It had been three years. Three years since that graduation night, when Katsuki Bakugo had stood under the bright city lights with the bitter taste of champagne on his tongue and hope burning in his chest. He had confessed — not just his feelings, but everything. Years of something more than friendship, the kind of closeness that didn’t have a name until it had to. He’d laid it all out with gritted teeth and a pounding heart. Then he’d asked him to stay — to stay with him, to build something together. A future. An agency. A life.

And he’d said no.

Not cruelly. Just... softly. With eyes that looked like they held a thousand unspoken apologies, and a promise he never actually made: "I have to go."

So Katsuki let him go.

He built the agency alone. Ground himself into it like it was the only way to silence the echo of his own heart cracking in two. He fought, rose in the ranks, earned his place as one of Japan’s top Pro Heroes — and through it all, he never let anyone in the way he had let him in. No one else had the map to who he really was underneath the explosions and fury.

Not like he did.

The knock came late — nearly midnight. The city outside was quiet, the summer heat lingering in the pavement and the air thick with the scent of ozone from a storm that hadn’t quite arrived. Katsuki, fresh from the shower, a towel slung over his neck and sleep pulling at his bones, hadn’t expected anything. Not at that hour. Not anyone.

And certainly not him.

When he opened the door, it was like the world held its breath. The porch light buzzed overhead, casting everything in dim gold, and there he was — taller, thinner, older, and yet… exactly the same. Drenched in shadows and moonlight. That familiar presence Katsuki hadn’t felt in years. He looked like a memory brought to life — tired, worn, but still steady. Still him.

Neither of them said anything.

Katsuki's chest felt too tight to breathe, let alone speak. The ache he’d buried deep — under pride and rage and work and years — clawed its way to the surface with terrifying ease. And the man just stood there, suitcase in hand, his eyes glassy with something too heavy to name.

There was no apology, not really. Just a look.

A look that said, I never stopped thinking about you.

A look that said, I fucked up.

A look that said, I’m home — if you’ll have me.

Katsuki's knuckles whitened on the doorframe. His throat burned. All the anger, all the bitterness, it was still there — but under it, bleeding through like light behind storm clouds, was something else. Something softer. The part of him that had always known this day might come, even if he swore it wouldn’t.

He exhaled shakily.

Then, wordlessly, he stepped aside.

And when the man walked past him, shoulders trembling like he was finally allowing himself to feel the weight of everything he’d run from — Katsuki didn’t reach for him. Not yet. But he didn’t close the door right away either.

He stood there, heart pounding.

Because the part of him that had never stopped waiting.