Taxi Cab (Part 3)
— k. bakugo x f!reader angst continuation
part 1 part 2
──── ୨୧ ────
I saved thousands, yet I could not save us.
11:47 AM.
I am curled in a fetal position, still wearing the clothes from last night. They smell faintly of smoke, cheap alcohol, and his fiancée’s cloying perfume. It’s a bitter scent.
I remember the cool, grounding weight of Shoto’s arm around my waist, the quiet promise of safety in his presence. I remember the way he didn’t ask questions, the way he just took care of me.
But mostly, I remember the ring. And the word.
Fiancée.
A single, elegant word that serves as the final, official obituary for all the years I gave.
The world owes me nothing, I know that. But Katsuki Bakugo owed me something. He owed me the memory of a love that reshaped his entire being. He owed me the recognition of the woman who held his broken pieces until they fused into something whole.
And now, even that sliver of hope — the fragile, illogical thread I clung to that one day his memory would return — has been cut. He is building a future on the hollow ground of my past.
I whisper the truth into the damp cotton of my pillow, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence of my room:
I am not just the woman he forgot. I am the woman he had to forget to finally become the man she could choose.
Now, I am left with only the artifacts of a life that never was: the phantom weight of a ring that was never placed on my finger, the bitter taste of promises that belonged to a man who no longer exists.
I have to move on. I have to accept the world’s cruel irony.
But a tiny, pathetic ember still glows in the ruins of my heart. It is the hope that one day, years from now, when he is settled into his beautiful, easy life, a scent will cross his path — perhaps the familiar trace of my hero suit’s custom detergent, or a specific brand of coffee I always made — and that the memory will break through.
I hope that, just once, the real Katsuki Bakugo — the one who learned how to be vulnerable beneath my touch — will look at his perfect fiancée and wonder, just for a moment, why his chest aches for a girl he doesn't know.
I hope that one day, he will turn his crimson eyes to me across a crowded room — years after I’ve moved on, years after the pain has scabbed over —and he will see not a drunk, shouting stranger, but the essential anchor, the constant, the beginning of everything good in his life.
I hope he sees me again.
Until then, I will be out here, in a world I helped him save, learning how to be a hero when the greatest battle was already lost.
──── ୨୧ ────
Thirty days.
Seven hundred and twenty hours since the wrought iron gate clicked shut. Since the ring flashed under the porch light. Since Shoto Todoroki walked you away from the wreckage of your own heart.
They say it takes twenty-one days to form a habit. You’ve spent thirty trying to break the habit of loving him.
You aren’t cured. You aren't "over it." But you are functioning.
The first week was a chemical haze of painkillers and sleep aids. The second was the purge.
“I hate this apartment,” you confessed to Mina, your voice raspy from disuse. “Every corner smells like him.”
“Then we fix it,” she declared, summoning an army.
Mina, Hagakure, Yaoyorazu, Ochaco, Tsuyu, and Jirou descended on your life like a perfectly orchestrated hero operation. They didn’t mention his name. They didn’t need to. They understood the assignment: Erase the Anchor.
They packed up the double-sized agency planning whiteboard where his spiky, aggressive handwriting had scrawled "Dynamight & (Your Hero Name) — BEST FUCKING AGENCY, ZERO COLLATERAL.” They painted over the wall where he’d accidentally scorched the drywall while arguing with you about microwave etiquette. They replaced the ancient, hideous couch he’d insisted on keeping.
Ochaco meticulously scrubbed his favorite mug, the one shaped like a grenade, and placed it in a box labeled "DONATE."
“You’re getting a new life,” Jirou said simply, plugging her headphones into your speakers and blasting something loud and distracting. “The one you were always going to have, just… without the noise.”
They didn't try to fill the void. They taught you how to live comfortably with the space.
──── ୨୧ ────
Slowly, through the haze of grief, you began to find the outline of yourself again.
You started thinking about the man he was, not the stranger he had become. The old Katsuki — the one who remembered you, the one who fought for you — would have hated seeing you like this. He would have clicked his tongue, scowled, and told you to stop being an extra in your own life.
“If you’re gonna cry, do it while you win,” he used to say.
So, you chose yourself. Because he wasn't there to choose you anymore.
But the days were manageable; it was the nights that were the enemy. The nights were when the silence got loud. You’d roll over and your hand would hit the cold expanse of the sheet where his warmth used to radiate like a furnace. You’d wake up reaching for a shoulder that wasn’t there.
And then there was his mother.
The doorbell rang two weeks in. You almost didn’t answer, but the aggressive pounding was familiar.
Mitsuki Bakugo stood there, holding three containers of spicy curry. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but her jaw was set.
"I didn't cook this for him," she said, her voice gruff as she shoved the containers into your hands. "I cooked it for you. You look too thin."
She came in, and for the first time, the loud, boisterous woman was quiet. She looked around your apartment, seeing the lack of his boots by the door, the lack of his presence.
"I tried to talk to him," she admitted later, sitting at your kitchen island while you ate the curry that tasted painfully like home. "I told him he was making a mistake. I told him he was throwing away the best thing that ever happened to him for some... some shiny new toy who likes the fame more than the man."
She sighed, rubbing her temples. "He doesn't remember, kid. And he's stubborn. He thinks I'm just being controlling. He thinks..." She trailed off, her voice cracking. "I'm sorry. I raised a hero, but I forgot to teach him how to remember."
"It's not your fault, Mitsuki," you whispered.
"I know," she sniffed, standing up abruptly. "Anyway. I'm not gonna bother you with him. But you... you're still family. Even if that idiot is too blind to see it."
She became a regular fixture, bringing food and fresh laundry, ensuring you survived.
And then there were the flowers.
Every Tuesday, a delivery arrived at your door. Simple, elegant arrangements. White camellias. Blue hydrangeas. Nothing romantic, nothing that screamed "date me." Just... presence.
The card was always the same.
I’m here. — S.
Shoto didn't push. He didn't try to fill the space Katsuki left. He just stood at the perimeter of your life, a silent sentinel, reminding you that you weren't invisible. That someone saw you.
It gave you the strength to do the hardest thing yet.
You walked into the leasing office downtown. The paperwork for the agency was on the desk.
Dynamight & (Your Hero Name) Agency.
You stared at the header for a long time. The dream you had built together. The floor plan included two offices, side by side. A shared gym. A balcony where he promised he’d grill on Fridays.
You picked up the pen.
And you crossed his name out.
"Just me," you told the leasing agent, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hand. "I'll be opening the agency alone."
You were doing it. You were moving forward. You were breathing without the assistance of his memory.
But the universe has a cruel sense of humor.
The call came in at 04:00 AM.
It wasn't a local dispatch. It was a priority summon from the World Heroes Association. A massive, coordinated raid on a villain stronghold involving an international trafficking ring. Target location: Italy.
They needed heavy hitters. They needed widespread quirk coverage. They needed you.
You packed your gear in a trance, the muscle memory of being a hero taking over where your heart failed. You zipped up your hero suit — the one he helped design to withstand high impact, checking the reinforced seams with trembling fingers — and looked in the mirror.
You looked strong. You looked ready. You looked like a woman who hadn't spent the last month crying on her bathroom floor.
You didn't check the mission roster. You didn't want to know who else was deployed. You just needed to work.
Two hours later, you are strapped into a seat on a massive, long-haul military transport jet. The interior is dim, lit only by low-level blue safety lights. The air is cold, recycled, and smells of jet fuel and sterile upholstery.
You stare at the headrest in front of you, focusing on your breathing. In. Out. Just a mission. Just a job.
Steps echo down the aisle as the last few heroes board. You keep your eyes forward, shrinking into your seat, hoping to remain invisible until you land in Europe.
And then, the air shifts.
It isn’t a sound that alerts you. It is a scent.
A sharp, distinct mixture of burnt sugar, nitroglycerin, and expensive, spicy cologne. It washes over you like a physical wave, stealing the oxygen from your lungs. It is the scent of mornings in your kitchen. It is the scent of the pillow you haven't been able to wash.
Your heart gives a painful, treacherous thud against your ribs — a traitor in your own chest.
Against your better judgment, you turn your head.
You look behind you to see who owns the smell, though you already know.
And you are right.
Katsuki Bakugo is walking down the aisle, his gear bag slung effortlessly over one shoulder. He doesn't look at you. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, his jaw set in that familiar, stony line. He looks exactly the same as he did that night on the porch, and yet, he looks like a complete stranger.
He passes your row without breaking stride. He moves to the back of the plane, finding an empty row far away from everyone else. He drops his bag, sits down, and immediately leans his head against the reinforced window, crossing his arms over his chest. Closing his eyes.
He looks peaceful. He looks unbothered.
You whip your head back around, facing forward, your knuckles turning white as you grip the armrests.
You thought you could manage this. You thought thirty days of silence, thirty days of rebuilding, thirty days of tearing him out of your life would be enough armor to withstand seeing him again.
But it still stings. It burns worse than fire.
The proximity is suffocating. Knowing he is breathing the same recycled air, just thirty feet behind you —alive, whole, and completely belonging to someone else — breaks the scab right off the wound.
You turn your face toward your own window, staring out at the grey, pre-dawn runway. You bite the inside of your cheek, willing the emotions to recede. Don't cry, you order yourself. Not here. Not where he can see.
But you can't stop it.
A single, hot tear spills over, tracking a slow, humiliating line down your cheek.
You raise your hand to brush it away, to hide the evidence, but another hand beats you to it.
Cool, gentle fingers graze your cheekbone, catching the tear before it can fall further. The touch is grounding, solid, and safe.
You freeze, turning your head slightly.
Shoto is there.
He doesn't say a word. He doesn't look back at the blonde man in the rear of the plane. He just looks at you, his eyes filled with a quiet, steady understanding.
He lowers his hand and silently takes the empty seat beside you.
As the engines roar to life and the plane begins to taxi, pushing you back against the seat, Shoto shifts slightly so his arm is pressing firmly against yours. A silent anchor.
He is here.
And as you lift off toward Italy, leaving the ground behind, you realize that while you are flying into a war zone with the man who broke you, you are not flying alone.
──── ୨୧ ────
part 4
a/n: hiii 💗 thank u SO MUCH for waiting for part 3!! ✨and YES, before anybody throws tomatoes at me — there will absolutely be a part 4.
also if you need emotional support or a palate cleanser after this heartbreak buffet, my wattpad fic “trust no hero” is waiting for u!! it’s got fluff, romcom energy, k-drama moments, all the serotonin ur poor heart deserves 😭💗✨
thank u for the love & the messages… see u in part 4 🫶
