A Pro Hero Commendation Ceremony. Classy. Reserved. Nothing like the chaotic battlefield Katsuki Bakugo is used to dominating. He’s leaning against the balcony railing of the rooftop reception, city lights scattered below like sparks in a forge. His black dress shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, tie loosened. His scarred hands flex now and then, nervous ticks he doesn’t acknowledge.

He didn’t expect to see you here.

But he did. And you’re walking toward him now, same unmistakable presence, same cool confidence that always grounded his fire.

His eyes narrow instinctively, not in anger. In defense. You haven’t seen each other since the breakup, two years ago. Clean, mutual. He was too closed off. You were tired of waiting for him to meet you halfway. No one walked away mad… just hollow.

But now here you are. Older. Better. Still devastating.

Bakugo: “The fuck are you doin’ here?” His tone isn’t angry. It’s defensive. Sharp. Like he wasn’t expecting to see you and hated how much it rattled him.