#hurtangst

You could barely see. Your sight was never impeccable to begin with, but the mixture of snow and rain flying at your windshield in the 40 mile-per-hour winds definitely didn't help.

You tried not to push your car (which you'd named Daphne) too hard, just easing her through the slush at a gentle speed, trying to ignore what road you were on. You weren't on it for the reasons you used to be. You were just on it now because it was a short-cut from work to home, and you needed the fastest route possible to avoid the storm.

Obviously, that hadn't worked.

"Fucking shit." You muttered to yourself as you hit a particularly wet patch of slush, your tail end swerving just slightly. You corrected yourself with shaky, panicked hands, somehow managing to keep yourself on the road.

Daphne was an old girl, a fixer-upper. But you knew how to handle her wheel.

The headlights of your old sedan cut twin, wavering tunnels through the horizontal sleet. The wipers groaned on their highest setting, fighting a losing battle. You were gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles ached, every muscle in your body tensed against the skid and sway of the tires.

You knew this road, sadly. Every pothole, every leaning fence post, every mailbox with a dent from a long-ago baseball. You’d memorized it in sunshine, in twilight, in the deep, comfortable dark of summer nights. You’d ridden down it with your heart full and your hand in his, music blaring from his shitty speakers.

Now, you drove it with your heart in your throat and your eyes straining to see five feet ahead. You just had to get past it. Past him.

The familiar, ramshackle outline of the Munson trailer came into view, a darker smudge against the storm-grey sky. A single, yellow porch light was on, a lonely beacon in the maelstrom. Your foot instinctively eased off the gas, as if slowing down could make you less visible. You held your breath, a stupid, superstitious gesture, as you passed the driveway.

You’d made it maybe two hundred yards past when Daphne gave a violent, shuddering cough. The engine spluttered -- a wet, guttural sound of pure protest. The lights on the dashboard flickered crazily. Then, with a final, dying wheeze, the engine cut out completely. The headlights died, plunging you into near-total darkness, save for the sickly green glow of the radio display.

Silence, except for the hammering of ice and rain on the roof.

“No. No, no, no, come on,” you pleaded, turning the key in the ignition. The starter gave a weak, clicking whirr. Nothing. You tried again. Click-click-click. Despair, cold and sharp, joined the chill already seeping into the car.

You were stranded. In a storm. On this road. Approximately a one-minute walk from the one place in Hawkins you’d said you’d never set foot in again.

You laid your forehead against the freezing steering wheel. A hysterical laugh bubbled up, but it died in your throat. You were well and truly screwed.

Outside, the wind howled like it was laughing at you.

You would not be approaching his door. You knew Daphne was old and at times unreliable, so you kept emergency gear in the backseat. A blanket, a heavy winter jacket, a few bottles of water. A blunt and a lighter for stress. Huffing, you pushed your seat back just enough so that you could climb into the back.

You'd wait the storm out until the morning. Then, you'd walk down the road to the gas station, which opened at 5AM, and call your brother. Or your dad. Or a fucking tow truck. Whoever you thought of first.

The backseat was cramped and smelled of old vinyl and the faint, lingering scent of the pine tree air freshener you’d bought last winter. You wrestled the blanket around your shoulders, then pulled the puffy jacket on over it, creating a sad, bulky nest. The cold was insidious, creeping up through the floorboards, seeping in through the window seals. You could see your breath, little ghostly puffs in the greenish dark.

This was fine. This was manageable. You’d been through worse. A little cold, a little storm. You were tough.

You fumbled for the pre-rolled joint and the lighter in the side pocket of the door. Your fingers were stiff and clumsy with cold. It took three tries to get the flame to catch in the howling draft whistling through the window frame. Finally, the end glowed orange. You took a deep drag, holding the smoke in your lungs, willing it to burn away the panic, the humiliation, the sheer, cosmic unfairness of it all.

The familiar, earthy warmth spread through your chest, taking the sharpest edges off your anxiety. You slumped against the door, watching the sleet paint icy patterns on the window. You were a statue in a glass coffin, waiting for the storm to pass.

You lost track of time. The joint became a stub you carefully extinguished and tucked away. The cold deepened, becoming a tangible, aching presence. You pulled your knees to your chest, tucking your hands under your armpits. The blanket was thin. The jacket helped, but your legs were freezing in your jeans. You started to shiver, a fine, constant tremor you couldn’t control.

This is stupid. This is prideful and stupid. You’re going to get hypothermia over a boy.

But it wasn't just any boy. It was Eddie. And the wound of your ending was still too fresh, too raw, to face the possibility of his pity, or worse, his indifference.

You'd be fine. You weren't freezing to death, you were maintaining body heat. Just a few more hours and you would--

A sharp knock on the window made you yelp.

No. No, no no. It's not who I think it is.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, a trapped bird. Through the ice-fogged glass, distorted by the rivulets of sleet, a dark shape loomed. A familiar silhouette, backlit by the distant, buzzing porch light.

It is. It’s exactly who you think it is.

You stayed perfectly still, a rabbit hoping the predator will lose interest. Maybe if you didn’t move, he’d think you were asleep. Or dead. God, maybe dead is better.

The knock came again, sharper this time. Insistent. Accompanied by a voice, muffled but unmistakably his, cutting through the wind’s howl.

“Open the door, Y/N. I can see you shivering from here.”

The command, the use of your full name -- it brooked no argument. It was the same tone he’d used when you’d tried to walk home from a party in the rain two summers ago, when he’d scooped you up with an exasperated, “Don’t be an idiot,” and driven you home despite your protests.

Defeated, you unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The storm rushed in, but so did he. Eddie filled the cramped space of the open door, dressed in a thick flannel over his t-shirt, a beanie pulled low over his curls. He was holding a massive, industrial-looking flashlight. His eyes swept over your pathetic nest -- the blanket, the jacket, the discarded joint stub on the floor mat -- and a smirk bloomed onto his face.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice low, but it wasn't a question. It was an amused accusation.

“Waiting out the storm,” you said, your own voice thin and reedy from cold and disuse. “My car died.”

“I know she died. I heard Daphne cough her last breath. I’ve been watching your sorry ass freeze for the last twenty minutes from my window.” He shook his head, a mixture of disbelief and humor flashing in his eyes. “Get out of the car.”

The smirk. The absolute, insufferable smirk. It ignited a fire in your chest that had nothing to do with warmth. All the cold, all the fear, condensed into a single, white-hot point of pure indignation.

“I’m fine here,” you snapped, your voice gaining strength from the fury.

He leaned further into the car, the flashlight beam highlighting the amusement dancing in his eyes. “Oh, you’re more than fine. You’re a picture of survivalist elegance. The blanket really ties the ‘soon-to-be-icicle’ look together. But see, here’s the thing -- Wayne’s on night shift, and I have a strict policy against letting girls freeze to death within spitting distance of my home. Bad for my rep. So, for the last time: out.”

“My well-being is no longer your concern, Munson,” you shot back, wrapping the pathetic blanket tighter around your shoulders as if it were armor.

“It becomes my concern when you’re littering my view with your old ass car,” he countered, his tone light but his eyes holding yours with an unnerving intensity. “Now, I can do this the easy way, where you walk your proud, stubborn self into the warm trailer like a rational human being. Or I can do it the hard way, which involves me, this flashlight -- which is heavier than it looks -- and a very undignified extraction. Your choice, sweetheart.”

The old pet name, used now as a weapon, stole the breath from your lungs. You stared at him, this infuriating, beautiful, impossible man, standing in a storm offering you shelter you didn't want to need from him.

Another bone-deep shiver rattled through you, betraying your bravado. You saw his smirk soften, just for a second, into something that looked suspiciously like concern before the mask of amused detachment slid back into place.

With a sound of pure, exasperated defeat, you kicked the blanket off your legs. “Fine.”

You climbed out of the car, the wind immediately whipping your hair across your face. You didn't look at him as you slammed the door shut harder than necessary and started stomping through the slush toward the trailer. He fell into step beside you, his longer strides easily keeping pace with your furious march.

“You know,” he said conversationally, as if commenting on the weather, “most people, when their car breaks down in a storm, go to the nearest house. They don’t stage a one-woman Arctic expedition in their backseat.”

“Most people don’t have to worry about the emotional fallout of seeing their ex,” you muttered, staring straight ahead at the glowing porch light.

He snorted, as if it didn't mean much. As if you hadn't been the center of his life for three and a half years.

"I don't bite. Unless you ask me to. You've known me long enough to know that, haven't you?"

The casual, suggestive barb hit its mark, a different kind of chill skittering down your spine. You stopped on the bottom step, looking up to face him. The porch light cast harsh shadows on his face, but his eyes were bright, challenging.

“I know you,” you said, your voice low and steady despite the tremor in your limbs. “That’s the problem. I know exactly what your ‘not biting’ looks like. It looks like… this.” You gestured vaguely between you, at the storm, the trailer, the unbearable tension. “It’s never simple with you, Eddie. It’s a whole production.”

He leaned against the doorframe, blocking the entrance, his arms crossed over his chest. The flannel sleeves were pushed up, revealing the familiar tattoos on his forearms. “And sitting in your car until you got frostbite was the simpler option? Come on. Even you’re not that stupid.”

“It was the safer option!” The words burst out of you, raw and honest. “In there, the only thing I had to fight was the cold. Out here? With you?” You shook your head, a helpless gesture. “It’s much worse.”

The smirk finally vanished. His expression shifted into something unreadable, intense. He studied you -- your wet hair plastered to your forehead, your jacket soaked through, the defiant, fearful light in your eyes. The wind howled around you both, but on this small, lit porch, the world had narrowed to this standoff.

“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice dropping, losing its edge.

“I’m cold.”

“Yeah.” He pushed off the doorframe and reached to open the door. Warm air, carrying the scent of him and home, rushed out to meet you. “Get inside. Before you really do turn into an icicle. We can argue about the meteorological properties of my personality when you’re not at risk of hypothermia.”

It wasn't an invitation. It was a command, but it was also a retreat. A concession. He was giving you the out, focusing on the practical, immediate danger instead of the emotional minefield.

You hesitated for one more second, then stepped across the threshold into the past. He followed, closing the door firmly on the roaring night, leaving the two of you in the sudden, overwhelming quiet of the trailer, with only the drumming of sleet on the roof and the heavy weight of everything left unsaid between you.

The smell of him was everywhere -- clean laundry, weed, curl product, and the delicious cologne you'd never figured out how he could afford. The memories you'd fought to avoid for about four months now closed in around you. You blinked in surprise at the photo of you two, from when Eddie finally graduated high school, still hung above the kitchen sink. He hadn't taken down the photos. The sight was a physical blow. It was a candid shot -- you were laughing, your head thrown back, and Eddie had his arm slung around your shoulders, grinning at the camera like he’d just won the lottery. It was perched right where it had always been, in the spot of honor where Wayne could see it while he washed dishes. The fact that it was still there felt more intimate, more revealing, than if he’d torn it down in a fit of rage.

You opted to pretend you didn't notice. Anything to avoid a tense conversation. You quickly averted your eyes, focusing on peeling off your soaked jacket. Your fingers were numb and clumsy. The zipper stuck.

“Here,” Eddie’s voice came from behind you, closer than you expected. Before you could protest, his hands were there, brushing yours aside. His touch was efficient, impersonal, as he worked the frozen zipper free. The back of his knuckles grazed the wet fabric of your sweater, and you stiffened.

The jacket came off. You were left standing there in your damp sweater and jeans, feeling more exposed than ever. The trailer’s heat was beginning to penetrate your clothes, a painful thaw that made your skin prickle.

“Bathroom’s the same,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s towels in the cupboard. You can wear something of mine for the night. It won't hurt you." He asserted, looking at you with an expression that left no room for argument. "You're not wearing the wet shit."

The command in his voice, the sharp practicality of it, was a lifeline in the sea of awkwardness. It gave you a directive, something to do instead of just standing there marinating in regret and residual attraction.

“Fine,” you muttered, not meeting his eyes. You snatched up your purse and made a beeline for the bathroom, needing the space.

The small room was exactly as you remembered. The same slightly-mildewy shower curtain, the same chipped tile, the same half-empty bottle of your shampoo on the edge of the tub. He hadn’t thrown it out. The observation sent a fresh, complicated pang through you. You ignored it, focusing on the task at hand.

Stripping off the wet, icy clothes was a relief. The hot water in the quick shower you took made you feel like you were falling off the bone. You towelled off quickly, the rough fabric bringing you back to reality. Wrapped in the towel, you hesitated. The idea of putting on his clothes… it felt like a surrender. An intimacy you’d forfeited.

A knock at the door made you jump. “It’s on the hook,” Eddie’s voice came through the wood, muffled but clear. “Don’t overthink it. They’re just clothes.” The teasing air to his tone infuriated you.

You unlocked the door and cracked it open. Hanging on the outside hook was a faded, soft-looking gray hoodie and a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants. They were clean. They smelled like his laundry detergent, not like him. It was a small, considerate distinction that somehow made it worse.

You pulled them on. The hoodie was huge, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The pants were too long, pooling around your ankles. You rolled the waistband and cuffed the legs. Looking in the foggy mirror, you saw a ghost -- a version of yourself from years ago, when you’d steal his clothes just because you could, because you loved being surrounded by him.

When you emerged from the bathroom, scrubbed clean and drowning in his clothes, you found him in the kitchenette. He’d put the kettle on and was leaning against the counter, a smirk already playing on his lips as he took you in.

“Well, look at that,” he drawled, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep from your rolled cuffs to the hood swallowing half your face. “The lost princess of Hawkins, slumming it in peasant garb. It’s a good look. A little… derelicte, but it works.”

You scowled, tugging at the too-long sleeve. “Shut up. You’re built like a scarecrow.”

“A scarecrow with impeccable taste in loungewear, thank you very much.” He gestured to the kettle with his chin. “Tea? Or I think Wayne might have some of that horrific instant cocoa you used to love. The kind that’s mostly sugar and artificial flavor.”

The mention of your old preference, the specific memory of you curling on this same couch with a mug of too-sweet cocoa, was a tiny landmine. You ignored it. “Tea’s fine.”

He busied himself with mugs, his back to you. “So,” he said, his voice deliberately light. “What’s the verdict? Is the storm outside still worse than the storm of my terrible personality in here?”

“It’s a tie,” you shot back, settling onto the far end of the couch, tucking your feet under you. “The sleet is less predictable, but you’re louder.”

He barked a laugh, a genuine sound that felt like a shockwave in the small space. “Fair. I’ll take it.” He brought over two mugs, handing you one. His fingers brushed yours. Neither of you flinched. He sat on the opposite end of the couch, leaving a respectable, cavernous gap between you. He took a sip, watching you over the rim. “You know, for a minute there, I thought you were really gonna try to wait it out. I had a whole running commentary planned. ‘Hour one: the princess develops a slight shiver. Hour two: regret sets in. Hour three: a single, frozen tear…’”

“You were watching me?” You tried to sound annoyed, but it came out strangely breathless.

“Entertainment’s slim during an ice apocalypse,” he shrugged, but his eyes were sharp on yours. “Besides, it was like a nature documentary. The Tragic Pride of the North American Ex-Girlfriend.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And yet you’ve come right back to me.” He grinned, unrepentant. “Seems like we’re both dealing with unfortunate realities tonight. Daphne threw you to the dogs.”

You rolled your eyes, glaring at him.

"Don't talk shit about Daphne."

He snorted back, tilting his head back to glance out the window at said object.

"I knew as soon as I met Daphne that she'd screw you over one day. Wayne said he'd get you something new," he shrugged. "But nooo. You loved the death-trap too much."

The barb landed differently this time. It wasn't just about the car; it was about your stubbornness, your sentimentality, your refusal to let go of things -- people -- even when they were bad for you. It was a mirror held up to your own choices, and the reflection stung.

“I don’t just throw things away because they’re old or unreliable,” you shot back, your voice tight. “Some things are worth fixing.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you realized your mistake. The air in the trailer seemed to freeze solid, thicker than the ice on the windows.

Eddie’s grin vanished. His eyes, which had been sparkling with mischievous challenge, went flat and dark. He leaned forward slowly, placing his mug on the coffee table with exaggerated care. The click of ceramic on wood was deafening in the silence.

“Is that so?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. All traces of teasing were gone, replaced by a cold, simmering anger. “Things worth fixing, huh? That’s a fascinating philosophy.” He tilted his head, his gaze boring into you. “Tell me, then. Where’s the line? At what point does something become so fucking broken it’s not worth the effort anymore? When it leaves you stranded in the cold? Or is it before that? Maybe when it makes you feel so shitty you have to lie to get away from it?”

Each question was a lash. He wasn't talking about Daphne anymore. He was talking about you. About him. About you and him.

You flinched, pulling the oversized hoodie tighter around yourself as if it could shield you. “Eddie, that’s not what I meant--”

“Isn’t it?” he interrupted, standing up in one fluid, angry motion. He began to pace the small length of the living room, his movements restless, charged. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds exactly like what you meant. You’ll nurse along a shitbox car because it’s familiar. You’ll fight for it. But a relationship? A person? Nah. That you just… walk away from. No repairs. No fixing. Just a clean break and a bullshit excuse about ‘different paths.’ Or 'going nowhere.'” He stopped pacing and turned to face you, his chest heaving. “So forgive me if I’m a little fucking confused about your automotive morals.”

The raw pain in his voice, the accusation that cut straight to the heart of your own guilt, was too much. The tears you’d been fighting since you arrived sprang to your eyes, hot and immediate.

“You think it was easy?” you choked out, surging to your feet to face him. The blanket pooled at your feet. “You think I just woke up one day and decided to ‘throw you away’? I was terrified! I loved you so much it felt like I was drowning, and everyone was telling me you were a lost cause! I didn’t know how to fix us because I didn’t even know what was broken!”

“You could have talked to me!” he roared, the sound raw and startling in the small space. He took a step toward you, his hands clenched at his sides. “You could have fought with me! Instead, you just… left. You handed me a note written in fucking platitudes and disappeared. That’s not fixing something, Y/N. That’s scrapping it for parts.”

You were both shouting now, four months of suppressed hurt and anger erupting in the warm, claustrophobic space. The storm outside was nothing compared to the tempest in the room.

“I was trying to save myself!” you cried, the confession ripped from you.

“FROM WHAT?” he yelled back, throwing his hands up. “FROM ME?”

The question echoed, brutal and final. You stared at each other, breathing heavily, the truth of his words hanging between you like a guillotine.

From me.

In your darkest moments, yes. From the chaos, from the uncertainty, from the sheer, overwhelming force of loving Eddie Munson. You’d been trying to save yourself from the very thing you’d missed every single day since.

The fight drained out of you as quickly as it had come, leaving you hollow and shaking. You looked at him -- really looked at him -- seeing not the infuriating, teasing boy from the porch, but the man whose heart you’d shattered with your fear. The man who still had your picture on his wall.

“Yeah,” you whispered, the admission a surrender. A single tear traced a path down your cheek. “From you.”

He recoiled as if you’d struck him physically. All the anger bled from his face, replaced by a wounded, devastating comprehension. He took a step back, then another, until his back hit the wall. He slid down it slowly until he was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands.

You stood frozen, the weight of what you’d just said crushing you. A moment passed.

You glanced at him, hearing movement. He was looking the other direction, his profile painful to see. The flickering light of the lamp caught the silver in his rings, the curve of his lower lip. He was still so beautiful it hurt.

The silence fell upon you. Tense. Pregnant with too many emotions to name. You looked away, but you could feel him turn to you, his gaze heating up your skin. His sight was always so perceptive, so thoughtful and warm. You were afraid of him watching you, afraid of his intelligent brown eyes deducing things that you didn't want deduced.

You fought the urge to get up and hide from his eyes. In the bathroom. The spare bedroom, hiding under the covers.

"You cut your hair."

The statement was simple, but heavy. You could hear the suppressed anger in his tone. The hurt. The ache. The holding back of tears, the holding back of a rage fit. His voice was a broken rasp, a quiet devastation that was worse than any shout. It wasn't just an observation. It was an accusation of a change he hadn't been part of, a loss he'd had to witness from a distance. You cut your hair. You changed. You moved on without me.

Your hand flew self-consciously to the ends, now resting just above your shoulders. "Yeah," you whispered, your own voice trembling. "A while ago."

He didn't look at you. He kept his gaze fixed on some distant point on the wall, his jaw working. "I liked it long."

Three words. They held a universe of grief. I liked it. I liked you. I liked us.

A sob caught in your throat. This was agony. This quiet, raw aftermath was worse than the screaming. It was the autopsy of your relationship, performed in the cold, clear light of shared pain.

"I did it after," you admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I thought... I thought if I looked different, I'd feel different. But I just felt... bald. And sad."

He hummed.

"Had to erase anything I touched, huh? I was that bad?"

You shuddered, looking up at the ceiling.

"Stop it, Eddie. Fucking stop it."

He laughed humorlessly, his eyes finally locking back onto yours. The predatory fire was back, the ruthless analyzing.

"Stop what? What part of this is what you didn't want? You chose it," he said, his voice raw.

"Stop, Eddie!" You cried out.

He was never a good listener. Especially not when he was hurt. Especially not when the armor of sarcasm had been stripped away, leaving only the raw, pulsing nerve of his own perceived worthlessness.

He surged to his feet, a sudden, violent motion that made you flinch back against the couch cushions. He loomed over you, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he didn't move closer. The threat wasn't physical; it was emotional, and it was crushing.

"You want me to stop?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous snarl. "You want me to pretend like you didn't look at our life together and decide it was a fucking prison sentence? Fine. Let's play pretend. Let's pretend you're just a girl whose car broke down. Let's pretend I'm just a guy being hospitable. Let's pretend the last three years never happened. Is that easier for you? Is that safer?"

He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. Every word was a jab, designed to hurt because he was hurting, and he wanted you to feel it, to own it. You couldn't take it anymore.

You stood, grabbing your wet jacket and clothes.

"What are you doing?" He snapped.

"Leaving," you said, your voice surprisingly steady as you shoved your arms into the damp, cold sleeves of your jacket. The fabric felt like a slab of ice against your skin, a shocking contrast to the warmth of the trailer. "You win, Eddie. Always."

He crossed the distance in three steps, grabbing ahold of the jacket. Quickly and efficiently, he yanked it off from you, tossing it to the floor.

"You're not."

His voice was final. It wasn't a plea this time; it was a decree, forged in the fire of his own panic. The sight of you actually leaving, of you choosing the literal storm over his emotional one, had short-circuited his anger, replacing it with something more primal: possession.

You stood frozen, the sudden absence of the jacket leaving you exposed in the thin, borrowed hoodie. You could see the wild, frantic beat of his pulse in his throat. His hands, which had just stripped the jacket from you, hovered in the air between you, as if he wanted to grab onto something else -- your arms, your shoulders, you -- but was holding himself back by a thread.

"You're not leaving," he repeated, quieter now, his eyes locked on yours. "You walk out that door, you'll freeze. And I… I can't…" He swallowed hard, the sentence dying in his throat.

The raw, unspoken terror in his eyes undid you. The proud, furious exit was forgotten. You were both trapped -- by the weather, by history, by this devastating, inescapable connection that neither rage nor distance could sever.

A shuddering breath escaped you. "Then what do you want from me, Eddie?" Your voice was a broken whisper. "You want me to stand here and let you flay me alive? Because I can't do that either."

The fight seemed to leave him in a rush. His shoulders slumped, and he took a step back, running both hands over his face. When he looked at you again, he just looked exhausted. Defeated.

"I don't know," he admitted, the confession hollow. "I don't know what I want. I just know I can't watch you walk into that."

The silence stretched, thick and painful. The wind howled a reminder of the impossible choice: stay in the emotional warzone, or flee into the physical one.

Finally, he gestured vaguely toward the couch. "Just… sit down. Please. I'll… I'll shut up. We don't have to talk. We don't have to do anything. Just… exist. Until morning."

It was the barest minimum. A ceasefire with no terms, no resolution. Just a mutual agreement not to destroy each other -- or yourselves -- for the next few hours.

Slowly, feeling numb, you walked back to the couch and sat on the very edge, as far from his side as possible. He didn't sit next to you. He sank into the armchair opposite, putting the width of the coffee table between you. He picked up his cold mug of tea, stared into it, and said nothing.

overdose. car crash. somebody finally hitting him back harder. a phone call in the middle of the night.

you used to wake up sweating from dreams where wheezie called crying and all she had to say was: they found him.

and yet, almost as if fate and destiny were doomed to make your life worse, instead, he’s here. alive.

holding a basket with bread and toothpaste in it like a normal person. your chest caves inward so violently you almost turn around immediately.

don’t do this. don’t fucking do this.

but then he looks up, sees you. everything in the world stops moving. you watch recognition hit him in real time. not sudden. worse. slow. his eyes lift to your face and then just stay there.

completely still. you realize with horrible clarity that nobody has looked at you like that in three years. like seeing you hurts.

his mouth parts slightly. you can actually see him forget how to breathe. god. god.

for a second neither of you move.

the fluorescent lights hum softly overhead. somewhere distant, somebody wheels a cart past the end of the aisle. normal life keeps happening around the two of you while your nervous system quietly detonates.

rafe looks thinner. not unhealthy thin. just stripped down. quieter around the edges. like somebody sanded all the violence off him and left only exhaustion behind.

your throat burns immediately. you should say something.

instead you stand there holding a carton of eggs so tightly you think they might crack in your hands.

his eyes flick downward briefly. left hand. ring finger. empty. you hate yourself for noticing. his gaze returns to yours slowly after that and something inside his expression changes. not relief. not hope. something sadder.

“hi,” he says finally.

his voice almost kills you. it’s different now. still deep. still rough around the edges but softer somehow. controlled. you remember nights where that same voice shook with rage so violent it rattled the walls around you. and now he just sounds tired.

your mouth goes dry. “hi.”

silence again. you can feel your heartbeat in your teeth. he looks like he wants to say a thousand things and none of them survive the trip to his mouth. “i didn’t know you were back,” he says quietly.

back. right. you moved to charleston eight months after the breakup. not dramatically. not in a movie-scene way.

you had broken up with him after three whole months since the phone call. since you’d eventually whispered okay into the phone and snuck outside just to sit in his truck while both of you cried quietly and pretended that counted as closure.

three months since he kissed your forehead instead of your mouth and said:

i think if i touch you again i'll never leave.

three months since you walked back inside your house and watched him drive away. your fingers tightened hard around the cart handle because suddenly you were back inside every version of yourself that had ever loved him. the girl waiting for late-night phone calls. the girl memorizing his moods from the sound of his breathing. the girl who once thought loving somebody this intensely meant it had to last forever.

you just slowly stopped being able to breathe properly in outer banks. every street had him on it. every song. every marina. every late-night gas station. you’d left because surviving him from a distance was easier than surviving him nearby.

“just for the summer,” you answer.

he nods once. you notice he still does that thing where he stares too long between sentences. not aggressively anymore and instead like he’s making sure you’re real. “you look good,” he says.

your chest twists painfully because he says it without flirtation. without manipulation, just honest. you laugh softly before you can stop yourself. “you look… alive.”

the second the words leave your mouth, regret floods instantly but rafe just looks down. a tiny smile pulls briefly at one corner of his mouth. “yeah,” he murmurs. “trying.”

trying. there it is again.

that fucking word. for a horrible second you’re back inside that bedroom at figure eight with tears burning behind your eyes while he whispered i’m trying so fucking hard with you. your throat tightens dangerously.

“hey,” he says quietly.

you blink quickly. “sorry.”

“don’t apologize.”

god. you forgot how gentle he could sound when he wanted to. that’s the thing nobody else ever understood about him. they thought loving rafe cameron meant constant chaos. screaming. destruction. slammed doors.

they never saw the quiet parts. the devastatingly soft parts. the versions of him that made leaving impossible. you swallow hard. “how’s wheezie?”

“good,” he says. “she’s at unc now.”

your eyes widen slightly. “seriously?”

he nods, and there’s actual pride there now. uncomplicated pride. it nearly ruins you. once upon a time, every emotion inside him came tangled in barbed wire. now he looks… manageable. human. you hate how badly that hurts.

“sarah said you moved to savannah for a while,” he says carefully.

“yeah.”

“you like it there?”

you open your mouth automatically to say yes. instead: “it’s quiet.”

something flickers across his face at that: he knows what you mean. quiet used to terrify you.

after him, silence felt unnatural. you used to sleep with the television on because your nervous system didn’t know what to do without adrenaline anymore.

he knows that. god, he probably caused that. the realization passes through his eyes too. you see shame darken them briefly. “i’m sorry,” he says suddenly.

your breath catches. “rafe—”

“no, i know it’s been years.” his voice stays calm but you can hear the strain underneath it now. “i just… i never really got to say it right.”

you stare at him. the freezer hum fills the silence between you. he looks older when he’s sad now. less explosive. “i’m sorry for what i turned your life into,” he says quietly.

and there it is.

the thing you spent three years trying not to romanticize. after enough time passed, the sharp edges blurred. you started remembering him warm instead of terrifying. you remembered boat rides and sleepy kisses and the way he held your hand under restaurant tables. you forgot what it felt like to jump every time your phone rang at 2 a.m. you forgot the exhaustion. the fear. the constant waiting for disaster. until now. now he’s standing in front of you apologizing with the same broken sincerity that once kept you trapped for years.

your eyes burn immediately. “you were sick,” you whisper before thinking.

“yeah,” he says. not even defensive, nor angry. just honesty. "i was."

the calm acceptance bothers you because three years ago the rafe cameron you knew would've exploded before admitting something like that aloud. the rafe cameron here just stands there carrying it quietly.

"are you okay now?" you ask before you can stop yourself. and to your surprise, you watch him think about it seriously.

finally: "more than i was."

your throat tightens. "therapy?"

a faint almost-smile. "you would ask that."

"answer me."

"yeah." he rubs the back of his neck once, head dropping. "rehab too."

your heartbeat stumbles. rehab, of course. part of you always knew it would end there eventually. or a funeral.

there was never really another option.

“how long?” you ask softly.

"eighteen months."

you physically stop breathing for a second. eighteen months. eighteen whole months. you remember nights where he couldn’t survive six hours without putting something destructive into his bloodstream.

suddenly — horrifyingly — pride blooms inside your chest.

his eyes lower briefly like he can’t bear seeing that expression on your face after everything he did to you. "dont look proud of mee."

"why not?"

he laughs emptily. "because you paid for it."

you stare at him under fluorescent grocery store lights and realize with terrible clarity that you never stopped loving him. you just learned how to live around it which is different and infinitely worse.

his eyes lift back to yours slowly. “you happy?” he asks.

the question almost feels cruel. happiness stopped feeling simple after him. you learned how to function. how to sleep again. how to exist without panic eating through your bloodstream every night.

but happiness? you don’t know. you think maybe he can tell by your face because his expression softens into something deeply sad. “yeah,” he murmurs. “okay.”

you swallow hard. “what about you?”

he looks down at the basket in his hand. bread. toothpaste. coffee creamer. evidence of a life, small normal things. “some days,” he admits quietly.

you suddenly want to cry right there between frozen pizzas and ice cream. once upon a time, loving each other felt like standing inside a burning building refusing to leave.

and now here he is. alive and sober and against all odds, fucking gentle. a wedding ring glints briefly on the hand reaching into the freezer behind him.

not his. some stranger’s but the sight of it makes something strange pass over rafe’s face. grief, not jealousy. like he suddenly remembered there was a version of life where the two of you might’ve survived long enough for ordinary things.

marriage. groceries. sleeping through the night together. you feel it too. the phantom ache of a future that died before it could happen. he looks back at you slowly. “i used to think if i loved you hard enough,” he says quietly, “it would make me someone safe.”

your eyes fill with tears because you know that as a truth.

"hey," he says softly, the same way he used to. you shake your head and his face falls slightly. "sorry."

“no, i just—” your voice breaks embarrassingly so you look away fast. you hear his breathing change immediately. three years later and he still reacts to your pain like it’s happening inside his own body. that realization terrifies you more than it should.

“are you with someone?” he asks carefully.

you blink quickly. “no.”

his eyes close briefly. like guilt for still wanting the answer.

“you?”

a pause. “tried.”

your stomach twists painfully. tried. you can picture it too easily. some poor girl touching him gently while he stares at the ceiling wondering why it doesn’t feel like you. you hate that the thought still matters.

“didn’t work?” you ask quietly.

“turns out emotionally destroying the love of your life gives you some commitment issues.”

you stare at him because what the fuck do you say to that? i'm sorry?

he immediately shakes his head slightly. “sorry. that was—” rafe looks at you for a long moment before speaking again. “you know what the worst part was?”

your throat tightens. “what?”

his jaw flexes once. “getting better.”

you stare at him. he looks down at the floor briefly before continuing. “because i thought…” he swallows hard. “i thought if i fixed myself enough, eventually i’d stop missing you.”

your eyes burn instantly. “did it work?”

he smiles then. small. “not even a little.” he looks away after that like he regrets saying it out loud.

you stand there staring at him while your entire body remembers things it spent three years trying to forget.

the weight of him asleep against your chest. the sound of his truck outside at impossible hours. his hands shaking during apologies and the unbearable tenderness afterward.

you remember the last time you saw him before tonight. not the phone call. after. the real ending. you hadn’t spoken for almost four months then.

four months of deleting texts before sending them. four months of waking up reaching for him and hating yourself afterward. four months of teaching your body that silence did not automatically mean death.

and then sarah called. 2:11 a.m.

you still remember the exact time because trauma freezes details into your bones forever. you answered half-asleep and heard crying immediately.

not loud. worse. trying-not-to-be-loud crying. “hey,” sarah whispered. “i’m sorry. i didn’t know who else to call.”

your entire body had gone cold before she even said his name. “what happened?”

silence. “he overdosed.”

the grocery store disappears around you for a second at the memory. just gone because suddenly you’re twenty-two again standing barefoot in your dark kitchen unable to breathe correctly while sarah cried through the phone.

you remember dropping the glass in your hand. orange juice and shattered glass across tile. you remember not feeling your feet while you drove. you remember praying which was insane because you didn’t even believe in god anymore after rafe.

but you prayed anyway. please. please not him. please not like this.

the hospital had smelled like antiseptic and coffee and fear. you remember running through automatic doors at 3 a.m. with your heartbeat trying to tear its way out of your chest.

you remember wheezie standing in the hallway crying into kie’s shoulder. you remember ward nowhere in sight. of course. of fucking course.

and then you saw him. through glass. alive. barely. your knees had almost given out from relief so violent it felt like pain. rafe lay unconscious beneath fluorescent hospital lights with bruises under his eyes and tubes down his throat and machines breathing for him.

and all you could think was: i knew it. i knew someday i’d get this phone call. you’d spent years waiting for catastrophe and there it was finally.

quiet. sterile. hooked to monitors. sarah saw you first. her expression collapsed instantly when she realized you came. “he asked for you,” she whispered.

your chest split open. “is he—”

“they don’t know yet.”

you physically stopped breathing. they don’t know yet. those four words still haunt you. because suddenly everything became terrifyingly simple. all the complicated relationship bullshit disappeared instantly.

the fights. the fear. the exhaustion. none of it mattered standing outside a hospital room wondering whether the person you loved most was about to die.

you sat there until sunrise. then noon. then night again. you didn’t leave once. and when he finally woke up twenty-three hours later, the first thing he did was look for you.

not dramatic nor frantic. like he genuinely believed you wouldn’t be there. his eyes found yours across the room and you watched confusion hit him first.

then shame. then something so heartbreakingly relieved you had to look away. “hey,” you whispered.

his throat moved slightly around the breathing tube.

tears filled his eyes immediately. you’d never seen somebody look so devastated to still be alive. later — after the tube came out, after doctors left, after wheezie finally fell asleep curled in a waiting room chair — you sat beside his bed in silence while rain hit the hospital windows softly outside.

rafe couldn’t look at you. he kept staring at his own hands. you noticed then how badly they were shaking. “i’m sorry,” he whispered eventually.

your chest hurt so badly you thought you might actually throw up. “don’t apologise.”

“i didn’t mean to scare you.” that sentence almost made you angry. even half-dead, his first instinct was still your feelings.

not himself. you stared at him under hospital lights and realized he genuinely thought the worst part of almost dying was what it did to you.

“why?” you whispered.

he went still. you hated how weak your voice sounded afterward. “why would you do that to yourself?”

his expression changed immediately. not defensive. “i wasn’t trying to die.” you looked away sharply because somehow that hurt more. “that sounds bad,” he murmured.

“it sounds terrifying.”

silence stretched between you. machines beeped softly nearby. finally he laughed under his breath. “i think i stopped caring what happened to me a long time ago.”

your eyes filled instantly. you knew. every time he drove too fast or drank too much or looked at himself like his body was something disposable.

this hadn’t started with the overdose. this had always been happening slowly. you just hadn’t wanted to name it. “rafe…”

he finally looked at you then. “you know the worst part?” he whispered. your throat tightened. “when i woke up…” his breathing shook slightly. “i was disappointed for like five seconds.”

your heart physically cracked. he started crying immediately afterward. silent and ashamed, turning his face away from you like he couldn’t survive being seen like this. “fuck,” he whispered brokenly. “that sounds horrible.”

you were crying too hard to answer. it didn’t sound horrible it sounded hopeless. there’s a difference. you reached for him automatically snf he flinched.

“don’t,” he whispered.

“why?”

his face twisted painfully. “i ruin everything that touches me.”

your chest caved inward. “that’s not true.”

“look at us.”

silence. what could you even say to that? look at us. a hospital room at dawn. both crying. both exhausted. both too in love to survive it correctly. you sat there for a long time while rain streaked softly down the windows.

then eventually he spoke again. quiet enough you almost missed it. “i really tried.”

tears burned harder behind your eyes. “i know.”

“no, you don’t.” his voice cracked apart. “you met me after everything already got bad.”

you stared at him. he still wouldn’t look at you. “i think…” he swallowed hard. “i think something happened to me when i was a kid and nobody noticed.”

your entire body went still. suddenly he sounded small. not dangerous and not volatile. “what do you mean?”

he shrugged one shoulder weakly. “i don’t know.”

his eyes finally lifted to yours after that and what you saw there nearly destroyed you. grief. not for the overdose. not for the relationship. for himself. for the person he might’ve been if somebody had loved him correctly before all this.

“i don’t think i was born wrong,” he whispered.

you started crying so hard it hurt to breathe. because no. he wasn’t born wrong. that was the tragedy. he was just loved badly for too long. you moved before thinking. crossed the room. wrapped your arms around him carefully around wires and hospital blankets and bruised skin.

he froze instantly. you felt the exact moment he broke apart in your arms. his face buried against your shoulder while his entire body shook with silent sobs.

and god. god. you had held him angry before. held him drunk. held him high. held him after fights and panic attacks and nightmares. raw grief for the life he destroyed with his own hands.

“i’m sorry,” he kept whispering against your shoulder. “i’m so sorry.”

you held him tighter anyway. you still loved him. even then and especially then.

the next morning, he asked you to leave. you’d fallen asleep curled awkwardly beside his hospital bed with your hand still tangled with his when his voice woke you softly. “hey.”

sunlight spilled pale through hospital blinds.

he looked exhausted already but clear-eyed. sober. terrified. “what’s wrong?” you whispered immediately.

his throat bobbed hard. “i can’t do this to you anymore.”

your heart stopped. you stared at him while panic rose violently through your bloodstream. “rafe—”

“no, listen to me.” his voice shook. “if you stay, i’m never gonna learn how to survive without needing you to keep me alive.”

your chest physically hurt. “don’t say that.”

“it’s true.” tears filled his eyes immediately. “i loved you so much i stopped caring whether you survived me.”

you started crying instantly. “that’s not fair.”

“i know.” his fingers tightened around yours desperately. “but i think if i keep loving you like this, one day you’re gonna wake up and realize i took your whole life with me.”

silence. machines humming softly around you. morning light.

the end of everything. he looked at you with tears slipping silently down his face and whispered the sentence that still follows you everywhere. “i want you to have a life that doesn’t feel like an emergency.”

the grocery store rushes back all at once. fluorescent lights. old air. rafe standing in front of you three years later holding a basket full of ordinary things.

alive. you realize suddenly that he’s watching your face carefully. “where’d you go?” he asks softly.

your throat burns. “nowhere.”

his expression says he knows you’re lying. of course he does. you look at him for too long after that. grief hits you so hard you almost can’t stay standing.

because he did it. he actually fucking did it. he survived. he became someone softer. safer.

someone you maybe could’ve stayed with and you don’t get to have him anymore. that’s the punishment. you loved each other at the wrong time and now all that’s left is this horrible ghost of what your lives might’ve been if healing had happened sooner.

rafe swallows hard beneath your silence. “hey,” he says carefully.

your eyes lift to his. he looks scared suddenly. not of you. for you. the same way he always used to when you got too quiet. “talk to me.”

and there it is. the old instinct. the terrifying urge to let him. to tell him everything. how no one has touched you since him without you comparing the gentleness. how sometimes you still wake up convinced your phone is about to ring. how you still know his birthday without trying. how part of you never left that hospital room. instead you whisper the saddest truth of all. “i think i would’ve loved the version of you that exists now forever.”

“don't say things i’m gonna think about for the next ten years.”

you know he means ithe would think about it for ten years. twenty. the rest of his life probably. that was always the problem with rafe. he loved permanently. even when he shouldn’t. especially when he shouldn’t.

you laugh shakily and wipe quickly beneath your eyes before tears can fully fall. “sorry.”

“stop apologizing.”

his expression softens in that unbearable way it used to at three in the morning when the anger finally burned out of him and only tenderness remained.

“you still do that,” he murmurs.

“do what?”

“say sorry every time you feel something.”

you look down at the carton of eggs still clutched against your chest like a shield, exhausted by the unbearable unfairness of becoming healthy too late.

“i used to hate you for getting better after me,” you admit quietly.

“yeah,” he whispers. “i know.”

your throat tightens harder. “for a while i thought maybe if you’d loved me enough, you would’ve changed sooner.”

his eyes close immediately. you regret saying it the second it leaves your mouth. “that’s not fair,” you whisper quickly. “i know that now, i just—”

“no.” his voice is quiet. tired. “you were right.”

“rafe—”

“you know what rehab taught me?” he looks at you then and suddenly you’re back in every terrible honest conversation you ever survived together. “love doesn’t fix people before they’re ready to save themselves.”

once upon a time, you genuinely believed loving him hard enough could drag him back from whatever darkness kept swallowing him whole.

and he believed it too. that was the tragedy. you both confused devotion for salvation. “i wanted it to,” he says softly.

tears slip down your face before you can stop them. “i know.”

“i used to think if i lost you, i’d die. and then i lost you,” he continues, “and i didn’t.” you stare at him silently. “felt worse, honestly.”

“i used to drive by your apartment in charleston sometimes,” he admits suddenly.

your heart stumbles. “what?”

“not in a creepy way,” he says quickly, already looking ashamed. “i never got out. i just…” he swallows hard. “wanted to know you were alive.”

of course even his recovery still carried traces of old obsession softened into something gentler. “i stopped after therapy,” he says quietly. “my sponsor told me loving someone isn’t the same as monitoring them.”

despite everything, you laugh softly through tears.

his mouth twitches slightly at the sound. god. you forgot how beautiful he looked when he smiled without cruelty inside it.

that realization hurts more than almost anything else tonight. this version of him really could’ve been your forever. you mourn him like he died. maybe some version of him did.

“i kept your voicemail,” you confess suddenly.

“which one?”

“the one from outside my house.”

when you look back at him, all the color has drained from his face. “you still have that?”

you nod once.

“i listened to it a lot after rehab,” he admits quietly.

your heartbeat stutters. “why?”

“because it was proof somebody loved me before i learned how to be a person.”

that sentence nearly destroys you. you press your lips together hard because suddenly crying in public feels inevitable.

“hey,” he says softly.

you shake your head quickly. “don’t do that. don't talk to me gently.”

his face falls a little. “why?”

your voice breaks. “because i still love you when you do.”

there it is. the truth. final and ugly and too late. his breathing actually catches. you watch him look away sharply like the confession physically hurt him.

for a second you think he might cry. instead he nods once. slowly. accepting something. “yeah,” he whispers.

you both stand there drowning quietly in all the years between you then his phone buzzes.

the sound slices through the moment brutally. he blinks hard and looks down automatically. a notification lights the screen. wheezie.

you see his entire expression soften instantly. healthy. your chest aches with pride and grief tangled together so tightly they become indistinguishable.

he notices you noticing. “she’s presenting some art thing tomorrow,” he explains softly. “she’s freaking out.”

you smile despite yourself. “you going?”

“wouldn’t miss it.”

you believe him immediately. this version of rafe probably shows up now. (that realization hurts too.) he slides the phone back into his pocket slowly then looks at you again and there it is. the final thing.

you can feel it sitting between you both. the understanding that this is ending. really ending this time.

not with screaming. not with blocked numbers or slammed doors or terrified midnight phone calls. just two people who loved each other too destructively meeting again after surviving it.

rafe swallows once. “i should let you go.”

your throat burns. “yeah.”

neither of you move. of course. his eyes drift over your face one last time. not possessive anymore. just memorizing. the way people look at places they used to live.

“i’m glad you survived me,” he says quietly.

the tears finally spill over completely. somehow, after everything, that’s still how he loves you. with guilt. with relief. with grief.

you laugh shakily through tears. “you too.”

his face crumples slightly at that. for one terrifying second you think he’s going to reach for you. you almost want him to but he doesn’t.

that’s how you know he really changed. instead he just nods once.. then he says the thing that finally kills you.

“you know,” he whispers, “i think we would’ve been really boring together eventually.”

you stare at him through tears. he smiles faintly. sad enough to ruin you forever.

“i think we would’ve had a dog.”

a sob escapes you before you can stop it. suddenly you can see it. some tiny impossible alternate universe. sunday mornings. laundry. grocery stores. his hand warm against your back while dinner burned slightly in the kitchen.

ordinary love. the kind you never got to have.

rafe looks wrecked hearing you cry but he stays where he is. letting you keep the distance. finally learning how. “bye,” you whisper.

his eyes close briefly. like the word physically hurts. when they open again, they’re shining. “bye, baby.”

and then he leaves. just walks away. no dramatic last look. no running after him. no collapse.

he disappears down the aisle carrying bread and toothpaste and eighteen months of sobriety with him.

and you stand there crying silently beside the frozen food section while the automatic doors slide open somewhere in the distance.

later, much later, after you finally make it back to your car, you sit in the driver’s seat staring blindly through the windshield while rain taps softly against the glass.

your phone buzzes once. unknown number.

your heart stops instantly because some parts of you will always belong to him. you open it anyway. one message.

just six words.

thank you for loving me anyway.

you stare at the screen until it blurs. then finally, with shaking hands and tears still slipping silently down your face, you type back the truest thing you ever gave him.

i never stopped.

© BITTERSWEETLYBLUE. do not copy, translate, edit my work then claim it as your own, attempt to plagarise or repost it on any other website nor feed into AI. you will be blocked.

a/n: i listened to paul by big theif while writing this and actually fucking sobbed like a baby. i also wrote this as soon as i got the ask + along with the draft of this that was sitting here like a week ago and was actually fucking crying omg anyways PLEASE comment i need yalls thoughts

Katsuki clicked his tongue, a sudden surge of stubborn affection overtaking his usual rigid boundaries. Without warning, he reached out, wrapping his calloused fingers firmly around (Y/N)’s hand. He laced their fingers together, pulling (Y/N) just an inch closer so their shoulders brushed.

Instantly, he felt it. It was subtle—so subtle that anyone else walking past them on the bustling campus wouldn't have noticed—but to Katsuki, it was deafening. (Y/N)’s hand went rigid. The muscles in his forearm locked up, a sudden, microscopic jolt traveling through his frame. (Y/N) didn’t pull away; in fact, after a beat of heavy hesitation, his fingers squeezed back, offering a tight, manufactured reassurance. He even turned his head, offering Katsuki a small, faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

But the tension never left. (Y/N)’s shoulders remained high, his gaze darting subtly to a group of passing students, his posture shifting as if he were waiting for a blow to land.

Katsuki dropped his hand a few minutes later when they reached the steps of the humanities building. (Y/N) offered a quick, distracted wave, muttering something about film study with the team, and disappeared into the crowd. Katsuki stood on the steps for a long moment, staring at the space where (Y/N) had just been, a bitter taste rising in the back of his throat.

"Hey, Blasty! You trying to burn a hole through the concrete with your mind, or are you actually going to come inside?"

Katsuki didn't turn around, but he grunted, recognizing Mina Ashido’s voice. She bounced up the steps, her bright pink hair catching the afternoon sun, flanked by Kirishima, Kaminari, Sero, and Jiro. They were his crew, the loud, obnoxious idiots who had somehow wormed their way into his life during freshman year and refused to leave. They were also the first people Katsuki had told when he and (Y/N)—his long-time friend, the guy he’d known since middle school—finally stopped dancing around each other and made things official.

They had been nothing but supportive. Kirishima had practically thrown a party; Mina had choked him in a hug; Kaminari had made a joke that got him sparked; Jiro had given him a rare, genuine smile; and Sero had just laughed and said, About damn time. Even Aizawa, their gruff, permanently exhausted academic advisor, had merely looked up from his grading, sighed, and muttered, Just don't let it distract you from your midterms. His parents, too, had welcomed (Y/N) with open arms, Mitsuki treating him like a second son and Masaru quietly offering him the best cuts of meat at dinner.

They had a village. They had a safety net.

So why did it still feel like they were walking on a tightrope over a canyon?

"Shut up, Pinky," Katsuki snapped, though the fire wasn't really in it. He turned and trudged into the building, the group falling into step around him.

They crowded into their usual corner of the student lounge. Kaminari and Sero immediately started arguing over a statistics assignment, while Kirishima began rambling about his latest weight-lifting plateau. Katsuki sat on the edge of a couch, arms crossed, staring blankly at his laptop screen.

Mina watched him. She had a keen eye for dynamics, far sharper than her bubbly exterior let on. She noticed the way Katsuki kept glancing toward the windows, the way his jaw was clenched tightly enough to crack a tooth.

When the guys got distracted by Jiro showing them a video on her phone, Mina slid into the empty seat next to Katsuki. She didn't push him, just leaned her chin on her hand, looking at him with a softness that made Katsuki instantly defensive.

"What?" he growled, keeping his voice low.

"Everything okay with you and (Y/N)?" she asked softly.

Katsuki’s shoulders stiffened. "Fine. Why wouldn't it be?"

Mina hesitated, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. "I don't know. I saw you guys walking earlier. Near the library. You held his hand, and... I don't know, Bakugo. I’m not trying to interrogate you, seriously. I love you guys. But I’ve noticed it a few times lately. Whenever you do stuff like that in public—hand holding, or when you gave him that peck on the cheek last week by the gym—he freezes up. It’s like he’s playing a part, but he’s totally stressed out inside. Is he... is he 100% into this relationship? Like, the way you make it seem?"

The words hit Katsuki like a physical strike to the chest. His immediate instinct was to yell, to tell her to mind her own business, to blast her through the window. But the raw, uncharacteristic honesty in Mina’s eyes stopped the shout in his throat.

He looked down at his lap, his fingers curling into fists against his jeans.

"I've noticed it too," Katsuki said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that Mina had to strain to hear. It felt like tearing out a piece of his own throat just to admit it. "He thinks he’s hiding it. He thinks he’s being smooth. But he’s stiff as a board every damn time. I touch him, and it’s like I’m a live wire shocking him."

Mina’s expression crumbled into deep sympathy. "Have you talked to him about it?"

"No," Katsuki muttered, staring at the floor. "Because I’m a coward. Because I know exactly what it is, and I don't want to face it."

He didn't say the words out loud—internalized homophobia—but they hung heavy in the air between them. Katsuki knew (Y/N) loved him. He knew it in the quiet moments, in the dead of night when they were wrapped up in Katsuki’s bed, away from the eyes of the world, where (Y/N) would press his face into Katsuki’s neck and breathe him in like he was oxygen. In the dark, (Y/N) was soft, pliable, and entirely his.

But the daylight brought the rest of the world.

(Y/N) wasn't just Katsuki’s boyfriend; he was a starting linebacker for the university’s football team. He existed in a world dominated by loud, aggressive, hyper-masculine energy. And while the campus itself was generally progressive, the locker room was a different beast entirely.

Katsuki had passed by the athletic wing a few times to wait for (Y/N) after practice. He’d heard the casual, careless slurs tossed around like footballs. He’d heard some of (Y/N)’s own teammates—guys he shared a defensive line with—making snide, mocking comments about (Y/N) being "soft" or "fruity" because he didn't join in on their crude jokes about women, or because someone had spotted him talking a little too closely with Katsuki. (Y/N) always laughed it off or ignored it, but Katsuki had seen the way those words settled like toxic ash in his boyfriend's eyes.

Worse than the teammates, though, was (Y/N)’s father.

Katsuki had met the man exactly twice, and both times had left him wanting to break something. (Y/N)’s father was a traditionalist in the worst sense of the word—a rigid, overbearing man who viewed his son not as a person, but as a legacy to cultivate. He was openly, venomously homophobic, frequently making remarks during televised sports or family dinners about how "the world was soft" and how he "didn't raise a degenerate." (Y/N) lived in perpetual terror of that man finding out the truth. He lived with a heavy, suffocating blanket of shame draped over his shoulders, trying desperately to balance his love for Katsuki with the desperate, deep-seated urge to please a father who would hate him if he knew who he truly was.

"He's drowning in it, Mina," Katsuki whispered, his chest aching with a rare, terrifying vulnerability. "And I don't know how to pull him out without drowning him completely."

Mina reached out, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. "Just be there for him, Bakugo. Don't push him faster than he can go. But don't let him break himself, either."

The day of the championship game arrived with a tense, electric energy that swallowed the entire campus. It was the biggest game of the season, and the stadium was packed to maximum capacity.

Katsuki sat in the front row of the family and friends section, flanked by his parents. Mitsuki was wearing a jersey in (Y/N)’s team colors, shouting loudly at the field, while Masaru sat quietly beside her, offering a calm anchor. A few rows back, Kirishima, Mina, and the rest of the squad were making enough noise to wake the dead, holding up a massive, poorly painted sign with (Y/N)’s jersey number on it.

On the field, (Y/N) was a force of nature. He moved with a brutal, calculated efficiency, tearing through the opposing team's offense, his performance fueled by a manic, desperate energy. Katsuki watched him through narrowed eyes. He could see the strain in the way (Y/N) stood during timeouts, the way his shoulders were hunched under his pads. He was playing like a man running from a ghost.

In the VIP box directly above them sat (Y/N)’s parents. Katsuki had caught sight of his father earlier—a tall, stern man with a permanent scowl, watching his son’s every move with a critical, unforgiving glare. (Y/N)’s mother sat beside him, looking anxious and small.

The final whistle blew, a deafening explosion of sound echoing through the stadium as (Y/N)’s team secured a hard-fought victory. The crowd erupted. Players stormed the field, dumping Gatorade over Coach Endeavor’s broad shoulders. The towering, fiery coach actually cracked a rare, terrifying smile, clapping his players on their backs with heavy, booming hands.

Katsuki didn't care about the trophy. His eyes were locked on (Y/N), who was taking off his helmet, his hair soaked in sweat, breathing heavily.

The barrier separating the stands from the field was opened for families. Mitsuki immediately pulled Masaru along, dragging Katsuki down to the turf. The crowd was a chaotic sea of jerseys, pom-poms, and roaring fans.

When (Y/N) caught sight of them, a genuine, blinding smile finally broke across his exhausted face. The defensive walls he usually wore seemed to crumble under the sheer adrenaline of the win and the sight of the people who truly cared for him. He jogged over, dropping his helmet to the grass.

Mitsuki threw her arms around his bulky, padded shoulders first. "You did amazing, brat! Absolutely crushed 'em!"

"Thanks, Mama Bakugo," (Y/N) breathed, his voice rough.

Masaru stepped up next, offering a warm pat on the shoulder and a quiet, prideful smile. "An incredible game, son. We're very proud of you."

Then, (Y/N) turned his eyes to Katsuki.

The adrenaline, the euphoria of the victory, the sheer relief of the game being over—it all seemed to culminate in a rare moment of absolute abandon for (Y/N). He didn't look around. He didn't scan the crowd for his teammates or the stands for his father. He just looked at Katsuki.

Before Katsuki could even say a word, (Y/N) stepped forward, wrapped his large hands around the back of Katsuki’s neck, and pulled him in.

It wasn't a hesitant, tense touch. It was a real, solid kiss, right there on the open field, under the blinding stadium lights. (Y/N)’s lips were warm, tasting of sweat and sports drink, pressing against Katsuki’s with a desperate, hungry sincerity. Katsuki froze for a fraction of a second in pure shock before his own instincts kicked in. He grabbed the front of (Y/N)’s jersey, pulling him closer, melting into the kiss with a fierce, possessive intensity. For a beautiful, fleeting five seconds, the rest of the world ceased to exist.

Then, reality shattered.

A heavy, low voice cut through the surrounding noise like a chainsaw, instantly freezing the blood in Katsuki’s veins.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

(Y/N) ripped himself away so fast Katsuki almost stumbled forward. The euphoria vanished from (Y/N)’s face, replaced instantly by a pale, sickening mask of absolute terror.

Standing a few feet away, having pushed through the lingering crowd, was (Y/N)’s father, Kouji. His face was a dark, mottled purple with rage, his veins standing out on his neck, his eyes wide and burning with a toxic, venomous hatred. (Y/N)’s mother, Yua, stood a step behind him, her hands clasped over her mouth, tears already welling in her eyes.

"Dad," (Y/N) choked out, his voice instantly dropping all its strength, sounding like a terrified child. "Dad, wait, let me—"

"Shut your mouth," Kouji snarled, stepping closer, his presence towering and suffocating. He didn't care that they were surrounded by hundreds of people. His fury was a localized storm, entirely focused on his son. "I come out here to watch a championship game, and I see my son—a starting linebacker, a man I raised—acting like a disgusting, pathetic degenerate on the open field? With him?"

He hurled the word him at Katsuki like a curse, glaring at the blonde boy with an intense, violent disgust.

Katsuki’s temper, usually a raging fire, instantly ignited. He stepped in front of (Y/N), his chest heaving, his palms sparking slightly with nervous adrenaline. "Watch your mouth, old man. You don't talk to him like that."

"Katsuki, don't," Masaru said quietly but firmly, stepping up beside his son, while Mitsuki moved to place herself between Katsuki and the enraged father.

"You stay out of this," Kouji barked at the Bakugos, before pointing a thick, shaking finger directly at his son's face. "I am going to give you one chance, and one chance only, boy. You walk away from this freak right now. You pack your bags, you come home, and we get you sorted out. You choose right now. You choose your family, your future, our name—or you choose this disgusting lifestyle. Choose."

(Y/N) looked like he was suffocating. He looked at his father, then at his mother, who was weeping silently, shaking her head as if begging him to just submit, to just lie, to save himself. Then he looked at Katsuki. Katsuki’s heart was hammering against his ribs, a cold, sharp dread piercing his chest. He didn't say anything. He wouldn't force (Y/N). But the look in Katsuki’s eyes was pure, agonized pleading.

Don't let him break you.

(Y/N) took a ragged, trembling breath. The shame that had weighed him down for years seemed to curdle into something else—a desperate, cornered survival instinct. He stood a little straighter, though his hands were shaking violently.

"No," (Y/N) whispered.

The man’s eyes narrowed. "What did you say to me?"

"I said no, Dad," (Y/N) said, his voice cracking but louder this time. "I’m not leaving him. I’m not... I’m not going to pretend anymore."

The reaction was instantaneous and violent. Kouji let out a guttural roar of pure rage, lunging forward. He didn't even aim for (Y/N) first; his blind fury drove him straight toward Katsuki, his large hand reaching out to grab the blonde by the collar of his jacket to rip him away.

"Get your hands off him!" (Y/N) screamed.

Before his father could touch Katsuki, (Y/N) stepped into the gap. With a massive surge of his athletic strength, fueled by pure panic, (Y/N) slammed his hands into his father's chest, shoving the older man backward.

The man stumbled back two steps into the grass.

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over their immediate vicinity. Shoving his father was a boundary (Y/N) had never crossed, a taboo written into the very DNA of his upbringing. The moment his hands left his father's chest, (Y/N) froze, his eyes widening in horror at what he had just done.

"You piece of trash," Kouji whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying, quiet malice.

Before anyone could react, the man lunged back forward with terrifying speed. He caught (Y/N) completely off guard. His large, calloused hands slammed into the hard plastic of (Y/N)’s shoulder pads, using the boy’s own momentum against him. He drove (Y/N) backward with brutal force, slamming him hard against the concrete base of the nearest stadium wall.

The impact echoed with a sickening, hollow thud. (Y/N) gasped, the air completely knocked from his lungs.

"Hey! Stop!" Mitsuki screamed, lunging forward, but the man was already moving.

With a curled, heavy fist, (Y/N)’s father threw a brutal, full-force punch directly into his son's face.

The sound of flesh striking flesh was horrific. (Y/N)’s head snapped back against the concrete wall, a sharp, spray of bright red blood exploding from his nose and split lip. His knees buckled instantly, his body sliding halfway down the wall, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

"Stop it! Please, stop!" Yua shrieked, grabbing at her husband's arm, but he shook her off like a leaf.

"Get the hell off him!" Katsuki roared, his vision going completely red. He lunged forward, ready to tear the man to pieces, his hands igniting, but before he could reach him, a massive, towering shadow fell over the entire group.

"That is enough!"

Coach Enji Todoroki stepped into the space like a brick wall, his massive, imposing frame completely cutting off (Y/N)’s father. The coach’s face was set in a terrifying, thunderous scowl, his large hand wrapping around the father's forearm with a grip that looked capable of crushing bone.

"Lay another hand on my player," Endeavor rumbled, his voice vibrating with a dangerous, authoritative heat, "and I will have campus security and the police throw you out of this stadium in zip-ties. Do you understand me?"

Right on cue, Masaru stepped up beside Endeavor, his usual gentle demeanor completely gone, replaced by a cold, rigid fury that Katsuki had never seen in his father before. "We are witnesses to an assault. Move away from him immediately."

Kouji looked at the towering coach, then at the furious Bakugo family, and realized he was entirely outnumbered, surrounded by a crowd that was now turning to stare in shock. He pulled his arm out of Enji's grip, his face still twisted in disgust.

"Keep him," the man spat, wiping a stray drop of his son's blood from his own knuckle. He turned his freezing gaze down toward the boy slumped against the wall. "You’re dead to me. Don't ever come back to my house. You're no son of mine."

He turned on his heel, grabbing his weeping wife by the arm, and dragged her away into the crowd, leaving a wake of stunned silence behind him.

"Oh my god, (Y/N)," Mitsuki gasped, immediately dropping to her knees on the grass beside the boy.

Katsuki was already there, his heart thrashing frantically against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Hey, hey, look at me," he choked out, his hands trembling violently as he reached out to touch (Y/N)’s face.

(Y/N) was shivering, his breath coming in ragged, shallow wheezes. Blood was pouring freely from his nose, painting his chin and the white numbers of his jersey a horrific, stark crimson. His lip was split wide open, swelling rapidly. But it wasn't the physical injuries that made Katsuki’s stomach drop into a bottomless abyss; it was the look in (Y/N)’s eyes.

The eyes were completely broken. The shame, the terror, the sudden, violent destruction of his entire world had shattered something deep inside him. He looked up at Katsuki, and instead of finding comfort, he looked like he was looking at his executioner.

"Hey, let us help you up, sweetheart," Mitsuki murmured softly, her voice full of maternal heartbreak as she reached for his arm. Katsuki reached out too, trying to cup his cheek. "Come on, let’s get you to the training room, get you cleaned up—"

"Don't," (Y/N) croaked.

The word was small, wet with blood, but it carried a desperate, violent finality.

Before either of them could stop him, (Y/N) scrambled backward against the wall, using his remaining strength to push himself up. He shoved past Mitsuki’s hands, and when Katsuki reached out to grab his waist to steady him, (Y/N) violently slapped his hands away.

"Don't touch me!" (Y/N) shouted, his voice cracking into a raw, agonized sob.

Katsuki froze, his hands hovering in the air, his chest feeling like it had been pierced by a jagged piece of ice. "(Y/N)... please, just let us—"

"I can't do this," (Y/N) wept, blood leaking down his face, dripping off his chin and leaving a stark, terrifying trail of red droplets on the green turf beneath him. He was shaking so hard he could barely stand, his eyes wild and unfocused as he looked at Katsuki. "I can't. Look what happened. Look at what this did. It’s over, Katsuki. We’re over. Just... leave me the hell alone!"

"No—(Y/N), wait!" Katsuki screamed, stepping forward, but (Y/N) was already turning.

He didn't run—he couldn't, his body too battered and broken from the impact—but he stumbled away into the chaotic sea of the stadium crowd, his broad, padded shoulders hunched, his head down. Katsuki tried to pursue him, but the crowd closed in like a wall of water, and Coach Endeavor placed a heavy hand on Katsuki’s shoulder, holding him back.

"Let him go, kid," Enji said, his voice unusually quiet, devoid of its usual harshness. "He’s in shock. Pushing him right now will only make him run further. Let my staff find him. We’ll take care of the medical."

Katsuki fell to his knees on the turf, staring at the small, dark spatters of red blood drying on the grass. The stadium around him was still cheering, music still blaring from the loudspeakers, but to Katsuki, the entire world had just gone completely, terrifyingly silent.

Three days.

For three agonizing, endless days, Katsuki existed in a living nightmare.

(Y/N) hadn't returned to his dorm room. He hadn't answered a single one of Katsuki’s a hundred phone calls or texts. He hadn't responded to Kirishima, Mina, or even Coach Enji, who had quietly informed Katsuki that (Y/N) had cleared out his locker in the dead of night following the game. Aizawa had checked the university system; (Y/N) hadn't formally withdrawn from his classes yet, but he hadn't shown up to a single one.

He had simply vanished into the concrete expanse of the city, leaving nothing behind but the memory of his blood on the grass.

Katsuki hadn't slept. He hadn't eaten more than a few forced bites of toast his mother had shoved down his throat. He spent his days sitting on the couch in his parents' living room, staring blankly at his phone, his mind replaying those five seconds of euphoria on the field, followed instantly by the horrific sound of (Y/N)’s head cracking against the wall.

The guilt was a physical weight crushing his lungs. If he hadn't held his hand on campus, if he hadn't pushed for PDA, if he hadn't leaned into that kiss... if he had just been content to keep them a secret, hidden away in the dark where it was safe, (Y/N) would still have a family. (Y/N) wouldn't be bleeding somewhere in a cheap motel room, broken and alone.

It was late afternoon on the third day. The sky outside the large living room window was a bruised, heavy purple, twilight settling over the quiet suburban neighborhood.

Katsuki was sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the base of the sofa, his knees pulled up to his chest. Masaru sat on the couch behind him, a warm mug of tea resting untouched on the coffee table. The house was quiet; Mitsuki had gone to the grocery store, leaving the two men alone in the heavy silence.

Masaru watched his son. It broke his heart to see Katsuki like this—stripped of his usual explosive fire, reduced to a hollow, silent shell of misery.

"Katsuki," Masaru said softly, his voice a calm, steady presence in the dim room.

Katsuki didn't look up. He just tightened his grip on his own shins.

"If he comes back," Masaru began slowly, choosing his words with immense care, "if he walks through that door, or calls you... would you take him back?"

Katsuki’s shoulders hitched. He let out a ragged, trembling breath, his forehead resting against his knees. "He hates me, Dad. He told me it was over. He said it was my fault—"

"He didn't say it was your fault, Katsuki," Masaru interrupted gently, leaning forward to place a warm, comforting hand on his son’s shoulder. "He was terrified. He was a boy who had just watched his whole life shatter in front of him, violently, by the person who was supposed to protect him. He didn't hate you. He hated the pain. He hated the fear."

Masaru squeezed his shoulder. "So I ask you again. If he comes back to apologize... would you take him back?"

Katsuki lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed, dark circles carved deep into his skin. His jaw clenched, a tiny, familiar spark of his true self flickering back to life in his chest.

"In a heartbeat," Katsuki whispered, his voice cracking with an intense, fierce certainty. "I don't care if he never wants to hold my hand in public again. I don't care if we have to hide from the whole damn world. I just want him back. I want to make sure he’s safe. I’d take him back in a fucking heartbeat."

Masaru smiled, a soft, incredibly tender expression. He didn't say anything for a moment, his eyes shifting away from Katsuki to look out the large front window that faced the street and the small covered porch.

"Well," Masaru said quietly, tapping Katsuki’s shoulder and pointing a finger toward the glass. "Then I suggest you get moving. Because your chance is currently pacing on our porch, and it looks like he’s about to walk away."

Katsuki’s heart stopped.

He lunged to his feet so fast his knees knocked against the coffee table, rattling the tea mug. He spun around, his eyes locking onto the window.

There, standing under the dim yellow light of the porch lamp, was a tall, broad silhouette.

It was (Y/N).

He looked smaller than usual, his large shoulders hunched inside a heavy, oversized hoodie, the hood pulled up high. In his large, trembling hands, he was holding a small, tightly bound bouquet of deep purple hyacinths—flowers Katsuki knew from his mother’s gardening books carried a traditional meaning of deep regret, a plea for forgiveness.

(Y/N) was staring at the front door, his feet shifting nervously on the wooden planks. He took one step forward, reached his hand out toward the doorbell, and then froze. The sheer weight of his hesitation was visible from across the room. He slowly lowered his hand, his head dropping, his shoulders slumping in total defeat. He turned around, stepping off the porch, preparing to disappear back into the shadows of the street.

Katsuki didn't think. The universe, his breathing, his doubts—it all evaporated.

Masaru swore he had never seen his son move so fast in his entire life.

Katsuki tore across the living room, his socks sliding wildly on the hardwood floor. He threw himself at the front door, ripping it open with so much force the handle slammed against the interior wall with a deafening slam.

He didn't care that he was barefoot. He didn't care that the late autumn air was freezing. He sprinted down the porch steps, his feet hitting the cold concrete of the driveway.

"(Y/N)!" Katsuki roared.

The figure down the driveway froze. (Y/N) spun around, his hood falling back from his head, his eyes widening in pure shock.

The porch light illuminated his face, and Katsuki felt a fresh wave of agony hit his chest. (Y/N)’s nose was slightly crooked, taped up with a small medical strip. His lower lip was split, a jagged dark line of stitches holding the skin together, and a massive, deep purple bruise bloomed across his left cheekbone, stretching down to his jaw. He looked battered, exhausted, and utterly broken.

But as Katsuki ran toward him, (Y/N) didn't move. He just stood there, clutching the purple flowers to his chest like a shield, tears instantly filling his eyes.

Katsuki didn't slow down. He closed the distance between them in a desperate blur, throwing his entire body weight into (Y/N).

He slammed into the larger boy’s chest, his arms flying around (Y/N)’s neck, gripping him with a terrifying, crushing strength. The impact forced a small, breathless gasp from (Y/N)’s lungs, and the bouquet of hyacinths crinkled loudly between their bodies.

"You absolute fucking idiot," Katsuki sobbed, his voice breaking completely as he buried his face in the crook of (Y/N)’s neck. He hid his face in the soft cotton of the hoodie, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of soap and cedar that he had missed for three long days. "You stupid, miserable bastard. Where the hell were you? I thought you were dead. I thought... you hated me."

(Y/N) stood rigid for a fraction of a second, his hands hovering in the air, before the dam completely broke.

The flowers fell from his grip, scattering softly across the dark concrete of the driveway. (Y/N) wrapped his massive, heavy arms around Katsuki’s waist, lifting the smaller boy slightly off his feet, pulling him so close there wasn't a single inch of space left between them. He buried his face in Katsuki’s messy blonde hair, his entire frame racking with violent, heavy sobs.

"I’m sorry," (Y/N) wept, his voice rough and distorted by the stitches in his lip. "Katsuki, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I screamed at you. I’m sorry I pushed you away. I was just... I was so scared. I didn't know what to do."

"Shut up," Katsuki ordered, though his tone was entirely devoid of anger, choked with his own tears. He dropped his feet back to the ground but didn't loosen his grip for a second, his fingers clawing into the fabric of (Y/N)’s hoodie. "Just shut the fuck up. You don't apologize to me. Not for that."

They stood there in the freezing driveway for a long, unmeasured time, holding onto each other like survivors of a shipwreck clinging to a lifeboat. (Y/N)’s tears were hot against Katsuki’s shoulder, his heavy breaths shaking his entire body.

Slowly, Katsuki pulled back just enough to look at him. His hands moved up, framing (Y/N)’s face, his thumbs brushing very, very gently against the edges of the dark purple bruise on his cheek, avoiding the stitches on his lip.

"Does it hurt?" Katsuki whispered, his eyes wide with a soft, aching tenderness.

"A little," (Y/N) choked out, offering a tiny, watery smile that winced at the movement of his lip. "Coach Enji's team doctor fixed me up the night of the game. He... he kept me at his house. Coach wouldn't let me go back to a motel. He said I was part of his team, and he wasn't letting me sleep on a floor. He’s been watching over me."

A small, heavy breath of relief escaped Katsuki’s lips. Thank God for that stubborn old man.

"Why didn't you call me?" Katsuki asked, his voice dropping to a fragile whisper.

(Y/N) looked down, his eyes filling with fresh shame. "Because I thought... I thought I was toxic. I thought about what my dad said, about how I was disgusting, and I looked at my face in the mirror, and I just thought... 'if I stay with Katsuki, I’m going to drag him down into this. I’m going to make him miserable'. I was ashamed, Katsuki. I’m still... I’m still so scared of what people are going to say."

Katsuki grabbed his jaw, firmer this time, forcing (Y/N) to look him dead in the eye.

"Listen to me, you moron," Katsuki said, his voice ringing with a fierce, absolute conviction. "I don't give a single, solitary fuck about what your garbage father thinks. He’s a pathetic piece of shit who doesn't deserve to even breathe the same air as you. And anyone else—anyone on your team, anyone on this campus who has a problem with us—I will personally blast them into the next hemisphere. Do you hear me?"

(Y/N) let out a wet, breathless laugh, a tear spilling over his eyelashes.

"We don't have to hold hands in public," Katsuki continued, his voice softening, his gaze dropping to (Y/N)’s stitched lip. "We don't have to kiss on the field. We don't have to do anything that makes you freeze up or feel like you’re waiting for a blow to land. If you want to keep it in the dark, we’ll stay in the dark. I don't care about the rest of the world. I just want you."

(Y/N) stared at him, the heavy, suffocating blanket of shame that had draped over his shoulders for years finally beginning to fray at the edges, torn apart by the absolute, unwavering certainty in Katsuki’s eyes.

"No," (Y/N) said softly, his voice steadying. He reached up, placing his large hands over Katsuki’s. "I don't want to hide anymore. It was... it was the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me, Katsuki. But when I kissed you on that field... before everything went to hell... it was the first time in my entire life I felt like I was actually breathing."

He took a deep, ragged breath, his chest expanding against Katsuki’s. "I’m still scared. I’m going to need time. I’m going to be tense sometimes, and I’m probably going to look over my shoulder. But I don't want to go back into the dark. I want to be with you. In the light. If you’ll still have me."

"I told you, you idiot," Katsuki muttered, his own tears finally stopping, replaced by a deep, glowing warmth that spread through his entire chest. "In a heartbeat."

He leaned forward, moving with immense care, and pressed his lips gently against the uninjured corner of (Y/N)’s mouth. It wasn't a fierce, desperate kiss like the one on the field; it was a soft, lingering promise, a quiet vow of safety and protection. (Y/N) sighed into the kiss, his body finally, completely losing its rigid tension, melting against Katsuki’s frame like water.

The front door of the house clicked open again.

Masaru stood on the porch, a warm jacket thrown over his shoulders, holding a second jacket in his hands. He looked down at the two boys, his face full of a quiet, relieved happiness.

"It's freezing out here, boys," Masaru called out gently. "Bring him inside, Katsuki. Your mother is bringing the good beef, and she’s going to want to make sure (Y/N) eats a real meal."

(Y/N) looked up at Masaru, then back at Katsuki. The fear didn't completely disappear—the road ahead was going to be long, filled with therapy, rebuilding his life from scratch, and navigating a world without his birth family—but as he looked at the warm, glowing light spilling from the Bakugo home, he knew he wasn't walking that road alone.

Katsuki bent down, carefully picking up the scattered purple hyacinths from the driveway, keeping one hand firmly locked around (Y/N)’s fingers. This time, when Katsuki squeezed, (Y/N)’s hand didn't go rigid.

His fingers squeezed back, warm, relaxed, and entirely safe.

"Come on," Katsuki said softly, pulling him toward the steps. "Let's go home."

Extra: The graduation pavilion was a sea of black gowns, fluttering caps, and the chaotic roar of hundreds of families cheering for the departing senior class.

Katsuki stood just outside the main gate, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed like a laser on the crowd pouring out of the arena. He was a junior this year, still having one more long, grueling year of university ahead of him, but today wasn't about his schedule. Today belonged entirely to you.

"Look, there he is! There’s our graduate!"

Mitsuki’s loud, boisterous voice cut through the ambient noise as she pointed toward the steps. You were walking down the concrete incline, your graduation gown fluttering around your ankles, your mortarboard cap tilted slightly back on your head. The dark purple bruise on your cheek from a year ago had long since faded into a faint memory, and your posture was completely different now—upright, relaxed, and entirely unburdened.

"Hell yeah! Let's go, dude!" Kirishima roared, instantly cupping his hands around his mouth to bellow across the plaza. Mina was jumping up and down beside him, waving a makeshift sign she had smuggled into the arena, while Kaminari, Sero, and Jiro cheered loudly beside them.

When your eyes caught the group, a massive, genuine smile broke across your face. You adjusted the heavy diploma cylinder in your hand and hurried down the steps, immediately getting swallowed into a chaotic group hug by the squad. Kirishima practically lifted you off the ground, thumping your back with a heavy, proud hand, while Mina squeezed your waist.

"You actually did it, man," Sero laughed, throwing an arm around your neck. "Leaving us behind to suffer through another year of Aizawa's midterms."

"Someone had to pave the way," you teased, your voice warm and clear.

As the group let you go, Mitsuki stepped up, her eyes uncharacteristically soft as she reached up to adjust the collar of your gown. "We are so incredibly proud of you, sweetheart. You worked so hard for this."

Masaru stepped up beside her, offering a warm, steady handshake and a proud smile. "A wonderful achievement, son. You've earned every bit of it."

"Thank you, Mama Bakugo, Papa Bakugo," you murmured, your chest swelling with a deep, profound gratitude. For the past year, they had been your rock, stepping into the void your old life had left behind without a single moment of hesitation.

Then, you looked at Katsuki.

He was standing a step back from his parents, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets, his jaw set in that familiar, stubborn line. But his eyes were wide, burning with a fierce, quiet pride that belonged entirely to you.

You stepped closer to him, the space between you closing naturally. Katsuki didn't say a word. He just reached out, his calloused fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist, pulling you in just enough so your shoulders brushed. There was no tension. No microscopic jolt of fear. Just a deep, grounding comfort.

"You didn't trip on the stage," Katsuki muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward into a rare, soft smirk. "S'pose that means you actually passed."

"Barely," you chuckled, leaning your weight slightly into his side. "Just wanted to make sure I gave you something to live up to next year."

"Like I need the motivation, dumbass," he grunted, but his grip on your wrist tightened affectionately.

The group chatted for a few more minutes, making plans for the massive celebratory dinner Mitsuki had been organizing for weeks. But as the crowd around the pavilion began to thin out, your eyes drifted toward the edge of the plaza, near the brick columns of the main campus entrance.

A woman was standing there, looking nervously at the crowd. She was dressed in a simple, elegant navy blue dress, holding a small clutch purse in her hands. She looked smaller than she used to, but her shoulders were straight, her head held high.

Your breath hitched slightly in your throat.

Katsuki noticed the sudden shift in your posture instantly. He looked up, his crimson eyes following your gaze to the edge of the plaza. His grip on your wrist loosened into a protective, questioning squeeze.

"Hey," Katsuki murmured softly. "Is that...?"

"Yeah," you whispered.

Mitsuki and Masaru noticed as well, the group's boisterous conversation trickling down into a respectful, quiet hush. Over the past six months, you and your mother had slowly, painstakingly begun to rebuild a bridge across the canyon your father had created. It had started with tentative text messages, then secret phone calls in the middle of the night, and eventually, quiet coffee dates on the weekends away from the city.

You took a deep, steadying breath, looking at Katsuki. He gave you a firm, encouraging nod, his hand sliding down to squeeze your fingers once before letting you go.

You walked across the plaza, the black fabric of your graduation gown snapping softly in the afternoon breeze. As you drew closer, your mother’s eyes locked onto you. The anxiety on her face completely melted away, replaced by a raw, overwhelming emotion.

"Hi, Mom," you said softly.

She just let out a small, breathless sob and threw her arms around your neck.

You buried your face in her shoulder, wrapping your arms tightly around her, holding her close. The scent of her familiar perfume hit you, bringing a sudden, sharp sting of tears to your eyes. For a long, silent moment, neither of you let go. It was a hug that carried the weight of a year’s worth of separation, of unspoken apologies, and of a quiet, fierce survival.

When she finally pulled back, her hands remained on your shoulders, her eyes scanning your face, lingering proudly on your graduation cap.

"Look at you," she whispered, her voice trembling as she wiped a stray tear from her cheek. "My graduate. You look so handsome."

"I'm really glad you came, Mom," you said honestly, your voice thick. "I know it wasn't easy."

A small, triumphant smile broke through her tears, and she reached into her clutch purse, pulling out a folded piece of paper. She handed it to you with a steady hand. You unfolded it, your eyes scanning the legal header at the top of the page.

Decree of Divorce.

Your eyes widened, looking up at her in pure shock.

"It's final," she said, her voice carrying a newfound, fierce independence that you had never heard from her in your entire life. "I left him, sweetie. I realized... a man who would strike his own son for loving someone is a man who doesn't deserve a family at all. I packed my things. I have my own apartment now. I'm taking my life back. Just like you did."

A massive, overwhelming wave of relief washed over your chest, so profound it made your knees feel weak. You pulled her back into another fierce, crushing hug, laughing softly against her hair. "I'm so proud of you, Mom. You have no idea."

"I did it for myself," she murmured, kissing your cheek as she pulled away. "But I also did it because I want to be a part of your life. The real version of your life."

She glanced over your shoulder, her eyes softening as she looked at Katsuki, who was still standing a few yards away, watching over you, his family and friends giving you space but remaining a solid wall of support behind him.

"He's a good boy," your mother said softly, her smile widening into a knowing, gentle expression. "He took care of you when I couldn't."

She reached back into her purse one last time. When her hand came out, she wasn't holding legal papers anymore. She pulled out a small, square box made of deep, rich red velvet.

She pressed it firmly into the palm of your hand, wrapping your fingers around it.

"I think it's time you take the next step," she whispered, giving you a sly, affectionate wink. "Go on. He's waiting for you."

Your heart skipped a beat, its rhythm instantly accelerating into a frantic, ecstatic hammer against your ribs. You looked down at the red velvet box in your hand, feeling its weight, before looking back up at your mother. Your throat felt completely dry, but a profound, blinding certainty settled deep in your chest.

"Thanks, Mom," you choked out.

She stepped back, giving you an encouraging wink as she moved to stand closer to Mitsuki and Masaru, who welcomed her with warm, open expressions, instantly bringing her into the fold.

You turned back around, facing Katsuki.

He was standing alone now, his friends having subtly stepped back into a semi-circle, their eyes wide and excited as they noticed the small box in your hand. Mina was clutching Kirishima’s arm so tightly her knuckles were white, a massive, silent grin plastered across her face.

Katsuki watched you walk back to him. His crimson eyes dropped to the red velvet box, and you saw the exact moment his brain registered what it was. His shoulders stiffened. His breath catching visibly in his throat. The usual fierce, unyielding composure he wore like armor cracked completely, replaced by a raw, stunned vulnerability.

You stopped exactly two feet in front of him.

"Katsuki," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the frantic racing of your heart.

"What the hell are you doing?" he whispered, his voice rough, a sudden, fierce moisture glistening in the corners of his eyes. His hands were shaking slightly as he pulled them from his pockets.

"A year ago, I told you that kissing you on that field was the first time I felt like I was actually breathing," you said, taking a step closer, your eyes locking onto his with a deep, unwavering intensity. "And for the past year, every single day I’ve spent with you has felt exactly the same. You gave me a home when I didn't have one. You loved me when I was broken. You stood by me when the whole world went dark."

You took a deep breath, slowly sinking down onto one knee on the cold concrete of the plaza.

A collective, sharp gasp echoed from Mina and the squad behind him, but Katsuki didn't hear it. His eyes were glued to you, a single tear finally escaping his lashes, tracing a path down his cheek.

You flipped the red velvet box open, revealing a simple, thick silver band with a small circular diamond resting inside, catching the afternoon light.

"I don't want to wait until next year," you said, looking up at him, your smile blinding and full of an absolute, fierce devotion. "I don't want to wait another day. Katsuki Bakugo... will you marry me?"

For a second, the entire universe stood completely still.

Then, Katsuki let out a ragged, choked sob. He didn't even give you a verbal answer. He just huffed, a fierce, emotional sound, and threw his entire body weight forward.

He dropped to his knees right in front of you, his arms flying around your neck with so much force he nearly sent both of you tumbling backward onto the concrete. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his fingers clawing desperately into the fabric of your graduation gown, his frame shaking with violent, happy sobs.

"Yes, you fucking idiot," Katsuki wept against your skin, his voice cracked and raw with an intense, overwhelming joy. "Yes, of course I will."

The plaza behind you erupted.

Mina let out a deafening, glass-shattering shriek of pure excitement, jumping up and down before throwing herself into Kirishima, who was openly wiping tears from his own eyes while cheering at the top of his lungs. Kaminari and Sero were high-fiving, shouting loudly, while Jiro smiled widely, clapping her hands. A few yards back, Mitsuki was crying openly, hugging your mother tightly, while Masaru stood beside them, a warm, incredibly proud smile on his face.

You wrapped your arms around Katsuki’s waist, pulling him so close you could feel the frantic, heavy rhythm of his heart matching your own. You pressed a warm, lingering kiss into his messy blonde hair, breathing him in, feeling the absolute, undeniable weight of your future settling into place.

You pulled back just enough to slide the silver band onto his finger, his hand trembling violently in yours before he grabbed your jaw, pulling you into a fierce, breathless kiss right there in the middle of the open plaza.

There was no tension. There was no fear.

As you held him under the bright afternoon sky, surrounded by the family you had chosen and the mother who had chosen you, you knew that the dark was finally gone. You were in the light, and you were never going back.