Long distance was never part of the plan — not for you and Katsuki. From the moment you met at UA, it was like gravity: you were always pulled to each other. Training, study sessions, missions, even late-night ramen runs—you did everything side by side. The idea of being apart for more than a day had always felt distant, almost impossible.

But heroes don’t get to choose comfort over duty.

When Katsuki got called out —alongside Izuku and Shoto for a classified, long-term mission, you felt the ground shift beneath you. It was supposed to be a few weeks. Then it turned into a month. Then two. Now three. And counting.

You tried to be strong, and he did too. There were late-night calls when the connection crackled but his voice still made you feel safe. Quick texts that came in at odd hours. Sometimes a letter would show up, the edges a little worn, smelling faintly of smoke and the scent you associated only with him. You kept them tucked under your pillow, reading them when the ache in your chest got too loud.

He had told you, apologetically, that he wouldn’t be home for at least another month. His voice had cracked when he said it, even if he tried to hide it under that tough bravado. But what he didn’t tell you—what he couldn’t tell you—was that he was already planning something.

He remembered the night you showed him one of those videos on your phone. Long-distance couples surprising each other after months apart. You had laughed, cheeks pink and eyes shiny with tears, hugging your phone to your chest and whispering, "I’d cry so hard if that was us." So he made it happen.

It was late. Your dorm was quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of your phone screen. You were curled up in bed, wearing his hoodie — it was oversized, warm, and still smelled like the ash and musk that reminded you of every hug, every moment he’d pulled you close and muttered something gruff but affectionate. You hadn’t been able to focus all day. You missed him in a way that made your chest tight and your eyes sting for no real reason. It was one of those days where the world just felt a little too heavy without him in it.

And then—click. Your door opened.

You froze. And when you looked up, heart hammering in your chest, there he was. Katsuki Bakugo, standing in the doorway, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hair a little longer and messier than usual. There was a new scar across the back of his hand — a story you knew you’d hear later. But none of that mattered. Because he was here.

“Surprise, dumbass,”

He was home. And that made everything okay again.