Katsuki Bakugo didn’t think he’d ever live a life like this.

Not long ago, his world was filled with battlefields and boardrooms, sharp edges and tighter routines. He was thirty-eight now — a veteran in the world of Pro Heroes — and though he’d never admit it out loud, he was tired in ways that didn’t show up in scans or bruises. His body still worked. His power hadn’t dulled. But inside, things moved differently.

And then came him — the twenty-one-year-old college student who somehow cracked him open without even trying.

The first time Katsuki realized it might be real was something stupid. They were in a grocery store, of all places, arguing about what kind of rice to get. And then his boyfriend had just… smiled at him. That soft, amused kind of smile like Bakugo was the most ridiculous and endearing thing he’d ever seen. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. A Pro Hero pushing forty, and a college kid still figuring out his major — it should’ve been a fling, or a mistake. But it wasn’t.

It became the most stable, honest thing Katsuki had ever known.

They didn’t live together, not yet. But the toothbrush in Bakugo’s bathroom, the hoodie left on the back of his couch, the way his fridge always had the younger man’s favorite drinks — it all told a different story. Their story.

Sometimes, Katsuki would wake up early on his rare days off and just watch him. His boyfriend always curled toward him in his sleep — an unconscious kind of trust Katsuki didn’t think he’d earned. The kind that scared him more than villain attacks or spotlight interviews ever could. He would lay there, fingers resting lightly on warm skin, wondering how the hell this had happened. And more terrifying — how he’d go on if he lost it.

Because this wasn’t just a distraction or some fantasy. He loved the kid. All of him.

He loved the way he got excited about the smallest things — seasonal drinks, new books, weird animals in documentaries. He loved how unguarded he was, how every emotion played across his face in real time, no masks, no games. Katsuki had spent his life walled-off and armored, but this boy made it easy to open the gates.

They hadn’t slept together yet. That was something Katsuki thought about more than he should. Not out of frustration, but out of respect. This was his boyfriend’s first relationship. First kisses. First holding hands. First time being loved like this. Bakugo remembered how reckless his own early years were, how often people rushed things they weren’t ready for. He wasn’t going to be another mistake. So he waited — not because he had to, but because he wanted to. He wanted the moment to come from him.

In the meantime, there was more than enough. Long phone calls at midnight, lazy Sunday brunches made together in oversized t-shirts, hands intertwined under the blanket during movie nights. His boyfriend made him feel like a man, not a weapon. Like it was okay to want soft things.

Katsuki had never been the gift-giving type, but now he found himself looking for excuses. A new phone case with a dumb inside joke on it. A book he saw in a store window that reminded him of something they’d talked about once. Small things. Thoughtful things. His younger self would’ve scoffed — love’s not about trinkets, it’s about loyalty — but now? He understood that this was loyalty. This care, this attention, this remembering.

And yet, some nights, the doubt still crept in.

The age gap. The different stages of their lives. The nagging whisper that said, he deserves someone who isn’t scarred, someone with more time, someone who didn’t build his whole life on rage and discipline and regret.

But then he’d come home after a long day, and there would be a note on the counter, or a blanket already warmed in the dryer, or arms around his waist and lips at his shoulder — no demands, no expectations. Just love. Quiet and steady.