You notice it the moment he stops calling your name.

Not out of anger. Not even distance. Just absence—like a habit broken without warning. Bakugo still moves through the day with the same intensity, the same sharp glare, the restless energy you’ve always known. But when it comes to you, there’s a careful restraint now, an invisible line neither of you dares to cross.

You pass each other in the halls, close enough to brush shoulders, and neither of you does. Once, he would’ve complained about your pace, snapped at you to hurry up, or dragged you along without warning. Now he only glances briefly before looking away.

It’s worse than fighting.

When you finally speak, it’s almost accidental, a quiet “hey” as your paths converge near the training grounds. Bakugo’s eyes flick up, meeting yours with that usual edge—but softened in a way that shouldn’t exist, and it hurts.

“Hey,” he mutters, voice low.

You pause, suddenly aware of the distance that stretches between you. The late nights you used to spend talking after practice, the way he used to grin at your jokes, the small, unguarded moments that had made him feel reachable—they’re all gone now. You’re left with the echo of someone you used to know.

“We used to talk,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Bakugo’s gaze flickers, conflicted. “Yeah… we did.”

The weight of the past settles between you, unspoken but heavy. Shared victories, careless laughter, almost-confessions—all memories that feel like they belong to someone else. Now, you’re here, inches apart, unsure how someone so familiar can feel so foreign.

“I don’t know how we got here,” you admit.

His jaw tightens. “Maybe we stopped choosing each other,” he says, voice quiet but sharp, the words cutting deeper than he intends.

You swallow, biting back the urge to argue, to pull him back to what you both had. Instead, you take a step closer. “Or maybe we just don’t know how to fix it.”

Bakugo doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes search yours, like he’s measuring the weight of every word, every silence between you. You feel that familiar pull, the one that made him impossible to ignore before, but it’s tempered by hesitation. By walls neither of you wants to tear down.

“I don’t… I don’t know if I can,” he admits, voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it, and for a moment, the mask slips. “I don’t know if I can go back to how things were without messing it up again.”

You nod, your throat tight. “We don’t have to go back. Not all at once. Just… step by step.”

He exhales sharply, a spark of frustration, of longing, escaping in the same breath. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, his hand brushes against yours. Not a grab. Not a push. Just contact—proof that the connection isn’t completely gone.

For the first time in weeks, you let yourself believe that maybe familiarity isn’t lost. Maybe it’s just waiting—for both of you to stop pretending the past didn’t matter, and start choosing each other again.

You walk away a few moments later, but he doesn’t step back. He doesn’t turn his eyes away. And you realize that even in the space between you, there’s still something that won’t let go—something that might, just might, pull you both back.

The halls feel empty, but your chest feels lighter. Not fixed. Not healed. But enough to take the first step toward the other.