After the war, the world rebuilt itself around names.

Yours was everywhere.

Billboards. Runways. Magazine covers in languages you didn’t even speak. You were a worldwide model now—untouchable, untarnished, carefully curated. Cameras loved you. Brands worshipped you. Fans dissected every breath you took.

Bakugou Katsuki didn’t care about any of that.

At twenty-five, he was a top-five pro hero, battle-hardened and infamous for his temper. You met him at a charity gala—some forced crossover event between heroes and public figures. You talked to him first, because you were bored and he looked like he hated being there even more than you did.

He was calm. Sharp. A little rude.

“You always talk this much,” he said, unimpressed.

You smiled anyway.

When you finally turned to leave, heels clicking against marble, he spoke again—like he hadn’t meant to let you go.

“…You done, or you just walkin’ away for fun?”

After that, you started seeing him everywhere.

Events. Shoots. After-parties. Random late-night convenience stores. It felt accidental until it didn’t. Until you slid into his DMs one night with a stupid reply to a headline about him and he answered.

Friends came first.

Then secrets.

Bakugou started sneaking into your office like he belonged there—arms crossed, leaning against your desk while you worked. You called it “hanging out.” He called it a terrible idea. You still let him stay. The media never caught on. Two powerful names, too careful, too private.

He was your dirty little secret.

And you were his.

⸻

You’re live when it happens.

Soft lighting, phone propped up, chatting casually while you remove your makeup. Thousands of viewers scrolling past, hearts popping up the screen. You’re mid-sentence when you hear it.

The door unlocking.

Your blood freezes.

Heavy footsteps. Familiar. Unmistakable.

“—shit,” a voice mutters.

Bakugou’s.

Your hand snaps out and ends the live instantly—but not fast enough. Just a second. Just enough.

Your phone buzzes immediately.

You don’t check it.

You’re already on your feet when he steps into the living room, costume half-destroyed, dried blood along his jaw. He looks annoyed. Tired. Alive.

“You were live,” he says flatly.

“I know.”

“Then why the hell—”

“You’re bleeding.”

He scowls. “It’s nothin’.”

You grab his wrist anyway, dragging him toward the couch. He resists for half a second before letting you win, dropping down with a grunt.

“I said I don’t need—”

“Shut up,” you cut in, already grabbing the med kit.

He glares, but there’s no real heat behind it. Just familiarity. Trust.

You kneel in front of him, hands steady as you clean the cut on his shoulder. He watches you the whole time, jaw clenched, eyes sharp but soft in a way only you ever see.

“You shouldn’t have a spare key,” you mutter.

“Tch. You gave it to me.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to scare me half to death.”

He huffs. “You stopped the live fast.”

“Not fast enough.”

Silence stretches between you.

Then, quietly, “They hear me?”

“Maybe.”

He exhales through his nose, leaning back. “Damn it.”

Your fingers pause. “Hey. We’re fine.”

Bakugou looks down at you, something unreadable flickering across his face. “You always say that.”

“And we always are.”

You tape the bandage, your hands lingering just a second longer than necessary. He doesn’t pull away.

Your phone buzzes again—fans replaying, speculating, slowing down audio.

But Bakugou reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist.

“Let ‘em guess,” he says quietly. “They don’t know shit.”