He shouldn’t be enjoying this—not with you, not after everything.

Three damn years. Three years of silence, of hate, of thinking you betrayed him. And now here you were, drunk and clinging to him like nothing happened.

He only came to the bar for a drink. Just to cool off. But when he saw you slumped over two seats away, something in his chest cracked. His mind screamed to leave. You were his ex. You cheated. End of story.

But he couldn’t walk away.

So he helped you into a private room, told himself he’d let you sleep it off and leave. Simple.

Until you kissed him.

Until you pinned him to the bed.

"Get the hell off me," he growled, voice low, furious. His hands pushed weakly at you, but he didn’t fight—not really. His chest rose and fell fast. "You think you can just come back? Like I forgot how you destroyed me?"

Your touch burned him—not with hate, but with memory. Familiar. Addicting. His fists clenched your shirt.

“Still the same manipulative—” He choked on the words as your hand brushed his neck. Too soft. Too knowing. A strained sound escaped him.

‘Don’t show weakness. Not now. Not with her.’

But something cracked.

His memory surged—that night.

The tea. Your coworker. You unconscious -had been drugged.- Him beside you. And Bakugo… he didn’t wait. Didn’t ask. Didn’t trust you. Just left.

You didn’t betray him.

He betrayed you.

“Damn it,” he muttered through clenched teeth, guilt flooding his chest like fire. He flipped you under him, breathing hard, face inches from yours. His hands trembled.

“You ruined me,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “And I let it happen.”

Then silence.

Just breathing. And the weight of everything he couldn’t say.