your chest is tight, breath coming fast and shallow as you sit there, staring at the wall. The sound of the blast is still ringing in your ears, familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop.

That sounded like him.

He is alive. He is okay. He is not hurt. Nothing is wrong. 

You repeat it to yourself like a mantra, but the noise outside only grows louder, more frantic. Someone yells Bakugo’s name and the word hits you like a punch to the ribs.

Your hands shake as you throw the blanket aside.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed and stand, dizziness washing over you hard enough that you have to grab the rail. You barely notice the pull of the IV as you start ripping the tubes from your arm, panic drowning out the sting.

“I have to see him,” you whisper, fingers fumbling clumsily with the tape. “I have to. Please.”

The door opens again and you spin around, heart hammering wildly, only to find Aizawa stepping back inside with Kirishima and Midoriya right behind him.

Kirishima looks tense, jaw clenched, eyes wide with worry, but it is Midoriya’s face that makes something cold twist in your chest. He looks shaken, eyes rimmed red, hands curled tightly into the fabric of his sleeves.

“What’s going on?” you blurt, voice cracking despite your effort to keep it steady. 

Kirishima glances at Aizawa, clearly unsure how to answer, while Midoriya opens his mouth and then closes it again, swallowing hard.

Aizawa sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Bakugo woke up.”

You shake your head immediately, tears welling before you can stop them. “I need to see him. Please. I need to see him.”

Midoriya steps forward without thinking, his voice tight but earnest. “He’s really upset,” he admits softly. “He thought… he thought something happened to you.”

Aizawa nods. “The doctors think it’s best he sees you. Proof that you’re alive.”

Relief and fear crash into each other inside your chest so hard it almost knocks the breath out of you.

“But,” Aizawa adds firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument, “you both need to take it easy. No arguing, no yelling, and no talking about what you saw in the hallucination. If either of you starts spiraling, this visit is over. Understand?”

You nod quickly, wiping at your face with trembling hands. “I understand. I promise.”

Kirishima steps forward and offers you a steady hand, his grip warm and grounding. “C’mon,” he says gently. “He’s two doors down.”

Midoriya falls into step on your other side as you move into the hallway. Your steps are slow and unsteady, your body still shaky as adrenaline and fear churn together in your veins.

Kirishima stops just short of the door and turns to you, his voice dropping low, careful, like he is afraid to break something fragile.

“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s okay. Just… go easy on him, yeah?”

Midoriya nods beside him, eyes flicking to the door before returning to you. “He’s been really scared,” he adds quietly. “Seeing you will help. I know it will.”

You nod, throat too tight for words, fingers curling around the door handle as if it might disappear if you let go. Your hand trembles when you push it open, the hinge giving a soft, almost obscene little creak.

The room smells like antiseptic and something metallic and clean. Machines hum softly, steady and rhythmic.

And there he is.

Bakugo is sitting up in the hospital bed, back propped against stiff white pillows, hospital gown hanging loose on his shoulders. His skin looks too pale against the harsh light, bruising dark along his ribs and collarbone, bandages peeking out from beneath the fabric. His hair is a mess, flattened on one side, sticking up on the other.

And fuck.

The sight of him nearly takes your legs out from under you.

Your knees wobble, vision blurring instantly as your eyes lock onto his. In that single second, it feels like your lungs finally remember what they are meant to do, like your shoulders drop for the first time in hours, like your heart starts beating again instead of just screaming.

He is alive.

He is okay.

He is not dead.

Bakugo’s eyes widen when he notices you.

For a split second, he just stares at you like you are a mirage, as if he blinks you might disappear again. 

“…Y/N?” he croaks, voice rough and wrecked. 

“Katsuki,” you breathe, his name falling out of you like a prayer.

That is all it takes.

He makes a sharp, panicked sound in the back of his throat and immediately swings his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the protests of his body, ignoring the way his knee buckles as he tries to stand.

“You—” he starts, already limping toward you. 

He does not get another word out.

You are moving before you even realize it, crossing the space between you in a heartbeat and throwing yourself into him with everything you have. The impact knocks the breath from both of you, sending him stumbling backward as he grabs onto you on pure instinct.

He falls back onto the bed with a startled grunt, but he does not let go.

Your arms lock around him so tightly it almost hurts, fingers fisting in the fabric of his gown, face pressed hard into his shoulder as a sob tears out of you, loud and ugly. You cling to him like if you loosen your grip even a little, the universe might rip him away again.

“Oh my god,” you sob, words tripping over each other. “You’re okay. You’re really okay. You’re here.”

Bakugo’s arms come around you just as hard, crushing you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head as he buries his face into your hair. He breathes you in like oxygen, like he has been drowning and finally broke the surface.

“I’m okay,” he rasps, voice shaking. “I’m okay. I’m right here. Fuck— fuck—”

His grip tightens, almost desperate.

“You scared the shit outta me,” he chokes. “I thought— I thought you were gone. I fuckin’ watched it. I watched—”

“Hey,” you murmur quickly, pulling back just enough to press your forehead to his, hands still clutching him like anchors. “Hey. No. Look at me. I’m here. I’m right here.”

His eyes dart over your face frantically, like he is trying to memorize you, like he is afraid he might forget what you look like if he looks away for even a second.

“You’re— you’re real?” he asks, voice barely holding together. “You’re not— this isn’t that fuckin’ quirk again?”

You shake your head immediately, smiling through tears as you lift one hand to cup his cheek, thumb brushing gently under his eye.

“I’m real,” you whisper. “I promise. I’m real.”

His breath shudders out of him, shoulders slumping as if the fight finally drains out all at once.

“Jesus christ,” he mutters, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I thought I lost you. I thought I couldn’t— I can’t—”

“You didn’t,” you interrupt softly. “You didn’t lose me.”

He pulls back suddenly, panic flaring again as his eyes rake over you, scanning every inch of you with frantic precision.

“Are you hurt?” he demands. “Where are you hurt? Tell me right now. Your head— your neck— fuck, your neck—”

You gently grab his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheeks until he is forced to look at you.

“I’m okay. Really. Just a concussion and some bruises. That’s it.” you say quietly.

His jaw clenches, eyes glassy.

“He slit your throat…” he says hoarsely. “I watched him do it. I watched you bleed out in front of me.”

Your heart twists painfully at the raw terror in his voice.

“It wasn’t real,” you say again, steady and gentle. “None of it was. That villain… it was all a hallucination. Our worst fear.”

His breath stutters. “Mine was you.”

You smile softly, eyes burning.

“I know,” you whisper. “Mine was you, too.”

Bakugo lets out a shaky laugh that sounds more like a sob.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I was losin’ my goddamn mind. Tried t’blast my way outta the bed. Thought I had t’get to you. Thought if I didn’t, you’d be—”

“I know,” you murmur, pulling him back into your arms. “I know. But I’m here now. You don’t have to fight.”

He nods against your shoulder, arms tightening around you again.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he says weakly. “Don’t ever scare me like that.”

You huff out a watery laugh. “I could say the same to you.”

Bakugo’s arms remain locked around you, his chin resting against the top of your head while your fingers curl into the fabric at his back. His heartbeat is loud against your ear, steady and alive, and every thump of it feels like proof that the nightmare is truly over.

Eventually, your breathing evens out, the shaking fading into something quieter.

You pull back just enough to look at him, still close enough that your knees brush and your foreheads nearly touch. “What… what happened out there?” you ask softly. “After everything started going wrong.”

Bakugo exhales through his nose and shrugs. “Dunno,” he admits. “I was lookin’ for you. Whole place was wrecked, villains everywhere, smoke and fire and idiots yellin’ in my ear.” His jaw tightens briefly. “Then I felt that mist hit me and next thing I knew, my body wouldn’t fuckin’ listen. When I woke up, Aizawa was tryin’ to explain that the villain was already dealt with, that the others took him down.”

You nod slowly, encouraging him to keep going.

“Said it was just you, me, and Shoto that got hit,” he continues. “Everyone else was fine. Quirk messes with your head, makes you see whatever scares you the most.” His eyes flick back to yours, quieter now. “Guess it worked.”

Your chest aches at the way he says it.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Guess it did.”

There’s a brief silence before he scoffs, shaking his head. “Y’know,” he mutters, “it really was my biggest fear.”

You lean in before he can say anything else, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, slow and sure, grounding both of you in the moment. When you pull back, your forehead rests against his.

“You’re not going to lose me, ’Suki,” you whisper.

He raises an eyebrow, that familiar spark creeping back into his expression. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You sayin’ that like it’s a fact.”

“Yup, it is a fact.” you say immediately, nodding. “Pinky promise.”

You pull your hand back just enough to hook your pinky out in front of him, eyes bright despite everything.

Bakugo snorts. “That’s stupid as hell.”

You glare at him. “We promise we won’t lose each other. Or die on each other. Deal?”

Without another word, he sighs and hooks his pinky around yours anyway, his grip firm and deliberate as he squeezes once. “There. Happy?”

You smile. “Very.”

You squeeze his hand. He clicks his tongue. “Y’know it’s real stupid to make that kinda promise when we’re both heroes.”

You shrug lightly, completely unapologetic. “Well, Bakugo Katsuki, if you break your promise, I’m gonna have to break your pinky.”

He laughs, real and warm this time, shaking his head. “Can’t break it if I’m dead, brat.”

“Heyyy!” you immediately swat his arm. “Don’t say that.”

He grins, eyes soft as he looks at you. “Relax. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

His forehead dips down to rest against yours, voice low and rough in a way that makes your chest ache.

“I’m not lettin’ anything touch you, either” he continues. “Not some villain, not some quirk, not fate, not any of that bullshit. Long as I’m breathin’, you’re safe. That’s not a promise I plan on breakin’.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I trust you.”

He exhales shakily, then mutters, “Yeah. Good. ’Cause I—” He stops, swallows hard, then forces it out. “I love you.”

You lean in and kiss him again, slow and full of everything you have been holding in, your hands cupping his face as you smile against his lips. “I love you too,” you say softly when you pull back. “More than anything.”

Bakugo lets out a breath that sounds almost like relief. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair as his other arm wraps around you, holding you like he never intends to let go.

You relax into him, exhaustion finally catching up, eyes fluttering shut as his warmth surrounds you.

“Get some rest,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I got you.”

And for the first time in a long time, you believe it completely.

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