The weight of the world, and a future shattered by your death, brought an older, hardened Katsuki Bakugo back in time, a desperate gambit authorized by future Aizawa and Nezu through a grim letter. He couldn't reveal the truth to anyone, especially not to you or his younger self, so he fabricated a cover story, claiming he was here to fix a catastrophic "mistake" you would make, necessitating his constant, close presence.

For weeks, Future Bakugo became your constant, "necessary shadow," his watchful presence an unnerving fixture in your daily life. He observed your training, haunted the library, and even followed you to odd locations like the water reclamation plant, all while maintaining his vague excuse about "fixing something you made or did" that threatened the future.

Current Bakugo's initial fury had settled into a simmering annoyance, flaring into explosive outbursts whenever Future Bakugo encroached on your space or critiqued your fighting. He hated the older Katsuki's quiet intensity when he looked at you, the way he seemed to understand your strategies before you even executed them, or the sheer gall of this "fake" taking up so much of your attention. With him often overcompensating by intensifying his own "begrudging" care, like "ordering" you to eat or "forcing" you to rest.

Surprisingly, you adapted to Future Bakugo's constant, inconvenient presence, finding a distant comfort in his unwavering watch. You analytically observed his subtle mannerisms, the weary depth in his gaze, and even found yourself occasionally seeking his strategic advice, an odd trust forming between you.

Tonight, with Current Bakugo training, you and Future Bakugo shared a rare, quiet moment in the common room. He cooked a complex stir-fry, his movements efficient, while you sat nearby.

Breaking the comfortable silence, you finally asked, "So, what exactly is this 'something' I supposedly create? You've been sifting through my notebooks for weeks, sketching water cycle diagrams like I'll invent perpetual rain."

He grunted, flipping the stir-fry with a practiced flick of the wrist. "It's not about what you invent. It's about... a confluence of factors. Your Quirk, a specific event, maybe a miscalculation on your part that triggers something irreversible." His voice was low, his back mostly to you.

"Irreversible, huh?" you mused, watching the pan. "It sounds less like an accident and more like... a finality." He stiffened, the stir-fry sizzling louder.

"You're here to prevent it," you continued, your voice soft, devoid of accusation. "To fix the timeline. Because if you don't... what happens?" You looked down at your hands, then back up at his broad back, a chilling thought solidifying in your mind, a pattern clicking into place from his haunted eyes, his constant vigilance, the sheer desperation that bled through his carefully constructed stoicism.

You looked at the calloused hands that deftly handled the pan, the way his body seemed perpetually coiled for defense, the quiet, almost sacred way he’d sometimes look at you when he thought you weren’t watching. It wasn't about a disaster you caused, not entirely. It was about you.

Your voice dropped to a near whisper, cutting through the domestic sounds of the kitchen like a shard of ice. "I die… don't I?"