It had been years since the war, years since Class 1-A last gathered under the same roof. The air in the old bar was warm, nostalgic—filled with laughter that carried bits of grief hidden beneath. You weren’t sure how you ended up sitting across from Bakugou Katsuki again, of all people, after everything.

You hadn’t dated in U.A. There’d just been something—a pull, an unspoken tension that never quite left either of you alone. But he was brash, and you were guarded, and time just… slipped away.

Now, here he was again, sitting close enough for your knees to brush under the table. His right arm—once battered and nearly useless—looked strong again, though the faint scars told a story only he could carry.

“So,” Kaminari drawled, a little too loudly. “You two catchin’ up or flirtin’ in plain sight?”

You rolled your eyes, sipping your drink to hide the heat creeping up your neck. Bakugou just glared at him. “Shut the hell up, Dunce Face.”

That earned a few laughs from the table—Jirou and Momo exchanging a knowing look while Shouto, sitting beside you, blinked slowly like he was watching a movie unfold.

It was strange, being back with everyone again. Time had stretched you all in different directions, yet somehow the dynamic hadn’t changed. Even with the banter, the easy laughter, and the new scars—physical or not—it still felt like home.

You didn’t even realize you were staring at Bakugou until he caught you. His lips tugged into a half-smile—soft, almost wistful.

Later that night, after Kaminari started a drinking game and everyone loosened up, Bakugou leaned over to murmur something. “Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said, voice low enough that it didn’t carry.

“Yeah, well,” you said, swirling what was left of your drink. “Didn’t think you’d actually talk to me when you did.”

His smirk faltered for a split second—just enough to show he remembered. The half-written confessions, the looks that said too much, the silence that followed graduation.

“Guess I was a dumbass back then,” he muttered.

You raised an eyebrow. “Back then?”

He huffed a laugh. “Don’t push it.”

The warmth between you shifted—heavier now, charged with years of what ifs. The world seemed to blur a little, maybe from the drinks, maybe from him. His hand brushed yours, and it wasn’t an accident.

You didn’t pull away.

When the others turned to toast something—something loud and stupid and very Class 1-A—Bakugou leaned closer, voice just above a whisper. “You still make me nervous, y’know that?”

You smiled faintly, meeting his eyes. “Good.”

The silence between you hummed, sweet and dangerous. You didn’t need to say anything else. You both knew where this was going—slow, hesitant, inevitable.

And when he kissed you later, away from the noise and the laughter, it wasn’t rushed or reckless. It was quiet. Careful. Like a promise.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless, he murmured, “Damn, I missed that.”

“You never had it,” you whispered back.

He grinned, thumb brushing your jaw. “Then I’m makin’ up for lost time.”