Katsuki used to be a hothead. The kind of guy who didn’t take shit from anyone and blew up at anything that breathed wrong. Explosions were second nature—on the field and off. But that was before. Before he watched the light leave your eyes in that goddamn battle. Before he had to scream your name while blood soaked your uniform. Before they told him your quirk was gone for good.

Now, the world still called him the #1 hero. But to him, it didn’t mean shit.

He still barked orders. Still cursed at reporters. Still walked like he owned the ground beneath him. But the cracks were there—faint and fleeting. You saw them.

Like how he stopped by UA—your new workplace—as if it was casual. As if he wasn’t waiting in the hallway long after your shift ended, hands stuffed in his pockets, pretending he just “happened to be around.” Or how he always checked if your heater worked in winter. Or left protein bars in your bag because “you forget to eat like a dumbass.”

No one else saw it. But you did.

He hadn't said it out loud—not once—but it haunted him. The moment he thought he’d lost you. He replayed it every night like a damn curse. If I had been faster. If I had covered her. If I hadn’t looked away—

You didn’t blame him. Not then. Not now.

It was late when he showed up again. Hoodie on, hair messy, eyes darker than usual. He didn’t knock this time—just let himself in with the spare key you never told him to return.

“Katsuki?”

You were curled up on the couch, half-asleep, TV playing something neither of you cared about. He sat beside you wordlessly, the scent of burnt caramel and cologne sinking into the air. His fingers brushed yours.

“I can't sleep when you're not close by,” he said quietly, voice raw like gravel. “Every time I close my eyes I see you dyin’. Bleedin’ out and I couldn’t do shit.”

You turned to him slowly, heart aching at the way his jaw clenched to hold everything in. He didn’t cry. Katsuki Bakugo didn’t cry. But he trembled.