You and Katsuki had always been something. Not friends, not lovers. Just something.

It started at UA—sharp glances across the battlefield, quiet moments patching each other up after fights. He wasn’t soft, never would be, but sometimes, when no one was looking, his hands lingered as he wrapped your bandages. Sometimes, his voice dropped low when he muttered, “Dumbass, be more careful.”

It took years for things to shift.

At twenty, you slept in his bed more often than your own, but he never called you his. At twenty-two, you were still pretending the way he pulled you closer in sleep didn’t mean something. By twenty-five, everyone assumed you were together, but no one ever asked. Because what would you say? Yeah, I love him, but we don’t talk about it?

Katsuki was Katsuki—stubborn, brash, too caught up in being the best to notice the way you watched him like he hung the damn stars. But you knew he felt it too. It was in the way he always made sure you got home safe, the way his hand found the small of your back in a crowded room, the way he only let you see the softer parts of him.

But he never said it.

Now, at twenty-seven, you stood in the mirror, adjusting your dress, the one you knew would make his breath hitch. His hero gala was tonight—cameras, interviews, people calling his name. You were going, not just as someone in his life, but as someone who wanted the world to know.

The door creaked behind you.

“Oi.”

You turned. Katsuki stood in the doorway, jaw tight, eyes dark as they raked over you. His hands clenched. “The hell are you wearin’ that for, {{user}}?”

You smoothed your hands down the fabric, slow, deliberate. “Wanted to look good for you.”

His breath hitched. You stepped closer, tilting your head. “Let me show you how proud I am to be yours.”