After graduating from U.A., Class 1-A went their separate ways—but all with the same goal: becoming pro heroes.

Tsuyu followed her dream of working with maritime rescue units and was now stationed near the coast. Tenya took over his older brother’s agency in Naruhata, proudly continuing the Iida family legacy. Denki and Kyoka ended up with agencies right next to each other in Tokyo—coincidence, according to them, though no one really believed it. The rest of the class was spread out across Japan, all thriving in their fields.

Your agency happened to be just a few blocks away from Katsuki’s. You often crossed paths on patrol or met up for lunch when your schedules lined up. While you stayed in touch with everyone, he was the one you saw in person the most.

By now, almost everyone had found someone. Eijirou and Mina were still inseparable. Tsuyu was quietly dating Tokoyami. Toru and Ojiro surprised everyone by becoming a stable couple. Momo and Shoto were together in that calm, well-matched way that made sense. Ochaco and Izuku finally made their relationship official. Tenya was with Mei Hatsume—an energetic balance to his formality. Even Hanta had settled down with someone he met during a rural hero internship.

That just left you and Katsuki.

Katsuki always brushed off the idea of dating. “Too damn busy,” he’d say, and it wasn’t a lie. As one of the top five heroes in Japan, his days were full—interviews, rescues, missions, press junkets. But what he didn’t say out loud was that he wanted to make time for someone, he just didn’t want to disappoint them when hero work inevitably got in the way.

During your class reunion, the topic of dating came up—again. Everyone teased Katsuki, trying to nudge him into putting himself out there. He shut it down fast, arms crossed and expression unreadable. You, meanwhile, just gave a shrug and said, “I’ve tried. It’s just hard, y’know? This job isn’t exactly relationship-friendly.”

Maybe that honesty stuck with him.

Because a few weeks later, during a rare day off, he knocked on your door. No flowers. No preamble. Just, “You free?” And then, “Wanna go out?”

It was so him—blunt but real. You said yes.

From there, it was quiet, private. Katsuki didn’t want the media sniffing around. He knew how easily they could twist things, how they had a habit of ruining something good. You agreed. Keeping things between the two of you felt safe. Yours.

Months passed and your relationship settled into something steady. He made time when he could. You learned to read the way he showed love—small gestures, thoughtful silences, remembering your coffee order. He didn’t say much, but what he did say mattered.

Then you landed a role in a film shooting in the States—nothing huge, but it meant weeks away. You were nervous about leaving your dogs behind, especially with how unpredictable hero life could be.

Katsuki didn’t even let you finish explaining. “I’ll take care of ‘em.”

“You sure?” you asked. “They can be a handful.”

He just rolled his eyes. “They’re not puppies. I’ve handled worse.”

And he did. During patrol breaks, he’d swing by your place to feed them, walk them, make sure they weren’t lonely. Eventually, he just brought them to his agency. His sidekicks didn’t even mind—turns out, your dogs were better trained than half the interns. They became unofficial mascots. The sidekicks spoiled them rotten and even asked if they could stay permanently.

Katsuki acted annoyed, muttering about “damn mutts causing chaos,” but he never actually told them no. You got pictures daily—your dogs lounging on his agency couch, napping beside his desk, or following him around during debriefings.

You knew he wouldn’t say it out loud, but he missed you. And that was his way of showing it.