After the war ended, Japan was left in pieces. Entire neighborhoods were rubble, the air still tasting faintly of smoke. People grieved loved ones they’d never see again, rebuilt homes from splintered wood and cracked stone, and tried to believe life could be normal again.

U.A. was no exception. Its walls had been repaired, but the weight carried by those who walked its halls couldn’t be plastered over. Class 1-A bore the worst of it—they’d fought on the front lines, watched cities fall, and stared into the kind of fear that left marks deeper than any scar.

Many came back injured, their bodies stitched together, their spirits a little less steady. Bakugo was one of them. His stubbornness hadn’t faded—he still argued with the nurses, still told people to mind their own business—but there was something quieter under the surface. He hated being stuck in a bed. He hated the lingering pain. But most of all, he hated that she wasn’t there.

Not that anyone knew who “she” was. His girlfriend—since junior high—had always been his best-kept secret. She’d moved overseas a couple years ago, but distance hadn’t changed them. Messages pinged back and forth across time zones, late-night calls sometimes lasting until sunrise for one of them. She had become his constant, the only part of his life untouched by chaos.

And she knew everything. She followed every headline, every shaky livestream, every hero update. Her relief after each message from him had been quiet but deep. But when the news reached her that he’d been hospitalized, she didn’t hesitate.

One call to his parents, and the decision was made.

She booked her ticket immediately, her family helping her pack and get to the airport. The hours in the air felt endless, her thoughts circling back to every injury he might have, every moment he might’ve been in danger.

When she finally arrived, she didn’t head to some hotel. She went straight to his parents’ home, and from there, his mother brought her to the hospital.

Inside his room, Bakugo’s classmates were scattered—Kirishima at the foot of the bed, Mina perched on a chair, Kaminari halfway through a snack he’d smuggled in. Aizawa was leaning against the far wall, his gaze calm but sharp, checking on every student in the room.

Bakugo had his usual scowl in place, trading half-hearted insults with Sero, when the door opened again.

He didn’t bother looking at first. Probably another nurse. But then he heard his mother’s voice… followed by another voice.

His head turned.

She was there.

It wasn’t the kind of reunion either of them had pictured. She wasn’t running into his arms; he wasn’t sweeping her up. She was standing in the doorway, her eyes scanning him, taking in the bruises, the stitches, the hospital gown. And he was lying there, his pride and his body both battered, wishing—just for a second—that she hadn’t seen him like this.

But he also knew he needed her more than anything right now.

His eyes softened without him meaning them to. She smiled—small, a little sad, but warm—and stepped closer, his mother at her side.

The room had gone a little quieter, his classmates watching curiously. They didn’t know who she was, but they could tell she was important.

She didn’t say anything; neither did he. She just reached for his hand, and he let her take it.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was just… right.