nina the bastard

“Don’t be so dramatic,” you teased, ruffling his hair. “It’s recon, Katsuki. We’re just getting layouts and logging activity. No combat.”

He scowled, swatting your hand away. “Don’t act like you can’t get your ass blown off doing paperwork.”

You smirked. “You worried about me?”

He didn’t answer. Just grabbed your chin and kissed you hard, like he could stamp his presence onto your bones.

“Come back in one piece, dumbass,” he muttered.

“Always.”

That was six hours ago.

Now he’s storming through HQ like a bomb with a cracked shell, barking orders even though it’s not his mission, demanding updates like anyone can give him what he wants—

Your location. Your vitals. Your voice.

When Kirishima finally grabs him by the shoulder and says, “Katsuki... there was an explosion at the recon site,” he doesn’t process it.

Until they show him the wreckage.

Until they pull something half-burned from under a pile of concrete.

Until it’s your uniform jacket.

Still smoking.

Bloodied.

He goes still.

Every sound disappears. The rain, the shouting, the chopper overhead—it all fades to a dull, suffocating roar inside his skull.

No body.

No confirmation.

But the silence? The silence is screaming.

He doesn't realize he's dropped to his knees until someone tries to lift him.

He shoves them off with a snarl, dragging the scorched fabric into his lap like he can will it to be fake. Just some mistake. A wrong jacket. Someone else’s blood.

But he knows it’s yours.

He can smell your shampoo burned into the fibers. His hands have been on this fabric a hundred times—pulling it off you, gripping it when you hugged him from behind.

And now it smells like smoke.

He doesn’t remember getting back to HQ. Doesn’t remember smashing a hole in the wall of the locker room. Doesn’t remember sobbing, just once, into the broken tile before punching it again.

What he remembers is fear.

Not the kind from battle. Not even the kind from losing.

It’s the fear of never getting the chance.

Never getting to say he loved you, not really. Not with the quiet, sacred kind of love he’d never admitted out loud. The kind that choked him when you left the room and lit him on fire when you laughed.

You died thinking you were just his teammate. His girlfriend, maybe.

But not that you were everything.

So when the door creaks open five hours later, and you stumble in—drenched, shaking, scraped raw but alive—

Bakugo doesn’t believe it at first.

He thinks it’s his brain cracking under the weight of grief.

But then you speak.

“Guys?” your voice wobbles. “I—I’m okay. I—”

He turns.

And the pain doesn’t leave him.

It erupts.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Your eyes go wide. You don’t even get the chance to answer before he’s across the room, voice thunderous, hands clenched, eyes glowing with something rabid and shattered.

“Do you even fucking realize what you did to me?!” he growls, stalking closer. “You just disappear in the middle of a mission—comms go dark, and then BOOM—nothing but rubble! Nothing but your jacket and a bloodstain and you think you can just—just fucking—walk in like you didn’t just RIP MY GODDAMN WORLD APART?!”

“I—I fell—into the canal,” you stammer, backing up a step. “There was a blast—I couldn’t—my earpiece was gone, I tried to get back—”

He isn’t listening.

“I thought I lost you,” he snarls, voice breaking. “I thought I’d never hear your voice again. Never feel your hand. Never—fuck.”

The rage snaps.

He stumbles forward like gravity’s finally won, fists slackening as a choked sound breaks from his throat.

And then he collapses into you.

A full-body crash. Hands in your soaked hair. Face buried in your neck. Shoulders trembling. Your heart almost stops—because Katsuki Bakugo, your Katsuki, the one who never cried, the one who mocked people for crying—

Is sobbing.

Silent. Violent. Breathless. He clutches you like something fragile, like something he still doesn’t trust to be real.

“...Katsuki?”

You whisper it, barely breathing.

He can’t answer.

Because this is the second time he’s lost everything.

The first was when he thought he’d never be good enough.

This time it was you.

And if he ever had to go through that again, it would kill him.

You hold him tighter. One hand on the back of his neck, the other gripping the back of his hero suit.

“I’m here,” you whisper against his temple. “I’m right here. I’m sorry I scared you.”

He inhales like it hurts.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” he whispers, voice shaking. “I swear to god, I—if I’d lost you, I—”

You pull back just enough to see his face. Tear-streaked, flushed, and furious—but the kind of fury that only comes from love.

“I won’t,” you say softly. “I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time all day, his breathing starts to steady.

And then he kisses you.

Hard. Desperate. Like he needs to feel every inch of you alive beneath him.

And you let him.

Because for a moment, both of you were ghosts.

But now—he’s real.