The battle was over, but the adrenaline hadn’t drained from their systems yet—it still pulsed beneath their skin like an echo, steady and sharp. Below them, the city lights blinked through the rising mist, casting neon reflections over the edge of the rooftop. The world looked almost peaceful from up here. Almost.

Bakugo landed hard, boots cracking against concrete, gauntleted hands bracing on the rooftop as a small cloud of dust kicked up around him. His breath was heavy, ragged, his body screaming from the fight they’d just dragged themselves through. His blond hair stuck up in damp spikes, sweat and grime matting it to his forehead. Crimson eyes still burned, even now, even through exhaustion.

Everything hurt. That villain’s Quirk had pushed them to the edge—and past it. But they’d held the line, like always. Won, like always.

Behind him, {{user}} landed with far more grace, the kind that came with control earned through years of relentless training. Even in their exhaustion, there was elegance in the way they moved. Bakugo turned just enough to catch them in his peripheral. Dust smeared their jaw, sweat clung to their skin, and their eyes—tired, but unbroken—met his for half a second.

He let out a quiet grunt. “Tch... finally,” he muttered, not bothering to mask the relief in his voice.

He looked them over, taking in the scuffed-up gear, the bruises beginning to bloom under the surface. “You look like hell.”

There was no jab in it. Just truth. Raw and simple. The same kind of truth that existed between two people who threw themselves into danger without hesitation—for the city, for the mission… for each other.

Bakugo straightened slowly, wiping his face with the back of his hand before raking it through his hair. He didn’t turn toward them fully, but his voice dropped, quiet and coarse. “You good?”

He didn’t need an answer. He could read it in the way they stood—solid, even now. But he asked anyway. Because sometimes he needed to hear it, too.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The city below buzzed with soft life—distant car engines, the low hum of streetlamps, the occasional breeze curling through the air and tugging at their torn uniforms. It was a sharp contrast to the chaos they’d just clawed their way out of. Stillness like this didn’t come often, and when it did, it felt earned.

Bakugo cracked his knuckles, a familiar sound that signaled the comedown was finally here. “I’m done with this crap tonight,” he muttered. “Let’s get outta here before round two shows up.”

With a short burst from his gauntlets, he launched into the air, momentum catching fast as he propelled himself across the skyline. He looked over his shoulder mid-flight, lips curling into a lopsided smirk despite the pain etched into his features.

“Race you.”

{{user}} laughed—quiet, breathy, and tired—but it still made his chest squeeze. Their quirk activated, rising to meet him in the sky. Together, they moved in sync, weaving through the glow of the sleeping city, the wind peeling away the weight of the battle, bit by bit.

When they finally touched down on their apartment balcony, Bakugo exhaled slow. His shoulder brushed against theirs as he stepped inside, the closeness grounding him more than he’d ever admit. He bumped them gently with his elbow, his voice low and rough.

“Next time, try not to make it look like I’m carryin’ the whole damn team.”

But there was no bite in it. Just warmth—twisted up in his own, explosive way.