Eight years.

Eight years of fighting side by side, of late-night patrols and shared scars, of knowing every tell and habit like muscle memory. Eight years since Katsuki Bakugo looked at you, best friend—his boyfriend—and realized he didn't want anyone else in his corner. Ever.

You'd grown up together. Literally. From cribs to hero costumes, from scraped knees to broken bones that mattered. It was everything Bakugo wanted, everything he'd built his life around without even meaning to.

So why the hell couldn't he get this one thing right?

Twice now. Twice. He'd planned it out, picked the right spot, got the damn ring, steeled himself to actually say the words—and both times, some low-level villain decided to make it their personal mission to ruin his night. First time, it was a fire quirk user who lit up half the restaurant. Second time, an explosion two blocks over that had them both bolting before dessert even arrived.

Bakugo wasn't superstitious, but this was starting to feel personal.

Tonight, though. Tonight was going to be different.

The restaurant was one of their favorites—nothing flashy, just good food and low lighting, the kind of place where you could actually relax. You'd ordered, talked about work, about the new hero rankings. Normal. Easy. The kind of rhythm you'd built over years of just being together.

Bakugo's hand kept drifting to his pocket. The ring box was there, small and solid, a reminder of what he was about to do. His heart was pounding harder than it had any right to, which pissed him off. He'd faced down villains that could level city blocks. Why was this harder?

Because it mattered. Because this was you.

He watched you across the table—the way you smiled when you talked, the way your eyes softened when they met Bakugo's, the way you looked so damn right sitting there like you'd always belonged in Bakugo's life.

Alright. Now or never.

Bakugo leaned forward slightly, fingers closing around the box in his pocket. His mouth opened, words forming on his tongue—

And then the ground shook.

The unmistakable sound of an explosion rattled the windows. Not close, but close enough. Screams erupted from somewhere down the street, followed by the sharp wail of a car alarm.

Bakugo froze, hand still in his pocket, and felt something hot and violent twist in his chest.

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

You were already half out of your seat, eyes snapping toward the door with that same instinct Bakugo knew too well. Hero mode. Always ready.

"Katsuki—"

"I know," Bakugo bit out, shoving his chair back harder than necessary. The ring box burned in his pocket like a accusation.

Three times. Three goddamn times.

He stormed toward the exit, jaw clenched so tight it hurt, barely registering you keeping pace beside him. The street outside was chaos—people running, smoke rising from a few blocks over, the distinct crackle of a quirk being used recklessly.

Bakugo's hands sparked, tiny pops of nitroglycerin flaring in his palms. He was so ready to blow someone's face off right now.

"Let's make this quick," you said, already moving.

Bakugo didn't answer. He just launched forward, explosions propelling him into the air, rage and frustration burning hotter than any quirk ever could.

Third time's the fucking charm. It better be.