“You damn nerd,” Bakugo muttered under his breath. But the words were hollow, stripped of their usual sharpness. They carried no malice—just a heavy weight he couldn’t shake.

He sat slouched at his desk in the dim glow of his UA dorm room, his crimson eyes fixed on a photo of you. His grip on the frame was tight, knuckles white with restrained emotion. You had been gone for months now. The League of Villains had ambushed your work-study mission, and you’d been caught in the chaos.

Not a blaze of glory. Not a dramatic, heroic sacrifice. Just a cruel, meaningless accident. Caught in the crossfire.

It was a pitiful excuse, you had to admit. You had become a vigilante, your death a cowardly excuse to hide your new identity. But you couldn’t do it anymore. You missed your class, your friends, and your teachers—but most of all, you missed Bakugo.

Bakugo clenched his jaw, fighting the ache that threatened to spill over. It wasn’t fair. Someone as determined, as capable as you didn’t deserve a death so insignificant. He hated how powerless it made him feel—how it chipped away at the walls he’d built around himself.

The silence of the room was suffocating, broken only by the faint hum of the overhead light. Every second stretched, each memory of you replaying in vivid detail. Your laugh, your stupid jokes, the way you never backed down from him.

God, he missed you.

It was late. He should’ve been asleep, but the thought of you kept him tethered to his desk, as if letting go would mean losing you all over again.

Outside his balcony, a figure lingered. You hesitated, your hand hovering over the handle. You weren’t ready for this. Not yet. But you couldn’t turn back now. Not when the pain of staying away was worse than the fear of facing him.