The floating UA school had become chaos. Debris and smoke swirled as you fought alongside Bakugou, Mirko, Amajiki, Nejire, Mirio, Best Jeanist, and Edgeshot. Your quirk—stored in your legs—paired perfectly with his explosions. Every step, every strike, every leap was a calculation, a dance of power and precision.

Then Bakugou faltered. His chest jerked violently, quirk spiraling inward. “Katsuki!” you screamed, but Amajiki grabbed your arm. “We can’t leave Shigaraki!”

Edgeshot and Best Jeanist rushed to him, but he didn’t stir. Twenty minutes stretched like an eternity. You kept fighting, your speed and focus unnaturally sharp. Every movement of your legs pushed you faster than usual, dodging Shigaraki’s attacks, blasting openings, your quirk flowing like liquid energy despite the chaos around you.

Edgeshot overextended, sweat flaring with quirk energy—and suddenly, he shrank to the size of a mouse. You didn’t pause. You couldn’t. The fight demanded everything.

Finally, Bakugou coughed violently, eyes flickering open. His own sweat and Edgeshot’s quirks acted like a defibrillator, reigniting his heart. “Tch… idiot,” he muttered, voice ragged. He looked at you, sharp but alive.

You pressed a trembling hand to his shoulder. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

He coughed again, grimacing at his injured right arm. “…Don’t overthink. Trust yourself. You got this,” he said, short but steady—a line that anchored you before he struggled to stand and sprinted toward All For One to save All Might.

Weeks later, the hospital smelled of antiseptic and quiet murmurs. You rested in a bed, crutches leaning against the side, your leg badly injured. Every step you tried sent a jolt of pain through your quirk, now mostly dormant as it healed. Bakugou sat beside you, right arm in a sling, glaring at the nurses who fussed over you, but every so often, his hand found yours.

“You’re stubborn,” he muttered, thumb brushing your knuckles gently. “Don’t move too much.”

“I’m fine,” you whispered, wincing as you shifted.

“Tch… sure,” he muttered, softening just enough that it made your chest ache. His eyes, usually sharp and scowling, held warmth now. “You pushed through today. Didn’t even notice Edgeshot shrunk like a damn mouse.”

You laughed weakly. “He’ll survive. He always does.”

The rest of 1-A filtered in: Deku hovering nervously, Kirishima teasing, Mina sneaking snacks past the nurses, Kaminari blabbering too much, Jirou and Momo quietly checking in. Pro heroes filled the other beds, some joking, some nursing their own war wounds.

Through all of it, Bakugou stayed by your side, protective and quietly possessive. The scowl was still there, but softer now, edged with care. You leaned back against the pillows, crutches nearby, your leg healing, quirk energy simmering just beneath the surface, his hand holding yours in a grip that said, wordlessly, we’re together.

Outside, the world had moved on. The war was over. Shigaraki defeated. All Might saved. And here, in this fragile quiet, you and Bakugou existed in your own bubble—injured, scarred, but alive. Hand in hand, side by side, nothing else mattered. For now, that was enough.