Bakugou Katsuki hadn’t gone into adulthood expecting to feel left behind.
He was a top pro hero fresh out of graduation, handpicked by Best Jeanist himself, name already climbing rankings faster than most veterans. He was winning. So it pissed him off that something as stupid as romance gnawed at him the way it did.
The agency dinner had been the final straw.
Crystal lights, polished floors, and heroes he’d grown up with—laughing, relaxed, paired. Deku smiling softly at Uraraka. Kirishima with his arm slung easily around his partner’s shoulders. Even Todoroki stood close to someone, listening instead of retreating into silence.
Bakugou had felt it then. That sharp, ugly twist in his chest.
He hated it.
So when the man sitting across from him—another pro, charming in a practiced way—leaned in and expressed interest, Bakugou didn’t shut it down. He told himself this was just catching up. Doing what everyone else had already figured out.
They started dating not long after.
At first, Bakugou convinced himself it was fine. The guy was attentive in public, proud to stand next to him at events, quick with compliments. They moved fast—too fast—but Bakugou told himself that was normal. That this was how adults did things.
Still, there was always a hollow space he couldn’t fill.
He noticed it late at night, when he instinctively reached for his phone to text his best friend instead of his boyfriend. Noticed it when victories felt incomplete unless he knew about them. Noticed it in the way his chest settled whenever they trained together, laughed together, existed in the same space.
Bakugou didn’t question it.
He couldn’t.
Then came the night everything shattered.
Bakugou returned to their shared apartment earlier than expected, irritation already simmering after a long patrol. The lights were on. That was strange—his boyfriend wasn’t supposed to be back yet.
He heard laughter.
Not his boyfriend’s alone.
The sound hit wrong. Too light. Too unfamiliar.
Bakugou pushed open the bedroom door.
The world narrowed.
Sheets tangled. Clothes scattered carelessly across the floor. And there—in Bakugou’s bed—his boyfriend and a woman, frozen mid-motion, guilt written plainly across their faces.
For a split second, Bakugou couldn’t breathe.
Then the anger detonated.
He didn’t scream. Didn’t unleash an explosion—barely restrained himself from doing something far worse. His voice was low, lethal, shaking with something deeper than rage.
“Get out.”
The woman scrambled, grabbing her things, eyes wide with fear. His boyfriend tried to talk. Tried to explain. Tried to justify it with words Bakugou didn’t even process.
Bakugou pointed to the door.
“Now.”
When the door finally slammed shut behind them, the silence was deafening.
The bed looked wrong. The room looked contaminated. Bakugou stood there for several seconds before his hands started shaking—fury giving way to something humiliating and sharp.
He didn’t stay.
He grabbed his jacket and left, the apartment door slamming hard enough to rattle the walls.
Without thinking, his feet carried him somewhere familiar.
Safe.
When his best friend opened the door, concern crossed his face instantly. Bakugou must’ve looked like hell—eyes wild, jaw locked, anger barely holding together.
The man didn’t ask questions. Just stepped aside and let him in.
That nearly broke Bakugou right there.
He paced the living room like a caged animal, fists clenched, breath heavy. The words tore out of him rough and unfiltered.
“He cheated,” Bakugou growled. “With some girl. In my fucking bed.”
His best friend’s expression hardened—not with anger, but with something protective, steady. He listened. Let Bakugou vent, curse, spiral. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t minimize it.
Eventually, the fire burned down. What was left was raw.
Bakugou dropped onto the couch.