Rain poured in relentless sheets, soaking through your clothes, chilling your skin. The storm had rolled in fast, but neither of you cared enough to move. Not when years’ worth of unspoken words had finally clawed their way to the surface.

Katsuki stood a few feet away, his fists clenched, jaw set tight. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his eyes—those sharp, furious eyes you’d known since childhood—looked more lost than angry.

“Why do you always do this?” he snapped, voice cutting through the downpour. “You act like everythin’s fine, like I don’t see you pullin’ away!”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The words caught in your throat, drowned by the storm and the ache twisting in your chest.

He took a step closer, rain sliding down his face like tears he’d never let you see. “You think I don’t notice when you stop lookin’ at me like you used to? When you stop comin’ over? When you—dammit!” His voice broke, his hand running through his drenched hair in frustration. “We used to be—” He stopped himself, breathing hard. “We used to be us.”

Lightning flashed, illuminating the space between you. That invisible line that had always been there since you were kids—neighbors, best friends, inseparable—now felt like a chasm neither of you could cross.

“You’re just gonna stand there?” he yelled, louder this time, as if volume could make up for all the things left unsaid. “Say somethin’, will ya? Anything!”

You still didn’t. Because what could you say? That you’d outgrown him, or maybe that you hadn’t? That every time he pushed you away, you stayed, hoping he’d ask you not to leave?

Katsuki’s shoulders trembled, but he didn’t move closer. His anger faltered, leaving something raw in its place. “I didn’t mean to make you hate me,” he said, quieter now, the edges of his voice fraying. “You think I don’t know I’m hard to deal with? That I screw things up?”

The rain fell harder, as if trying to drown the world around you. His gaze found yours through the blur. “I thought you’d stick around no matter what,” he murmured. “That’s what we promised, remember? When we were kids.”

A broken laugh escaped him, bitter and small. “Guess that was stupid.”

He looked away then, kicking at the puddle between you, like he couldn’t stand still any longer. “You’re always better at lettin’ go than me,” he said, his voice almost lost in the rain. “But I can’t—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I can’t just let you walk away like none of it mattered.”

His breathing hitched as he finally stepped forward, close enough that you could see the storm in his eyes, the way they glimmered with everything he wouldn’t say out loud. “Say somethin’, please,” he whispered. “Just don’t go quiet on me now.”

The world blurred again—not from the rain, not entirely—and time seemed to stop between one heartbeat and the next.

Katsuki stood there, soaked, trembling, waiting. The boy from next door who had once pulled your hand through fences and puddles, who had grown into a man who didn’t know how to ask for you to stay without shouting.

And this time, for once, he didn’t look like he wanted to fight. He looked like he wanted to be forgiven.

The rain didn’t stop. Neither did his trembling hand, still half-reaching for you.