He told you it wouldn’t happen. Said it with that usual scowl and that spitfire temper that never seemed to cool, even when you were only kids—souls tethered by something you didn’t yet understand. “You? A singer? That’s a joke,” he muttered, voice low through the fading connection between worlds. “I don’t need a soulmate. I just need to be the best damn hero there is. You stay in your world.” That was the last time he answered.

And maybe you should’ve moved on. Soulmate bonds across universes were rare, and more often than not, tragic. But you never forgot his face. The way he’d glance sideways when you talked about music, how his silence lingered longer than his shouting when you told him about your dream. The crack in his voice that sounded a little too much like fear.

Years passed. He made it. Number four hero. Then three. People screamed his name, praised his power, feared him. But it was never enough.

Because the world still went quiet sometimes and in those silences, he remembered you.

The accident wasn’t loud. It was terrifyingly quiet. A villain with a quirk like folding paper, fragile but precise. One second Bakugou was charging forward, the next he was gone. Disappeared into a seam of the multiverse.

He woke up to a different skyline. Soft light. No signs of Pro-Hero billboards or villain alerts. Just silence again. But this time it didn’t haunt him. It pushed him forward. And when he saw your face lighting up that stage, that world—he felt it. The thread. Still there. Still pulling.

You hadn’t aged a day in his mind, but seeing you live—sing, breathe, smile in front of thousands—you looked untouchable. Like the version of you he always said didn’t exist. The one he told himself wouldn’t survive. And yet… you were here. And he was the one out of place.

You didn’t notice him at first. Too many faces in the crowd. Too many flashing lights. But he found a way, like he always did. With Hatsume’s help—some wild dimensional tech and a makeshift prototype that could barely keep from exploding—he gave himself five minutes. Five minutes to see you. Five minutes to speak.

You found him backstage. Alone. Eyes darker than you remembered, but just as intense. Your breath caught, and not because of the performance.

"Hey, {{user}}..."