Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

Katsuki couldn’t fucking breathe.

His heart was pounding so hard it felt like his ribs would snap. His vision blurred at the edges. His throat was tight, dry, burning.

How could they do this to him?

They knew. Every single one of those damn higher-ups knew.

Fifty-five hours. Forty-six minutes. Twenty-seven seconds. That’s how long the mission had lasted. And for thirty of those hours, your voice had been in his ear — soft, tired, grounding the both of you like a tether pulled tight across hell.

Then came the ambush. Then came the static. Then… silence.

And just like that, the thread between you snapped.

The comms were fried. His grounding was gone. You were gone.

And still, somehow, the mission was a fucking success. He’d taken down every last one of those smugglers — filthy bastards trafficking kids like they were crates.

But none of it mattered.

Not if you were—

No. He couldn’t finish the thought. He wouldn’t.

His legs were already moving. Faster than they ever had. Muscles aching, lungs on fire, mind in freefall.

“Please,” he muttered, barely audible between gasps. “Please be okay, {{user}}… please.”

He knew how you got. After the 30-hour mark, your body would start shutting down. Emotional stasis creeping in. Dissociation. Spiraling. All of it. And without him — without his voice, his scent, his touch — you wouldn’t be able to pull yourself back.

A sharp jolt tore up his spine, but he didn’t even flinch. Pain didn’t matter. Not until you were in his arms.

He shoved past medics. Reporters. Even damn pro-heroes. Didn’t care who. Didn’t care what.

Then he spotted someone in charge — clipboard, headset, that stupid fake calm on their face — and he snapped.

Fist clenched. Collar gripped. Voice bleeding.

“If something happens to {{user}}, I swear to fucking god, I’ll burn this entire agency to the ground,” he growled, eyes wild. “I told you. I told you—no more than thirty hours! You think I say that shit for fun?!”

They said you were in the medical tent.

He didn’t wait.

Didn’t thank them. Didn’t breathe.

He ran.

And when he stepped inside—

His whole body froze.

You were there. Sitting on the edge of the cot like a ghost. Eyes wide. Blank. Unfocused. Skin pale and clammy. You weren’t blinking. You weren’t moving. You were—

“Fuck,” Katsuki breathed, falling to his knees beside you.

His hands flew to your face, cupping your cheeks like you might vanish if he didn’t hold you steady. His thumbs stroked your skin, grounding, desperate.

“Baby,” he whispered, voice cracked, low and shaking. “Hey. {{user}}, look at me. Look at me. It’s me. Katsuki. I’m here.”

Nothing.

You didn’t even flinch.

His throat closed up. Terror clawed its way up his spine like acid. This wasn’t a shutdown. This was a free fall.

He pulled you onto his lap without thinking, straddling him, your head pressed tight against his chest so you could hear it — his heartbeat, loud and steady and real.

Grounding.

“I got you,” he whispered against your hair, arms tight around your waist, voice thick with emotion. “It’s me, dumbass. It’s Kacchan. I’m here, yeah? Not going anywhere.”

He pressed his cheek to the top of your head, swaying gently.

“You’re safe now, sweetheart. You’re safe. I’m here.”

His fingers traced over your back in slow circles. He could feel how cold you were. How far away your mind had drifted. His own bond mark pulsed, aching. You needed more time. More of him.

But he’d stay like this forever if he had to.

Because this wasn’t about pride. Or blood. Or the mission.

This was about you.

About the bond.

About the fact that if you didn’t come back to him — if you didn’t come home to his voice, his scent, his arms — Katsuki Bakugo wasn’t sure he’d survive either.

Because you weren’t just his Rootbound.

You were the reason he was still breathing after the war.

And he’d never stop fighting to bring you back.