In a world where pro heroes are celebrities, interviews trend for days, and every public appearance is photographed, being in love with a hero feels impossible.

For years, you admired Katsuki Bakugo from afar. At first it was simple admiration. He was powerful, determined, and unapologetically himself. But over time, admiration became affection, and affection became love.

The problem wasn't just that he was famous.

It was that he was Bakugo.

The public knew him as explosive, intimidating, and brutally honest. Every imagined confession ended the same way in your head: a sharp rejection, embarrassment spreading across social media, strangers laughing about the civilian who thought they had a chance with a top hero.

So you kept your feelings hidden.

You attended hero events sometimes, standing in the crowd. You watched interviews. You clipped articles and saved broadcasts. Nobody knew why your attention lingered whenever his name appeared.

Life continued.

Years passed.

You built your own career, your own friendships, your own routine. Yet every so often you'd catch sight of him on a giant screen downtown, responding to an emergency or giving a press statement, and the familiar ache would return.

What you didn't know was that Bakugo had noticed you long ago.

Not in a dramatic, love-at-first-sight way.

He noticed because you kept showing up.

Not close enough to be a stalker. Never demanding attention. Never pushing forward for autographs. Just... there. At charity events. Community programs. Hero safety seminars. Always somewhere in the crowd.

At first he assumed it was coincidence.

Then he started recognizing your face.

Eventually he found himself scanning crowds without meaning to.

One afternoon after a neighborhood rescue awareness event, you were preparing to leave when a voice behind you barked:

"Oi."

You froze.

There was no mistaking that voice.

Turning around, you found Bakugo standing there, hands in his pockets, expression as unreadable as ever.

"You always leave before I can ask."

Your heart nearly stopped.

"Ask what?"

He looked vaguely annoyed, as if the conversation itself was inconvenient.

"Who the hell are you?"

Not exactly a romantic opening.

But for the first time, instead of seeing the number three hero, the celebrity, or the impossible crush, you saw a person trying—awkwardly—to start a conversation.

And suddenly the possibility of rejection wasn't the only thing standing in front of you anymore.

There was also the possibility of being known.