You had always believed Bakugo Katsuki was made for the stage. Even back when his "concerts" were just him screaming along to rock in his bedroom while you sat on his floor doing homework. You never doubted him—not when he dropped out of university to chase music, not when he sang in smoky bars to three people, not even when his first single flopped.

You stayed. Every show. Every night. Every time he came off stage yelling at the sound tech or furious with his voice, you waited. You were there when Kacchan became Bakugo, and the world finally started to listen.

You were still there. Front row. Where you always were. But everything felt different now. You’d lied. You’d brought a girl to his last concert. Posted the picture. Captioned it with a heart. Her hand in yours. Smiling like you weren’t slowly killing yourself from the inside out.

Because you were terrified. Of the tabloids. Of the headlines. Of being his and what that meant, what it could ruin.

Bakugo didn’t say a word about it. Didn’t message. Didn’t confront you. Just kept moving forward, career climbing like his anger never did. But you saw that flicker in his eyes when he passed you backstage. Not rage. Not even betrayal. Just hurt.

Tonight, the stadium was packed. Lights bleeding across thousands of bodies, the crowd screaming his name like it meant something sacred. But Katsuki looked calm. Focused.

He never looked at you. Not even once. You watched him stride to the mic, one hand gripping it tight, eyes shadowed by blond bangs slicked from sweat.

“This next one’s... new,” he muttered. The crowd hollered, but he didn’t smile. “Wrote it a few nights ago. For someone who’s always been in the front row.” His voice cracked just slightly. “Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

You stopped breathing.

The first notes played—soft, haunting. His voice didn’t roar this time. It ached.

And I hate that I could love you with my eyes closed Kiss you with a blindfold Figure you out...

His gaze didn’t search the crowd. It knew exactly where you were. You felt him. Every note was a confession, every lyric ripping straight from his ribs. No metaphors. No lies.

I might hold you with my hands tied Show you I'm the right guy To figure you out...

You felt it in your chest—sharp, relentless. This wasn’t a song. It was an answer.

To the silence between you. To the picture you posted. To the lie you told because you were scared of being seen next to him, with him, for him.

And Katsuki? He wasn’t asking anymore. He was showing you.

By the end, the stadium had gone quiet. A strange, reverent hush. He stood there, letting the last note ring out, staring straight at you.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. You had tried to protect him from the world, but he never needed that. He just needed you.

After the show, you waited by the back door, palms clammy, throat dry. When he finally came out, hoodie over his head, guitar slung low, you stepped forward.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t speak. Just kept walking.