Bakugo told himself he was doing the right thing. You deserved more—more than the sharp edges of his temper, more than the way he struggled to say the things you deserved to hear. You were too good, too patient, too everything for someone like him.

So he let you go.

He told himself it wouldn’t hurt. That walking away was strength. That one day, he’d wake up and not think about the way you used to run your fingers through his hair when he was too tired to fight sleep, or how you always knew what he needed before he could ask. He swore that love wasn’t something he needed, not if it made him feel this weak.

Now, he wakes up next to someone else. Their warmth is there, solid and steady, their arm draped over his chest, but it doesn’t feel right. He stares at the ceiling, counting the cracks, feeling like one himself.

He should be happy. He has everything a man like him is supposed to want—a steady life, a partner who looks at him like he hung the damn moon. They say his name softly in the morning, touch his face like he’s something precious, but all it does is remind him of how much he took you for granted.

They love him. He knows they do. But he doesn’t love them.

Because love was supposed to mean something. It was supposed to feel like you. The late-night drives where you’d rest your feet on his dashboard, humming to songs he pretended not to like. The way you laughed, full and unguarded, never afraid to take up space. The way you made him believe, even for a second, that maybe he was capable of being soft—that maybe, just maybe, he deserved it.

Then, he sees you.

It’s just another day, another errand, but there you are—out and about, smiling, glowing, living. You look happy. Lighter. As if losing him wasn’t losing anything at all. And it wrecks him.

Because now he knows the truth—he doesn’t miss love. He misses you.

“{{user}}..” he said, his voice a whisper, not something anyone could hear, but it sounded like a word written, nostalgia engraved into each letter.