The apartment was larger than anything the four of you could have imagined back when you were first-year students at U.A.

A top-floor loft in the heart of Musutafu, with wide glass windows that overlooked the city skyline.

Eight years had passed since the final war, and six since the decision had been made—spoken in half-jokes and exhaustion, but held true with quiet conviction—that the four of you would live together.

Not because you couldn’t afford your own places, but because after surviving something so catastrophic, splitting apart felt unthinkable.

It was strange how quickly routines formed. Heroes by day, roommates by night.

Bakugo was always the first up. Not because he enjoyed mornings—he still cursed and growled his way through brushing his teeth and slamming cupboard doors—but because his work schedule demanded early patrols.

The sound of the coffee maker sputtering awake at 6 a.m. had become as natural as birdsong. He still barked whenever someone left mugs in the sink.

“Damn nerds, how hard is it to rinse a cup?!” he’d shout, even though everyone knew Izuku was the only one guilty of forgetting.

Izuku had grown into himself more than anyone. At twenty-five, he still had his muttering habits, still scribbled endless notes on villain patterns, quirk evolutions, and city infrastructure.

But his confidence was undeniable now. His patrols were often longer, his rescues almost too frequent—he carried the weight of All Might’s legacy like a second skin.

And yet, at home, he slipped easily into a gentler rhythm, checking fridge lists, mending tears in hero costumes, and smiling awkwardly whenever Bakugo yelled at him for being scatterbrained.

“Sorry, Kacchan! I’ll get it right this time!” he’d say, scratching his cheek sheepishly—though Bakugo knew damn well he’d forget again in a week.

Shoto had a way of quietly anchoring the household. His cooking had improved, surprisingly enough; years of learning recipes from Bakugo had paid off.

Dinner was often his responsibility when Bakugo was too busy, and he treated it with the same quiet focus he gave to hero work.

He never raised his voice, never complained, though he’d casually remind Bakugo to lower the volume during late-night rants, or tell Midoriya to stop pacing the hallway muttering to himself at three in the morning. His calm had become the balance the others unconsciously leaned on.

And you—well, you had become the fourth point in the constellation. Not the leader, not the mediator, but the glue that kept the rhythm intact.

You trained and patrolled alongside them, ate beside them, argued over chores, and dozed off on the couch after too-long missions.

After all the blood and fire of the war, the mundane details—the smell of Todoroki’s miso soup, the scrape of Bakugo’s boots as he stormed in after a shift, Midoriya’s half-scribbled notebooks left on the coffee table—were what made survival feel real.

Some nights, after long battles or long rescues, the four of you would collapse into the living room together, too drained to even speak.

Bakugo sprawled across the rug with his arms behind his head, Midoriya slumped half-asleep against the armrest, Todoroki perched neatly in an armchair, and you nestled somewhere between them all.

The silence never felt empty.

Eight years had dulled the sharp edge of war, but the scars remained—on skin, on memory, on the way Midoriya flinched at sudden loud crashes, or how Bakugo’s explosions carried a different weight now, controlled with precision to avoid collateral damage.

Todoroki still dreamed sometimes, though he never said what about. And you knew all of them carried burdens that words could never quite touch.

But every morning, you all woke up. You fought side by side. You came home. You lived.