You’d met Bakugo Katsuki at a hero gala you weren’t even supposed to be at. Your agent had messed up the venue; you’d shown up in a shimmering dress expecting a charity dinner for children’s hospitals, only to realize you’d stumbled straight into a hall full of Pro Heroes and their sponsors. You tried to sneak out—until you nearly ran face-first into the explosion-happy legend himself.

He caught your arm before you could bolt, crimson eyes narrowing like he’d just discovered some sick joke. “The hell are you doing here? You don’t look like you belong.”

You wanted to smack that smug smirk right off his face. But he didn’t let you go. That accidental meeting spiraled into late-night texts, cautious banter, then stolen kisses backstage after your shows. Somehow, over months that turned to years, you fell in love with the same stubborn bastard who once would’ve barked at you for breathing wrong.

Bakugo had been revived almost seven years ago after dying in the war. No one talked about it directly—least of all him. The only reminder was the scar on his chest, and the way he’d sometimes clutch at it when he thought you weren’t looking. His heart had never fully recovered. It stuttered, skipped, raged inside his ribs like it was constantly trying to blow him up from the inside.

You were a singer. The irony burned every time you thought about it. The first time he ever came to your concert—he insisted, because “what kinda shitty boyfriend doesn’t show up to see his girl kill it on stage?”—he ended up in a hospital bed before your second set even started. The vibrations, the thundering bass, it rattled his damaged heart until it damn near stopped.

You’d stopped the show right then. Left thousands of fans waiting while you raced to be by his side. When he woke up, rasping out your name with that goddamn half-smirk like it was all some joke, you told him you’d understand if he never came again.

He didn’t. Couldn’t.

That didn’t stop the way it ate at him. Katsuki watched every live broadcast, your face glowing on the giant TV in your shared living room, gripping the couch so hard his knuckles went white. You’d finish a set, soaked in sweat and adrenaline, only to come home and find him pretending like he hadn’t been waiting with baited breath, eyes a little red.

“I don’t mind,” you told him once, slipping onto his lap, cupping his face. “I know it kills you that you can’t be there. But it doesn’t matter to me. I just want you alive.”

His jaw worked. “Don’t give me that,” he bit out, voice cracking in a way that made your chest clench. “’Course it matters. I should be out there—front row, yelling my damn lungs out like an idiot. Instead I’m stuck here. Watching you through a screen like some pathetic—”

“Hey.” You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. “You’re not pathetic. You’re alive. That’s enough for me.”

But you knew it wasn’t enough for him.

Some nights, he’d slip out to the balcony alone. You’d catch him gripping the railing, breathing hard, like he was trying to steady the fireworks in his chest. You never interrupted. Just waited until he came back in, exhausted, to crawl into bed and hold you like he was terrified you might disappear next.

And maybe that was what tied you together so painfully tight: you’d both lost too much. You’d both stood on the edge of something final. Now, every day felt borrowed, every kiss a little desperate.

So when you performed, you sang for him. When he trained, he fought for you. Neither of you said it outright—it would crack the fragile thing you’d built—but you both knew the truth.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t fair. But it was yours. And if Bakugo Katsuki’s broken heart could keep beating just a little longer, that would be enough. For both of you.