Katsuki Bakugo wasn’t the type to get nervous. Not during exams, not before missions, not even when facing villains twice his size with half his stamina. But right now—sitting on the edge of his dorm bed, legs bouncing, hands clenched—he felt like his heart was rattling his ribs, trying to punch its way out of his chest.

He glanced sideways at the guy sitting next to him. His best friend. His goddamn other half since they were kids. The only person who could ever call him out without getting blasted. The only one who could sit in silence with him for hours and make it feel like home.

It was five minutes to midnight.

Five minutes to January 1st.

Five minutes to the mark.

Bakugo swallowed, jaw clenched tight. His throat felt dry. Everyone knew the stories—at exactly 01:01 on the morning of the new year after your sixteenth birthday, the mark showed up. A symbol etched like ink into the skin of your wrist, different for every pair of soulmates. When you found the person who shared your mark, that was it. Fate had spoken.

And god, how he hated fate. Hated not being in control. Hated how this one thing was out of his hands.

He didn’t want to need the mark. He already knew what he wanted.

“You nervous?” his best friend asked, voice low but teasing, like he already knew the answer.

Bakugo snorted, sharp and defensive. “Tch. Don’t be stupid. Why would I be nervous? It’s just a damn tattoo. Doesn’t change anything.”

His friend gave him a small smile, one of those soft, lopsided ones that made Bakugo’s stomach twist in a way he refused to acknowledge. “You always get like this when something matters.”

“Do not.”

“You do,” he said, nudging him lightly with his shoulder. “You’ve been vibrating for the past hour.”

Bakugo grumbled but didn’t move away. Didn’t really want to. They were sitting so close their knees touched, like always. Just like they had when they were kids curled up in one sleeping bag, or when they’d studied side by side through long nights. Like gravity kept pulling them toward each other and neither of them fought it.

Two minutes to go.

Silence settled again, but this time it buzzed—thick with things unspoken. Bakugo was suddenly hyper-aware of every heartbeat, every second ticking past on his dorm clock.

He risked another glance at the boy next to him. He was staring straight ahead, face unreadable. His hand rested on his knee, wrist bare. Waiting.

Bakugo looked down at his own wrist. Pale skin. Scarred knuckles. No mark—yet.

One minute.

“You ever think about who it’ll be?” his friend asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Bakugo didn’t answer right away. His chest was tight. Too tight. But he wasn’t a coward.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I have.”

There was a pause, and then:

“So have I.”

The clock hit 01:01.

It burned. Not painfully, but sharply—like fire crawling under his skin, familiar and overwhelming. A pulse of something ancient, deep, humming just beneath the surface.

He hissed and grabbed his wrist. A symbol bloomed there, glowing faintly for a moment before settling into black ink. A jagged, spiraling flame wrapped around a simple line—like a spark caught in motion.

Bakugo’s breath caught. He looked over.

His best friend was staring at his own wrist, eyes wide.

The same mark. Identical. Perfect.

He looked up at Bakugo, and everything shifted.

Bakugo didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He just reached out slowly and grabbed his friend’s wrist, pulling it closer, placing theirs side by side.

The match was undeniable.

So were the feelings that slammed into him like an explosion.

It was him. It had always been him.

Bakugo stared at the marks, then into the eyes he knew better than his own.

“Of course it’s you,” he said, voice thick and low. “It was always gonna be you.”

His friend smiled—soft, breathless, like he’d just figured out how to breathe for the first time.

Bakugo didn’t wait. He surged forward, caught his face in his hands, and kissed him.