#damage control

Yesterday, after making the biggest mistake of the century, you hastily grabbed your clothes from the floor and rushed to the bathroom. You muttered a lame "good night" before disappearing from the living room, ignoring a naked, confused, wide-doe-eyed Jungkook sitting on the couch.

You thought you'd at least have the decency to feel bad in the moment. That you'd lie awake in bed, twisting and turning, struggling to fall asleep. But no. You slept like a fucking baby. For twelve hours, no less. Like you didn’t just fucked your roommate senseless. Like he didn’t fuck you senseless. 

What the fuck was that?

Your stomach growls.

It’s been hours since your last meal, and you're pretty sure there’s still some alcohol lingering in your system. You need food—carbs, salt, oil. Something to help absorb both the alcohol and the regret settling deep in your gut.

You push the covers off, groaning as you tilt your head back.

You really don’t want to go out, to face the consequences of your mistakes. But if you’ve learned anything from this mess, it’s that you can’t avoid it. In some way or another, it’ll come back at you. It’s better to face it head-on.

Why does it have to be a problem anyway?

It was a one-time thing.

You’re both adults that are– no, were sexually attracted to each other. And now it’s out of your system.

So, you fucked. No big deal. 

You can do this.

So what if it was the best sex you’ve had in a while? Maybe even ever...

No. No need for thoughts like that. Traitorous brain.

It was one and done.

Your stomach growls again.

What is it with it? Does it have a personal vendetta against you? Why does something as stupid as hunger have to make you face the world?

You get up from bed, grab the hoodie tossed over the chair, and pull it over your head as you shuffle to the kitchen in search of something to eat. When you enter, you’re met by Jungkook’s back as he stands near the sink, washing dishes. You can tell his shoulders are tense, his whole body stiff as he leans slightly toward the sink. He’s already dressed in his gym clothes. Probably just finished eating before heading out.

“I’m surprised you’re not avoiding me this time,” Jungkook says without turning to face you. You can’t see his face, but his tone is firm, even, cold.

No good morning? No hello? Something?

You’re still standing at the kitchen entrance, not daring to step inside. You stutter, unsure of what to say. “I–I–”

He places the bowl he just washed on the drying rack and moves to clean the next dish. He continues speaking without waiting for you to answer. “After you basically shoved me away and fled last night, I figured you’d hide in your room for at least a few days.”

He calls you a coward.

Not with words, but between the lines.

You stay silent. Stunned silent. You knew leaving like that was a shitty move, but you didn’t expect Jungkook to clock you out. To read you like that. Why does he even care? Weren’t you just another girl on his conquests list?

Jungkook places the utensils in their holder by the sink and grabs the towel to dry his hands. He sighs heavily before finally turning around to face you.

He looks at you, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, waiting for you to say something. He looks like he already knows you’re going to say some bullshit. He looks tired, resigned, impatient.

You look down, feeling your cheek heat up with shame. You were so fixated on the one mistake you made last night that you didn’t even think about the other one. You’re so caught up in running from your problem that you don’t even notice you’re creating new ones.

“I’m sorry. For leaving,” you say quietly.

You hear Jungkook sigh again, and you look up. He pushes his hair back, leaving his fingers tangled in it for a moment. His features are softer now, less harsh than before.

“Why did you leave like that?” he asks quietly, looking down before meeting your gaze again.

You don’t have an answer. What can you tell him? That you couldn’t handle the mistake? That he was that good, you started to wonder what else he could do to you? He won’t let you forget, and you can’t make the same mistake twice.

“I was tired.” You can’t look at him as you lie. It’s not a complete lie, but it’s far from the truth. You both know it.

“Tired?” Jungkook repeats, and you can hear the doubt in his voice. But his tone isn’t angry—it’s sad.

You hum softly and nod. It’s a cowardly answer, a way to escape the truth, but you don’t have the courage to face it right now.

“Okay,” he says evenly, running a hand through his hair again.

You hate this. You hate the weird silence, the uncomfortable tension between you two. Yesterday felt so easy, so fun. Why did it have to be ruined?

“I didn’t want you to ask me to give you back my Squirtle.” It’s a weak attempt to break the awkwardness. You know it, but you have to try.

Jungkook chuckles quietly. His laugh is hollow, lacking its usual warmth, but you can see he’s also trying.

“I would never. Squirtle is yours.”

“Good, because I wouldn’t give it back even if you asked,” you reply, trying to tease. He chuckles again, still stiff, but the air between you two starts to loosen.

“Maybe we can continue the conquest sometime?” you add carefully, not wanting to push too much.

He gives you a tight-lipped smile. “Sure.”

“I—I need to go to the gym now,” he says, stepping forward and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” You step aside from the kitchen door, letting him pass.

He gives you a small nod of goodbye as he walks past you.

As he’s almost at the door, you call after him, “Jungkook.”

He turns around, looking at you.

“We’re good?” you ask, the uncertainty still hanging in the air.

“Always,” he says with a smile, then leaves.

You head back to the kitchen, searching for something to eat. At the back of the freezer, you find a frozen bagel and toss it in the toaster, then cook yourself some bacon and eggs. You make a sandwich and take a bite. It helps tremendously with your tired body, but does nothing to ease the weird feeling the talk with Jungkook has left. Your phone buzzes on the table, snapping you out of your thoughts.

[14:03 pm] Sienna my 💖: where are my girlssss

[14:03 pm] Sienna my 💖: wanna meet??

Should you tell your friends what happened last night? You’re itching to spill it all out, but you don’t want to talk about it. You already know what they’ll say. You know it was a mistake. And you definitely don’t want them to get the wrong idea about you and Jungkook.

The phone continues to vibrate with messages as you contemplate what to do. You decide not to decide. You’ll see how you feel when you meet them. You grab your phone and enter the group chat.

[14:04 pm] HanniBoo 🐞: <sent a photo>

[14:04 pm] HanniBoo 🐞: lunch with my man ♥️

[14:05 pm] HanniBoo 🐞: I’m downnnnn

[14:05 pm] HanniBoo 🐞: but later? 

[14:05 pm] Sienna my 💖: my favorite couple 😍

[14:07 pm] You: youre so cute im gonna die 🥹

[14:07 pm] You: yeah

[14:07 pm] You: but lets do something chill?

[14:08 pm] Sienna my 💖: dinner at my place?

[14:08 pm] You: 👍

[14:10 pm] HanniBoo 🐞: 👍

[14:12 pm] Sienna my 💖: see u later 😘😘

Yesterday was a dream.

Spending time with you like that, joking around, it felt natural, easy. Jungkook feels like he can act more like himself around you, drop the cocky mask he wears around other girls. It’s an effective front, but with you, he doesn’t feel the need for it. And that should scare the shit out of him, because only a few people know that side of him. But it doesn’t. It’s fun. It makes him feel warm, happy, light—without all the layers. He doesn’t even know how you manage to bring this side of him out.

It isn’t even about the sex.

Even though it was fucking amazing. The moment he was inside you, he knew he was in trouble. He knew he’d miss it the moment he had to leave you. Everything about you was perfect for him.

Yesterday was a dream.

Until it wasn’t.

Why did you leave like that? He was about to ask if you wanted to sleep in his room—or yours. He felt like a fool. So stupid. So small. After he let his guard down like that, after he allowed himself to be more real with you, and that was your reaction?

Fuck. 

Wasn’t he good enough? 

‘Fuck you out of his system?’ Pffff. 

How stupid was he? 

It’s just making him want you more.

When he hears you enter the kitchen, his body tenses. He uses every bit of his willpower not to turn around, not to grab you and ask, why?

He didn’t expect to see you at all. He’d planned to finish his pre-workout meal and leave as quickly as possible. He needs to go to the gym, clear his mind, maybe talk with Jimin about it. He needs more time to think, to process what happened, to figure out how he feels. He doesn’t want to talk to you when he’s this messed up.

But as you step into the kitchen, he knows he’s mad.

Mad at you for leaving him like that.

Mad at you for making it more than just sex.

Mad at how you make him feel.

Yet, when he turns to face you, he realizes he isn’t mad at all.

At the sight of the shame on your face, the slight blush creeping to your cheeks, he knows he’s not mad. 

He’s in trouble. Because all he wants is to close the gap and hold you. To tell you he’ll never be upset with you. 

That yesterday was a dream.

Until it wasn’t.

He needs to get out of there, to collect himself.

He can’t hold you. Can’t let his feelings loose around you.

You made it clear this isn’t what you want. Alas, why would you leave like that?

But when you ask him if you two are good, he can’t bring himself to say no.

Because he knows he’ll take whatever you are willing to give him.

“I’m home,” you call out as you come back from dinner with the girls.

You don’t see Jungkook right away, but you hear noises and see his keys on the table by the door, so you know he’s here. You head over to the couch, scrolling on your phone.

When you hear him step out of the kitchen, you look up at him.

And you hate how effortlessly good he looks. He’s in his usual uniform—black sweatpants and an oversized shirt. His hair is still a little damp from the shower he probably took recently, and a clean scent drifts through the living room.

When he sees you sitting on the couch, you catch the surprise flicker across his features. Like he didn’t expect you to be here. Like you don’t live here too?!

But then, as he sits next to you, his expression shifts into a smug smirk.

He grabs the controller from the coffee table and scrolls through his game library with one hand, while his other hand casually settles on your thigh, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Want to continue Pokémon?”

You look at the hand on your thigh.

Big, warm, confident—his hand slightly gripping your thigh.

Nope.

You swat his hand away a few seconds too late. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

“What?” he asks casually, not even bothering to look at you.

“Want to start a new game?” he continues, as if nothing happened.

And here you thought you needed to clear the air, to make sure whatever weird vibes lingered from your morning conversation were gone. But as Jungkook continues to stare at the screen, acting like nothing happened, you realize you need to have a completely different conversation.

“You know that what happened last night was a one-time thing, right?”

You watch as he freezes for a second, his finger halting on the joystick.

He turns to look at you, a cocky smirk playing on his face.

“Sure.” His tone drips with condescension and amusement.

And then, without missing a beat, he turns back to the screen.

Ughhh. He’s so annoying. You know it was the stupidest mistake of your life.

“Jungkook,” you say sternly. “I’m serious.”

“Of course.” He doesn’t even bother to look at you this time—just keeps scrolling through the game store.  

What did you expect? Of course, this is how he’ll act.

You need him to understand that this was a one-time slip-up, that whatever is going on isn’t a thing, that it was over last night—and that it wasn’t even supposed to happen in the first place.

“This is never happening again,” you continue, even though it’s clear he’s already checked out of the conversation.

“Huh.” He doesn’t even bother with an actual response this time. “I heard this Supermarket simulator is really good. Wanna give it a try?”

What the fuck is he on about?! You could murder him, you swear.

“Jungkook!” you snap, way too loud. But you can’t hold it anymore; he’s driving you insane.

He slowly sets the controller on his lap and turns his body toward you.

“What?” His tone is innocent, but the cockiness oozing from his whole being says otherwise.

“Were you even listening to what I said?” you shoot back.

“Yep,” he says, popping the ‘p’ like a child. “One-time thing. Won’t ever happen again. Understood.” He finishes with a little nod. You might have thought he was genuine—if you didn’t know him better.

You feel like you’re about to lose it. This man is driving you insane. Your face is getting hot, and you exhale sharply through your nose, trying to hold it together.

“What are you so worked up about?” he asks, almost chuckling. “You wanna talk about what happened?”

“No, I don’t want to talk about it!” you snap, your voice louder than you intend. You probably sound a little crazy, but it’s not your fault. He’s making you lose your mind. “I want you to understand what I’m saying.” You try to sound serious, fighting to calm yourself down. You don’t want to lose it completely.

“I understand,” he says, flashing that pleased smile like this is some sort of game.

“You don’t seem to understand by how you're acting!” Shit. You’re about to explode.

“How am I acting?” he asks, pretending he has no clue what you want. “What do you want me to do? You said we won’t fuck again, and I said okay. What more do you need? Want me to pinky promise? Want me to cut off my dick?” 

Fucking infuriating, stupid, annoying, unbelievably childish Jungkook. “We need to talk about what happened.”

He smirks. Why the fuck he smirks? 

“You said you didn’t want to talk about it,” he says smugly.

He’s pushing you to the edge of your patience. “Well, apparently we need to, because you just have to act like a dick.”

"Okay. What do you want to talk about? How it was the best orgasm of your life, and you're still saying we won’t do it again?" He speaks evenly, but you see the mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Jungkook!”

“What?” he smirks, clearly enjoying scandalizing you.

He continues, still smiling. “Wanna talk about how I saw your legs wiggle even though you tried to ru—” “Okay, I get it. It was good, yeah. That’s not the point,” you cut him off quickly. “Good??” He scoffs. “So, what’s the point?” “I just want to make sure things aren’t weird between us.” You try to explain. Tired from this annoying back and forth. “Why would they be weird?” He asks, genuinely not getting it.

What’s there not to get? How can you explain this to him? You try to explain, stating the obvious. “Because we fucked?” 

“Yes?” He says it like both a question and a statement, a touch of content smugness lacing his tone.

“And we live together?” You drag the words out, as if you’re explaining it to a toddler.

He opens his eyes wide and scrunches his brows, looking at you like you’ve just said the most tupid shit ever. 

You can’t with him.

“I just don’t want things to be weird around here!” You yell at him, throwing your hands up in exasperation, trying to emphasize what you’re saying, and he’s still refusing to understand.

Jungkook leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, that easy smile still on his face. “You’re the one making things weird. I said I understand.”

He smirks, looking away from you. 

You know he’s about to say something stupid.

“Maybe you don’t really want it to be a one-time thing.”

You’re seething by now. “Jungkook, I swear I’m gonna kill–”

“Geez, relax. I’m kidding. I get it.” He stops you before you can complete the sentence. “No weird vibes, okay?”

“Okay.” You agree, not because you believe it, but because what more can you say?

“So, Supermarket simulator?” he asks, grinning from ear to ear.

a/n2: I highly recommend the Supermarket Simulator. 10/10 game.

The buzzing of your phone jerked you awake at 2:37 AM. You didn't need to check the caller ID—only one person would call at this hour, and your hand was already reaching for it before your eyes fully opened.

"Izuku?" You were already sitting up, shoving your feet into slippers. The soft fabric was a small comfort against the early morning chill.

All you could hear was ragged breathing and what sounded suspiciously like muffled sobs. Your fingers tightened on the phone, knuckles white in the darkness.

"I can't—" His voice broke, thick with tears, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. "I don't—I can't—"

"I'm on my way," you said, grabbing the first hoodie you could reach. Your hands moved on autopilot, years of friendship guiding you through the familiar routine. "Your place?"

A wet, hiccuping sob that might have been confirmation. You were already grabbing your keys, mentally calculating the fastest route at this hour. The weight of them in your hand felt heavier than usual.

"Eight minutes," you said quietly. "Maybe seven."

"She's leaving." The words came out broken, raw. "Yui, she—she wants—" Another sob caught in his throat. "A divorce. She wants a divorce."

Your hand froze on the doorknob. For a moment, all you could hear was your own heartbeat and his uneven breathing. The word echoed in your mind—divorce, divorce, divorce—each repetition making it more real.

"Stay on the line?" You were already heading to your car, voice gentler than usual. The night air bit at your cheeks as you rushed outside.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I know it's late, I shouldn't have—but I can't stop crying and you always just—you always know what to do—"

"Hey," you cut him off softly. "You don't ever have to apologize. Not to me." The words came automatically, worn smooth by years of repetition in different crises.

You could hear him trying to steady his breathing, the familiar sound of him fighting to regain control. "You're the best, you know that? Always there when I need you."

"Seven minutes," you said, starting the car. The engine rumbled to life, cutting through the pre-dawn silence. "Six if I break a few speed limits."

A wet laugh that sounded more like a sob. "Don't you dare. The PR nightmare if Japan's number one hero's responsible for you getting a ticket at 3 AM—"

"Then keep talking so I'm too distracted to speed." You merged onto the main road, knuckles white on the steering wheel. The streetlights blurred past in streaks of amber. "Want me to stop for those terrible cookies you pretend not to like?"

"The pink ones?" His voice shifted, becoming smaller somehow, more vulnerable. "With the frosting?"

"The objectively worst cookies in existence," you confirmed with forced lightness, already knowing you'd stop for them.

"...yes, please."

You were already pulling into the convenience store parking lot, the fluorescent lights harsh after the darkness of the drive. "Three extra minutes, then. Think you can handle the wait?"

"I'll try," he said, voice shaky. "Everything keeps replaying and I can't—I can't make it stop."

"I know," you said quietly, killing the engine. The sudden silence felt heavy. "I'm getting coffee too. This feels like an all-nighter kind of crisis."

"You're too good to me," he said, sniffling but calmer now.

You let that sit for a moment as you got out of the car. The convenience store glowed like a beacon in the darkness. "Three minutes. Try not to start any international incidents before I get there."

His quiet chuckle was followed by "No promises" as you entered the store. The bell above the door chimed too loudly in the empty space. You quickly grabbed his horrible cookies, coffee, and, after a moment's hesitation, the spicy chips he always stole from you when he thought you weren't looking. Your hand hovered over the tissues before adding two boxes to your basket. Definitely tissues.

As you stood in line to pay, the weight of the moment settled over you. Here you were at 2:45 AM, buying comfort food for Japan's number one hero while he cried on the phone about his failing marriage. The cashier, half-asleep and uninterested, rang up your items without comment. The mundane normalcy of the transaction felt surreal against the backdrop of Izuku's crisis.

You'd learned to live with that particular irony a long time ago—how the most significant moments often played out against the most ordinary settings.

The rest of the drive felt endless, each red light an eternity with his shaky breathing in your ear. You kept him talking about nothing—the weather, your terrible driving, anything to keep him from spiraling deeper into his thoughts.

"Remember that time in high school," you said, turning onto his street, the familiar route bringing back a thousand memories, "when you tried to prove you could eat ten of those cookies at once?"

A wet laugh. "And choked on the frosting? Recovery Girl was so mad."

"'Young man,'" you mimicked your old school nurse's voice, forcing cheer into your tone, "'there are better ways to die in heroics than pink frosting asphyxiation.'"

His laugh was stronger this time, even if it ended in a hiccup. Then, quieter: "Everything felt simpler then."

You pulled into his driveway, killing the engine. Through his living room window, you could see lights still on—he probably hadn't even tried to sleep. The warm glow looked wrong somehow, too normal for what was happening inside. "You want to tell me what happened?"

A shaky exhale. "Can it wait until you're inside? I don't—I don't want to do this over the phone."

"Already here." You grabbed the convenience store bags, juggling your phone and keys. The paper rustled in the quiet night. "Front door?"

"Yeah, I—" You heard movement through the phone, then footsteps. "I'll get it."

The door opened before you could knock, and your carefully maintained composure cracked slightly. His hair had come loose from its usual tie, dark curls falling around his face in disarray. His eyes were red and swollen, tears still tracking down his cheeks, and something about seeing him like this—Japan's number one hero reduced to such raw vulnerability—made your chest ache in ways you couldn't afford to think about.

Before you could think better of it, you stepped forward and pulled him into a hug, convenience store bags still dangling from one hand.

He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, wrapping his arms around you with desperate strength. His whole body shook against yours, and you could feel the dampness of his tears soaking through your hoodie. "Did you really bring the cookies?" he mumbled into your shoulder.

"Yup. And tissues," you said, voice slightly muffled by his chest. "Because I know you."

His laugh was watery, but his arms tightened. "Yeah. Yeah, you do."

You stood there in his doorway longer than necessary, letting him hold on as long as he needed. When he finally pulled back, you both moved inside to the living room floor. Izuku's back rested against the couch, you cross-legged beside him. The convenience store bag sat between you both, crackling as you unpacked its contents. Some of his hair had come completely loose from its tie now, dark curls falling into his face as he stared at his hands.

"She said—" His voice cracked. He swallowed, tried again. "She said she can't do this anymore. The waiting. The not knowing if I'll come home. The constant rescheduling of everything because some villain—" He broke off, more tears falling.

You silently passed him the tissues you'd bought, watching as he took them with shaking hands.

"I thought we were okay," he continued after a moment, voice thick. "I mean, I knew things weren't perfect, but I thought... I thought she understood. About the hero work. About why I can't just—" He gestured helplessly at the air. "Why I have to—"

"What happened tonight?" you asked softly. "Why now?"

He let out a shaky breath, and you watched his shoulders rise and fall with the effort of containing another sob. "I missed dinner. Again. We had reservations, nice place downtown. The kind where you need to book weeks in advance." His voice turned bitter. "But there was this hostage situation in Shinjuku, and I couldn't—I couldn't just leave those people—"

"Of course you couldn't." The words came automatically, because you knew him. Had always known him.

"That's what I said. But Yui, she..." His voice wavered, breaking on his wife's name. "She was so calm about it. That's what scared me most. She wasn't even angry. She just looked at me when I finally got home and said 'I can't do this anymore.'"

You watched as he twisted the tissue in his hands, shredding it slowly. His fingers worked methodically, creating a small pile of white fragments in his lap.

"She said she's tired of competing with everyone else's emergencies. That she knows the hero work is important, but she needs—" His breath hitched, and you saw his hands clench. "She needs someone who can put her first sometimes. Who can promise to be there for anniversaries and birthdays and just... regular Tuesday nights."

"And you can't promise that."

"No." The word came out broken, barely audible. "I can't. I tried to explain that I want to, that I'll try harder to balance things, but she said—" More tears fell, and he didn't bother wiping them away this time. "She said she's done trying to build a life with someone who belongs to everyone else."

You wordlessly opened the cookies, placing the package in his lap. The crinkle of plastic felt too loud in the heavy silence. He gave a watery laugh.

"These really are terrible," he said, already reaching for one. Pink crumbs immediately dusted his fingers.

"And yet." You took one yourself, the artificial sweetness coating your tongue.

You both sat in silence for a moment, the only sound his occasional sniffling and the rustle of the cookie package. The familiar rhythm of sharing bad convenience store food felt like an anchor in the storm of his grief.

"I don't know how to fix this," he finally whispered. "I don't know if I can."

"Do you want to?"

He looked up at you, startled. His eyes were still red-rimmed, but there was confusion now mixed with the grief. "What?"

"Fix it," you clarified gently. "Not can you, but do you want to? If fixing it means promising to step back from hero work, to let other heroes handle some calls, to sometimes put your marriage before saving people... is that something you actually want?"

He opened his mouth, closed it. You watched him struggle with the weight of the question.

"Because that's what she's asking for," you continued softly. "Not for you to stop being a hero entirely, but to be less of one. To choose her over others sometimes. To let some people wait while you have dinner with your wife."

"I can't." His voice broke completely. "God, I can't. What kind of person does that make me? That I can't even promise my own wife—"

"It makes you you," you said simply. "The person who will always run toward danger if it means saving someone. The person who can't ignore a cry for help. The person who—" You caught yourself before adding 'I fell in love with.' The words sat heavy on your tongue, unspoken but somehow still present in the room. "The person you've always been."

"And that person can't be married, apparently." His laugh was bitter, so unlike his usual warmth that it made you ache.

"That person can't be married to someone who needs more than you can give while still being true to yourself," you corrected. "Neither of you is wrong, Izuku. You just want different things."

He was quiet for a long moment, absently reaching for another cookie. You watched him chew mechanically, his gaze distant.

"When did you get so wise?"

"Somewhere between the third and fourth time I had to explain to the press why you destroyed a city block to save a cat."

That startled a laugh out of him, even if it was still watery. "That cat was stuck really high up."

"It was a cat, Izuku. They get down eventually."

"It was scared!"

"You broke a billboard."

"The billboard was in the way!"

You smiled, letting him have this moment of normalcy. But after a minute, his face fell again, reality creeping back in.

"My mom's going to be so disappointed."

"In you? Never."

"In me failing at this. At marriage. At—at being normal."

"You've never been normal," you said, keeping your voice gentle. "That's not a bad thing. Some people aren't built for normal lives. They're built for extraordinary ones."

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a moment you were afraid you'd revealed too much. Your heart beat too fast, too loud, and you hoped he couldn't hear it in the quiet room. But he just reached for another cookie.

"I really thought we could make it work," he said quietly. "That love would be enough."

"Sometimes it isn't." The words felt like they were being torn from your chest. "Sometimes you can love someone completely and still not be right for each other."

Don't I know it, you didn't add. The words sat like stones in your throat.

You both sat in silence for a while, the cookies slowly disappearing between you. The room had grown lighter, dawn creeping in at the edges of the curtains, painting everything in shades of grey.

Finally, he spoke again:

"I can't stop thinking about the press. The headlines." His voice caught slightly. "Everyone finding out that Japan's number one hero can't even keep his marriage together."

Your fingers were already moving across your phone screen, the familiar rhythm of crisis management steadying your hands. This, at least, you knew how to handle. "The press will be the easy part. We control the narrative, get ahead of it."

"How do we even begin to—"

"We tell the truth." You kept your eyes on your notes, not trusting yourself to look up. "A mutual, amicable separation. Two people who care about each other choosing to end things respectfully."

He shifted on the floor beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. The proximity made your skin prickle with awareness you couldn't afford to acknowledge. "And the hero angle?"

"We acknowledge it directly." A strand of your hair fell forward as you typed, and you tucked it back with practiced efficiency. "The unique challenges of hero life, the toll it takes on relationships. People understand that."

"So what's the plan?"

"First, absolute privacy until we're ready. No public appearances together, no social media." Your fingers paused over the screen. "We'll need to talk to Yui, make sure she's comfortable with how we handle this. The press can be... intense."

His shoulders tensed at Yui's name. "She shouldn't have to deal with reporters outside her office."

"She won't." Your voice softened unconsciously. "I can help her prepare, give her some guidelines." You hesitated, watching his hair fall forward as he leaned to see your screen. "There's one more thing."

"What?"

"The hair needs to go."

He looked up, surprise momentarily displacing the shadows under his eyes. "The hair?"

"A change." You kept your tone professional, clinical. "Something visible. When the public sees you, they need to see someone who's moving forward, not stuck in the past."

"But—"

"It's not about aesthetics." You cut him off before he could finish. "It's about giving people a visual marker of transition. New chapter, new look. It helps them process the change along with you."

He was quiet for a long moment, absently running his fingers through the length of his hair. You focused very intently on your phone screen, not watching the way the curls wrapped around his fingers.

"Maybe I deserve whatever they say about me," he said finally, voice low. "I wasn't... I couldn't..."

"Stop." The word came out sharper than intended. You modulated your tone carefully. "You're someone who saves lives. That's not wrong."

"At what cost?"

The question hung between you both, heavy with implications neither was ready to face. You allowed yourself one touch to his shoulder, brief and professionally appropriate. His shirt was soft under your fingers. "At whatever cost you decide is worth it."

He dropped his head back against the couch, exposing the line of his throat. You looked away. "I should have—"

"You were exactly who you are." You shifted slightly, maintaining careful distance. "Someone who runs toward danger when others run away. That's not a flaw."

His smile was tired but real, and something in your chest ached at the familiar sight. "Always full of wisdom, aren't you?"

"I've always been wise. You just never listen." You set your phone aside, suddenly aware of the hour, the exhaustion creeping in. 

"So..." He watched you scroll through your calendar. "What kind of haircut are we thinking?"

You looked up from your phone, studying his profile with careful consideration. The way his curls fell forward, the shape of his face, what would photograph well but still feel authentic to who he was. After a moment's thought, the answer came to you.

"An undercut," you said decisively. "Professional, approachable. Good for your image."

"Yeah?" Something in his voice made you glance up again. He was watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "You think it'd look good?"

"It's a practical choice." You returned to your screen. "Makes a statement while staying on brand."

"What would I do without you?" The warmth in his voice felt dangerous. "Seriously," he said softly, your name gentle on his lips, "you're—"

"Just doing my job." You pulled up your media contact list, ignoring how the words tasted like ash. "Now, about the timing—we should wait a week, let the initial shock pass. Maybe some casual photos of you volunteering..."

He reached for another cookie while you outlined the strategy, and you pretended not to notice how his hand shook slightly.

You had a PR crisis to manage. Everything else was irrelevant.

Even if some small, traitorous part of you was already dreading the day you'd have to watch him change.

🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤

It was nearly 4 AM when Izuku finally drifted off, exhaustion and emotional drain winning out over his determination to keep talking. You watched as his head gradually tilted back against the couch, his breathing evening out into the gentle rhythm of sleep.

The silence felt different now, heavier somehow. You waited, counting his breaths, making sure he was truly asleep before carefully gathering the empty cookie packages and coffee cups. Your movements were practiced, quiet—you'd done this before, cleaned up after late-night crisis sessions, though never quite like this.

When you returned with a blanket from the hall closet, you paused, allowing yourself one unguarded moment to really look at him.

His face was softer in sleep, the harsh lines of grief temporarily smoothed away. Tear tracks still marked his cheeks, catching the dim light. Dark curls fell across his forehead in a way that made your fingers itch to brush them back. You'd spent years carefully not letting yourself stare like this, maintaining professional distance even in private moments. But now...

Before you could stop yourself, you pulled out your phone. Just one photo, you told yourself. To remember his hair before the inevitable PR makeover. That's all it was.

The lie felt hollow even as you carefully adjusted the angle, capturing the way moonlight played across his features, how his curls caught the dim light. You'd delete it later, you promised yourself. Probably.

After gently draping the blanket over him, you settled into the armchair across the room, already pulling up your messaging app.

You: Anyone awake?

You didn't really expect a response at this hour, but typing into the group chat felt better than sitting alone with your thoughts.

You: Izuku just called me crying. Yui asked for a divorce.  You: He's asleep now but  You: I don't know what I'm doing

You stared at the messages for a moment before adding:

You: I took a picture of him sleeping because I'm apparently that pathetic  You: Going to delete it  You: Eventually

Without your laptop, you were limited in what work you could do from your phone. You'd have to wait until morning to start the real crisis management, but you could at least make notes. After a moment's hesitation, you moved to Izuku's desk where his laptop sat. The password - AllMight1234 - was so predictable you almost laughed. Some things never changed.

You spent the next hour drafting potential press statements, occasionally glancing up to check on him. 

Around 5 AM, your phone finally buzzed.

Katsuki: jfc are you still there? You: Yeah  You: He fell asleep mid-crisis planning  You: I should probably leave but I don't want him waking up alone Ochaco: Oh no, is he okay??? You: He's...processing  You: I'm fine before you ask Katsuki: its 5am you disaster  Katsuki: stop working Ochaco: When's the last time you slept? You: I was actually sleeping when he called  You: But now I'm wired on convenience store coffee  You: And there's so much to plan Katsuki: show us the picture you took  Katsuki: you know you want to

You glanced at Izuku's sleeping form before responding:

You: No. Ochaco: Come on, share!  Ochaco: You know we won't judge

After another moment's hesitation, you uploaded the photo to the chat.

Ochaco: Those CURLS  Ochaco: He looks so peaceful Katsuki: you're so fucking gone for him  Katsuki: it's embarrassing You: I should delete it Katsuki: but you won't You: ...  You: I might  You: Eventually Ochaco: Do you want me to come over?  Ochaco: Make it less awkward You: Maybe  You: Let me see how he is when he wakes up  You: He might need space  You: Or he might need people  You: I just don't want him to feel alone Katsuki: you're overthinking again

On the couch, Izuku shifted slightly in his sleep, and you held your breath until he settled again.

You: He's dreaming  You: Should I wake him if it seems like a nightmare? Katsuki: i stg  Katsuki: you're hopeless Ochaco: Just stay with him  Ochaco: He needs you right now  Ochaco: Even if you won't admit why he called you first

The observation sat there, stark and honest. You stared at it, throat tight.

You: I have work to do Katsuki: running away again? Ochaco: We've got your back  Ochaco: Both of you get some rest, okay? Katsuki: yeah what she said  Katsuki: but with more swearing

Despite everything, you found yourself smiling slightly at your phone. You looked up at Izuku again, peaceful in sleep, completely unaware of the conversation happening about him.

You: I'm staying  You: He shouldn't wake up alone  You: Not today Katsuki: yeah  Katsuki: we know

You set your phone aside and pulled his laptop closer, determination settling over you. You had press releases to draft, media strategies to plan, a whole narrative to construct. That's what you were good at—taking chaos and making it manageable, turning mess into order.

Everything else—the way moonlight played across his features, the photo burning a hole in your phone, the weight of unspoken feelings—that could wait.