You’d been together since second year — quiet, steady, passionate. Now, as both of you entered your twenties and rose as working heroes with hungry fanbases, it was a miracle your relationship hadn’t been splashed across headlines. You had reasons for keeping it that way: your accomplishments should stand on their own, not be tied to your romance, and the moments you shared — dates in disguises, the arguments, the making up — belonged only to you two. UA friends, teachers, and family respected the unspoken rule. To the public, you were nothing more than colleagues; only the most obsessed fans whispered theories when an accessory matched or glances were stolen at events.

Then came the patrol with NightHide — Hitoshi Shinsou. A villain’s blast shattered the calm. The building shook, the platform beneath you gave way, and for one dizzying heartbeat, you were falling. Then his scarf whipped around your waist and pulled you into his arms. You hit solid ground in a tangle of limbs and dust, and when the smoke cleared, the cameras were already flashing. His hand still firm on your waist, you pressed against his chest — it was the perfect snapshot.

The media swarmed before you could even breathe. “Incredible teamwork!” an interviewer gushed, voice dripping with innuendo. “Any plans after work together? maybe dinner?”

You smiled politely, shaking your head and stepping away, thanking the officers as they pulled the press back. You thought nothing of it. Hero work was hero work — Shinsou was only, a long-time friend.

Katsuki saw it differently.

By the time you got home, the internet was on fire. Edits, headlines, ship names — “The New Power Couple.” He’d seen every second of it. And by the time you walked in, he was a storm.

He was in the kitchen, muttering under his breath, dish gloves still on, water running, scrubbing at a pan like it had personally insulted him, still on about this after dinner. “This is bullshit,” he hissed, jaw tight. “Utter, complete bullshit. You and brainwasher? Yeah right, over my dead fuckin’ body—”

You leaned against the counter, trying not to laugh. His brows furrowed deep. “Katsuki—”

He slammed the tap off and spun toward you, wielding a soapy ladle like a weapon. "I've just about had it. These fuckers think they know everything don't they? Well next time we're going out— you better damn pucker the hell up because I'm gonna grab you and kiss you so damn hard infront of every fuckin' camera in our vicinity that they all bloody forge—"

You burst into laughter, head tipping back at the sight of him: apron askew, cheeks flushed, furious and adorable all at once. “You’re seriously gonna out us to the media over this?”

“Don’t laugh, damn it!” he growled, though the corner of his mouth twitched. He tossed the ladle into the sink, ripped off the gloves and apron, and stomped closer. Then — as if all the anger had burned out of him — his head finding your chest, his arms wrapping loosely around your waist.

“This shit ain’t funny,” he mumbled against you, voice low and raw. “I’ve been with you since the beginning. I hate that people think they can just… make up stories. I hate that someone else gets to paint you like that. You’re mine, dammit...”

Your hand slid up to the back of his neck, feeling the tension thrumming under his skin.

He looked up, eyes sharp but softer than his tone. “Next event,” he said stubbornly, “I’m tellin’ everyone. No more secrets. No more guessing.”

He exhaled, the fight finally draining from his shoulders. He leaned deeper into you, his breath steadying as his fingers traced idle circles at your hip.

The world outside was still buzzing — the articles, the edits, the trending tags — but in your apartment, everything was still. His warmth pressed against you, his heartbeat heavy and sure. He wasn’t perfect; Katsuki Bakugo never would be. But beneath the pride, the explosions, the temper, there was this — the boy who’d chosen you quietly, completely, from the very beginning.