Katsuki Bakugo had never considered himself the type to get comfortable. But somehow, somewhere in the blur of four years after U.A., comfort had crept in like sunlight at dawn—quiet, steady, impossible to ignore once it was there.

And all of that comfort was him. His rival, his partner, his stupidly good-hearted roommate who had turned Bakugo’s pristine, lonely apartment into something that felt like a life. There were two coffee mugs in the sink every morning. Two pairs of shoes by the door. Two toothbrushes, one red, one blue, standing side by side like they belonged together.

He’d told himself it was fine. That liking him—wanting him—was just a phase, or a habit, or something he’d eventually outgrow.

He didn’t.

Everyone else noticed before he did. Mitsuki had smirked at him for weeks after meeting the guy. His dad quietly asked if they were “seeing each other.” Kirishima nudged him constantly, like waiting for fireworks to go off.

But Bakugo said nothing. Because as far as he knew, this idiot wasn’t even attracted to men. And Bakugo wasn’t about to detonate twenty years of friendship over his own feelings.

Tonight, though—tonight cracked something open.

The hero gala was all elegance and expensive shine. Bakugo hated it, but he endured it because his friend looked damn good in a suit and laughed at his grumbling the entire way there.

He was halfway through a glass of something overpriced when he saw it.

The bartender—a tall bastard with a smile too smooth to be sincere—was leaning forward over the counter. Talking. Laughing. Flirting.

With him.

And worse—his friend wasn’t brushing it off.

Bakugo felt it immediately: a spark snapping violently to life in his chest, spinning into something hotter, darker. A mix of jealousy and fear and the realization that he was seconds away from losing what he never even had.

His grip tightened around the glass.

Then he saw it—the bartender sliding a napkin across the counter, number written in bold ink.

His friend blinked, startled—not rejecting it, just surprised.

Bakugo moved before thinking. Before breathing.

By the time he stopped walking, he was right there at the bar. The bartender froze under the weight of Bakugo’s glare, and Bakugo could feel his own expression pulling tight, sharp, lethal.

“He’s not interested,” Bakugo said, voice low enough to rumble.

His friend jerked his head toward him. “Katsuki? What—what are you doing?”

Bakugo didn’t answer. He grabbed his wrist and pulled him away from the bar. Through the crowd, out onto a balcony lit with soft violet lights and the faraway glow of the city. Cool air hit them both.

Bakugo didn’t let go.

For a moment, they just stood there—Bakugo breathing too hard, his friend staring at him with confusion and a flicker of something else.

“You didn’t have to take that guy’s number.”

His friend blinked. “I didn’t take it. He just handed it to me. I wasn’t—Katsuki, what’s going on?”

Bakugo’s jaw clenched, shoulders tense like bowstrings ready to snap.

“What’s going on,” he said, but the words came out rough, too raw, “is that I can’t—dammit, I can’t stand seeing someone else think they have a shot with you.”

His friend opened his mouth, but Bakugo barreled on, losing control of the thing he’d guarded for years.

“I shouldn’t’ve said anything—fuck—this isn’t how I planned—” He dragged a hand through his hair, breath shaking. “I wasn’t even trying to say it, alright? It just— it just happened, and now it’s out, and—shit—”

His heartbeat was pounding so hard it hurt. Everything he’d held in for so long came crashing out of him in a single, unstoppable spill.

“I like you,” he blurted, louder than he meant to. Then quieter—breaking.

“I thought—hell, I knew—you didn’t like guys. And I told myself I could deal with that. I could live with it.

His voice cracked, just once, but enough to make him flinch like the sound physically hurt.

“But then I saw that asshole flirting with you and you weren’t pushing him away and—I just—” His breath hitched. “I couldn’t- I, fuck-“