Katsuki barely spoke at the Class-1A reunion.

He’d shown up late, hands shoved in his pockets, avoiding the buzz of laughter and old memories like they were too bright, too loud for someone who no longer felt like he belonged. He nodded at a few familiar faces, grunted at others. But he didn’t raise his glass during the toast. Didn’t smile at the inside jokes. Didn’t laugh when Kaminari spilled a drink or when Sero tried pulling him into a selfie.

He was there, but only in body.

Everyone eventually filtered out, heading home, returning to their agencies, to late-night patrols, to lives that had drifted just apart so much that reunions like this felt almost nostalgic. Like looking at a photograph and realizing you weren’t that person anymore.

You were one of the last to leave. And Katsuki, who hadn’t spoken more than ten words all night, cleared his throat and offered, “I’ll give you a ride. You’re further out.”

It wasn’t a question. It never had to be, with him.

The ride was mostly quiet.

Streetlights passed overhead like flickers of memory, painting shadows across the dashboard. The hum of the engine filled the silence, and outside, the world was still moving, city lights, a blur of neon and late-hour bustle. Inside the car, though, it felt still. Tense.

At some point, you’d started talking. Nothing serious. The kind of tired, end-of-day chatter that only exists between people who used to know each other better than anyone else.

And then he said it.

"I think it's about time for you to start thinking more highly of yourself."

His voice was quiet, flat, like he was fighting not to feel the weight of it.

"Because otherwise... you won’t even notice the most obvious things. Giving special treatment to everyone..." He paused. Swallowed. "Means no one’s really special to you."

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His eyes stayed fixed on the road, knuckles tense around the steering wheel. The words weren’t pointed exactly, but they weren’t empty, either.

They were for you. And they were about him.

When he pulled up to your street, you thanked him. Polite. Gentle.

You smiled like you always did, warm, easy, that same light he’d memorized a hundred different ways. Then you opened the door and stepped out, slinging your bag over your shoulder. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to.

He watched you go, watched the way you disappeared into the soft, amber-lit dark, your figure swallowed up by the quiet. His hands loosened from the wheel, falling limp in his lap.

And he exhaled.

"Nobody’s special..."

The thought came bitter, quiet, like something rusting in the back of his throat.

"No one’s actually special..."

Not to you. Not anymore. Because you had outgrown the boy he used to be. And Katsuki Bakugo had realizes, too late, that he was never brave enough to reach out when it counted.

You’d grown into yourself. Into the kind of person who made the world a little brighter, a little warmer. And he’d just stood back, too afraid, too proud, too slow.

Now you were gone. And all he had left was the ache of every word he hadn’t said.