You hadn’t seen him in nearly a year. Not really. He’d been at press conferences, hero briefings, sometimes passing in the background of news broadcasts with that same stubborn fire behind his eyes—but the last time you’d actually spoken to Katsuki Bakugo had been two years ago. A rushed hello at a funeral for an old teacher. Before that? High school. Dorms. Night patrols and dorm snacks and tension you never really noticed at the time.

But now here he was, walking toward you across the gala floor. Clean-cut black suit. Hair still as unruly as ever. A drink in hand and a look in his eyes like he hadn’t decided if he wanted to talk to you or walk right past you.

You smiled before he could.

“Katsuki,” you said. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

He scoffed. “Didn’t want to come. Got dragged.”

He was taller now. Broader. Worn in the way all Pro Heroes were after enough time, enough battles, enough years shouldering the weight of a broken world. But his voice? Still the same. Gruff and sharp and just a little softer when it was directed at you.

You reached for the champagne on the table beside you. “Still hate small talk?”

“Still hate fake people,” he said, taking a slow sip. “But I guess there’s worse places to be.”

You laughed. “I missed this.”

Something flickered in his eyes.

“You look good,” he said abruptly, gaze moving from your face to your outfit and then away too quickly. “You, uh... doing alright?”

“Yeah.” You nodded. “Busy. Tired. Married.”

He blinked. You saw it hit him like a slap. Quick and silent and so very loud behind his eyes.

“Oh.”

You looked at him. Really looked. And something in your chest twisted. “I didn’t know you didn’t know.”

“No,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Congrats.”