U.A. announced it with barely a week’s notice: A week-long cultural immersion trip to Mexico. Part hero diplomacy, part educational exchange, part “get these kids out of the dorms before they explode.”

You were thrilled. Half Mexican, half Japanese—you’d spent part of your childhood in Mexico before moving to Japan. The streets, the food, the language… it was home in a way Japan never fully was.

Katsuki? He grumbled. Loudly. “What the hell do I need tacos for? I’m already strong.”

But when the plane landed and the heat hit, and you started pointing out landmarks, street vendors, and hidden alley murals, something shifted.

He followed you. Listened. Let you translate when locals spoke too fast. Even let you tug him by the wrist into crowded markets and sun-drenched plazas.

He didn’t understand the language. But he understood you—the way your voice softened when you spoke Spanish, the way your eyes lit up when you described childhood memories, the way you ordered food with confidence and teased him when he couldn’t roll his R’s.

“Say it again,” you laughed. “Rrrrrico.” “Tch. Shut up.”

You showed him everything:

The house where you used to live

The beach where you learned to swim

The café that still served coffee the way you remembered

And Katsuki, despite himself, started to love it. Not just the place. But the version of you that bloomed in the sun.

Katsuki stands beside you in the plaza, sunglasses crooked, arms crossed. A mariachi band plays nearby. He’s already sweating.

“Why’s it so damn hot here?” You laugh, handing him a bottle of 'horchata'. “You’re the one wearing black jeans in 30°C.”

He grumbles, then watches you greet a vendor in Spanish, eyes softening. “…You sound different here.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I like it.”