Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His patrol ran late. Some idiot got stuck in a construction rig and bit the paramedic who tried to pull him free. It didn’t even register as a real emergency—just enough to drag him home after three.

The street outside was still steaming. A water main had burst two blocks down, and the gutters hissed with mist that clung low to the asphalt. Katsuki walked through it without slowing down, boots hitting wet pavement with that hard, grounded rhythm he never really shook after fieldwork.

The apartment was quiet when he walked in. Always was. No music, no TV. Just the click of the lock behind him and the faint hum of the fridge.

Katsuki kicked off his boots and dropped his keys on the counter. He didn’t bother with the light; the spill from the hallway was enough.

The place was clean. Not because he cared, but because there wasn’t much in it. A narrow futon folded against the far wall. One table. A dish rack with exactly three forks, two spoons, and one chipped mug. No couch. No décor. He had blackout curtains on the bedroom window and a dent in the drywall near the kitchen he never got around to patching.

He unzipped his jacket—just a plain black one tonight—and draped it over the back of a chair. Popped open the fridge. Protein bar. Half a bottle of water. He chewed without tasting, standing barefoot on cold tile.

His shoulders were still tight. Jaw locked. His brain didn’t know how to shut up after missions like that—ones that weren’t hard but dragged too long.

He cracked the window out of habit, then checked his phone. A few unread messages. Eijiro, probably. Mina. Maybe even something from the agency’s social thread. He didn’t open any of them.

"Tch."

He locked the screen, dropped the phone facedown on the table, then stepped outside.

The metal of the balcony railing was still warm from the day. He stood there, letting the night air pull heat from his skin.

Next door, her kitchen light was on.

Her balcony sat just a few feet away, separated by a thin partition that didn’t reach all the way to the edge. He could see the glow of her kitchen lamp through the sliding glass door—low, amber, familiar.

He didn’t know why it settled him. Didn’t spend much time thinking about it. Just knew that when that light was on, it was easier to stand still.

His brain didn’t run as loud out here. Didn’t loop back through the night’s bullshit. Didn’t gnaw at old memories. He’d stand there, and his pulse would stop hammering.

She was part of it now—folded into the quiet, into the shape the night took when everything else shut up.

Sometimes she stepped out to light something—weed, maybe. He didn’t care. The smell drifted over faint and slow. Sometimes she just stood there. Sometimes she’d stand still so long he wondered if she’d fallen asleep on her feet.

She never looked over.

He liked that. It kept the moment clean. Like he could pretend none of it ever touched daylight.

Tonight, she poured something into a mug. Held it. Stayed like that for a long time.

The lamp went dark. He let out a slow breath and stayed a little longer, arms resting on the railing.

Then he went back inside.

He didn’t think about her after that. Just felt a little less wired.

He went to bed not long after.

Slept better than usual.

~

The shift was supposed to end at two. Night rotation always dragged longer than it should, and tonight was no exception. Katsuki hadn’t even taken his boots off yet.

The hallway outside the locker room was quiet. Dim, just exit signs and the soft hum of wall-mounted screens rotating through news feeds, traffic maps, and agency alerts.

Katsuki stopped in front of the screen, jaw already set.

Hero Rankings – Updated Weekly

#1: DEKU
#2: LEMILLION
#3: EQUINOX
#4: DYNAMIGHT

His name was still there. Fourth. Same goddamn font. Same insult.

Lemillion had charm.

Fuckin IcyHot had pedigree.

Deku had fucking everything.

Katsuki had no excuse.

He clenched his jaw until it clicked. The heat started in his chest, slow and bitter.
He forced himself to look away.

The locker room always sounded like too many people talking at once. Metal doors slamming, showers running, boots scuffing tile. Katsuki kept his head down and toweled off one side of his hair, slow and mechanical.

Eijiro was mid-story about some girl from a dating app who’d shown up to dinner with two friends and a snake. Mina shrieked. Denki wanted to know what kind of snake. Hanta asked if it had a name.

Katsuki didn’t care. He barely listened.

Until Mina piped up again. “That’s your third app date this month, huh?”

“Fourth,” Denki cut in, grinning. “He’s on a streak.”

“Shut up,” Eijiro groaned. “I’m just—trying stuff, you know?”

“Trying stuff,” Mina repeated, mock serious. “Is that what we’re calling thirst now?”

They all laughed.

Katsuki rolled his eyes, but something in his chest tightened. Not anger. Something quieter.

“You ever gonna try stuff, Bakugo?” Denki asked. “Or are you still married to the grind?”

Katsuki didn’t look up. “Don’t need to try anything,” he muttered. “I’ve got my shit figured out.”

Eijiro smiled at him. “Yeah, you do. You’ve got a one-track mind and a ten-year dry spell.”

Katsuki’s head snapped up.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped, eyes narrowing. “You think just ‘cause you swipe right a few times you’ve got life figured out?”

Denki laughed nervously. “Damn, okay.”

“You’ve never gone out with anyone,” Eijiro said, still warm, still easy. “You don’t even look at people.”

Katsuki snorted. “Yeah, and I still sleep better than most of you.”

Mina cut in quick, teasing, “Alright, alright, Saint Bakugo ascends above our horny mortal needs.”

He didn’t answer. Just went back to lacing his boots.

Mina added, lighter, “Seriously, though. What are you gonna do, just retire into a concrete box and die alone?”

“You offering?” Katsuki said flatly.

Mina grinned. “Sure. I’ll bring the snake.”

The others cracked up. The moment passed.

Katsuki didn’t laugh. Didn’t need to.

He just thought, for a second, about the way her light flicked on. And how it made the noise in his head go quiet.

He didn’t date. Never saw the point. Too many variables. Too much noise.

Time spent with someone else was time he wasn’t improving — not getting faster, sharper, stronger.

He was ranked fourth in the country. Higher than most. Nowhere near enough.

He kept his life narrow on purpose. No ties. No softness. Nothing anyone could use to throw him off balance.

That’s what he told himself, anyway.

~

Katsuki hit the pavement just past eight. Patrol rotations in this district ran until two, but the first two hours were always the worst—heavy foot traffic, tourists clustering outside food stalls, and just enough late commuters to snarl intersections.

He hated this part. Hated the slow shuffle of posing for fans, the way phones came out the second they spotted him. The ones who asked for photos were the easy ones—annoying, but direct. It was the ones who followed him for blocks trying to catch him mid-smirk that made his skin crawl.

He didn’t smirk. Not for them. Not for anyone.

“Dynamight!” someone shouted from across the crosswalk. “Blow something up!”

He didn’t stop. Just tightened his jaw and kept walking.

A few paces behind, Eijiro called back with a laugh. “He’s on duty, guys. Save the fireworks for later.”

The crowd loved Eijiro. Always had. Open face, big energy, arms open like he had time for the whole damn world.

Katsuki walked two steps ahead, ignoring the glances, the whispers, the phones.

He didn’t do polite. Didn’t do fake smiles or small talk. If that made him rude, fine. He was here to work — not perform.

When someone asked how it felt being ranked fourth, he grunted. When someone else asked if he’d ever go on that reality dating show, he pretended not to hear.

Eijiro fielded the bullshit for both of them. Called it “PR damage control.” Katsuki called it not worth the breath.

They moved past the last food truck and crossed into quieter territory. Residential blocks, alleys, a train station in the distance.

Katsuki finally exhaled. This part of the city didn’t want anything from him.

He liked the night patrols. Fewer people, clearer air. You could hear your own damn footsteps out here.

They split at the overpass. Eijiro went east. Katsuki took the long route west, through the older construction zones.

By then, his pulse was steady. Focus sharpened. All that fake shit peeled off like a second skin.

It was easier to be a hero when no one was watching.

~

The call came in just before midnight.

Katsuki was cutting through the construction zone when his earpiece flared to life—Dispatch’s voice sharp with urgency.

“Code 07C, active barricade—Musutafu Children’s, emergency wing. Suspect attempted theft from secured med storage. Armed. Six civilian hostages, status unclear. First responders on-site.”

He was already moving.

That hospital wasn’t small. Full pediatric wing, multiple floors, trauma center attached. The kind of place that didn’t shut down, even overnight. If someone was desperate enough to try robbing the med stores there, they weren’t thinking clearly. Or they were high already.

Rookies were crowding the south lot when he arrived. Too many flashing lights. Voices too loud for midnight. One pro—Tsukushi, maybe?—was trying to organize a breach protocol with a shaky comm tablet.

Katsuki walked straight through.

“Hold perimeter,” he barked, before anyone could speak. “You—eyes on the stairwell. You—keep civvies off the sidewalk. If they’re not inside already, they’re not priority.”

The rookie with the tablet stepped forward. “Dynamight, orders were to wait for—”

“You wanna babysit protocol, do it from behind a barricade,” he snapped. “I’ll clear it myself.”

Inside, the lights were dimmed for night shift, but the ER still buzzed—monitors, hallway carts, faint crying behind triage curtains. Katsuki moved fast. Down past exam bays, into the pediatric intake corridor.

The guy wedged between a crash cart and two gurneys looked exactly like Dispatch described—twitchy, underfed, holding a low-end energy blaster with both hands like it might break. Civilians huddled behind overturned chairs, pale and wide-eyed.

Katsuki didn’t wait.

One concussive blast to the wall. One rush forward.

The man hit the floor with a grunt, weapon skidding away. Katsuki stepped over him and wrenched one arm behind his back, securing him to the gurney frame with a strip of binding tape.

“Suspect down,” he said into his comm, voice clipped. “Area secure. Civilian injuries unknown.”

He turned to scan the rest of the corridor. Nurses were already emerging from a side door. One gave a nervous nod. Katsuki holstered his gauntlet trigger and took one step toward the main ER—

—and was hit from the side.

The second guy came out of nowhere. Not on Dispatch’s report. No warning. Just a blur of motion and the sharp crack of contact—elbow to ribs, then a quirk flare Katsuki didn’t have time to read.

He reacted on instinct.

The blast wasn’t clean. Too much force, too close. It threw the second man into a supply station and knocked over a standing vitals unit. One of the oxygen tanks tumbled with a shriek of metal.

The lights flickered. A nearby IV pole slammed into the wall and stuck.

Katsuki’s boots slid on the tile. His palms still sparked. His pulse was hammering now, sharp in his ears.

He looked down at the guy—crumpled, wheezing, bleeding from one ear—and took a breath that barely reached his lungs.

He’d almost held back. Almost paid for it.

“Second hostile—wasn’t listed,” he snapped into the comm. “Control your goddamn reports.”

“Copy that,” Dispatch replied, shaky. “Support inbound.”

He didn’t wait. Someone was yelling now—an older nurse, maybe. Another was pulling a wheeled privacy screen upright with trembling hands.

One of the nurses looked up from where she was crouched by a wheeled cart, eyes wide.
“That tank—Jesus.”

“You good?” he barked.

She nodded automatically.

He didn’t wait for thanks.

He stepped over the mess, out the side exit, and into the alley behind the loading dock.

Should’ve clocked him sooner. Should’ve known there was backup. Sloppy.

~

Katsuki shut the door with a heavy click, dropped his keys on the counter, and shrugged off his jacket in one motion. The lining was stiff with dust. His shirt clung damp under the arms. His left wrist ached from where the second guy caught him.

He didn’t bother with lights. Didn’t need them.

He changed into the first clean pair of sweats he could find. Drank half a bottle of water standing over the sink. Cracked the window to let out the heat.

Then checked the balcony.

Dark.

Her kitchen light was off.

He let out a breath through his nose. Tch.

He hadn't realized he was listening for her until the silence hit. She should’ve been back by now. Usually was. He glanced at the microwave clock: 4:07.

The damn paperwork had dragged too long. Damage report. Hospital liaison. Internal review questions about “escalation protocol.” All bullshit. All of it made him miss that window— her window—by maybe ten minutes.

Now it was just him, alone in the quiet, pissed about things he couldn’t punch.

Until he heard the rattle.

Keys. Right outside his door.

Another rattle. More insistent. The scrape of metal missing the lock, again and again.

Then a muttered curse: “Why the fuck—”

He frowned and stepped to the door just as it jostled under pressure. One beat later, a kick . Not polite. Frustrated.

He threw the door open with his palm crackling.

“You picked the wrong fucking apartment, asshole—”

The words died in his throat.

“…Shit,” he muttered, stepping back like the air had shifted.

There she was.

Bag slipping off her shoulder. Scrubs wrinkled. Hair flattened on one side like she'd leaned against a wall too long. Her hand was still out, keys dangling.

They both froze.

Her eyes flicked from his bare chest to the doorframe, then down to the numbers.

“Oh my god,” she said flatly. “I don’t live here.”

Katsuki just stared.

She winced. “I was trying to get into my apartment. Which is—next one over. Obviously.”

Silence.

Then she added, deadpan, “It’s been a night. Some idiot blew up the ER.”

His mouth twitched. Not a smile. But something.

“Sounds like a real asshole,” he said.

“Yeah,” she muttered, brushing past. “Hope he broke his goddamn hand.”

He watched her shuffle to her own door, finally jabbing the right key into the lock. She didn’t look back.

Her kitchen light blinked on.

Katsuki let the door swing slowly shut.

He rubbed a hand down his face.

Fucking perfect. Of course it was her.

He didn’t go to bed right away.

Still, he slept better than he had any right to.

Chapter Text

Yaname woke slowly, awareness coming in soft increments. First was the cat pawing gently at her cheek—predictable as the sunrise and twice as demanding. She cracked one eye open. Green eyes blinked back, patient yet persistent.

"Alright," she murmured, voice still rough with sleep. "I'm up."

She pushed upright, hair tangled, shoulders stiff from the awkward sprawl she'd fallen into after her disastrous attempt to unlock the wrong door last night. She rubbed her face, then glanced at the digital clock she hated—glowing numbers and an obnoxious beep she'd learned to tolerate. 1:14 PM.

She padded barefoot to the kitchen, the cat twining around her ankles in practiced rhythm. Yaname's apartment was small but cozy—filled with books stacked neatly on every available surface, potted plants drooping gently from mismatched shelves, and the distinct absence of screens. No television, no tablet, not even a laptop. Just a phone she rarely checked and a landline for emergencies.

Coffee steeped slowly in a battered French press she'd used for years. While it brewed, she fed the cat, the familiar clink of dry food hitting ceramic grounding her.

She rummaged through the fridge and pulled out the last of the rice, half a boiled egg, and two protein bars. Not exactly a feast, but enough to hold her over for a few hours. Her stomach was already gnawing at her ribs.

Her quirk burned through calories like a furnace. Touch-based healing was efficient, but it fed off her stamina, and she worked long shifts. She had decent endurance—built over years of practice and stubborn repetition—but if she didn't stay ahead of the hunger, it leveled her. She'd collapsed once, years back, after healing a burn victim without eating all day. Learned fast. Since then, she ate constantly. Strategically. Whatever was fast and dense and wouldn't spoil in a work locker. She wasn't a great cook, but she got by.

Settling into the worn armchair by the window, she curled her legs beneath her, coffee warming her palms. The view wasn’t much—just rooftops, laundry lines, and the soft sprawl of midday traffic—but it gave her something to rest her eyes on. Something still.

She picked up the paperback she'd abandoned halfway through a chapter yesterday, dog-eared and well-loved. Letting herself sink into the narrative, she felt her breath slow. The cat leapt onto the armrest, purring against her elbow. She reached out without looking, fingers stroking its back in slow, absent-minded passes.

She didn't have many friends—by choice, she'd insist. Just a few coworkers she sometimes grabbed drinks with after especially brutal shifts. It wasn’t intimacy. Wasn’t closeness. Just venting, like steam off a pressure valve. Keeping people at arm’s length wasn’t loneliness; it was practicality. Protection from collateral damage.

She didn’t need to be at work until seven. Plenty of time still to rest and recharge. In a few hours, she’d head back to the pediatric ward—smiling for patients, calming panicked parents, easing the pain of small injuries and big fears. It was draining work, and she loved it deeply.

Her coffee was half gone by the time her thoughts started to drift. Last night flickered up without warning—the clatter of keys, the wrong door, and then him, standing there, shirtless and sparking with frustration. She’d been too out of it to register much. But now, in the quiet glow of daylight, the image held. Lean muscle. Piercing eyes. And something she hadn’t noticed before: a kind of restraint curled under all that fury, like he was holding more than just his temper.

She knew he watched her, sometimes. Casual glances from his balcony, pauses that lingered just a little too long. It seemed harmless enough. She watched him too—well, listened, more often than not. He was loud, like he didn’t realize it. Cabinets, doors, phone calls, movies—everything in his apartment came with impact. She figured he might be hard of hearing.

It was almost like having a roommate, she’d thought once. One she’d never actually met. One she didn’t know the name of.

But last night, when she finally got a proper look, something shifted. She hadn't meant to think about it again, but here it was anyway.

But that body in the doorway, shirtless and sparking, had locked in her head. The line of his arms, flexed with one hand braced against the frame. The low growl of his voice. The weight of him—like heat off asphalt, slow and residual and impossible to ignore.

And now she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

It would be rude not to offer an apology, she thought. She had tried to break into his apartment, after all. Sort of. Maybe she’d pick him up a treat on her way home. Something simple. Neutral. Not an invitation—just... acknowledgment.

As if on cue, the cabinet door next door slammed. Then the unmistakable clang of a pot landing hard on a stove.

She smiled to herself, sipped her coffee.

~

The fifth floor smelled like lemon cleaner and plastic tubing. Yaname hated that it had a smell at all—meant too many kids stayed long enough to imprint their presence into the walls. Long-term wing. Chronic illness, repeat surgeries, recoveries measured in months. The kind of hallway where you learned favorite colors and food allergies and which cartoons made which kid forget the pain for a while.

She clocked in with a quiet nod to the front desk and scanned the shift roster. Two new admits, one transfer from ICU, and a note she didn’t like: VIP visit – Hero escort required.

She rolled her eyes and made her way toward the prep room.

Mira was already there, sorting linens with earbuds in. She pulled one out when Yaname walked in. “Okay, but why do you look cute today?”

Yaname smirked, tugging gently at one of her space buns. “It’s fifth floor day. Gotta bring the big smile and the kid-approved hair game.”

“Mission accomplished,” Mira said. “But now you have to explain the massive grin? Everybody’s been dragging ass around here since Dynamight blew up the ER.”

Yaname laughed softly. “I nearly broke into someone’s apartment last night.”

Mira blinked. “What?”

“Tried the wrong door. My neighbor answered. Shirtless. Loud. Rude.”

Mira grinned. “Hot?”

Yaname hesitated. “Unfortunately.”

“God, I hate you.”

Yaname shrugged. “I was too tired to die of embarrassment at the time. It’s catching up to me now.”

Mira handed her a chart. “Well, congrats on your awakening. And heads up—number one’s coming today.”

Yaname squinted. “Number one what?”

Mira stared at her. “Hero. Deku. ”

“Oh. Great,” Yaname muttered. “Another PR stunt.”

Mira laughed. “Try not to bite him.”

“Only if he deserves it.”

They both smiled, but Yaname’s faded as she turned back to her clipboard. Heroes visiting meant interruptions. Cameras. Smiles practiced in front of mirrors. It wasn’t about the kids. Not really. It was about headlines. Optics. Applause for doing the bare minimum.

Still, she double-checked her scrubs, smoothed a wrinkle, and prepped the charts. She didn’t like it, but she wasn’t about to let some costumed mascot trip over a ventilator tube.

When Deku arrived, he didn’t come with a swarm. Just one assistant. No flashing cameras. He greeted the front desk nurse by name.

Yaname was halfway through checking a vitals monitor when she felt someone at her shoulder.

“Hi,” he said, quiet and warm. “I think I’m supposed to follow you?”

She turned.

And blinked.

He didn’t look like a god. He looked tired. Kind. Steady. The kind of tired that came from actually doing the work.

“Sure,” she said, stepping back. “This way.”

They started down the hall, passing the usual buzz of monitors and muted cartoons leaking from patient rooms. Yaname led him into the fifth floor game room—a wide, sunlit space with colorful floor tiles, bean bags, and a wall of art projects made from construction paper and washable markers. Stuffed animals were tucked into corners, board games half-shelved, and an unfinished puzzle claimed the center table.

A few kids were already inside. Nari, with her IV stand trailing like a tired puppy, looked up first. “Is that—” she whispered, then gasped. “It is! ”

Deku smiled and crouched beside her. “Hi there. I’m Izuku.”

She grinned shyly and tugged on the edge of her hospital gown. “You look smaller than on TV.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I get that a lot.”

Another kid approached, dragging a plastic chair close and holding a crayon drawing out like a peace offering. Deku took it with both hands, gave it a reverent look, and asked if the robot in the corner was meant to be a sidekick.

They gathered slowly—curious but cautious. Yaname leaned against the wall and let the moment breathe. The energy in the room shifted, curiosity bubbling into excitement.

Then one of the boys, voice quiet but urgent, finally asked, “Can we be heroes too?”

Deku nodded, soft and sure. “Of course you can. Being a hero starts with helping people. You’re already doing that by being brave here.”

Yaname watched from the wall, arms folded loosely. The words should have felt canned. They didn’t. They hit like something practiced because it mattered.

Then the assistant stepped forward with a covered box. “This is from Deku,” she announced. “A donation for your activity room.”

Inside was a new game console—sleek, untouched, with two wireless controllers and a note from Deku himself tucked in the lid. The kids lost it.

He let them guide him to the TV corner. The assistant helped set up the console, and Deku took the first controller with a sheepish grin.

"Okay," he said, glancing at the group. "Who’s gonna smoke me in this racing game?"

Half the room erupted in volunteers. Nari climbed into a beanbag chair, controller clutched like a lifeline. Another kid elbowed in with a mischievous grin. "If you win, you gotta do five pushups."

Deku grinned. "Deal. If you win, you get my gloves."

"Wait—seriously?!"

"Well, a backup pair. Still hero-issued, though."

The race began, wild and chaotic. Kids shouted advice, jeered when Deku crashed into a pixelated wall, and cheered when one of their own took first place. Deku groaned and dropped to the floor without hesitation, knocking out five pushups to a chorus of delighted screams.

Yaname stayed near the wall, arms crossed, watching. It was a little too perfect—and yet, not forced. She wasn’t sure she liked how much that softened her.

When the game wound down, Deku wandered over.

"They’re fast," he said, glancing toward the still-buzzing kids.

"You let them win."

He shrugged. “Only a little. They earned the gloves.”

Yaname tilted her head. “You do this often?”

“Yeah. Sometimes it helps me stay grounded.”

She blinked. “Grounded? You’re Deku. ”

“Exactly.” His voice was calm. “That’s why I need it.”

Yaname found herself... surprised. Her arms eventually dropped to her sides.

She clapped twice, loud enough to cut through the buzz. “Alright, guys. That’s the last round for tonight.”

Groans echoed around the room.

“Hey, no mutiny,” she said, smiling. “Some of you still need to finish your dinner trays. Bedtime soon.”

A few protests lingered, but most of the kids began to pack up their energy, sinking back into beanbags or leaning on their IV poles with exaggerated sighs.

Deku gave them a salute. “Thanks for not completely wiping the floor with me.”

“That’s what you think, ” Nari called back, already halfway out the door with a nurse.

Yaname shook her head, still smiling. “You’re gonna have a reputation on this floor now.”

As they left the room, his assistant glanced at her. “Before we go—do you want a photo with him?”

Yaname blinked. “No, thank you.”

“Oh, it’s just for social media,” the assistant chirped. “Helps highlight the visit. Builds goodwill. It’s kind of... expected.”

Yaname hesitated. She hated that word— expected.

But Deku just offered a small shrug, eyes gentle. “We don’t have to.”

She sighed, already feeling boxed in. “Fine. One.”

The photo was taken in the hallway outside the game room. She didn’t fake a smile. He didn’t either. But something in the shot still looked warm.

She told herself it didn’t mean anything.

~

Mira was at the nurse’s station, scrolling her phone with a grin that was already too knowing.

“You’re trending,” she said without looking up.

Yaname dropped her chart on the counter. “Please tell me that’s a joke.”

“Nope. Look.” Mira turned her screen. There it was—the photo. Yaname standing beside Deku, hair slightly frizzed, expression unreadable. Deku had one glove tucked under his arm. The lighting was warm. The caption was worse: Heart of the Heroes: Deku visits Musutafu Children’s.

Yaname groaned. “I look like someone held me at syringe-point.”

Mira laughed. “You look... surprised you didn’t hate it.”

Yaname resisted the urge to swipe the phone. “It wasn’t that deep.”

“Mmhm.” Mira didn’t buy it. “So? Was he awful?”

“No,” Yaname admitted. “Not awful.”

Mira raised an eyebrow. “You thinking about switching sides?”

Yaname snorted. “I’m thinking about revising the blanket policy. Slightly.”

Mira leaned on the counter, satisfied. “That’s how it starts.”

Yaname shook her head but didn’t walk away. Instead, she leaned both elbows on the counter and sighed.

“Instead of scrolling,” she muttered, “maybe you could help me come up with an apology gift for hot neighbor guy.”

Mira perked up immediately. “Oh, we’re circling back to that, huh? What happened to neutral and forgettable?”

“I don’t know,” Yaname said. “He caught me trying to break into his apartment. It feels like I should offer something that says ‘I’m not a complete menace.’”

Mira pretended to ponder it. “Chocolate?”

“He looks like someone who'd throw that away.”

“A candle?”

“He’d set it on fire on purpose.”

Mira snapped her fingers. “A door jam.”

Yaname blinked. “What?”

“You know, so next time you try to break in, you don’t actually get the door open. Practical and hilarious.”

Yaname fought a smile. “That’s... actually kind of perfect.”

“Right? Funny, but low stakes. Flirty without effort.”

Yaname just shrugged, noncommittal, but a small smirk tugged at her mouth.

Mira gave her a look. “Uh-huh. Exactly what I’d say if I wasn’t flirting, too.”

~

After her shift, Yaname ducked into the 24-hour store on the corner. The fluorescents buzzed overhead, harsh after the soft lighting of the pediatric wing. She wandered the aisles half on autopilot until she found the hardware section. Third shelf down—door jams. Cheap, foam wedge kind. She grabbed a black one. Neutral. Not cute. Definitely not suggestive.

But then, near the seasonal endcap, she spotted a little bin of stick-on gift bows.

She hesitated. Then grabbed one in red.

If she was going to make a fool of herself, might as well commit.

~

It was almost three by the time she got home. The hallway was dark. His light was off. Good.

She crossed to her balcony, keeping the door cracked behind her. The city buzzed faint beneath the silence—sirens in the distance, a dog barking down the block. She crouched low, adjusted the bow on top, and tossed it across the narrow gap between balconies.

Then, with a flick of her wrist, she tossed the whole thing across the narrow gap between balconies. It hit his side with a soft thump, landed clean.

She grinned.

Attached to the bow was a small note, scrawled in her clean, all-caps print:

FOR NEXT TIME.

She stepped back inside and slid the door shut.

She moved through her familiar rhythm without thinking—set her bag down, peeled off her scrubs, washed the Tupperware from her shift, rinsed her water bottle twice just to be sure. The cat circled her feet, already easing into its own evening loop.

Yaname brewed tea, the good kind with dried fruit and chamomile she rationed for nights like this—too wound up to sleep. The scent filled the kitchen like an exhale.

She took the mug in both hands and stood at the window, watching nothing in particular.

Something flickered in her chest. Not comfort. Not quite. But close enough to notice.

Chapter Text

The briefing was bullshit.

Too many cops, too many low-level heroes, too many people trying to explain things he already fucking knew. Katsuki leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, chewing the inside of his cheek as the sergeant droned on about containment zones and acceptable blast radius. He didn’t need a damn slideshow to tell him how to breach a two-bedroom drug nest.

West stairwell. Three suspects. One quirk. No hostages.

Easy.

He rolled his shoulders once, popped the stiffness out of his neck. Across the room, Tempo kept glancing his way like he wanted to say something. Lockjaw—Lockstep?—was fidgeting with his damn belt clip. Amateurs.

The moment the briefing ended, Katsuki was out the door. He suited up in silence, double-checked his gauntlets, and pulled his mask into place as they rolled up on the building.

It was a squat concrete box of a place, three stories high with peeling paint and bars welded onto already rusting windows. The hallway lights inside flickered like dying bugs. Smelled like piss and mildew and cheap synthetic cleaner. Cops were already stacking up outside the fire escape, murmuring into radios. A drone buzzed overhead, heat-mapping the upper floor.

He didn’t wait for a countdown.

One kick took the stairwell door off the hinges with a metallic crunch. They moved in fast, boots muffled on the cracked tile, the only sound the low static of comms and the slow creak of settling floorboards. Katsuki took point, his gauntlet humming warm against his skin.

They hit the third floor hallway in formation—tight, controlled. No shouting. No warning.

He breached first.

The blast tore the apartment door inwards, splinters and heat shattering through the narrow entryway. A scream echoed from inside—sharp and panicked. The hallway stank of chemical cleaner and burnt sugar, artificial and wrong.

First target was waiting just inside with a pipe—swung it wild and caught nothing but air before Katsuki dropped him with a low-aimed concussive shot that took out both knees. He went down hard, screaming.

Second one tried to bolt through a side room—young, twitchy, foam crusted at the corners of his mouth. Katsuki saw the glint of something tucked into his waistband and hit him with a stun round from the hallway. The kid dropped twitching onto stained carpet.

The third...

He knew the third one was different the second the temperature changed. Static jumped across the air like a live wire.

Quirked.

The guy came lunging out of the kitchen with a glowing hand and a half-cooked sneer. Katsuki met him head-on, ducked low and angled left, letting the blast skim past his shoulder. He could smell ozone. Something hissed—maybe the stovetop igniting—then Katsuki slammed his gauntlet into the guy’s chest and let it rip.

The concussive burst knocked him clean through the drywall, half the kitchen collapsing inward in a puff of plaster and tile. The suspect didn’t get up. Plates rattled off the counter and shattered beside his head.

Breathing. Out cold.

Ten seconds, maybe less.

Katsuki stood still for a second, heart steady, smoke curling from the edge of his gauntlet. He rolled his shoulder once, slow and deliberate, working out the leftover tension like it might’ve snuck in anyway. The takedown had gone exactly the way he wanted it to—controlled, fast, surgical. Anything less would’ve chewed at him for hours. Being the best meant never slipping, not even once. Not after the hospital. Not with people watching.

Still easy.

Someone handed him a water bottle; he took one sip, spat it out, and left.

~

Hours later, he was still at it—filling out incident reports in the narrow, fluorescent-lit admin wing of the agency like a goddamn pencil-pushing intern. The whole thing had taken ten, maybe twelve seconds. The paperwork? Already on hour two.

He scrawled another line, jaw clenched. Every section had its own format. Internal review wanted timestamp breakdowns. Local PD wanted injury specs. Hero Commission wanted quirk discharge logs. It was a miracle anyone got anything done in this damn country.

Down the hall, laughter broke out.

Voices—too familiar and too loud. Hanta first. Then Mina. Denki chimed in with something that made chairs scrape and someone snort-laugh so hard it echoed off the tile.

Katsuki slammed his pen down.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped, not even looking over. “Some of us are trying to work.”

Predictably, it didn’t help.

“Oooh, he’s in a mood,” Mina sing-songed.

“He’s always in a mood,” Hanta replied.

Denki poked his head in through the doorway. “Yo, what’s taking you so long? I thought you nuked that place in, like, twenty seconds.”

“Twelve,” Katsuki muttered. “And I’ll nuke you next if you don’t back off.”

More laughter. Someone threw a balled-up napkin at his desk. He ignored it.

“Leave him alone,” Hanta said, mock-solemn. “He’s got reports to file. Lives to save. Pens to explode.”

Katsuki didn’t rise to it. Just kept writing.

“Watch Deku end up with someone normal,” Hanta was saying, half-laughing. “Like, actually normal. Civilian girlfriend arc.”

“Oh my god,” Denki groaned. “You know they’d eat that up. The media would lose their minds. 'Symbol of Peace Falls for Girl Next Door.'”

“Bet she volunteers at a cat café,” Mina chimed in. “And teaches yoga on the weekends.”

Hanta snorted. “Nah, she’s got, like, paint on her overalls and a tragic backstory. That’s his type.”

Denki started digging through his phone. “Wait, wait—You're talking about that hospital thing today, right?”

Mina perked up. “Musutafu Children’s?”

“Yeah, yeah, that one.” Denki turned the screen so Hanta could see. “Boom. Heart of the Heroes or whatever. Look at this.”

They all leaned in.

Katsuki didn’t.

He kept his eyes on the report in front of him, teeth grinding slow behind his molars.

Until Hanta let out a low whistle. “Damn. Okay, she’s kind of—”

“Let me see,” Mina said, reaching.

Katsuki looked up.

His eyes hit the screen. Deku, mid-smile, glove tucked under one arm like a prop. And next to him—

Her.

Yaname. Hair loose. Shoulders square. Not smiling. Not even looking at the camera.

Didn’t matter.

She was standing next to him.

Right next to him.

His hand stilled on the page. The pen stopped moving. The air in the room went thin.

He couldn’t hear what the others were saying anymore—something about nurses and PR stunts and how she didn’t even look impressed. He couldn’t stop staring at the space between them in the photo. At how there wasn’t one.

He felt it rise in his chest — that old, acidic thing that never really left.

Deku had everything.

First place. Their old teachers. Half the damn world.

Now this?

Now her?

Katsuki blinked. Realized his jaw was tight.

“Yo—Bakugo?” Denki called after him. “You good?”

Katsuki didn’t answer.

He shoved the door open harder than necessary and let it swing shut behind him.

The hallway was empty. Cold tile. Fluorescent lights buzzing faint overhead.

He kept walking.

Didn’t know where he was going. Didn’t matter.

Couldn’t shake the image. Deku, all golden-lit and soft-edged. And her—calm, unreadable, folded into someone else’s scene.

He cracked his knuckles, adjusted the strap of his gear bag. Reached the stairwell and took the steps down two at a time. Fast. Focused. Like it would clear his head.

Didn’t.

At the bottom landing, he stopped. Pressed a palm to the wall and breathed out slow through his nose.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” he muttered.

This wasn’t anything. Just a stupid photo. Just PR.

She was probably excited to be in a photo with a big name hero.

So what if she was in a picture with him?

So what if her expression was the same one she wore when the kitchen light was on and the street was quiet and Katsuki’s brain finally fucking shut up for five minutes?

He scrubbed a hand down his face. Set his jaw.

“Get your shit together.”

This was why he didn’t do distractions. Why he didn’t let people in. You give an inch, your brain rewires itself over nothing. Twelve seconds in a hallway and suddenly you’re spiraling over someone who barely knows your name.

He exhaled again. Straightened.

Shoulders back. Head clear.

Whatever.

He shoved the door open and stepped into the street.

The night hit him in the chest. Cold, damp air. Concrete under boots.

Back to patrol. Back to focus.

Back to being the only thing he could count on.

~

He got home a little after three.

Didn’t bother turning on the lights. The glow from the hallway was enough. Familiar.

He kicked off his boots. Dropped his keys onto the counter. Shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall over the same chair as always.

Thought about skipping the balcony.

Just once. Just tonight.

What was the point?

But his body moved anyway—automatic. Grabbed a glass from the dish rack. Filled it halfway from the tap. Drank standing up.

Then stepped out.

The door slid open on a low groan. Cool air touched his skin. Same angle of city noise. Same faint orange spill from the streetlamps.

But something was sitting on the concrete near the railing.

Small. Squat. Black wedge of foam.

With a fucking gift bow on top.

He stared at it.

Then let out a breath, sharp and short.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he muttered.

The bow was red. Like a joke. Like something you stuck on a box of discount cookies or taped to your friend’s forehead when they passed out drunk. Not serious. Not intimate. Just ridiculous.

Which somehow made it worse.

He crouched, picked the thing up with two fingers. It didn’t weigh anything. But it felt... pointed.

The note was taped crooked. All-caps. FOR NEXT TIME.

His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not quite.

“Tch.”

He turned it over in his hand, thumb dragging across the soft foam edge.

Then, instead of tossing it, he stepped back inside.

Set the glass down. Turned on the sink, rinsed his hands. Dried them automatically.

The wedge sat on the counter now. Bow still intact. He didn’t throw it away.

Didn’t want to.

He reached for the note instead. Peeled it off slow. Folded it once, then again. Slipped it into the drawer where he kept spare batteries, old keys, and a few paperclips for no reason at all.

Still standing there, he glanced toward the balcony again.

Toward the faint glow behind her curtains. Her kitchen light was on.

He looked for a long moment.

Chapter Text

The light came in soft through the blinds. Late morning, almost noon. Katsuki stirred beneath the rumpled blanket, eyes squinting at the slice of sun angled across the floor. He didn’t usually sleep this late. Didn't like the way it made him feel off-cycle, like his body hadn’t caught up to the rhythm of the night shift yet.

But the apartment was still. No alerts. No calls. Just the faint groan of pipes and the drone of the fridge.

He lay there a minute longer, eyes tracing the texture of the ceiling, memory slow to catch up.

Then it hit. The wedge of foam. The fucking bow.

He exhaled through his nose and sat up, scrubbing a hand over his face. The note was still in the drawer, folded twice. Tucked between junk. But his mind had returned to it before his body even moved.

She was fucking with him. Had to be. No one left shit like that without a little smirk behind it. But it didn’t feel mocking. Just... light. Casual. Like she wasn’t afraid to poke at him a little.

And she knew he watched. She'd have to. The foam wedge didn’t just land perfectly—it landed exactly where he always stood. She must’ve seen him out there before. Heard him, maybe, through the wall or the railing or the low scrape of his balcony door. It meant she’d noticed. That when he thought her quiet was his, she had been there too, letting him think it. Letting him have it, until now.

The note, the bow—it wasn’t random. She wasn’t guessing. She was showing her hand.

He dragged himself to the shower, water cranked hot enough to sting. Let it pound down his back until his thoughts boiled quiet. Then stood there longer anyway.

He thought about writing back.

Not a note. Nothing cutesy. Just something to say he saw it. That he wasn’t ignoring it. That he wasn’t ignoring her.

But his fingers itched with restraint.

He didn’t do back-and-forth. Didn’t play games. Curiosity was a liability. He had goals. He had a plan. And none of it involved flirting across balconies like a fuckin’ teenager.

Still.

He dried off, pulled on a fitted black compression shirt that hugged the cut of his shoulders and clung to the lines of his chest. Loose athletic shorts sat low on his hips, drawstring tied with practiced efficiency. He packed his bag with tape, gloves, a spare towel, and protein mix. Nothing extra. Just the essentials. Then he was out the door.

~

The agency gym was quiet in the early afternoon. No one there but a sidekick on the treadmill and a junior analyst stretching half-heartedly near the lockers. Katsuki ignored both.

He dropped his bag on the bench and set his playlist to something brutal. No lyrics. Just percussion and bass and the kind of distorted synth that made your bones hum.

Then he started moving.

Warm-up set. Pull-ups, slow and controlled. The rhythm of it soothed the part of him that still buzzed from memory. Then weights. Chest, shoulders, core. Sweat came fast, coating his back, dripping down the curve of his spine to soak the hem of his shirt.

His body was a machine, forged by hours no one saw. Each movement clean, honed. Muscle along his arms flexed under taut skin, veins rising with effort. His traps pulled high with every deadlift, corded and precise. His abs clenched with every exhale. Sweat made the lines of him sharper.

But it didn’t burn the thoughts out.

She kept sneaking in. In the pause between sets. In the shake of his grip before the next lift. In the silence that rushed in the second the music cut.

He caught himself staring at the wall during a rest, heartbeat high. Thought, What if I just crossed over? Just one short leap. Slide her balcony door open and find her inside.

The image came fast.

Her back to him. Light spilling through the kitchen. Hands braced on the counter. The hem of her shirt rucked up. No time for clothes, not in this version. Just the heat of his chest at her back, her breath hitched, legs braced wide as he bent her forward.

He'd grip her hips. Drag his cock along the seam of her. Not teasing. Not slow. Just enough pressure to make her gasp. Just enough heat to make her reach back for more.

He’d slide in all at once.

Then he snapped back to reality.

Fuck.

His grip tightened on the bar.

What the fuck are you thinking? You don’t even know her name. You’ve never even said hi. She left a goddamn foam wedge and your brain is acting like she bent over and begged.

His phone buzzed.

Eijiro: [6:24PM] Drinks tonight. You in?

Katsuki grabbed the towel, wiped the sweat from his face like it could scrub the heat out of him.

Eijiro: [6:25PM] Don’t make me come drag your antisocial ass out.

Eijiro: [6:25PM] Hanta says he’ll arm wrestle you for the last round again. He wants revenge.

Katsuki snorted.

His thumb hovered. He almost closed the app. Almost hit ignore.

But something in him relented. Needed to be around noise. Something else. Anything else.

Katsuki: [6:26PM] Fine. One hour.

Eijiro: [6:27PM] Legendary.

Katsuki shut the locker and didn’t look in the mirror on the way out.

He was already thinking about what kind of beer she might drink.

~

The bar was low-lit and loud, half-cracked booths full of regulars and the sticky clink of half-priced pints. Katsuki took his usual seat near the back, not quite in the shadows, not quite in reach. He nursed a whiskey instead of beer.

Mina slid in beside him, eyes already scouting. "Tall brunette at the end of the bar," she said under her breath. "Tits like a fucking weapon."

Hanta leaned across Eijiro, peering around Mina's shoulder. "Please tell me she has a friend."

"She does. Red hair. Less tits, more tattoos. Might be your speed."

"Bless you," he muttered, finishing half his drink in one go.

Mina stood up, smoothed her skirt, and rolled her shoulders. "Watch and learn, boys."

Katsuki didn’t look, but he clocked the movement—how she moved with confidence, direct and unbothered, already halfway to the brunette before they finished their next sentence. Hanta let out a low whistle as they watched her ease in beside the woman like she belonged there.

"She’s gonna pull that number in five minutes or less," Hanta said.

"Two," Eijiro countered. "Mina's a closer."

They laughed, but Katsuki didn’t join in. His eyes stayed on the bar, not the women. Still, he watched out of the corner of his eye as Mina tipped her head and earned a laugh in under thirty seconds.

Of course she did.

Eijiro smirked but didn’t move. His attention drifted back to Katsuki. "You hear about that bust in Shinjuku?"

Katsuki nodded once. "Three guys running quirk boosters out of a daycare basement. Fuckers had a whole tunnel system."

Eijiro grimaced. "Commission's already spinning it. Press briefings lined up for tomorrow. Deku’s already on the docket to speak. Of course."

"Of course they are," Katsuki muttered. "Never waste a crime scene when you can wring PR from it. They send Deku in smiling and suddenly it’s a fucking redemption arc for the whole block."

Mina reappeared with two drinks and a third on standby. "Speaking of PR—when are you gonna stop being allergic to cameras, Bakugo? You’re the only hero ranked top five who still looks like he wants to punch every reporter."

"'Cause I do," he said flatly.

Eijiro grinned. "You could smile once. Wouldn’t kill you. Might kill the internet, though."

"Don’t need PR," Katsuki muttered. "I’ve got numbers. Deku’s got the face. That’s the trade-off, right? He gets to look soft while I do the real work."

"Sure," Mina said, taking a sip. "Numbers. Not exactly the stuff posters are made of."

Before anyone could respond, two women sidled up to the booth—early twenties, agency pins on their lanyards, still in work clothes that tried too hard to look casual. One of them locked eyes on Eijiro like she'd already rehearsed it.

"You're Red Riot, right?" she asked, voice lilting with practiced awe.

Eijiro smiled sheepishly. "Guilty."

"We saw you rescue that guy last week—the car thing. You were amazing."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Wasn’t that big a deal."

"It was to the family," her friend chimed in. "You even gave that little speech—‘Nobody gets left behind’ or something like that?"

Mina grinned behind her glass. "God, he’s got tagline fans now."

Katsuki didn’t look up.

"It’s ‘cause he talks like a fuckin’ comic book," he muttered.

Eijiro took it in stride, flashing an embarrassed smile. "You two wanna grab a drink?"

The girls giggled, nodded, and lingered just long enough for the invitation to settle. Eijiro glanced back at the table, shrugged like he couldn’t help it, and slid out of the booth to follow them.

Katsuki watched the rim of his glass. Didn’t track their retreat.

He stood not long after. Didn’t wait for another round. Just nodded once and left.

Didn’t need to see the rest. The shape of it was familiar.

He thought of her kitchen light. Of how it flickered through the curtain when she moved past, unaware or pretending to be. Of the stillness he felt in that moment—uncomplicated, quiet.

Fuck PR.

He didn’t need to charm anyone. Didn’t need the spotlight or the headlines.

But something about her stuck with him anyway.

Maybe...curiosity. And maybe the pull of something that didn’t feel like performance.

~

He walked home past midnight, just a little unsteady. A little buzzed. Not drunk. Just looser than usual. The kind of loose that made the street lamps blur a little around the edges. Streets still warm from the day, air thick with engine heat and neon. His shoulders were loose, but his thoughts weren’t. They kept circling the same orbit. That quiet balcony. That bow.

The apartment light next door was off when he got back. No silhouette. No glow behind the curtains. Still, some part of him had hoped. Still, he crossed to the kitchen, yanked a pen from the drawer, and grabbed the corner of an old receipt.

He stared at it a long moment. Thought, If she laughs at this, I’m done. It wasn’t a joke to him, even if it looked like one.

Then wrote, all caps, no flourish:

YOU TRYING TO GET MY ATTENTION OR JUST AFTER A SELFIE?

He folded the scrap slow, crisp edges, tight triangles—like he used to in middle school when teachers weren’t looking. A perfect paper football. He hadn’t made one since then. Felt stupid. Did it anyway. Because if he didn’t do something, he’d keep thinking about her like this.

Then he stepped onto the balcony.

The gap between them wasn’t wide. He lined it up, flicked with practiced precision.

It hit the far railing and bounced once. Landed right near her door.

He didn’t wait for a light. Didn’t wait for anything.

Just stood there a minute, letting the air settle.

Then turned back inside.

Chapter Text

The apartment was dark when she stepped in, just past three. The door clicked shut behind her with a practiced nudge of her heel, and the cat immediately began winding between her ankles, complaining in long, theatrical yowls.

"I know," she muttered, toeing off her shoes. "The world is ending."

She dropped her bag in its usual place by the kitchen counter, ignored the flickering message light on the landline, and moved straight for the balcony door.

The cat yowled louder.

"Give me thirty seconds."

She unlocked the latch and slid the door open. Cool air slipped in around her bare ankles. Her eyes adjusted quickly. Near the railing, a small, sharply folded triangle of paper waited by the door.

Her cat pawed at the glass behind her.

Yaname crouched, grabbed the note, and unfolded it.

YOU TRYING TO GET MY ATTENTION OR JUST AFTER A SELFIE?

She stared at it. Blinked. Read it again.

Then she exhaled, a soft scoff through her nose.

"Someone thinks highly of themselves," she muttered, rolling her eyes.

The cat let out another yowl.

She stepped back inside, refolded the note with absent precision, and slipped it into the narrow drawer by the sink—next to the spare batteries, the bag clips, the glue stick with no cap.

She finally bent to scoop kibble into the dish. The cat purred, betrayal forgotten.

She moved through the rest of her wind-down—tea water set to boil, scrub top tugged off and tossed into the laundry bin—but her mind kept drifting back to the handwriting.

Crisp lines. No name. Just ego. And maybe a little nerve.

She didn’t write back right away.

Instead, she lingered on the balcony later than usual, mug in hand, watching the empty space between their railings.

She’d almost left it at that. But something about the note wouldn’t let go. It followed her through brushing her teeth, through tidying the counter, through the quiet clink of spoon against ceramic.

Before bed, she crouched again and rummaged in the drawer until her fingers brushed something soft. Pink construction paper—leftover from that Valentine’s project Mira roped her into. She tore off a neat square, sat down at the counter, and wrote in clean, even print, biting her lip once when the phrasing made her feel a little too pleased with herself:

Looks like I’ve already got your attention, and I'm not into photography.

How about we start with a name?

Mine’s Yaname.

She folded the paper up tight.

Then she stepped onto the balcony and, with a quick, practiced flick, sent it gliding across the gap.

It landed right where it needed to.

She slid the door shut behind her and turned off the light.

The quiet felt different now. Her cheeks were warm. Her fingers still tingled faintly from the fold.

It was ridiculous, really—how giddy it made her. Like she'd slipped a note into someone's locker and dared them to find it. Like she was fifteen again, back before everything got heavy.

She brushed her teeth slowly, her thoughts still circling the note. Her hand traced idle circles against her thigh as she leaned against the sink. Her reflection caught a smirk she didn’t bother hiding.

In bed, the sheets were cool. Her skin buzzed where the night air had touched it. She tucked her legs up tight beneath the blanket and let herself smile into the dark.

She hadn’t felt like this in years.

And she didn’t want it to stop.

~

The sun was already sharp when she made it to the rooftop garden late the next morning.

Yaname held a bottle of vinegar spray in one hand and a half-eaten protein bar in the other. Her mouth was still full when she squatted near the tomato vines and gave a low whistle at how full they were.

"Good thing I’ve got a green thumb,” she muttered, spritzing the leaves with practiced rhythm. A few small bugs scurried back under the stems. “Shame I can’t cook for shit.” She took another bite of protein bar and kept moving down the row.

The vinegar stung the air. Her stomach growled, already eyeing the rest of her morning rations. She took another bite and chewed as she moved to pluck the ripest tomatoes—three red and one still streaked with yellow. They went into the basket clipped to her belt loop.

Yaname had never been a good cook. She didn’t pretend otherwise. But she knew how to stay ahead of her quirk’s demands. Eat early. Eat constantly. Dense, quick fuel. That was the rule.

The garden was quiet except for the flutter of laundry two buildings over and the distant clatter of a train. A few rows down, a mother and her kid—maybe four or five—were sitting cross-legged near the squash, enjoying the breeze. The child clutched a mismatched cup of something frozen. The mother smiled, tired but present.

Yaname’s chest twinged.

Not envy, not exactly. But something close. Something old. She turned back to the basil, brushing her fingers gently over the stems to check for aphids. Her throat tightened anyway.

The sound of a whimper pulled her out of it.

The child had stumbled sideways. Their hand clutched tight around one finger, blood already welling at the tip.

"Ow!"

The mother reached too slow—startled, not panicked—but Yaname was closer.

She crouched, already reaching. “May I?”

The kid nodded through the tears. Yaname took the small hand in hers.

The touch was gentle, practiced. Her fingers closed over the wound.

One breath.

The pain flared in her fingertip—not hers, but mirrored. A full wave of it, sharp and real, like her own skin had been split. She held it, bore it, let it dig in. Her quirk didn’t just fix things—it translated them, made her body feel what it meant to heal. Part of her early training had been pain tolerance drills, over and over, until her body stopped flinching. She felt every second of the injury, and held steady. This minor cut was nothing.

A faint pulse of warmth moved from her palm into the skin.

The bleeding stopped. The skin knit back together. No scar, no sting.

And the pain—gone, the instant she let go.

The kid blinked. “...It’s gone.”

Yaname nodded. “Fast hands.”

The mother stared. Then smiled, hesitant but grateful. “Thank you. That was—thank you.”

Yaname just shrugged. “Just a scratch.”

They headed for the stairs a minute later, the child babbling about magic fingers. The mother looked back once, then kept going.

Yaname sat back on her heels and popped another piece of protein bar in her mouth.

Her pulse was fine. But she felt it—the drain. Healing didn’t cost the wounded anything. But her own reserves? Always took the hit.

She grabbed one of the tomatoes she’d picked and took a bite straight off the vine. It wasn’t sweet. She didn’t care.

The juice dripped down her thumb as she chewed, sharp and metallic. She wiped it on the side of her shirt and leaned back on her heels, letting her eyes drift up to the skyline.

She wondered if he’d found the note yet. If he’d read it. If he’d laughed, or scoffed, or rolled those sharp eyes and tucked it away somewhere stupid.

The thought made her smile. Not a big one—just the curl of something smug at the edge of her mouth.

Whatever it was between them, it was close. But it wouldn’t officially start—not really—until he introduced himself.

Before heading back down, she made a mental note to stop by that pastry place near the crosswalk. Something flaky. With butter.

Tonight would be long.

~

She got home at her usual time—just after three. The hallway was quiet. The buzz of city noise below barely reached this high up. Her shoulders ached, her calves ached, and her feet were already halfway out of her shoes by the time she reached the door.

The cat met her at the threshold, full of righteous fury and complaint.

"I know," she said, kicking off the second shoe with a grunt. "Crimes against catkind. You'll survive."

She flicked on the kitchen light and dropped her bag with a thud, eyes already drifting toward the balcony.

She fed the cat first—she wasn’t a monster—but barely waited for the purr to start before unlatching the sliding glass door.

Cool air slipped over her skin as she stepped outside. Her breath caught.

Something was waiting by the railing.

Another note. Different paper. Folded tight. No bow this time.

She crouched, pulse quickening.

She opened it.

It wasn’t long.

Name’s Katsuki.

I’m off tomorrow night. Balcony at 9. If you're still interested.

Her lips parted, slow. Then curled.

She read it again.

And again.

The cat meowed behind her, insistent.

But Yaname just leaned against the railing, note in hand, and let herself grin into the night.

She didn’t know what she was hoping for.
But Mira owed her a shift—and she was calling in her debt.
She’d be on the balcony tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Katsuki wakes up slow, the sting of cheap whiskey still on his tongue. His mouth is dry. Eyes gritty. The ceiling doesn’t stop spinning right away.

For a minute, he lays there, half-blanketed in city heat and sweat, and tries to remember what the hell he said.

Then it clicks.

The note. Folded tight. Flicked clean across the balcony.

YOU TRYING TO GET MY ATTENTION OR JUST AFTER A SELFIE?

Tch.

He groans, scrubs a hand down his face, and mutters, "Fucking idiot."

It was meant to be a joke. Sort of. Something sharp-edged, deflective. Safer to assume she was just another groupie than letting himself think otherwise—than admitting she got under his skin.

Most people don’t make it past that kind of line. They flinch. Apologize. Disappear.

Maybe that’s what he wanted. Maybe not.

He doesn’t check. Doesn’t step outside. Doesn’t so much as glance toward the railing.

Instead, he heads for the kitchen.

Pulls out eggs. The good kind—bright yolks, thick shells. A tub of leftover rice. Onion, garlic, gochugaru, sesame oil. He works with practiced efficiency, hands moving without thought. Knife slices through the onion in clean, even rhythm. Pan already heating.

He cracks the eggs one-handed, drops them into the bowl with a dash of soy and a flick of his wrist. Whisks fast. Controlled.

The oil hits the pan. Then the onions. Garlic next. The smell rises sharp and immediate, biting through the fog in his head.

He adds the rice last, scooping and folding it into the heat, then pours the egg over top. Not scrambled. Not folded. Letting it catch along the edges and crisp in places, the way he likes it—flavor built into every layer.

He finishes with a ribbon of hot sauce and a sprinkle of sesame.

Plates it neatly.

He’s just sitting down to eat when the corner of something pink catches his eye.

Not big. Just a slip of color near the sliding door.

His jaw tics. He doesn’t move right away. Then he sets his chopsticks down with more force than necessary and crosses the room.

There it is—folded construction paper. Clean, even creases.

He picks it up. Brings it back to the table. Unfolds it with one hand, the other already curling into a fist against the tabletop.

Looks like I’ve already got your attention, and I'm not into photography.

How about we start with a name?

Mine’s Yaname.

He snorts. "Is she fucking for real?"

He scans the note again, like something else might show up if he looks hard enough. "What, blind? Doesn’t even recognize me?"

His eyes flick over the handwriting—neat, steady, plain. Not a hint of performance in it. Not a hint of her knowing who he is.

He mutters, "Unbelievable."

His knee bounces. He grabs his chopsticks, eats a bite, sets them down again.

But the line keeps circling back.

I've already got your attention.

His mouth twists. “You don’t even know who I am.”

He shifts in the chair like the seat turned hot.

But the words keep hanging there. Plain. Confident. Like she’d already known he’d read it more than once.

And then the image hits him—her back against the wall, mouth parted, neck bared. His fingers in her hair, tugging until her breath hitched. The sound she'd make when he bit her throat—

He hisses out a breath. Sharp. Immediate.

“Fuck.” he bites, pushing back his chair so hard it scrapes the floor.

He shakes it off like he’s throwing a punch. Rips open the drawer. Gym clothes. Wraps. Bottle of water. Controlled. One thing after another.

He changes fast, tying his shoes with tight, jerking pulls.

On his way out, he passes the table. Stops.

The note’s still there.

He stares at it for a second. Just a second.

"Tch."

He snatches it up, folds it in half, and shoves it in his pocket.

Then he leaves, door clicking shut behind him with more force than it needs.
~

The agency gym is too bright when he gets there. Too clean. Smells like rubber mats and antiseptic. Music’s on—some generic bass-heavy garbage that barely masks the clang of metal.

Hanta and Denki are mid-set at the bench press, taking turns spotting each other. Denki’s talking shit between reps, the way he always does, and Hanta’s egging him on.

“—I’m telling you, bro, if she licked her straw before passing it back, that means something.”

“It means you’re delusional,” Hanta laughs, catching the bar.

Katsuki doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t look their way. Just drops his bag near the free weights and starts taping his wrists.

Hanta catches him in the mirror. “Yo, Bakugo. Looking mean today. That your resting gym face or you trying to vaporize the squat rack?”

Katsuki doesn’t answer. He’s already moving—loading plates, checking alignment, jaw tight. He lifts heavy. Controlled. Clean. Doesn’t grunt. Doesn’t waste breath.

Denki whistles low after the first set. “Jesus. You alright, man?”

“Ask me that again and I’ll put you through the fucking wall,” Katsuki mutters without turning.

“Just saying. You’re radiating main character crisis energy.”

He grits his teeth. Fucking extra.

He keeps going. Pushes harder. Doesn’t pause between sets. Doesn’t let the sweat cool.

Somewhere between the fourth and fifth set, it hits him.

That night she tried to open his door. Half-asleep, scrubs wrinkled, cussing at her keys.

She’d muttered something about an idiot blowing up the ER.

Could’ve just been a coincidence.

But now he’s thinking about the timing. About the way she said it—dry, like the whole thing had already worn her down.

He was there that night. Cleared the scene. Didn't know anyone had actually seen him. No fan photos. No reporters.

And she hadn’t looked at him like someone who knew.

He drops into the next lift a little too fast, breath burning sharp through his teeth.

Could she really not know?

Or is she just fucking with him that well?

The thought grinds around in his head long enough to start pissing him off.

He reracks the bar, swipes sweat off his brow, and doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

They’re watching. Of course they are. He can feel it.

But they’re not pushing.

Eijiro would’ve cracked a joke by now. Would’ve taken the edge off without making it a thing.

Eijiro would’ve known how to needle without pushing. Would’ve gotten him talking without trying. Hanta and Denki? He’d cover their asses in a fight without blinking. But they’re still dumb as a box of rocks.

Katsuki finishes the final rep, drops the bar with a solid thud, and stands over it breathing hard.

His shirt sticks to his back. His pulse thunders in his ears. His arms ache just enough.

Still not enough to drown it out.

The bar clanks back into place. Metal on metal. His breath cuts shallow through grit. He wipes his palms on his shorts, grabs his towel, and heads for the lockers without a word.

~

That evening the locker room is mostly empty. Just the low hum of overhead lights and the faint echo of a door closing somewhere down the hall. He throws his towel in the bin, heads for his locker, starts stripping off his sweat-soaked shirt.

He hears her before he sees her.

Click-clack. Fast heels. Nervous pace.

“Mitsuru,” he mutters, already bracing.

She rounds the corner with a tablet in one hand and an armful of folders she’s clearly dropped at least once on the way over. Breathless. Hair askew. Face tight with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh my god, finally—”

“No,” he says.

“You don’t even know what I’m—”

“No.”

She exhales like he just kicked over her desk. “Bakugo, it’s my job to get you in front of a camera looking like a human being at least once a quarter. You’ve missed the last three photo ops. Three. Do you have any idea how hard it is to pitch ‘brooding silence’ to the Hero Commission’s social team?”

“I didn’t ask you to pitch anything,” he grits out.

“Well I didn’t ask for a client who ghosts every PR strategy meeting, growls at interns, and deletes the entire media calendar off his schedule every month like clockwork.”

He slams his locker shut. “So quit.”

“I can’t. I worked hard to get my job. Which means I need you to give me something. One shoot. One clip. Hell, I’d take a moody quote about your protein regimen at this point.”

Katsuki snorts. “That’s the bar now?”

“Yeah. Welcome to post-Deku PR fatigue. The public wants rough edges. Wants ‘real.’ I am handing you an opportunity to be the mean bastard with a good heart. Let me take it.”

He stares at her a second too long. She wilts.

“It doesn’t have to be big,” she says. “Just something that doesn’t make you look like a walking middle finger.”

He rolls his shoulders, towel still slung over one. “Not my job to look soft.”

“No, but it’s my job to make sure when you blow up a hospital wall saving civilians, people remember the part where you saved them. Not just the scorch marks.”

He hesitates. Just a second. Then mutters, “I’ll think about it.”

Her whole face lights up like he just gave her a pay raise. “Really?”

“Doesn’t mean yes.”

“Right. Sure. I’ll take it. Thank you.” She starts backing away like she knows if she pushes her luck he’ll retract it on the spot. “You look great, by the way. Very hero-coded. Terrifying. Love it.”

He shakes his head. Grabs his gear.

The door swings shut behind her.

Finally quiet again.

He sets the bag down and presses a hand to the back of his neck.

He’s thinking about that picture again. The one they passed around like a joke—Deku glowing like he always does, center of the frame. And her.

Yaname.

Standing next to him like she belonged there. Like it was normal.

Like he was the one on the outside.
His gut knots.
Could’ve been timing. Could’ve been bullshit.
But if she didn’t care who Katsuki was, why the fuck was she standing next to him?

~

Patrol is quiet. Not the good kind—just empty. Dead streets, blinking crosswalks, corner stores already locked up. Katsuki moves through it fast, eyes sharp, mind loud.

It’s too quiet to distract him. Which means his thoughts spiral.

He rounds a corner near the old movie district and stops when a burst of laughter cuts through the stillness.

A family exits a theater—parents mid-conversation, jackets half-on, little kid bouncing between them like a pinball.

The kid sees him.

“DYNAMIGHT!” the boy yells, full volume, and breaks into a run before either parent can react.

Katsuki freezes. The parents do that thing—half-apology, half-horror. Like they’re waiting for him to bark or blow something up.

But the kid?

He barrels right up to Katsuki’s boots, eyes shining.

“You’re my favorite,” he says breathlessly. “I’ve got your trading card and your fight with the sludge villain bookmarked and your merch—my socks have your gauntlets on them.”

Katsuki stares.

The kid doesn’t flinch.

Not from the voice. Not from the glare. Not even when Katsuki crouches—slow, deliberate, bracing for the inevitable shift.

“You got good taste,” he mutters.

The boy beams.

Behind him, the parents exchange looks. One tries a tense smile. The other doesn’t bother. They hover like they’re waiting to peel him away, like this is a near-miss.

Katsuki hands the kid a fist bump. Keeps it brief. Stands back up.

The boy skips back to his parents. They move on fast, like they’re still braced for an explosion.

Katsuki stays where he is.

Street’s gone quiet again. Too quiet.

He lets the silence stretch. Lets the moment breathe, even if it grates. The kind of pause that makes space for the shit he doesn’t want to think about to creep back in.

Just him and the echo of it now—the way the kid looked at him like there was nothing to fear. Like nothing needed translation.

The kid never flinched.

It reminds him of something.

Yaname, writing back after he sparked at her across balconies. Her name scrawled on pink paper like it meant nothing. Like it was obvious.

Same persistence. Same unshaken calm. Same steadiness.

He hadn’t known what to make of it then. Still doesn’t.

But it feels close to this.

Closer than he wants to admit.

It’d be easier if she were faking.

But if she’s real—if that’s just her —then he needs to know.

Because not knowing is starting to feel like weakness.

And Katsuki Bakugo does not let things fester.

Chapter Text

She’d taken the night off. Not for rest. Not even because she needed it. She just wanted the night clear.

The second she put the request in, her stomach had done something weird. Light. Tense. Not dread. Not exactly nerves. Closer to anticipation—the kind that hummed under your skin and made ordinary things feel sharper.

She told Mira it was personal, then didn’t elaborate. Mira didn't press. Thank god.

Now the clock was crawling.

She wasn't dressed up. That would've been too much. But she wasn't in pajamas, either. Matching loungewear—the soft ribbed set she usually saved for Sundays. It hugged a little. Said she had her life together even when she didn’t. Casual, but not careless.

She checked the balcony door. Again.

What the hell was she expecting, anyway? He hadn’t promised anything. Just wrote that note in all-caps like a warning label: Name’s Katsuki. I’m off tomorrow night. Balcony at 9.

No smiley face. No opener. Just that. Bold. Clipped. Like the ball was in her court and he didn’t care whether she played.

Except he did. He’d written it.

And she hadn’t stopped thinking about him since.

Why? She barely knew him. Hadn’t had a single real conversation. All they had were stolen glances and one mutual emergency.

But he was loud in a way that brought her out of her monotony. That night he’d opened the door shirtless, irritation practically crackling off him—she should’ve been embarrassed. Should’ve wanted to disappear.

Instead, her brain had latched onto the way his chest looked under hallway light. The weight of his presence. The spark in his palm.

He’d looked dangerous. And that had done something.

God, what did that say about her?

She paced once through the living room. Adjusted a pillow that didn’t need adjusting.

Was she going to try to flirt? She didn’t even know how to flirt anymore. Was she hoping he’d ask her something? Compliment her? Ask her to sit? Did she want him to?

Yes. Maybe.

Was she going to try to woo him? That word felt ridiculous. But she’d thought about it. About bringing something out there—tea, a snack. Something that said, I thought about this.

But would he read that as interest? Or desperation? Would it turn him off?

And more than that—was she ready for whatever came next, if this did go somewhere?

She exhaled slowly. Went to the kitchen. Poured the good tea anyway.

Whatever happened, she wanted to be present for it.

The clock read 8:49 when she sat down with the mug.

~

At 9:02, she stepped onto the balcony. He was already there, leaning on the railing like it was part of him. Loose black shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows. Joggers that looked lived-in. Barefoot, no smile, no scowl. Just watching the street like it was going to change.

She cleared her throat.

"Hi."

He glanced over. Nodded once. "Hey."

They both opened their mouths.

"So—"

They blinked at each other. Paused.

Yaname laughed softly, shaking her head. "You first."

Katsuki huffed, then shrugged. "So." A beat passed. "This is weird, right?"

Yaname laughed under her breath. "Yeah. A little."

But neither of them moved. And neither of them went back inside.

She took a slow sip of her tea, then gave a little shrug. "Wait, I have an idea. Don’t move."

She darted back inside without waiting for a response. The tea went on the counter. She crouched by the cabinet and pulled out the bottle she’d stashed earlier—a bottle of bourbon she kept for hard nights and rare company, dusty. One clean glass in each hand.

Back on the balcony, she held them up like an offering.

"Here’s the deal," she said, already unscrewing the cap. "We take turns. One of us asks a question, the other either answers or drinks. That’s it. No repeats. No skips."

Katsuki raised an eyebrow. "That a game, or an interrogation?"

"Depends what you ask," she said, pouring.

She hesitated, then tilted her head toward the partition. "Do you wanna—should I let you in through my—"

He didn’t wait.

In one smooth motion, he stepped onto the railing and crossed the gap.

Her breath caught.

He landed solidly on her side like it was nothing, like he wasn't risking breaking his neck.

She blinked. "Or that. Sure."

He pulled out one of her chairs, sat like he belonged there, and said, "You always keep bourbon on standby for emergencies, or am I special?"

She poured them both a glass.

Then finally sat, legs tucked under her, trying to play it cool.

"You tell me," she said. "Think you’re special?"

He fixed his eyes on her. "I think you’ve been waiting for this longer than you want to admit." He held her gaze, then added, quieter, "Tell me I’m wrong."

She raised an eyebrow, steady now. "Is that your first question?"

He didn’t answer.

She huffed a laugh, more breath than sound. "Fine. Cards on the table. Maybe I have been waiting for an excuse to introduce myself to my hot—albeit grumpy, suspicious—neighbor."

He leaned back slightly, brow raised like he had another comeback lined up.

"So why d—"

"Ah ah ah," she cut in, finger raised. "My turn."

That got a small twitch from the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But close.

She swirled the bourbon in her glass, considering. "Alright. Have you always been this intense?"

Katsuki didn’t miss a beat. “You mean direct?”

She gave him a look. “You know what I mean.”

He set the glass down, then said, “Yeah. Always. Teachers hated it. Classmates couldn’t handle it. Thought I’d grow out of it.”

He met her eyes again, unflinching. “Didn’t.”

He let the word hang for half a beat, then tipped his head slightly. “That photo with Deku... you collect those, or what?”

Her brow furrowed. “Dek…?”
There was a beat — then her eyes widened a fraction.
“Oh. Deku. Right. The hero who brought the game console to the ward.”
She blinked. “Wait, how do you even—”
Then realization hit, sharp and immediate.
“Oh my god. You saw that?”

She sank back in her chair, groaning softly. Reached for her drink and took a long sip, like it might erase the moment.
“No, I don’t collect those. God. I drew the short straw at work. They made me stand next to him for the picture.”

Katsuki watched her, something unreadable tightening behind his eyes.
“You really didn’t know who he was?”
She shrugged, sipping again. “Not until after. I don’t follow that stuff.”
He was quiet for a second. Then:
“Huh.”

He stared at her. “You’re kidding. Everyone follows that stuff.”
She shrugged, unbothered. “Not me.”
Took another sip. “Not interested.”

That gave him pause. He watched her for a beat, eyes narrowed—not harsh, just trying to make sense of her.
“Why?”

She gave a slow, smug shake of her head. “Nuh uh. Way past my turn.”

He sat back again, jaw ticking once. Not angry—just unused to hearing no and not being able to push past it.

She leaned back, glass in hand.
“What’s your quirk?”

Katsuki’s fingers curled lightly around his glass. He didn’t look away.

“Explosion,” he said. “Nitroglycerin sweat. I ignite it.”

He tipped his head slightly, like he was used to listing this off.
“Directional blasts, shockwave propulsion, flash flare, ground breach—depends how I shape it.”

He finally looked at her, steady. “Comes in handy.”

She blinked. That wasn’t a quirk you heard every day. Definitely not one you got in the public sector.
“For what?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “Demolition?”

That pulled a sound from him — not quite a laugh, but something close. A short huff, amused and low in his chest.

Then he stood, slow and unhurried, and crossed to lean against the balcony railing.
Not pacing. Not wired. Just… grounded. Like something in him had settled.

She didn’t know. He was sure of it now.
No recognition. No performance.
Just her. Just this.

He looked out at the street, then back at her.
“My turn.”

A pause, just long enough to feel deliberate.
“Why don’t you follow that stuff ?”
His voice was quieter now. Not suspicious—just… wondering.
“It’s everywhere. Feels impossible to escape. But you’ve clearly figured it out.”

She sighed—deep and full, like the kind that came from somewhere older than tonight.
Then she took a long drink. Not a sip. A drain-the-glass kind of pull. For a second, he thought she wasn’t going to answer.

But she stood.

Crossed the short space between them and leaned on the railing beside him, shoulder just a breath away.

“My parents were killed by heroes.”

Her voice didn’t shake. Just came out quiet. Solid.

“There was some kind of fight. A building collapsed. They happened to be driving by.”
She kept her eyes forward, not on him. “They were labeled collateral damage. Just like the building.”

A beat.
“No one was held responsible. How could they be? The heroes were saving people. And I was… what? The kid with bad timing?”
Her jaw tensed. “They made the right call. That’s what everyone said.”

She exhaled slowly. “After that, I stayed away. From all of it. The media. The fanfare. The commentary.”
She glanced at him, not apologetic. Just honest.
“Didn’t want to see the people who got to move on like nothing happened.”

Katsuki didn’t say anything at first.
Didn’t move, either.

He just stood there, hands flexing slightly on the railing, like the metal was the only thing keeping him from exploding.

Not because of her. Because of the story.
Because he’d seen it. Been part of it. Not her exact story, but ones like it. Too many times.

“…Tch.”

The sound escaped him, low and sharp.

He looked out at the street. Then down. Then back at her.

“I’m not gonna say they did the right thing,” he said, voice rough. “I wasn’t there. But that kind of shit…”
His jaw tightened. “It happens more than anyone wants to admit.”

Another pause.

“And it’s always the civilians who pay for it.”

She nodded and wiped at her cheek again.
Then sniffed once and muttered, “I need a snack.”

She stepped back from the railing and nudged the balcony door open behind her, not looking at him but not shutting him out either.

“Come on,” she said over her shoulder.

Katsuki followed without hesitation.

Inside, her kitchen was warm and a little cluttered — herbs drying near the sink, a basket of mismatched fruit, an old kettle still radiating heat. She moved with casual familiarity, opening the pantry like muscle memory.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. Watched her dig through a shelf and come up with a protein bar and a half-empty bag of kettle chips.

“That’s it?” he said, eyebrow raised. “This is your arsenal?”

She gave him a look, biting into the bar like she’d done this argument before. “I stay stocked for efficiency.”

He stepped forward, opened the pantry wider, and scanned the contents.
Instant noodles. Crackers. Protein bars. Electrolyte gummies. One can of soup.

“Jesus. You live like a college student.”
Then, after a second: “You trying to die early or what?”

She smirked. “I burn through food fast. My quirk’s touch-based healing — works off my stamina. If I don’t eat often, I crash.”

That made him pause. He looked back at her, slower now.

“How fast?”

She shrugged. “Depends. Couple minutes for a bad burn. Maybe longer if it’s internal.”
She glanced at the chips. “This crap’s fast fuel. Dense calories. Doesn’t spoil.”

Katsuki closed the pantry and turned toward her fully.

Then he tipped his head toward the door. “Come on. I’ve got real food next door.”

But this time, he didn’t turn right away.

He watched her for a beat longer than necessary — gaze trailing from her face down to her hands, then back again — like he was weighing something he wasn’t quite ready to say.

Then, almost grudgingly, he added, “If you want.”

Yaname blinked. A little surprised. Then smiled — soft, genuine.

“Sure,” she said. “That’s the nicest invitation I’ve gotten since my own balcony.”

And finally, he looked away — but not before the corner of his mouth pulled just slightly upward, barely there. Almost a smile.

She grabbed the bottle and their glasses, then followed him out. The hallway was quiet, lights dimmed. His key slid into the lock with a familiar motion.

Inside, his apartment was spare, sharp-edged in its tidiness. Clean counters. Black dish rack. One pan already on the stove.

He took the bottle from her and nodded toward the island. She sat automatically, the stool already angled toward the kitchen.

He moved with brisk confidence—pan heating, rice scooped from the cooker, eggs pulled from the fridge.

“Any allergies?” he asked, already reaching for the cutting board.

She shook her head. “Nope.”

He gave a short nod, already halfway through slicing green onion—precise. The pan sizzled as he tossed in sesame oil, letting it bloom hot before adding minced garlic and onion. The scent hit immediately—sharp, savory, grounded.

Next came the pork—thin-sliced shoulder, marbled just enough to crisp. He dropped it into the pan without ceremony, nudged it flat with his spatula, then reached for the sauce he’d pulled from the fridge: dark, thick, gochujang-forward, homemade by the looks of it.

She watched, chin propped on one hand, quietly impressed. There was no performance in it. No small talk. Just movement. Fluid, efficient.

"Do you enjoy it?" she asked quietly, not wanting to break the rhythm but too curious not to ask.

He didn’t look up. Just kept working, knife moving with clean, deliberate precision.

"It’s necessary," he said after a beat. "If you're gonna do something, don’t half-ass it."

She smiled to herself. "That a yes?"

He let the corner of his mouth twitch again, barely. "I like good food."

He opened the fridge and pulled out a small container—glass, tightly sealed, clearly prepped ahead. Inside were soy-marinated soft-boiled eggs, the whites stained a dark amber, yolks just barely set.

He lifted one out with chopsticks, balanced it expertly over a folded towel, and sliced it clean in half with a paring knife. The yolk glistened, rich and slow. He nodded once, satisfied, then set the halves aside to top the bowls last.

“Rice ready,” he muttered more to himself, already scooping hot short-grain from the cooker into two ceramic bowls—no matching set, just clean and chipped with use. He layered the pork on top, added the eggs, and topped it all with quick-pickled cucumbers he pulled from a jar in the fridge. Finished it with a shake of sesame seeds, a flick of scallion, and a slow drizzle of something from a squeeze bottle he hadn’t labeled.

Then he slid her bowl across the counter, still warm from his hands.

“Eat before it cools,” he said, already taking the stool beside her.

It smelled incredible. Her stomach growled audibly. She took the first bite like she hadn’t eaten in days.

The flavor hit hard—savory and rich, with a slow-building heat that bloomed across her tongue without overpowering. The pork was seared at the edges, tender in the middle, soaking up the gochujang sauce like it had been waiting for it. The rice underneath caught every bit of it—fluffy, hot, grounding. The egg was the surprise: silky yolk with just enough salt and umami to coat everything else.

She moaned. Couldn’t help it. Just a low, unguarded sound from the back of her throat as her eyes fluttered closed.

Katsuki rolled his eyes. “It’s not that good.”

But there was no heat behind it. His eyes lingered on her for half a second longer, and his mouth pulled into something crooked, small, and unmistakably pleased. Like he’d known exactly how good it was—and didn’t mind being proven right.

She blinked at him, still chewing. Then: “Are you kidding? This is incredible. Do you cook for a living or something?”

He snorted, low and dismissive. “No. I’m just good at it. Doesn’t mean it’s my job.”

She took a few more bites, slower now, savoring. Then leaned on one elbow, giving him a look that was part playful, part curious.

“Well, I’m at a disadvantage here,” she said, nudging her bowl slightly. “You know what I do. What about you? What do you do for a living?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just took another bite, chewed, swallowed.

“Fourth-ranked in the country,” he said finally. “You’ve probably walked past a dozen billboards and never noticed.”

She froze mid-chew.

Her eyes flicked to his face. Then to her bowl. Then back.

"You have got to be shitting me," she said under her breath.

Something shifted behind her eyes—like gears clicking into place. One thought tripped into the next, until it landed.

“Wait,” she said slowly, carefully. “What’s your name?”

He looked at her for a long second. Then, steady and unapologetic:

“Dynamight.”

She stared at him, spoon suspended in midair.

“Wait—” Her brow furrowed, then shot up. “The ER.”

He didn’t say anything. Just watched her.

Her mouth opened again, incredulous. “You’re the guy who blew out the side of the emergency wing last week.”

Nothing in his face shifted.

She blinked. “Holy shit. That was you ?”

“Oh god,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“What?!”

She dropped her spoon, dropped her head to the counter with a soft thunk. “Oh my god. I called you an idiot. To your face.”

He blinked. “You did.”

She groaned into her arm. “You people should have to wear a bell or something.”

And then — he laughed. Short and sharp, all that nervous tension breaking loose in one surprised breath. Not mocking. Just… relieved.

“You’re the first person in years who didn’t recognize me on sight,” he said, still catching his breath. “It’s more of a you thing.”

Yaname lifted her head slowly, still flushed, still wincing. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

Katsuki gave a slight shrug. "You should. Most people get weird."

“You mean the hero worship kind or the flinch-when-you-breathe kind?”

"Both," he said, a little smug.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said, quieter now.

His gaze caught hers. “Good or bad?”

She smiled into her glass, a little slower now. "Ask me again after a real date."

His eyes flicked to hers—something sharp, but not unkind. "Is that your way of asking?"

"Yeah, it is." she said, unbothered.

He leaned in, not close enough to crowd her—just enough to be felt. "Then yeah. I’ll ask."

Her breath caught—not visibly or loudly. But it caught.

He looked back down at his bowl like nothing had changed. But something had. That much was obvious.

Outside, the city buzzed on. Inside, it wasn’t just quiet now. It was comfortable.

Chapter Text

The bowls sat empty on the counter, a smear of gochujang near the rim of hers, a neat fork and spoon laid to dry beside his. Katsuki leaned back on his stool, arms folded, watching as she licked a bit of sauce from her thumb like she wasn’t thinking about it.

Something about it hit low. Unintentional. Unbothered.

His brain offered a flash—her mouth, lips slick, fingers not her own.

He shoved it down. Hard.

Just food. Just sauce. Just... fuck.

She caught him looking. “Judging my table manners, or impressed?”

He grunted. "You're the one who nearly proposed to my leftovers."

She gave him a dry look. "Blame your sauce, not me."

Katsuki shook his head, but his gaze lingered. He didn’t mean to stare. Just... didn’t want to look away yet.

They moved around each other easily after that. She stood, started stacking dishes without a word. Like it was natural. Like she did it every night.

Too easy. Like she’d been here before.

That thought landed harder than it should’ve. Didn’t feel practiced. Just... familiar. Katsuki watched her rinse them under the tap—sleeves pushed to her elbows, hair caught behind one ear, neck bare where the collar of her top dipped.

She passed him the sponge without looking. “You rinse.”

He took it.

The silence didn’t hang. It was comfortable. Like the steam off the dishes.

Her fingers brushed his when she reached for the towel. She took her time taking it.

Katsuki noticed. She felt warm. Soft.

He set the last bowl on the rack, wiped his hands. She leaned beside him, drying hers. Her body angled toward his, casual but close.

“Do I get your number, or do I just toss more notes across the balcony?” she asked, head tilted like she already knew he’d say yes.

She pulled out her phone and handed it over. "Here. Put yours in."

Katsuki took it automatically—then froze. He turned it over once in his hand, as if it might disintegrate.

"This is a flip phone."

"Yup," she said.

He looked at her like she'd just handed him a rotary dial.

She shrugged.

He stared a second longer. "You serious?"

She had no idea how soft that looked.

Didn’t care about optics. Didn’t even register the risk. Walked through the world like nobody could touch her. Lucky. Or stupid. Or maybe just not famous.

"Calls and texts. That's it."

He huffed and punched in his number. "You’re a menace."

"Mm. Takes one to know one."

She didn’t say anything else. Just shifted her weight, glanced toward the door.

“I should go.”

She paused at the threshold, fingers on the frame. "Thanks for the food," she said, smiling softly.

He just hummed and stepped ahead to open the door for her.

She thanked him like it was nothing.

Most people only said it after he saved their lives. And even then, he barely heard it.

But this? It felt warm and uncomplicated.

She gave him a small smile and slipped out into the hall.

He watched her walk the few steps to her apartment, saw the way she moved like the night hadn’t worn her out. She glanced back once—brief, almost shy—then unlocked her door and disappeared inside.

That look. It took everything he had not to grab her before she crossed the threshold. Not rough. Not impulsive. Just to keep her there a little longer.

The click of her lock sounded louder than it should.

Katsuki stood there a moment longer.

Then finally shut the door behind him.

He didn’t turn the lights on.

The fridge hummed. Pipes creaked. The apartment felt smaller with just him in it.

He stripped off his shirt and dropped it by the washer, turned the faucet on just past hot. Steam rose fast against the mirror. The bathroom smelled faintly like cedar and antiseptic.

He stepped under the water and let it hit him square. Shoulders, chest, neck — the places that always stayed tense no matter how long he slept or how hard he trained.

He thought about her.

“Put yours in,” she’d said, holding out that little flip phone like it was a forgone conclusion.

How unbothered she was by his silence. The way she moved around his kitchen like she'd been doing it for years.

The ease in her body when she leaned against his counter. How natural it looked. The casual bump of her shoulder against his. The sound of her voice — dry, amused, steady.

The faint curve of her spine when she reached for the towel. The way her shirt pulled just slightly at the back. The damp hair behind her ear. The dip of her collarbone, soft in the overhead light.

Her lips, parted mid-laugh. The flick of her tongue when she tasted something off her thumb. The way her fingers brushed his and didn’t flinch.

The way she looked at him before she left — hungry. Curious. Like she wanted more but wasn’t sure if he’d offer. Like she’d take it if he did.

She felt close in that moment. Like he could’ve leaned in and she wouldn’t have stopped him.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Exhaled hard. Water trailing down his back.

His cock was hard before he even noticed.

Heavy. Tight. His palm slid down the length of it before he thought about what he was doing. Instinct.

Not about fantasy. Not even release. Just her.

That flick of her tongue. Her shoulder brushing his. The way she licked the edge of her thumb, eyes half-lidded, like she didn’t know what it did to him. Like she’d do it again if he asked.

He shut his eyes, gritted his jaw.

She’d said something else earlier, almost offhand: “You gonna wear the hero get-up?”

It hadn’t hit him then. But now, under scalding water, it curled around him different.

The smirk in her voice. The way her eyes dragged over him when she said it. Like she knew exactly what she was doing.

His grip tightened.

He stroked once, slow. Heat curled down his spine.

Again.

The image hit: her fingers curled in his hair, hips tilting just so, mouth parted but silent. Not performative. Just there.

Heat spilled across his knuckles, wet against tile. His breath stuttered.
Yaname. Low in his mind. Uninvited.

For a second, he just stood there, hand braced to the wall.

Didn’t feel better.

Didn’t feel done.

~

Katsuki showed up early.

Didn’t mean to. Just... got there before the others. Coffee half-gone. File tucked under one arm. Eyes sharper than they’d been all week.

He hit the training floor first. Wrapped his wrists. Loosened his shoulders. No music — just the low echo of boots on rubber tile and the clack of lockers opening down the hall.

The others trickled in.

Hanta, first. Then Denki. Eijiro not long after, laughing at something on his phone.

“Dude, you’re already here?” Denki called, dropping his gear bag. “It’s not even eleven.”

Katsuki didn’t answer. Just adjusted the tension on his gloves.

Eijiro paused mid-step, watching him stretch out his arms like nothing was different — but something was.

Not bristling. Not barking. Just... quiet.

Almost calm.

“Yo,” Eijiro said, slower now. “You good, man?”

Katsuki grunted. “Fine.”

He caught the look that passed between Hanta and Denki. Didn’t comment.

Hanta muttered under his breath. “He’s too quiet. I don’t trust it.”

That earned a snort from Mina, just walking in. “What, did someone sedate him?”

Katsuki glanced at her, eyes narrow but not sharp.

Mina tilted her head. “Huh.”

“What?” he snapped.

She shrugged, teasing. “Nothing. Just… you look like you maybe got laid.”

Denki nearly dropped his water bottle.

Eijiro choked on a laugh. “You’re gonna die.”

Katsuki didn’t rise to it. Just stepped into the sparring circle and tightened his gloves.

“Line up or shut up.”

They lined up.

Katsuki at the front, shoulders rolled loose, stance relaxed but coiled like he could launch in any direction. Hanta to his left, Eijiro to his right. Denki bounced on the balls of his feet like he’d already downed a full thermos of coffee. Mina slid into place behind them, cracking her knuckles.

“Alright,” she said, eyeing the circle. “Same rotation? Or are we doing full chaos today?”

“Chaos,” Katsuki said, voice low.

Denki blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

But Katsuki was already stepping in. “No timer. No quirks. Keep moving. First one to drop loses.”

Hanta exchanged a quick look with Eijiro. “He’s feeling bloodthirsty today.”

Mina grinned. “He’s feeling something.”

Katsuki didn’t bite. Just adjusted his stance and said, “You coming or not?”

Eijiro was the first in. Always was. The two of them collided in a blur—Katsuki feinting low and snapping a knee up to meet Eijiro’s guard. The sound cracked across the mat. Sharp. Clean.

But Eijiro didn’t give ground easy. He absorbed the impact, twisted his stance, and shoved back hard. Katsuki staggered a half-step. Not much. But enough.

That earned Eijiro a flash of teeth. Almost a grin. Definitely a challenge.

They circled.

Katsuki twisted mid-step, threw a palm toward Eijiro’s ribs, but Eijiro caught it with a forearm and ducked low, shoulder to Katsuki’s center. Katsuki barely redirected the momentum, gripping Eijiro's arm and pivoting into a throw—but Eijiro held his footing, grounded deep. They locked for a second in a struggle of pure force.

Eijiro had the edge there—he always did. Broader frame, heavier base. Katsuki couldn't win head-on.

So he shifted.

Dropped low, let Eijiro's momentum carry forward just a beat too far—then redirected it. Used the torque of his own twist, Eijiro’s planted stance, and the split-second overcommitment to flip the weight against him.

Eijiro stumbled. Katsuki pressed the advantage, shoulder to chest, and drove him just far enough off center to tip the balance.

It worked. Barely.

Eijiro skidded back, boots dragging across the mat. He shook it off with a grin. “Look who showed up today.”

Katsuki smirked, breath steady, but didn’t look away from the circle.

Denki darted in from the side. “Tag in, tag in—”

Katsuki dodged him without looking, spun and caught him by the collar mid-lunge, flipped his momentum, and tossed him straight to the floor. Not hard. Just rude.

“Hey—!” Denki wheezed. “Unnecessary!”

“I saw that coming before you moved, dumbass,” Katsuki snapped.

Hanta stepped in fast, aiming a hook for Katsuki’s side. “Alright, your form looks tight. Let’s see how it holds up.”

Katsuki sidestepped, ducked low, and twisted, catching Hanta with a clean shot to the ribs.

“Still telegraphed.”

“You’re humming,” Mina said.

“Huh?”

“Your aura,” she said, circling. “It’s different. You’ve got a vibe.”

Katsuki narrowed his eyes.

Mina smirked. “It’s post nut clarity. I know what I’m talking about.”

“I’m gonna kill you!”

Katsuki lunged at her, sharp and sudden. Mina yelped and dodged back, laughing, but it gave Hanta the perfect opening.

He came in low from the side, hooked Katsuki clean around the waist, and used his own momentum against him. Katsuki hit the mat with a grunt.

“Gotcha,” Hanta said, breathless.

“See?” Mina laughed, grinning down at him. “Classic deflection. Confirmation achieved.”

Eijiro sat up, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, man. I think he’s just in a good mood.”

That landed.

All of them paused.

Denki squinted. “Wait. Has that... ever happened?”

Katsuki raised his hands again getting up from the mat, loose and ready. “Maybe the reason I’ve never been in a good mood is 'cause every time I am, you all act like it’s a medical emergency.”

Eijiro grinned. “Round two?”

Katsuki nodded. “Unless you’re scared.”

“Not with that smug face,” Eijiro said, stepping back in.

Katsuki lunged—fast, low, sharp. Their forearms clashed. The others watched as they locked in, each push met with perfect resistance.

He was electric. And he didn’t even know it showed.

~

The shower tiles were still fogged when Katsuki stepped out, towel slung low around his hips. Steam curled off his shoulders, water still dripping down his spine. He raked a hand through his damp hair and grabbed another towel to dry his face.

He didn’t hear her heels until it was too late. Just the soft squeak of the locker room door, followed by the unmistakable voice of Mitsuru.

"Oh good, you’re here."

Katsuki froze. Then groaned. "No."

Mitsuru stood just inside the threshold, tablet in one hand, her other raised like she wasn’t currently breaking a hundred HR rules. "Relax, I’ve seen worse."

"You’re in the showers!"

"Because if I wait for you to respond to emails, I’ll age out of my own career."

Katsuki scowled and grabbed his shirt, still damp from his bag. "What do you want?"

Behind him, Eijiro and Denki exchanged looks. Hanta tried not to laugh.

"Oh no," Denki whispered. "She found him."

"We should help," Eijiro said.

"Yeah," Hanta said. "Sneak out very bravely."

They did. One by one. Grinning like traitors.

Mitsuru stepped further in, undeterred. “You missed the photo op with the board chair. Again. And no, we’re not talking about that ‘gritty authenticity’ shoot you tried to push last month.”

Katsuki shut his locker a little too hard. “I don’t do staged bullshit.”

“You do now,” she said breezily. “Because you’re ranked fourth with first-place damage stats and a reputation that still scares kindergarteners.”

He didn’t answer. Just glared.

She tapped her tablet. “I’m scheduling a shoot. Just you, a backdrop, and a mic. One candid clip for the Commission’s midseason morale push. And maybe a still or two. You won’t even have to smile.”

He stared at her.

She raised an eyebrow. “You grunt now, I’ll take it as a yes.”

“Tch,” he muttered, drying his neck with one hand.

“Perfect.” She turned on her heel like it was done. “Thursday, ten sharp. Shirt optional. Attitude not.”

The door shut behind her. The steam hadn’t cleared.

Katsuki stood there a second longer, towel still at his waist.

It was easier than fighting her.

But not by much.

~

The apartment was dark when he got home. He didn’t turn on the lights. Just toed off his boots and dropped the damp towel in the hamper on instinct.

He wasn’t tired. Not really.

His body was worked clean — muscle loose, breath easy. But his mind was still running.

She’d texted while he was in the shower. Simple.

< you free friday? >

He hadn’t answered yet. Not because he didn’t know what to say.

Because he wanted to make it right.

Not flashy or cliché. Just… something solid. Something she couldn’t mistake for anything but intent.

Katsuki sat on the edge of his couch, phone in one hand, thumb hovering.

Friday.

He rolled it around in his head.

First thought was Blue Ember — that new place in Midtown with the rooftop view and pre-fixe menu. Everyone talked about it like it was romantic. Exclusive. Worth the reservation war.

He ruled it out immediately: too close, the press would find them.

She wouldn’t want cameras. Wouldn’t want a high-rise with mood lighting and a fucking tasting menu. Didn’t care about being seen in a dress. Didn’t give a shit about fusion appetizers or valet parking. That kind of place was designed for photos and soft lighting and being watched. She’d see through it in five seconds flat.

She liked things clean. Simple. Quiet.

He remembered her fridge — practical, half-empty. Her apartment — sparse but soft. Her coffee — brewed slow in a French press she clearly used every day. She wasn’t impressed by spectacle. She didn’t need it.

And she hated being watched.

So — somewhere out of the way. Not too far, but enough to thin the air.

He opened the maps app. Scrolled north. Out past the city fringe, just far enough that cell towers got patchy and sidewalks ended.

There. A little town tucked in the foothills. No PR spots. No fans.

But they had a place — Katsuki remembered it. Drove past it once on his way out of the city. Big windows, outdoor seating. Wood-fired food. Walkable streets. And a fucking orchard next door, if you went looking.

He clicked the name. Scanned the reviews. Half of them talked about how quiet it was. The kind of place you could sit and not be bothered.

That sounded like her.

He made the call.

Didn’t leave a name. Table for two. Late reservation. Covered patio. Tucked corner.

He’d drive. Wouldn’t tell her where they were going until they got there. Not to be dramatic. Just to keep it clean. Private.

Like something worth protecting.

He typed the reply, stared at it once before sending.

< pick you up at 6. wear shoes you can walk in >

That was it. No emojis. No explanation.

Just enough.

He hit send.

Then set the phone facedown on the table and cracked the window open like always.

Her light was still on.

He stood there, watching it flicker behind the curtain, arms braced on the rail. Same ritual. Different rhythm now.

He’d seen her face close up. Watched her eat his food, dry her hands on his towel, lean into his space without blinking.

And she didn't shy away.

That was something.

He let the air hit his chest and exhaled.

Chapter Text

Yaname changed outfits three times.

She told herself she wasn’t trying to impress him, and gave up on that pretense after the first two outfits. Everything she owned either felt too casual or made her look like she was playing dress-up for someone else's night. It didn’t help that he refused to tell her where they were going.

Eventually, she landed on a green midi dress with long sleeves and a soft swing to it—comfortable but flattering. She paired it with frilly socks, black Mary Janes, and a dark wool swing coat that made her feel put together. The kind of outfit that felt like her, just... sharpened. Intentional.

Still, when she caught her reflection while grabbing her bag, she paused.

Maybe a little cute. Maybe too cute?

She considered changing again. Just to be sure. Her hand was halfway to the zipper of her coat when the knock came.

It was soft. Two short raps.

She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until it left her in a single, sharp exhale. Then she opened the door.

Katsuki stood there in black. Henley, sleeves pushed to the elbows, the faintest trace of something clean and sharp in the air—cedar, maybe something spiced. Some kind of cologne. His hair was pushed back like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. His eyes swept over her once—neck to ankle—then settled somewhere just shy of her mouth.

“You look good,” he said, voice low, even.

Her stomach flipped.

“So do you,” she said, because it was true. Then immediately hated how soft her voice came out.

He didn’t comment. Just nodded toward the stairs. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” She locked up behind her and followed him down.

She'd never been to the parking lot under her building before. Didn’t have a car, didn’t drive. Living in the city, she’d always taken the train or walked—faster, easier, less responsibility. The concrete ramps and painted lines felt almost foreign.

His car was waiting near the back—sleek, black, unmarked. Expensive, but not flashy. The kind of quiet luxury you had to know how to spot. He opened the passenger door for her like it wasn’t a big deal, then climbed in on his side and started the engine.

No music. Just the low purr of the engine and the steady pulse of streetlights slipping past as they left the city behind.

She glanced over once, testing the silence. He seemed relaxed. Not chatty, but not closed off either. She shifted in her seat, angled her body toward him slightly, and let her arm rest where it brushed his on the console.

He didn’t pull away.

"Where are we going?" she asked, half teasing.

Katsuki smirked, eyes still on the road. "You'll see."

She made a face, but didn’t press it.

"Why’re we going so far?" she asked next, more softly. Her voice was quiet. Curious, not skeptical.

Katsuki shrugged without looking away from the road. “Out there’s quieter. Less press. No fans.”

She blinked. “Press?”

He glanced at her, brow lifting slightly. "You really don’t pay attention to any of it, do you."

“I mean—I know your name now,” she said dryly. “That’s progress.”

He didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

She added, a little more seriously, "I doubt anyone cares enough to recognize me if someone did recognize you. I'm not the story in that picture."

He didn’t answer right away. Just turned onto the highway, letting the tires hum beneath them.

“Maybe not yet,” he said. “But people notice who I’m with.”

She didn’t have an answer for that.

So she looked out the window and watched the city lights give way to open road, thinking—not for the first time—that she had no idea what she was getting into.

But her fingers were still resting against his. And he hadn’t let go.

After a beat, she glanced sideways, just enough to catch his profile in the dim light. "Are you suuure you won’t tell me where we’re going?"

He didn’t turn his head, but she saw the smirk tug at his mouth again. "Nope."

She huffed, but it was mostly for show. "You’re lucky I like surprises."

"I can work with that."

She turned back toward the window, the corners of her mouth still tugged upward, and let the last of the city lights slip past her reflection.

~

The town was about an hour north, tucked just off the expressway—but the change in atmosphere hit like a breath of fresh air. The buildings were older. Closer together. Bricks worn soft by salt and sun. There was no skyline, no flashing billboards, just the quiet buzz of street lamps and the occasional flicker of a lit storefront.

Yaname leaned her forehead briefly against the window. The streets out here looked clean. It felt wide open and cozy at the same time. Above them, between the buildings, she could see the stars starting to appear.

Katsuki parked on a side street and didn’t say anything at first. Just killed the engine and stepped out, waiting for her to follow.

The restaurant was a narrow two-story with soft lighting and thick wooden trim, the kind of place that smelled like grilled meat and woodsmoke before you even opened the door. No maître d’. No waiting crowd. Just a quiet nod from someone behind the counter who seemed to be expecting them.

They were led to a patio strung with dim overhead lights, tucked into the side garden. One corner table. Enough space between them and the next pair of diners to feel like no one was listening.

She slid into her chair and let out a breath. He didn’t miss it.

“Too much?”

“No,” she said quickly. Then: “Just… nice. I didn’t know it could be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Comfortable.” She trailed off, giving him a soft smile.

Katsuki didn’t answer right away. Just picked up the menu. “You good with spicy?”

She nodded. “I trust you.”

He glanced at her. Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. “Alright.”

He ordered for them both—grilled fish, blistered vegetables, fresh flatbread, and something broth-based she didn’t catch the name of. When the server disappeared, she raised an eyebrow.

“Do you bring a lot of people here?”

Katsuki leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely. “No.”

That was it. Just the one syllable.

She nodded slowly. “Okay.”

The food arrived in courses, small plates meant to be shared. Everything was hot, simple, rich with flavor. She tore into the bread without thinking, hunger catching up to her faster than expected.

He didn’t comment. Just passed her the roasted squash and asked, casually, “Worst night at work?”

She blinked. “That’s your dinner question?”

“You asked me where we were going with no context. Seems fair.”

She huffed, amused. “Alright. Let me think.”

She gave him one—midnight shift, three-car pileup, no med techs and one child coded twice in the hallway. As she spoke, he shifted forward slightly, forearms braced on the table like he was anchoring himself there, listening closely. He gave her one back—warehouse fire, collapsed stairwell, a rookie who panicked mid-evac and nearly cost them two more lives.

“I chewed him out so bad,” Katsuki said, picking at a skewer. “Thought he’d quit. Instead, he got transferred. Guy’s decent now. Just took getting lit up once.”

She tilted her head. “You always that encouraging?”

“I’m not here to hold hands.”

“No,” she said, wry. “You’re here to bring exhausted women to charming restaurants and feed them roast vegetables .”

He didn’t answer, but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.

The conversation slipped from work to other things—hobbies, movies, the general impossibility of sleep schedules when you worked night shifts. She mentioned her garden. He said he noticed she was usually outside when he woke up. That made her pause.

“I didn’t think you’d been watching that closely.”

Katsuki met her eyes. “I notice a lot.”

Silence stretched a beat too long. She took another bite, looked down at her plate. Her face felt hot.

“So,” she said, clearing her throat. “You always avoid dating in town, or just with civilians?”

That made him laugh—quiet, low. “Both.”

She smirked. “Why? We’re not that bad.”

“You don’t get it,” he said. “Some people want the job. Some people want the name. Some people want the story.” His jaw ticked once—barely a shift, but it gave him away. The topic didn’t sit easy.

“And you want…” she prompted.

He looked at her. “I don’t know what I want exactly. But it’s not that.”

She swallowed hard.

“I don’t date much either,” she admitted. “I’m picky.”

“Same.”

“Also I hate small talk.”

She grinned. “Last guy I went out with spent the whole dinner explaining the exact plot of a mech war anime, like I was going to take notes.”

Katsuki snorted. “You stay the whole time?”

“Hell no. I faked a work call and left before dessert.”

“You’re still here.”

There was a pause.

“I am,” she said.

He leaned back like he was giving her space—but his knee tapped lightly against hers under the table and stayed there. Not accidental. Not a test. Just there.

He wasn’t trying to charm her. Wasn’t posturing. This was who he was: certain, no effort wasted, no masks.

This wasn’t just a date. This was a choice.

She looked up, caught him watching her, and didn’t look away.

The air between them had shifted.

Not just tension. Not just attraction.

It had started that way—physical, sure. But somewhere between the broth and the bread, between the sharp little jokes and the way he actually listened, it was turning into something else. Something steadier. Something she could feel settling under her ribs.

~

After dinner, they walked. He didn’t ask—just stood from the table and looked toward the gate that opened into the orchard path. She followed, not needing the invitation spelled out.

The night air had cooled, but it wasn’t sharp. The path curved gently through rows of bare-branched trees strung with soft lights, their glow more atmospheric than useful. It smelled like bark and cold leaves and something else—clean earth, maybe, or the faint ghost of old fruit.

They didn’t speak at first. Just walked.

Eventually, he said, “My mom’s the reason I know how to cook.”

Yaname blinked. Looked at him sidelong.

“Really?”

He nodded. “Told me if I ever wanted to live alone, I had to earn it. Said if I couldn't cook, I'd have to move back in and let her run my life for me.”

Yaname smiled faintly. "She sounds like a force."

He huffed. "You have no idea."

They kept walking. Their steps quiet on the soft, grassy path.

She hesitated, then said, “I don’t really have anyone like that. No family. Not anymore.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“It’s not always tragic. It’s just... quiet.” She exhaled. “Sometimes I think I want to build something. Have people. But I hold that want so far away it doesn’t feel real anymore.”

He was watching her now, not walking ahead.

She laughed softly, more to herself than to him. “You ever want something so close you could walk to it, but you keep yourself just far enough away it feels safer not to try?”

“Yeah,” he said.

They rounded a bend, and the path opened onto a clearing. A small pond caught the light from the trees overhead—ripples soft and slow. She stepped toward it without thinking. The reflection was dark and fractured.

He came up beside her, hands in his pockets.

The silence stretched.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at her, gaze steady.

She felt it then—that charged pause, the weight of everything unspoken.

“Are you gonna keep looking at me like that,” she said, voice low, challenging, “or are you actually gonna do something?”

He stepped closer.

The kiss started soft. A hand at her waist. The brush of his mouth against hers—steady, sure, but not demanding. He didn’t overwhelm. He let her feel the intent.

Her hands slid up the front of his coat. Then to his neck.

She deepened it.

Tongue. Pressure. A sound low in her throat. Her fingers curled in his collar. She kissed like someone starved—not reckless, but hungry.

He caught her around the hips and backed her softly into a tree. His mouth opened under hers. He responded matching her heat. Willing. Anchored.

His hands mapped her waist. Slipped under her coat to find the curve of her back. One hand braced the trunk beside her head.

He broke the kiss first, breath high in his chest.

“Wasn’t planning on that,” he said, voice low.

Yaname’s lips parted, still catching breath. “I didn’t either. So I guess we’re even.”

~

They didn’t talk much on the drive home. She curled against the passenger door, half-smiling, coat wrapped around her. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other near the gearshift—where their fingers had brushed before.

At some point, her head tipped. She drifted off.

He let her sleep.

The lights of the city reappeared ahead of them, distant and steady.

Chapter Text

Katsuki didn’t mark the days. Not out loud. Not on paper. But his body knew the rhythm.

Her balcony door would slide open. Tea in her hands. Hair loose. A soft sound when she leaned against the railing. Most nights she didn’t say anything right away. Sometimes not at all.

But the kiss always came. Brief, quiet, just enough to pull the heat off his skin and settle something under his ribs. Then she'd smile, thumb grazing the edge of his jaw, and slip back inside.

He always stayed a moment longer.

They eased into it without talking about it. No big shift, no decision. Just the way routines started overlapping. Her hand brushing his when they cleared dishes. The way she passed him the sponge without looking. How she’d steal bites off his plate and smirk like she’d gotten away with something.

The rooftop garden was an unexpected routine. He didn’t remember deciding to join her. It just happened. Hands in the dirt, side by side. She’d hum under her breath sometimes. He didn’t say much. She didn’t ask him to. It was quiet, and it didn’t feel like he had to fill the space.

Once, she tucked a cherry tomato into the front pocket of his jacket and said, "Snack for later," grinning wide at him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn’t eat it. Not right away. Just held it, thumb dragging over the skin. He liked that she did shit like that.

It made something tight in his chest ease up.

She didn’t flinch around him. Didn’t ask for more than he could give. Never made him feel like he had to explain who he was, or why he was that way.

He wanted more of it. Of her.

Not in pieces. Not in passing.

All of her.

~

Patrol was quiet until it wasn’t.

The call came in—dispatch barking coordinates and quirks before Katsuki had even stepped off the curb.

High-speed pursuit, two vehicles, downtown loop. Three suspects: corrosive touch, field discharge, smoke body. Armed. One civilian vehicle involved.

He was already moving.

The chase cut sharp through city streets—night-life traffic weaving just enough to make it messy. Katsuki hit the outer lane at a sprint, boots slamming into concrete, sweat prickling at the base of his neck. His comm buzzed with status updates. He tuned most of it out.

One car—a silver compact—clipped a streetlamp and swerved hard toward a median divider. The other car, darker and heavier, tried to box it in, cutting too close to the opposite lane.

He adjusted his angle without thinking, running the path twice in his head before committing. Too many people on the sidewalks. Too many variables. He had to push fast, but clean.

Then he took the direct route.

He launched up and over a stopped small truck, landed hard on the first hood, and let one concussive blast launch him forward. The shockwave scattered the air, forcing both cars into reactive jerks. Enough for the gap.

He landed between them and braced.

The silver one tried to swerve—he planted one hand on the hood and fired, low and controlled. The blast redirected the momentum. Sent it spinning off-course, away from the crosswalk.

The darker car didn’t stop in time. It hit a row of empty parked bicycles and slammed to a halt.

Katsuki was already at the window.

Three suspects. One with scorched arms and a half-dissolved crowbar still stuck to his hand—some kind of corrosive quirk. Another twitching from a static field effect. The last one coughing smoke, his sleeves burned through, body starting to thin into haze.

That one gave him trouble. His quirk made him slippery, hard to pin. His first blast punched right through the body with no impact—just scattered vapor. The guy grinned, barely solid, and slipped around the broken edge of the car like mist through a grate. Katsuki growled and changed approach. He used a flare burst and the high heat forced re-solidification. Then he grabbed him by the collar before he could fully phase again. Slammed him down hard.

Fast. Clean.

No civilians hurt.

He relayed the all-clear into his comm, voice clipped, then stepped back as the support units arrived. Lights flared. Radios crackled. He let them take over.

Didn’t wait for the debrief. Didn’t need to hear them fumble through it.

He was already moving again.

Two hours later, the call came through about the kid.

Young, maybe six. Octopus-type quirk. Suctioned himself halfway up a high-rise and got stuck on a ledge.

By the time Katsuki got there, responders had cleared the street. Cameras were already out. One of the interns was trying to set up a jump mat—a last resort for jumpers. It wouldn’t stop a fall from breaking every bone, but it might keep someone breathing long enough to make it matter to a hospital. Katsuki knew the stats. Knew it wouldn’t save him if he fell wrong.

Didn’t matter. He was already there.

He launched himself straight up the outer wall, palms sparking in short bursts to control his angle and speed. The building's edge was sharp, wind high. He landed on the narrow ledge in a low crouch, boots finding purchase just shy of the drop. Balanced, quiet.

The kid’s skin was shifting colors in fast, uneven waves—purple, gray, pale green, bright red—like his body was trying to camouflage or scare something off. A panic reflex, like a cornered animal. Suction cups trembled against the glass. He’d half-suctioned himself to the building’s ledge, fingers and knees the only things anchoring him, his body dangling like he’d already started to fall. Horror was carved into his face—eyes wide, chest heaving, lips pale.

“D-don’t come closer,” the boy stammered. “I’ll f-fall—I'll fall if you move.”

Katsuki crouched.

“You’re not gonna fall,” he said, calm. Firm. “I’m here.”

The suction pads on the boy’s fingers were already overworked. He was clinging by instinct, panic doing most of the holding.

Katsuki didn’t try to coax him.

He just reached out and said, “Grab my arm.”

The kid blinked. Then moved.

Katsuki hoisted him up slow, careful. The boy’s suction cups were still clinging to his shirt, weak but hanging on. Let him cling to his shoulder the whole way down. Didn’t say anything when the kid’s nose started bleeding from exertion. Just kept walking until they reached the ground.

A woman—mid-thirties, face pale—sprinted across the barricade.

“My son—”

Katsuki passed the boy into her arms. She collapsed to her knees right there on the pavement, cradling him tight like she couldn’t believe he was real. Her hands shook. Her breath came out in loud, ragged sobs as she pressed his head to her chest.

“Thank you,” she choked. “Oh my god—thank you.”

Katsuki nodded once.

Then walked past the interns, past the handler holding out a clipboard. The reporters were already starting to close in—cameras raised, someone barking questions, flashes going off like they were at a red carpet.

He kept going.

No one stopped him.

He didn’t need the headline.

~

The locker room was quieter than usual. Late shift turnover, a few sidekicks rinsing off in the far stalls, the occasional locker door clanging shut. Katsuki didn’t bother with small talk. Just peeled off his shirt, slung his gear into the bench, and headed to the sink.

That’s when he saw it. A deep gash along his right brow, half-dried blood crusted into the corner of his eye. Must’ve happened during the car chase. He squinted at it in the mirror. Not bad enough for a med tech. But it would scar if he left it.

He dabbed at it with a rough paper towel, jaw set.

Eijiro’s voice cut through the quiet. “You look like you kissed a street sign.”

Katsuki glanced over. Eijiro leaned in the doorway, towel slung over one shoulder, half-grinning. Already changed.

“Didn’t notice,” Katsuki muttered.

“Hard not to. You’re leaking.”

Katsuki grunted and turned back to the mirror.

“You off tomorrow?” Eijiro asked, tone easy.

“Yeah.”

“You wanna hit the market? That fish place by the station’s got bluefin again.”

Katsuki hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to. Just because he already had plans.

“Can’t.”

Eijiro raised an eyebrow. “You busy?”

Katsuki didn’t look up. “Got plans.”

That earned a pause. Eijiro’s smile shifted, almost knowing.

“Yeah?” he said.

There was a beat. Katsuki just grunted.

Eijiro gave him a longer look—brows ticking like he wanted to say more—but let it lie.

Eijiro didn’t push. Just clapped him once on the shoulder—light, like he meant it. “Good. You seem... good.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Not this time.

They left together. No fanfare. Just the click of lockers and the quiet hum of vending machines echoing down the hall.

~

When he got to her place, the balcony door was already cracked open. She’d left it that way.

He stepped inside without announcing himself. The lights were low, kitchen lamp on, a single mug still warm on the table. She was curled on the couch in the same blanket, eyes flicking up as he entered—soft, alert, mug half-finished on the little table between them.

Then they landed on the cut above his brow.

She stood. “What the hell—”

He waved her off, stepping past the glass door. “It’s fine.”

“Sit.”

He didn’t argue. Just dropped into the nearest chair and let her crouch in front of him, thumb brushing the dried blood near his temple.

“Why didn’t you get this looked at?” she muttered.

“Didn’t feel it.”

She huffed, pressing two fingers gently to the edge of the cut. “That doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

Her quirk lit up on contact. Warm, steady. Familiar.

He felt the sting of the cut one moment. Then gone.

She winced. Didn’t say anything, but he saw it in her jaw.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

She dropped her hand from his face and sat back on her heels, rubbing her fingers absently against her palm.

He watched her. Quiet.

Then, after a beat: “That was the first time you’ve used it on me.”

She nodded, still focused. “Yeah.”

“What’s it feel like?”

She glanced at him, then back down. “Like pulling the pain through my mind. I don’t just patch things—I take them. For a second it’s mine. Then it burns out.”

He stared at her. “That’s fucked.”

She gave a tired smile. “I’ve trained for it. Pain tolerance drills, endurance work. It still hurts—it just doesn’t take me out anymore.”

“I saw you flinch,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

He let the silence stretch.

Then, softer, “What’s it feel like for you?”

He looked at her. Really looked.

“Warm,” he said finally. “But also like you.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. So she didn’t try.

Instead, she stood. Took the mug from the table and moved toward the kitchen, slow. Shoulders heavy.

He followed.

Inside, she poured the last of the tea into the sink and rinsed the mug like she couldn’t stand to leave things undone. Then leaned on the counter, quiet.

He stepped up behind her. Not touching.

She turned, finally meeting his eyes.

“Will you stay?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

She reached for the light switch, but didn’t flip it.

They crossed to the bed without another word. She peeled back the blanket, curled under, and left space for him like she didn’t even have to think about it.

He lay beside her, chest to her back, one hand resting just above her hip. She was warm.

Her breathing slowed first. His didn’t.

He stayed awake long after she settled.

Thinking about how easy it had started to feel. How close it was to something he wanted. How badly he didn’t want to lose it.

He didn’t have a word for what this was.

But whatever it was, it was his.

Chapter Text

The blinds let in a slow spill of light across her sheets, striping the comforter in pale gold and casting long shadows over the wall. The room smelled faintly of warm cotton and last night’s tea. Katsuki stirred once, then settled again, cheek pressed into the crook of his arm, one leg kicked halfway out from under the blanket. His breath stayed even.

Yaname didn’t move. Not yet.

She leaned against the doorframe, mug in hand, sleeves pushed up. Her hair was still damp from the shower, curling at the ends. The cat had followed her in and now perched at the foot of the bed, tail flicking like this was routine now.

He looked younger when he slept. Less guarded. One hand tucked beneath the pillow. His other lay relaxed near the pillow, fingers half-curled, knuckles rough with scarring that looked like it never had time to fully heal. He hadn’t drifted to the edge of the bed or curled in like a guest. Just stayed there—still, steady, clearly it hadn’t crossed his mind to leave.

She took another sip of tea. Her chest felt too full. Like she couldn’t hold everything she felt and stay perfectly still at the same time.

Eventually, his eyes blinked open, unfocused at first. He squinted toward the light, then found her.

“Mornin',” he muttered, voice thick with sleep.

She smiled around the rim of her mug. “Hey.”

She crossed the room and passed him the tea. He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, and took it without complaint. Sipped. Winced.

“Still hot.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I like it that way.”

He gave her a look. Not annoyed. Just faintly amused, like he was too tired to argue but aware she was baiting him anyway.

She turned and padded barefoot toward the kitchen. “I’ll make something. You still eat eggs, right?”

A grunt followed. Somewhere between yes and don’t be ridiculous.

By the time she cracked the second egg into the pan, he’d wandered in. His hair was a mess. His shirt clung in places it hadn’t settled yet. Watching him pull it over his head made her stomach pull tight. The stretch of muscle, the way the fabric clung, the brief flash of skin—she caught herself staring. And maybe he knew. Maybe he was doing it on purpose. He never said a word, but he didn’t rush either. Like he didn’t mind her eyes on him. Like he liked it.

He didn’t hover. Just set the table. Grabbed forks. Shifted around her without bumping or asking.

They ate at her table. It wasn’t fancy—small, old, tucked against the window—but it felt like the right place for him to be. Katsuki sat without making a thing of it, one arm draped over the back of his chair, fork in the other hand. The cat paced beneath their feet like someone might drop a miracle.

At one point, their shoulders bumped.

She didn’t move away.

He didn’t either.

They didn’t talk about the night before. Or the weight of his arm around her waist, holding her like something that might slip if he let go.

The silence wasn’t heavy.

But it was starting to hum.

After a moment, he leaned back in his chair and looked at her. "What do you wanna do today?"

She raised an eyebrow. "We always end up doing my kind of things—gardening, books, quiet stuff. What about you? What do you do when you're off-duty?"

He shrugged. "Train. Mostly. Keeps me sharp."

She leaned forward on her elbows. "You like it that much?"

"Yeah." He scratched the back of his neck, then looked at her again. "I was gonna bring it up anyway. Thought maybe I’d show you a few things. Wouldn’t be a bad idea, working nights the way you do."

Yaname blinked. That wasn’t what she expected, but it didn’t feel like a brush-off. More like an offer.

"Self-defense?"

"Jujitsu," he said. "Just the basics. How to break holds. Use leverage. Nothing fancy."

"You trying to toughen me up?"

He gave her a dry look. "You’re already tough. I just want you to have more tools."

Her chest tugged, slow and low.

Then he added, almost casual, "I’ll make it fun."

She smiled. "Okay. Yeah. Show me."

He didn’t smile back, but she saw the flicker of something in his eyes.

"Finish your tea first," she added. "You're not showing me anything if you're still half asleep."

They finished eating slowly, not in a rush. The kind of pace that didn’t need filling. When the last plate hit the sink and the tea was down to dregs, Katsuki stood, stretching until something in his shoulder cracked.

“Wear something light,” he said, already moving toward the door. “You’ll want to be able to move.”

She raised a brow. “Like leggings and a t-shirt, or light like I’m walking into a sauna?”

He didn’t answer. Just smirked and disappeared into the hall.

She changed quickly—loose tee, joggers, hair pulled back. Nothing fancy, just something she wouldn’t mind sweating in. When she came back out, he was standing near her door, barefoot, arms crossed like he'd just been waiting. He gave her a once-over, then jerked his chin toward the hallway.

Her cat trailed behind him, weaving aggressively around his ankles.

“You’ve got a fan,” she said, grabbing her water bottle.

He looked down at the cat, who promptly flopped onto its side like a fainting diva and tried to paw at his boot.

Katsuki crouched, gave it a quick scratch behind the ear, then stood like it never happened.

“He likes you,” she said, amused.

He grunted. “Dumbass tried to bite me the first time I stayed over.”

“Yeah, but now he follows you around like you’re made of tuna.”

“He’s got low standards.”

“Mm. Or good instincts.”

She held the door open. He didn’t say anything. Just brushed past, steady and close.

His apartment was only a few steps away, but something about walking into it with him—midmorning, quiet—felt different this time. While she stepped inside and slipped off her shoes, he unrolled a thick black mat from behind the couch and flattened it across the living room floor. It made a soft, heavy sound against the hardwood, the kind that meant he’d done this a hundred times before.

He walked past her, pulled off his hoodie, and tossed it onto the couch.

"You're really just gonna strip down and act like it's no big deal?" she said, stepping onto the mat, unable to help the small curl of a smile.

He gave her a look. "You're gonna have to focus, or you're gonna spend the whole time pinned."

He snorted and knelt to check the alignment of the corner. She watched him move—precise, efficient. Every motion controlled, even now. He didn’t posture. He didn’t explain things before they mattered. He just moved through them.

He straightened and looked at her. "We’ll go slow. Start with stance. You ever done anything like this before?"

She shook her head. "Closest I’ve come is restraining a drunk parent in the ER."

"Good instincts, then," he said. "Come here. I’ll show you where to place your weight."

She stepped into his space, and for the first time all morning, the hum in her chest picked up like a second heartbeat.

He placed one hand lightly at her hip, the other at her shoulder blade, and guided her into a neutral stance. "Feet a little wider. Knees soft. Keep your weight centered. Like you're waiting for someone to push you."

She adjusted, shifting her balance, and he gave a small nod. "Good."

Then, without warning, he pressed gently against her side. Not hard, just enough to test.

She swayed.

"That’s what we fix," he said, voice low. "Everything starts with balance."

He circled around her, brushing her elbow to signal an angle change. "If someone grabs you, don’t try to win with strength. You won’t. You shift your weight and make them chase it."

He stepped in behind her, close. "Try this. If I grab here—"

His hand wrapped gently around her wrist.

"—you rotate out like this."

He guided her through the motion. Slow. Measured. Her forearm turned under his grip, breaking the angle, slipping free. They repeated it. Once, twice. On the third time, she moved just a little faster.

“Nice,” he said.

“Didn’t think I’d be this into escaping bad guys before noon,” she murmured.

He didn’t smile, but she caught the corner of his mouth pulling faintly.

“Next one’s from a front hold. Think of it like a bear hug. Common street grab.”

He moved behind her again, arms encircling her just under the chest—but not touching skin. His forearms hovered just above her ribs.

“Is this okay?”

She nodded. "Yeah."

“Break it by shifting your hips and dropping your weight. Then hook a foot behind mine. Like this.”

She did, a little uncertain at first, but he stayed steady. Patient.

When she followed the steps again, more confident, she managed to hook behind his heel and shift his balance just enough to make him stagger.

He caught himself with a soft grunt. “Good. Do it again.”

They moved together, close, then reset. Again. And again. Her breath started coming quicker. His did too.

On the next pass, she turned a little too fast, and their bodies caught—her chest against his shoulder, his thigh sliding between hers.

They froze.

Neither of them moved.

She could feel the heat of him through her shirt. The press of his ribs against her side. Their breath was the only sound in the room.

“Should I try the next part?” she said, voice quiet.

His eyes met hers. Dark. Steady.

“Yeah,” he said. “Go for it. Let’s see what you remember.”

She moved first, uncertain but deliberate. He let her ease him down—slow, controlled—until he was on his back, arms braced, body loose beneath her.

She straddled his hips, hands on his chest for balance. It wasn’t a power play. It wasn’t even a real pin. But the second her knees settled against the mat and their weight aligned, the air changed.

Katsuki didn’t move. Just looked up at her, still and unreadable.

“What now?” she asked, voice low.

“Shift my center,” he said. “You can’t hold a position without control. Try to rock me forward—keep your base low. Make me adjust.”

She did. Rolled her weight just enough to test him. He let it happen, let her think for half a beat that she had it—

Then he moved.

Fast, but not rough. One arm hooked her waist, the other swept behind her knee. In a single, fluid shift, he reversed their positions, flipping her onto her back and pinning her with a forearm braced lightly across her ribs.

His breath was shallow now. So was hers.

“Could you get out of this?” he asked.

She didn’t answer right away.

“Probably not,” she said finally.

He didn’t move. Didn’t press harder. Just held her there. Close. Solid. His eyes dragged over her face—mouth, cheeks, lashes, collarbone—like he couldn’t believe he had her in his hands and didn’t want to waste a second of it.

“Katsuki,” she said, barely a whisper.

He swallowed. His voice came back low. “Yeah.”

She didn’t look away. One hand slid up his arm, slow, steady, until her fingers found his jaw.

“Do you want me?” she asked.

A breath.

“Because I want you.”

He blinked once, like she’d hit a nerve he didn’t know was exposed. His hand slid from her ribs to her hip, firm but not rushed.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

He didn’t kiss her right away. Just looked at her—really looked. Like he needed to be sure this was real. That she meant it. That she wouldn’t take it back.

When she didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, he leaned in. His mouth brushed hers, soft at first.

Then her fingers curled against the back of his neck.

And that was it.

He deepened it—slow, possessive, like he’d been holding himself back for weeks and finally let go. His hand cupped her thigh. Her breath hitched. They moved together like instinct.

The tension didn’t explode. It poured. Controlled. Certain. Like neither of them had anywhere else to be.

But after a minute, he broke the kiss. His forehead rested against hers.

“But not here,” he murmured. Voice hoarse.

Then he stood, still close, and reached for her hand to lead her to the bedroom.

The hallway was short. Dim. Her heart beat louder than their footsteps. His fingers stayed wrapped around hers until they crossed the threshold.

His room was spare, dark sheets and quiet air. Nothing showy, nothing soft. But the second he closed the door behind them, it changed.

He turned to her, slow. Gave her a moment. One more beat of silence to walk it back.

She didn’t.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, hands cupping her face. Then her jaw. Then her hips. Her fingers slipped beneath his shirt, palms skimming heat and scar and muscle. He let her tug it off. Didn’t rush. Didn’t stop.

Her back met the edge of the bed, and he came with her, careful, braced. They didn’t speak. The air was already too thick with it—everything they hadn’t said laid out in the shape of every touch.

His mouth traced the curve of her throat. Her hands found his shoulders, dug in. Her shirt came off with a quiet breath between them. When he looked at her, really looked, it wasn’t hunger. It was reverence.

Clothes peeled away. Skin met skin. Her breath hitched when he kissed down her sternum, down her stomach, like he couldn’t stop himself. He asked with his hands—each touch patient, each shift of weight practiced, like he wanted her to feel every second of it.

When he sank between her thighs, it wasn’t rushed. Just sure. Like this was something he’d thought about. Wanted to get right.

He kissed her slowly—mouth open, tongue confident but unhurried. He licked into her like he was learning her from the inside out. Her hands slid into his hair, fingers curling tight against his scalp as his mouth moved lower again.

When she gasped, he didn’t stop. When her hips lifted, he held her steady, mouth relentless, tongue dragging where she needed it most. He read her responses like a blueprint—tightened his grip when her thighs trembled, backed off just enough to keep her teetering, then surged again until her legs shook.

She said his name. Soft. Almost startled. Like it slipped out of her without permission.

He looked up. Didn’t speak. Just waited, lips still slick with her.

Her chest rose and fell. She reached for him.

He came back up slowly, body heavy, solid, bracing himself beside her with one hand.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low but steady.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Please.”

She didn’t need to say more. He kissed her again, deeper now, as he pushed inside—careful, steady, controlled. Her breath caught. His jaw clenched. Their eyes stayed locked until she exhaled and nodded.

And then he moved.

Not fast. Not rough. But like a man who’d been waiting for this, aching for it. His rhythm found hers, and the world narrowed to heat and breath and friction. Her hands roamed—shoulders, spine, the curve of his waist. She pulled him closer. He groaned against her throat.

The room felt too quiet. Sacred.

Every thrust landed like a vow he didn’t know how to speak aloud.

And she took it. Matched it. Matched him.

When she came, it was with his name in her mouth and her nails in his skin.

When he followed, it was silent—just a shudder, a breath, a hand fisting in the sheet beside her head.

They lay there for a long time, bodies still tangled, breath soft in the quiet.

She touched his hair first. Just her fingertips at his temple, brushing back damp strands.

He didn’t speak, just let himself rest against her until his breathing slowed. Then he shifted, careful, and lowered himself beside her, one arm draped across her waist.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

She turned her head just enough to look at him. "Yeah. More than."

A beat passed.

He traced a slow line over her hip. "This wasn’t just one time."

She snorted, soft and certain. "God, I hope not."

Something in her chest let go. Her hand found his where it rested against her side.

She looked at him. Steady. Sure.

“I’m in,” she said.

His fingers curled around hers. Firm. Certain.

“Me too,” he said.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t every night. Not even most. Their shifts didn’t sync as often as they'd like. But when it lined up—when the calendar cracked open just wide enough—they found each other like muscle memory.

He brought his paperwork home now. Not all of it. Just enough to give them this: a few hours off the clock, shared in the hush between street noise and sunrise.

Tonight, though, they were both off. No calls, no countdown to separate departures. Just her reading beside him while he caught up on mission logs, the quiet between them easy and unhurried.

She shifted beside him, the soft rustle of a blanket and cotton shirt. When he didn’t look up, she bumped his knee with hers. Once. Twice.

“You’re not even blinking,” she said, voice low with mock concern. “That tablet owe you money or something?”

He didn’t look away, just shifted his jaw like he was working through the sentence in his head and said, “Trying to get this done while I can still see straight.”

But she was already in his periphery, pulling focus without even trying. He could feel her shifting, the heat of her body angling closer. He didn’t look over. He wouldn’t. He knew that curve of her smirk, the weight of her staring when she was up to something. Which made ignoring her feel like holding back an explosion.

She folded her book closed and set it aside. Slid off the couch and onto the floor, smooth and unbothered. Crawled between his knees.

“I can help with that,” she offered cheekily. Her fingers ghosted along his thigh.

He didn’t look down. Just tapped something on the screen. “I'm working.”

He stared at her. Deadpan. “Yaname.”

“Mm?” Her fingers tugged at the waistband of his sweats.

“I really need to finish this.”

She leaned in, dragged her mouth up the inside of his thigh, and said, not looking up, “Then finish it later.”

He sighed like it was a personal inconvenience. Pretended to read another line. Then another. Her mouth brushed his thigh again, lips soft and deliberate. He reached over her head like she wasn’t there, scrolled with one finger.

“You’re not gonna win this,” she said, voice low. “Just letting you know.”

He didn’t answer. Just tilted the screen a little farther away from her. Like he was digging in.

He already knew she’d win. That was the thing. From the second she closed her book, he knew exactly how this would go. But that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy the performance—watching her act like she was getting away with something, like she was cracking him open piece by piece. She was so damn sure of herself when she wanted him, and fuck if it wasn’t the cutest thing he’d ever seen.

She huffed against his skin. Bit him, just barely. He twitched.

“Still working,” he said, deadpan.

She pulled the waistband of his sweats down with exaggerated care. Kissed the crease of his hip.

“Working on what,” she murmured. “Dying of stubbornness?”

He muttered something under his breath. She caught the word relentless.

She smiled. Knew exactly what she was doing, and so did he. But he didn’t stop her.

He watched her lower her head, felt his breath catch before she even touched him. Her tongue dragged slow along the underside of his cock, deliberate and warm. He cursed under his breath, hand tightening in the couch cushion. Then her mouth closed around him, and his head tipped back with a quiet, broken exhale.

It was good. Too good. The kind of slow, focused attention that made it hard to keep a thought in his head. Her mouth worked him with soft pressure, steady rhythm. Tongue slick, lips warm, cheeks hollowing just enough to pull a grunt from him.

He looked down, watched her—one hand wrapped around the base of him, the other braced on his thigh. Her eyes were half-lidded, focused. Her pace didn't rush. She wasn't teasing. She was fucking intent.

He should’ve stopped her. Should’ve pulled her up and fucked her stupid for even trying this while he was mid-sentence. But instead he gripped the edge of the couch and let his hips tilt up into her mouth.

“Yaname—fuck. Don’t— stop—”

She hummed around him. He groaned, deep and quiet.

He didn’t know when he stopped pretending he could hold out. Just knew the tension climbed fast, low and hot and hard to control. Knew he wasn’t going to last much longer. Knew she didn’t care.

When he came, it wasn’t loud. Just a tight, ragged gasp and a hand in her hair. His muscles locked, then loosened all at once. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

After, she wiped her mouth and crawled back up into his side. Smug as hell, even if she didn’t say it out loud. He could feel it in the way she settled into him like she’d won something.

He wrapped an arm around her without looking. Let his heart slow. Let himself breathe.

His tablet was still glowing on the table. He didn’t even glance at it.

He didn’t reach for it again.

Not yet.

~

The knock came like a threat.

Not polite. Not hesitant. Just a full-force, open-palmed barrage against the door. Sharp enough to rattle the frame.

Katsuki blinked, head still tipped back against the couch. Yaname’s breath rose and fell slow and even beside him.

“Bakugoooooo,” Denki’s voice rang out through the door. “Open up before we break something!”

Katsuki didn’t move. Just glared in the direction of the sound like he could disintegrate them through the wall.

More knocking. Louder.

“You’ve been ghosting us all week!” Eijiro added. “We’re staging an intervention!”

He barely had time to mutter “Don’t you fucking dare” before the lock clicked.

Of course Eijiro still had a key.

“Don’t you fu—” he started, but the door was already swinging open.

He didn’t even get the chance to stand. Denki spilled in first, loud and eating chips. Mina followed on his heels, arms full of a glittery gift bag and no respect for boundaries. Eijiro stepped in last, holding up a plastic takeout sack like a white flag.

“I brought food,” Eijiro said. “And a reason for you to stop being a hermit.”

Mina’s voice chimed right behind him. “And I brought sake!.”

“I brought vibes,” Sero called from the hallway, then strolled in like he owned the place.

Katsuki pushed up on one elbow, hissed low across the room— “Oi—cut the shit. Shut the hell up. She’s sleeping.”

They didn’t hear. Or didn’t care.

Denki turned toward the couch.

“Hey, what—”

He stopped. Blinked. The chip bag crinkled in his hand.

Mina turned. Froze.

Eijiro stared.

Yaname, fast asleep, blanket tucked under her chin, bare legs curled against Katsuki’s thigh. Her face relaxed, his shirt slipping wide off one shoulder.

The room went dead quiet.

Mina recovered first.

“Oh my god,” she whispered. “You’ve been domesticated.”

Katsuki’s eyes snapped to Denki first, then Mina. One look that said one thing: don’t.

“Say one more thing,” he muttered low, “and I’ll throw you off the damn balcony.”

Yaname shifted.

It was subtle at first — just a twitch of her brow, a furrow of confusion, like her brain registered the change in volume before anything else. Her head lifted slightly. Then her eyes cracked open.

She blinked once. Twice.

Then groaned softly and turned her face into Katsuki’s side like she could physically will the noise away.

Katsuki didn’t look at them. Just kept his eyes on her.

She was waking up slow, all bare skin and soft edges, completely unaware she was about to be immortalized in group chat hell.

He felt something coil tight in his chest. Not embarrassment. Not quite.

Just the sense that this—her, here, like this—was his.

And now it wasn’t private anymore.

Denki was staring at her like he’d discovered a wild animal on the couch.

Yaname lifted her head again, slower this time. Squinted toward the crowd of strangers now occupying her field of vision. Her voice came out rough, low, still half-asleep:

“…What the fuck.”

A chip crunched loudly in the silence.

“Hi,” Mina said, far too brightly.

Yaname didn’t move. Just stared at them. Then down at herself. The blanket. The bare legs. The fact that she was fully, unmistakably in Bakugo’s shirt.

Then she looked at him.

Katsuki met her gaze without flinching, jaw tight, eyes steady. He wasn’t embarrassed. Not exactly. But the possessiveness was there—hot and quiet behind his ribs. He wasn’t going to explain her. Wasn’t going to soften it. If anything, the only thing holding him back from pulling her closer was the fact that she hadn’t asked.

She sighed through her nose.

“If I’d known I was meeting the peanut gallery,” she said flatly, “I’d have worn pants.”

Denki choked on a laugh. Mina actually clapped. Eijiro made a strangled noise that might’ve been agreement or fear.

Katsuki sighed through his nose. Fine. Cat was out of the bag now.

“At least get the fuck out long enough for her to put pants on,” he said, already reaching for the blanket to cover her legs again.

Eijiro winced, nodded, and started herding the others back toward the hallway with a series of pointed looks and elbow nudges.

“Alright, alright,” he said, nudging Denki first. “Let’s give her some room. We’ll just… uh. Go stand in the hallway and think about our life choices.”

He paused by the couch, dropping the takeout bag gently on the table. “Sorry,” he said, quiet this time, eyes flicking to Yaname. “Didn’t mean to bust in on your night.”

Once the door shut behind them, the room quieted like a switch flipped. Katsuki sat back down on the couch, jaw still set tight, and handed her a pair of his sweats from the armrest.

"You good?"

Yaname nodded, already pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders as she sat up. Her voice was low, still rough with sleep. “That was… an entrance.”

He huffed. “Could’ve warned you. They don’t knock like people.”

She laughed under her breath and slipped the sweats on under the blanket. “I’ve been curious what your people are like. Just… pictured it going a little differently.”

He glanced at the closed door, then back at her. “I can still sneak you out the back. Jump off the balcony.”

She snorted. “Tempting.”

Then, softer: “But no. I’m good.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her for a beat, then leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead—brief, steady, all-in.

Then he stood, squared his shoulders, and moved to unlock the door.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Let the idiots back in.”

The door opened, and the hallway crowd reappeared with zero shame. Denki reentered first, already halfway through a soda. Mina followed with the sake bottle in hand, and Sero strolled in. Eijiro brought up the rear, grinning.

Katsuki sat back on the couch, letting Yaname tuck herself under his arm without thinking. His body moved first. Shielding. Steady.

They hovered for a second, like they weren’t sure how to reset.

Katsuki broke the silence. “You came all this way. Sit down. Eat. Don’t make it weirder than it already is.”

Eijiro grinned and dropped onto the floor. “Yes, sir.”

Denki headed for the kitchen. “I’m heating this up.”

Mina plopped down beside Eijiro, sake bottle still in hand. She leaned in toward Katsuki, voice lowered just enough to be for him. “So… what’s her name?”

Katsuki didn’t look away from Yaname. “This is Yaname.”

Mina looked at her, softer this time. “You alright Yaname? Sorry about the bombardment.”

“I’m okay,” she said eventually. “Just a little surprised.”

“That’s fair,” Sero offered from the arm of the chair. “We’re a lot.”

The group laughed, and tension broke like a snapped thread.

Conversation shifted. Takeout was unpacked. Someone found a playlist.

Mina passed him a plate like it was some kind of peace offering. He took it without looking at her. Didn’t need a peace offering. But she wasn’t wrong either. “So. How long has this been a thing?”

Katsuki didn’t blink. “Dunno. Just happened.”

That earned a round of looks, but no one pressed.

He kept one arm around her while fielding the rest of their questions—half about her, half about where the hell he’d been.

He answered more than they expected.

Yaname didn’t speak much at first, but every time she did, she earned a grin, a laugh, a curious glance. Eventually, she uncurled enough to steal one of the dumplings from the box in Mina’s lap.

“You’re braver than I thought,” Mina said, nudging the box closer.

Yaname glanced up at Katsuki’s arm still slung around her. “I’m adjusting.”

By the time Denki spilled soy sauce on the rug and Eijiro started debating which pro hero could win a drinking contest, she was actually smiling.

They weren’t hers. Not yet. But they were his. And that counted for something.

Katsuki watched it unfold and didn’t try to name the feeling. Just let it settle.

Then Denki, predictably, leaned back against the counter with a grin. “So wait—does this mean you’re bringing her to the reunion this year?”

Mina’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god, yes. Momo and Iida already booked the place. You’re not bailing.”

Katsuki scowled. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

He felt Yaname glance up at him.

They hadn’t talked about the reunion specifically, but they’d circled around the real thing more than once.

What it meant to be seen. What it would cost if people started putting faces to his name in a different context—outside the costume, off the battlefield. With her.

And now she was looking at him with that quiet, steady calculation he was starting to recognize. Not doubt or fear. Just facts.

She leaned in, voice low. Just for him.

“You sure this kind of thing doesn’t… leak?”

Before he could answer, Sero cut in—light but not unkind.

“You can’t keep her hidden forever, man. Not with how agency PR is always sniffing around you.”

Katsuki’s jaw flexed. He didn’t rise to it. Didn’t bristle. He just exhaled slowly and said, “It’s not about hiding.”

But he didn’t say more than that.

Mina, jumped in. “Relax, all of you. Momo and Iida book a new place every year. No leaks. No fan cams. No drunk interns from JUMP Weekly. It’s just us.”

She looked at Yaname. Smiled, easy.

“You’d be safe. Swear it.”

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut behind her with a soft finality, the kind that belonged to quiet mornings and clean routines. Yaname slung her bag over one shoulder and bent to zip her boots, hair still damp from her shower, mouth tasting faintly of mint and black tea.

Katsuki stepped out of his apartment just as she straightened. His key ring jingled once, then stilled as he caught sight of her in the hallway.

"Mornin'," he said, voice low and a little rough around the edges.

She gave a half-smile. "Hey."

They met in the middle, between their doors, the way they had every morning this week. No schedule discussed. No plan made. Just something they both did now.

He leaned in and kissed her—soft, certain, with the kind of confidence that didn’t ask permission because it already knew the answer, warm and steady.

She flushed. Every time she thought she’d gotten used to him, something small knocked her off balance again.

He stepped back like nothing had shifted, shoulders already squaring, hand sliding keys into his pocket.

"Have a good night," he said.

"You too."

He headed for the garage without looking back. She watched him go—broad shoulders, unbothered stride—until he turned the corner and disappeared down the stairwell.

Yaname tugged her coat tighter and made her way to the elevator, heading down alone. Katsuki would take the garage stairs. They always split here.

The sky was pale with early light, and the street below still carried the hush of not-quite-rush-hour. She stood at the corner, hands buried deep in her pockets, and felt her phone buzz once against her hip. Probably a shift update. She didn’t check it right away.

The bus rolled up, headlights slicing through the last of the morning mist. She climbed on, took her usual seat by the window, and let the city blur past as the day began.

She liked this part of the morning—the slow, quiet reset of the world. The familiar stops. The slight sway of the route. It used to be the only part of her day that felt consistent. Now it was just the first part.

She found herself thinking about the way Katsuki looked when they both rolled out of bed late morning—sleep-creased, still warm from the sheets, hair damp from the shower. He never rushed, not with her. The way he kissed her goodbye—like it was fact—had worked its way into her morning the same way coffee had. Familiar. Steady. Inevitable. Keys in one hand, phone still ignored in the other.

He was part of her routine now. Embedded into it without ceremony. And she didn’t mind that. Not at all. That wasn’t the part giving her pause.

The bus rolled to a slow stop near a major intersection, and as it pulled away again, she caught sight of one of the hero posters plastered against the construction wall: Dynamight, mid-pose. Arms crossed. Scowl locked in like muscle memory.

She huffed a laugh under her breath. It was the same photo they used every time.

How the hell had she missed that before? She must’ve walked past it a hundred times.

It made her smile. But the smile faded.

If they kept going like this, people would notice. Not just friends. Not just neighbors. People.

And then what? No more quiet mornings. No more buses. No more moving through the city like she belonged to no one.

She was already being pulled in. Not by him—he didn’t ask for that. But by the sheer gravity of who he was.

She passed another poster. Then a news screen in a shop window cycling through footage from a recent rescue—grainy but unmistakable.

It was surreal. Her world folding into his, frame by frame.

A man across the aisle glanced at the screen, then at her. Not long—just a second too many. His eyes flicked back to his phone.

Maybe it was nothing. Just timing. But the air felt a little thinner after that.

She told herself she should bring it up. Say something. Ask where he thought this was going.

But she didn’t.

Not yet.

~

Mira was already elbow-deep in paperwork by the time Yaname reached the nurse’s station. She looked up, bright-eyed and caffeinated, and grinned like she’d been waiting.

"So," she said, dragging the word out, "How’s hot neighbor guy?"

Yaname rolled her eyes and started logging into the terminal. "We’re not calling him that."

"What, too accurate?"

She tried for dry but casual. "It’s definitely not a fling anymore."

That got Mira’s attention. Her brows shot up. "Oh?"

Yaname kept her eyes on the screen. "We see each other. Regularly."

Mira leaned on her elbow. "That sounds suspiciously like a relationship."

Yaname smiled, but didn’t answer.

Mira grinned. "You like him."

"Did I say otherwise?"

"No," she said brightly. "And that’s what makes it so fun."

Yaname snorted and reached for a chart. Mira didn’t press. Not really. She teased, but she never asked the kind of questions that needed more than a yes or no. Yaname liked that about her. They could skim the surface and still feel like they knew each other.

"Just promise me he’s not secretly married," Mira added. "Or worse—an influencer."

Yaname gave her a look. "Absolutely not."

"Then I approve."

That was it. Conversation over. Back to work like nothing had been said at all.

~

The pediatric wing was quiet when she got the call. A boy had taken a fall in one of the therapy rooms—fractured his arm. Normally not a big deal. But this kid was scheduled for surgery in the morning. Osteosarcoma. The break could disqualify him if it wasn’t stabilized in time.

The attending looked grim. "We’ll try to get him on the imaging table, but I don’t like the risk."

"I can do it," Yaname said.

The room quieted.

The doctor looked over, skeptical. "You sure that’s a good idea? If the bone sets wrong, the surgery’s off."

Yaname nodded once. "It won’t."

He didn’t press. Just stepped back and let her work.

Nobody argued. Nobody else volunteered either, and they didn’t ask how it worked.

She preferred it that way.

The boy was maybe seven. Small for his age. He was lying stiff in the hospital bed, arm wrapped in gauze and soft restraints to keep it still. He looked more confused than afraid.

Yaname knelt beside him and rested her hand gently over the fracture site. "This is gonna feel weird," she said, soft. "But it’ll help."

The hum started low—deep in her chest, then spreading outward like heat through glass. Her fingers went cold first. Then numb. She pressed her palm down just enough to steady herself.

The pain felt like splashing boiling water directly onto her bones. It sparked like white noise under her ribs. Bone injuries carried weight, density, a kind of ringing pain that lingered in the marrow. Her pulse started to gallop, but her hand didn’t move.

The boy watched her, wide-eyed.

She breathed through it. Deep, even. One beat at a time.

It took longer than usual.

When she finally pulled her hand back, her knuckles were white and her skin clammy.

The attending glanced at the monitor. "Stabilized. Good enough to proceed. We’ll confirm by x-ray, but it looks clean."

Yaname didn’t speak. Just stood slowly, nodding once. She felt hollowed out. Like her muscles were working off fumes.

Nobody noticed.

She signed the chart. Told Mira she needed to go.

"You alright?" Mira asked, scanning her face.

"Just beat. Need to get ahead of it."

She slipped out before anyone else could stop her. Not quite limping.

On the train home, she stared at her reflection in the darkened window for three stops before pulling out her phone.

The reply came fast.

<you good?>

She hesitated, then typed: <just tired. don’t worry>

A beat. Then: <I’ll come by after patrol. you need anything?>

She watched the city blur past the glass and let her fingers hover before replying: < just you.>

~

By the time he slid the balcony door open, the kettle had just finished boiling. She was in sweats and thick socks, wrapped in a blanket, tea already steeping on the counter. She always left it unlocked now—just in case.

She didn’t say anything—just met him there, one hand still clutching her mug, and stepped back so he could come inside. Eyes tired but softer than before.

He stepped out of his shoes and followed her into the kitchen, nodding at the cup. "You eat anything?"

She shook her head. "Not hungry."

He watched her a beat, then leaned against the counter. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Not tonight."

He nodded. Didn’t push.

They moved to the couch. She sat sideways, legs curled under her, tea cradled in both hands. After a few minutes, she shifted and let her legs fall into his lap.

He traced his fingers along her ankle, slow and unhurried. His thumb circled just beneath the curve of her anklebone, calloused and warm. He didn’t look at her at first—just kept dragging those lazy touches up the dip of her calf, then back down.

She shifted under the blanket, watching him, heat starting to gather low in her belly. Still, he went slow.

He bent and kissed the inside of her ankle—once, then again, this time letting his mouth linger just a breath too long.

When she looked up, his eyes were on her. Steady. Intent. Like he’d been waiting for her to notice.

He was the one to move first. One hand sliding up her calf, the other bracing against the back of the couch as he leaned in. The kiss was slow. Warm. Not gentle.

She melted into him like she’d been waiting.

His mouth dragged down her neck, slow and claiming, his voice rasping into her skin. She breathed deep and let out a soft, unguarded—"Mmmm"—barely louder than the sound of his mouth moving.

His hands slipped beneath the hem of her sweatshirt. He tugged it upward, slow but unrelenting, and she sat up just enough for him to pull it over her head. Her hair clung to the static as it passed, then settled.

He dropped the shirt to the floor without looking, eyes locked on her bare skin.

His palms were warm as they smoothed over her stomach, then higher. He kissed the slope of her hip, her ribs, her breast—each kiss a question she already knew the answer to.

She gasped when his mouth closed over her nipple. Arched when he did it again, slower.

His fingers hooked under her waistband, tugging gently, waiting for her to lift her hips.

She did.

He made a low noise in his throat when his fingers found her bare, like it pleased him more than he expected. 

He worked her open, slow and relentless, until she was gasping and clawing at his shoulders. She pulled him closer until they were face to face, breath mingling. His fingers curled inside her, just right, while his thumb laid firm, steady pressure against her clit—teasing her apart piece by piece.

She was close. He could feel it in the way her thighs trembled, the way her hips rolled into his hand, the way her breath came faster with every pass of his thumb.

“Whose pussy is this?” he asked, voice rough, low against her ear.

She opened her eyes—half-lidded, dazed—and met his gaze, mouth parted. “Yours,” she whispered. It came out weak. Honest.

He reached up with his free hand, tangled his fingers in her hair, and tugged gently, angling her head back.

“Mine now,” he growled. “You fucking hear me?”

She came apart with a cry. Back arching, hands clenching.

“Yes,” she moaned. “Yes.”

She was still trembling when he pulled his hand away and reached for his waistband. She watched, dazed, as he stripped off his sweats and shirt, movements unhurried, assured—like this was always where they were heading.

Then he reached for her, hands firm around her hips, and pulled her onto his lap, bare thighs straddling him. Her breath hitched as her slick heat slid over the length of his cock.

He groaned, low and sharp. "Fuck, Yaname."

She shivered at the sound of her name like that—wrecked, reverent.

He gripped her hips hard, dragged her forward, then back again, sliding her along him, slow and hungry.

She whimpered. He dragged her slowly again, the head of his cock catching just right, making her gasp. He kept her there—rocking, sliding, teasing—until her thighs began to shake.

Her body moved without thought—riding him, chasing the next stroke. His hands guided her, lifting and lowering her onto him until the tip caught and he thrust up, slow but deep, sinking into her.

She gasped, head falling forward against his shoulder. He caught her there, one hand cradling the back of her neck, the other tightening at her waist.

He fucked her like he needed it. Like she was the only thing that existed.

She was moaning now, high and breathless, every sound dragging another thrust out of him.

He angled her back just enough to see her face, then gripped her jaw, fingers spreading along her cheeks.

“Say my name,” he growled.

She looked at him, mouth open, wrecked. “Katsuki,” she breathed.

That did it.

He grunted, jaw clenched, and drove into her rough and deep, hands locked around her hips. She cried out, fingers scrabbling for purchase against his shoulders as he fucked her through it—hard, desperate, relentless.

Every thrust sent her higher until her whole body tensed and clung to him.

He cursed into her skin, voice tight. “Fuck—”

Then he came, buried deep, muscles locked, groan breaking raw in his throat as he spilled inside her.

They stayed like that for a long moment—breathless, shaking. Then she curled into him, limbs loose and boneless, head on his chest.

~

After, they didn’t speak. Just breathed.

She lay draped across his chest, one leg slung over his, skin still damp and buzzing. Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t close, breath evening out in slow, shallow draws. Katsuki’s hand moved along her back in slow strokes—steady, unrushed, the kind of touch meant to settle, not stir.

When she shifted, he shifted with her. Their bodies adjusted automatically, practiced already.

She nuzzled into the crook of his neck and felt the scratch of his stubble catch at her temple. His scent was on her skin now. Hers on his.

He murmured something against her hair—maybe her name, maybe just breath. The sound melted into her.

She felt safe.

But the words hung in the quiet like static.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Not just sex talk. Not just heat-of-the-moment. The weight of it stayed.

And for the first time, she wondered what it would really mean to belong with someone like him.

Could she survive the spotlight? The public knowing?

Would she still recognize herself, once the world knew?

She didn’t say it out loud.

But the question stayed—warm in her chest, cold at the edges.

Chapter Text

Katsuki stood in front of her door in black dress clothes—no tie, sleeves cuffed just enough to hint at effort. He didn’t fidget, didn’t check his watch. Just stared straight ahead until the lock clicked and the door opened.

She stood there in green. Not just any green— his green. The same dark, rich tone as the accents on his hero costume. Cut clean at the collarbone, soft in the skirt, with thin straps and a low, sloping back. He didn’t know fashion, but he knew when something hit him square in the chest.

He didn’t say anything. Not right away. Just looked. A long look. Thought, Did she do it on purpose? Almost hoped she did. But he wouldn’t ask.

Yaname let him look. Then her eyes dropped slowly, dragging down his frame, deliberate and lingering.

“You should dress up more often,” she said, fingers brushing the center of his chest. “Looks good on you.”

He swallowed. Grunted something that might’ve been thanks.

Then she stepped back, spun once just to show the full sweep of the dress, and asked, “How do I look?”

He snorted. “Like you know exactly what you’re doing.”

She grinned. Just a flash, but it warmed something in him.

He didn’t move right away. Watched her adjust the strap on her shoulder, caught the way her hands weren’t as steady as they usually were.

“You nervous?” he asked.

She shrugged, a little too casual. “Just a little.”

He narrowed his eyes. “We don’t have to go.”

“I want to,” she said. Then softer, almost self-conscious, “Mina helped me pick the dress. She’d kill me if we bailed.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Just stepped aside so she could lock up, then led the way down the stairs to the garage, where his car sat waiting in the low light.

~

The drive was quiet, steady. By the time they pulled up to the bar, Katsuki had gone over the guest list three times in his head. Just enough people to be exhausting. Not enough to disappear in.

The outside was just like Mina promised—quiet. You’d never know that some of the most famous heroes in the country were packed inside catching up over drinks. No press. No security swarms. Just soft light behind tinted windows, music pulsing low through brick walls.

He parked and came around to open her door. She stepped out, smoothing the fabric of her dress. He offered his arm, and she took it without hesitation, tucking herself in snugly against his side.

“Let’s do this,” she said, voice steady. Not a challenge. Not a bluff. Just the quiet push they both needed.

Inside, the shift was immediate. Heat, voices, too many memories in one room.

People noticed. Of course they did. Not exaggerated, just that ripple of surprise that passed between familiar faces. Katsuki Bakugo never brought anyone around. Until now.

"Bakugo," Momo said as she approached, hands folded neatly in front of her. Her smile was measured but warm. "It’s good to see you."

"Yeah," he replied. Then, with a glance at Yaname, "This is Yaname."

Yaname extended her hand without hesitation. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Momo said, shaking it. "Welcome."

"Bakugo!" Iida's voice boomed as he strode over, posture perfect, the same damn glasses. "A pleasure, as always. And—"

"Yaname," she supplied, before he could stumble over the introduction.

"Of course! It’s a pleasure," Iida said, offering a formal bow.

Before they could respond, Mina appeared like a firework, clutching two drinks and grinning ear to ear.

"There she is! Damn, Yaname—you ate . That dress is illegal."

Yaname raised a brow, taking one of the drinks. "You helped me pick it."

"Exactly," Mina said, tossing her hair. "You're welcome."

Katsuki rolled his eyes. "You gonna compliment me too or just keep harassing her?"

Mina shot him a look. "You clean up fine, Bakugo. But next to her? Accessory at best."

Yaname smirked into her drink. "Sounds right."

Katsuki made a low sound—more breath than voice—and glanced away, jaw tight. A little caught off guard by how quickly joined into their usual quipping. He took a slow sip, then muttered, "Tch. Keep talkin'. See what happens."

"Eijiro!" Mina called, waving him over. "Get over here before I keep bullying him."

Eijiro arrived with a grin already forming. "Wouldn't miss it."

He had that easy warmth he always carried. "Hey, man," he said to Katsuki, clapping his shoulder, then turned to Yaname. "You look amazing. Welcome."

"Thanks," she said. "Appreciate it."

"Let me introduce you around," Mina said, already half-pulling her away.

"She just got here," Katsuki muttered.

"She’ll be fine," Mina called over her shoulder.

And she was.

They drifted toward the drink table, slipping into a familiar rhythm—Katsuki’s hand grazing the small of her back whenever the crowd pressed too close, Yaname nodding at faces she recognized but couldn’t name. She kept her voice low, her presence contained. Let people come to her.

He poured them both something strong and handed her the glass, watching as she scanned the room with quiet curiosity. She didn’t cling. Didn’t hesitate. Hanta appeared beside them with a lopsided grin. “Mina said you were looking scary hot tonight. She undersold it.”

Yaname took a slow sip. “She does that.”

He barked a laugh, like they were already halfway through a joke.

Katsuki didn’t say anything. Just watched Hanta fall in line without knowing he’d done it.

Koujiro stumbled into view, already halfway through rolling his sleeves like he couldn’t decide if he belonged. A tall, stiff-looking girl hovered just behind him—neat dress, clasped hands, blinking too much.

"Yaname, this is Rina," he said, already fidgeting with his sleeve. "She, uh, she works dispatch with me."

Yaname gave Rina a soft smile. "Rina. Nice to meet you. I like your earrings."

Rina blinked, then smiled back, some of the tension bleeding out of her shoulders. "Oh—thank you. I almost didn’t wear them."

"Good choice," Yaname said, lifting her glass in a small, approving toast.

Katsuki watched it all without saying a word. The way she bypassed small talk. The way she made people feel seen without trying. It wasn’t flashy. But it worked.

Rina relaxed. Kojirou grinned like he’d just passed a test he didn’t know he was taking.

When Tsuyu and Tokoyami came by, Yaname met their steady calm with one of her own.

"I read about your coastal rescue last spring," she told Tsuyu. "No casualties. That was impressive."

Tsuyu blinked, then smiled—slow and genuine. "Thank you. Ribbit. That one was rough."

Yaname nodded sipping on her drink.

Tokoyami’s brow lifted, dark eyes assessing her with quiet approval.

No shrinking. No overcompensating. Just solid ground.

Every time someone peeled off, another face from their class filled the space. Sero, Kaminari, even goddamn Mineta kept it together for a minute. Yaname fielded each new voice with the same cool, even tone. Mineta eventually  leaned in with a half-smile, eyes flicking between them. “I mean, if I’d known pediatric nurses looked like you, I might’ve faked more injuries back in school.”

Katsuki’s grip tightened around his glass. His jaw locked. He didn’t like that tone—lazy, sizing her up like she was decoration. The way Mineta’s eyes lingered. The casual assumption that she was fair game.

Before he could open his mouth, Yaname tilted her head.

“If I’d seen your file,” she said, calm as anything, “I’d have signed off on the concussion.”

Mineta blinked, halfway to a grin that never landed. “Uh—”

But she was already turning slightly back toward Katsuki.

Katsuki didn’t move. Just watched Mineta shrink half an inch.

Good. That shut him up.

Still, Katsuki’s grip didn’t ease right away. Something in him buzzed—hot and unfinished. He wasn’t used to holding that line, letting it pass. But she’d made it look easy.

He exhaled slowly. Adjusted his stance. Let the tension bleed out the way it had come—sharp and silent.

Katsuki didn’t need to step in. So he didn’t.

Her laugh hit at the exact right moment—just one low note behind the group. It wasn’t showy. But he felt it like a pulse against his ribs.

Someone asked a question that edged too close to personal, and she parried it with a cool glance and a polite dodge that left no room for follow-up.

When someone stumbled over her name, she corrected them. Calm. No smile. No apology. Just truth, laid clean.

He tracked her posture out of habit—shoulders still easy, weight balanced, drink in hand. She was holding her own. No cracks. No edge of strain.

Then Izuku and Ochako arrived, hands laced like they’d never stopped holding each other. Katsuki barely registered the way Ochako lit up when she spotted Yaname, or the gentle squeeze Izuku gave his shoulder in passing. All he could focus on was the shift in his chest watching Yaname charm one more person with a voice like dry stone and silk.

Not performative, but solid.

Then, the girls stole her. Mina looped an arm through hers and pulled her toward the edge of the room, where Jirou was already rolling her eyes in mock warning, mouthing something like, Careful, she’s trouble, just before Mina swept Yaname onto the floor.

He let her go.

For now.

Midway through the party, Katsuki ended up standing near the drink table alone for a beat. He didn’t mind. She was still in his line of sight—laughing now, swaying a little off-beat as Mina pulled her through some ridiculous choreography only half of them were keeping up with.

She looked good like that. Happy. A little loose in the shoulders. A little flushed.

He didn’t want to interrupt.

"She seems great," came a familiar voice beside him.

Izuku.

Katsuki didn’t look over. Just said, "You’ve met her."

"But yeah. She is."

Izuku blinked. "That was her? At the hospital thing? Shit—you're right. She looks different."

They stood there for a minute. Comfortable enough.

"You look different," Izuku said. "Settled."

Katsuki’s eyes flicked across the room. Yaname was twirling now, off balance from laughter. Eijiro caught her elbow and spun her back the other way. She slapped his chest and kept going.

"It’s... good," Katsuki said.

Izuku nodded. "Good. I’m glad. You deserve that."

Katsuki sipped his drink.

~

Then it shifted.

“I’m sorry, are you interrogating me?” Yaname asked, tilting her head at Momo with mock gravity.

Momo blinked, caught off guard—but smiled. “You’re remarkably composed.”

“I work night shift peds,” Yaname said. “It’s this or cry in the stairwell.”

That made Hanta snort into his drink. “She’s got jokes.”

Yaname turned to Denki, eyeing his shiny gold tie. “You lose a bet, or is that intentional?”

Denki clutched his chest. “It’s festive.”

“It’s tragic,” she said.

Laughter rolled around them.

Mina chimed in next, half-yelling from across the group, “Show her the photo!”

“Nope,” Katsuki said flatly.

She didn’t just hold her own—she owned the room.

She laughed at something Eijiro said and threw it right back. When Sero misremembered a detail—something about Katsuki covering six districts in one night—she corrected him without missing a beat.

“Five,” she said, raising a brow. “Don’t inflate his ego.”

Sero blinked. Katsuki did too, barely catching the twist in his gut. She’d remembered that? He hadn't known she'd ben watching that closely.

Katsuki watched her charm, deflect, and stand steady under scrutiny like it cost her nothing. Like it was easy.

He couldn’t stop staring.

He was proud.

And he was fucking hard.

His body responded before his brain caught up. It wasn’t nerves. It was need. Heavy. Tight. Settled low.

She said something sharp and amusing—well timed—and laughter broke across the circle.

Across the room, Kaminari was fumbling with the speaker dock. "I’ve got a better playlist," he said to no one in particular.

"Denki, don’t—" Jirou warned.

Too late.

There was a pop of static, a brief blackout—and then music surged back at double volume, a chaotic blast of bass and mismatched tempo. Half the room jumped. Someone shouted.

Everyone turned to look and starting moving to help.

And that’s when Katsuki moved.

Katsuki stepped closer without thinking. Hand at her back.

She glanced up at him, smirking. “You okay?”

“No,” he said. Low. Honest. “C’mere.”

They ducked into a hallway—barely lit, quiet, the bass of the music muffled through thick walls.

Yaname’s smile lingered. He couldn’t stop looking at her. That dress. That smirk. That glint in her eye like she knew exactly what he was feeling.

“Too much?” she teased, breathless.

“Not enough,” he muttered, and his voice was rough now, dark with want.

He pressed her back against the wall, one arm braced beside her head, the other dragging down her side until his hand found her thigh.

The kiss landed hard and desperate.

She kissed back without hesitation, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, tugging until he groaned into her mouth. They moved, staggered, mouths still locked as he backed them into the nearest door—something barely marked, barely checked. A supply closet, by the smell of it. Boxes of booze stacked high on every side.

A click behind them. The door shut. Dim light from a motion sensor kicked on overhead.

Katsuki spun her gently, hands already at her hips. “Turn around.”

She did. Quietly. Deliberately.

He hiked up her dress, dragged her panties to the side. She gasped when his fingers brushed up her thigh, then again when they found her already wet.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered into her shoulder, kissing along the line of her neck, the top of her spine. One hand slid down to his own belt, undoing the buckle with practiced ease, the other still braced around her waist.

“Then shut up and do something about it.”

He growled. One hand held her steady at the waist. The other lined himself up and pushed in.

She choked back a sound—part gasp, part moan—and braced herself against the wall.

His hand came up fast, firm over her mouth.

“Too loud,” he murmured into her ear. “Wanna keep this just ours, yeah?”

The next thrust punched the breath from her lungs.

He fucked her like it was instinct—like there was no world outside the slick press of her body, the stifled sounds she made against her wrist, the rhythmic slap of skin on skin. Every roll of his hips sent heat crawling up his spine. She arched into it, pushing back, giving him everything he couldn't bring himself to ask for.

His grip tightened at her hips, hard enough to bruise. He couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. It was need—pure, hot, crawling through his blood. Every inch of her took him deeper, made his brain stutter.

He pressed his forehead between her shoulders, breath ragged. "Mine," he rasped, voice wrecked. "You have no idea."

She answered with a moan, quiet and breathy. Then another. Then his name. All of it muffled into his hand.

Her body tightened around him and she cried out into his palm, her voice wrecked and shaking. That was it. That was the end of his control.

He pressed in hard, deep—hips stuttering as he came, breath caught in his throat, forehead falling against the back of her neck. The only sound was the rasp of his breath and the soft thump of his heartbeat against her spine.

They stayed like that for a second. Breathing. Shaking. His arms around her. Her head tipped back to rest against him.

The light buzzed overhead. Somewhere, faintly, music still played.

He broke the haze with a kiss to her temple. Tested her footing before releasing her.

He adjusted her dress slowly, smoothing it back down over her hips. Brushed her hair away from her face, fingers lingering just a little too long. She reached for his shirt next, straightening the collar where she’d tugged at it. Her hands found his belt, re-fastening the buckle, knuckles brushing his abdomen. He watched her do it—calm, unbothered, steady.

Then he bent and pressed a kiss behind her ear.

"We don’t have to stay long," he said, voice still rough around the edges.

She surprised him by shaking her head. “No. I’m good.”

When they stepped out of the closet, her cheeks were flushed, hair only slightly mussed. Her posture didn’t falter, but there was a heat in her expression that hadn’t been there before.

Katsuki walked half a step behind her, not touching—but everyone could tell. Kaminari did a double take from near the drink table, elbowed Hanta, who turned and whistled low under his breath. Jirou clocked them next, eyes narrowing slightly with something between suspicion and smugness. Eijiro looked up mid-conversation, caught Katsuki’s expression, and gave him a knowing shake of the head.

He looked proud. Deadly smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes sharp with warning. Like he dared someone to say something.

~

Down the hallway they’d just emerged from, above the doorframe, a security camera blinked red. Fixed. Silent. Watching.

Neither of them noticed.

The footage would be pulled later. Reviewed. Trimmed. Sold.

Chapter Text

They woke slowly.

The bedroom was warm, blinds cracked just enough to let in a sliver of soft light. She’d stolen the blanket off him sometime during the night, but his arm still draped over her waist, heavy and familiar. He was already half-awake, thumb tracing lazy patterns along her hipbone.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

The quiet seemed to stretch on forever.

Eventually she slid out of bed, bare feet whispering against the floor, and padded into the kitchen. He followed a minute later, boxers low on his hips, tugging a shirt on as he cracked eggs into a pan and pulled out bread for toast.

They moved around each other with ease of muscle memory. Like it had always been there. Her hand went to the coffee. She squinted at the eggs sizzling in the pan.

"Are those... supposed to look like that?"

He didn’t look up. "If you don’t like it, make your own damn breakfast."

"Hmmmm," she said, clearly unconvinced, but already reaching for a fork. His reached past her to grab a bowl. She stole a bite of his breakfast before he could plate it.

"Thief," he growled, louder this time, with theatrical offense. "You tryin' to lose that hand?."

"Tastes better when it’s not mine."

He bumped her with his hip. She kissed his shoulder in response, lips barely there.

His phone buzzed from the counter.

He didn’t move.

She picked it up for him, thumb brushing the screen while he kept plating breakfast. Her face shifted just slightly.

"It’s someone from the agency," she said.

He didn’t look up from the pan. "I'm sure it's nothing I can’t ignore."

She hesitated. "Says urgent. But you’re off, right?"

He nodded, eyes still on the skillet. "They can wait."

She set the phone face down.

The kitchen smelled like soy sauce and garlic, and the coffee was starting to drip. Her robe clung light and loose around her shoulders, no match for the trace of his warmth still pressed into her skin. He handed her a bowl without a word.

And for a moment, it felt like a life. Like a version of the world where they got to keep this.

Where nothing touched them at all.

~

Yaname

The pediatric ward was louder than usual. Someone had wheeled in a new set of noise-canceling headphones, and three of the older boys were testing them by blasting competing cartoon theme songs from their tablets. She could barely hear herself think, but the distraction was welcome.

Yaname adjusted the IV line on a toddler with a chronic respiratory condition, murmured something about bravery stickers, and was halfway through sanitizing her hands when Mira appeared in the doorway.

“Hey,” Mira said. Quiet. Too quiet for a morning like this.

Yaname turned. “What’s up?”

“You seen this yet? It’s everywhere. Like, full meltdown levels of juicy.”

Yaname rolled her eyes, already bracing for whatever dumb gossip Mira had latched onto this time. But she smiled anyway. Mira lived for this kind of drama, and Yaname was still in a good enough mood to humor her.

~

Katsuki

“Oooh, Dynamight. You’re trending.”

The voice crackled through his earpiece, full of teeth.

He paused on the rooftop edge, one hand braced against the railing. "For what?"

"The spicy kind."

Katsuki exhaled through his nose. "Great," he muttered, already flipping open the agency-issued work phone with a thumb swipe that spoke more of muscle memory than interest. "Let's see what the idiots are saying now."

The screen lit up in his palm.

He didn't get far.

Five missed calls from his PR agent. Four texts from her. One from a commission rep to the agency.

It only said: You're off patrol. You're needed at headquarters.

His hand tightened on the railing.

~

Mira passed her the phone. The screen was already lit.

The video started automatically.

Slightly grainy footage. Her back hitting the wall. Katsuki’s hand braced beside her head. Their mouths locked. One of her legs curled around his hip. Her dress riding high. His face mostly in shadow—

Hers wasn’t.

Time Skip.

Then again, just as clear—he stepped out first, head turned back toward her, the barest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Visible for a blink before the feed cut to the next moment. When she stepped out, she adjusted her skirt and smoothed her hair.

There was no audio, but she didn’t need it.

Under the video:
Dynamight caught on security cam — mystery woman ID’d?

And below that, a stream of comments updating faster than she could read.

[ comment thread loading... ]

║ Who tf is she? ║

║ Civilian? Intern? ║

║ Not even cute fr ║

║ If I looked like that— I’d hide too ║

║ Lmao why he not saying anything ║

║ Girl couldn’t even dress up? Embarrassing. ║

║ This his side piece or what? ║

║ Facial recognition pls, we gotta dox this bitch. ║

║ Bro Dynamight really risking it all for that ? ║ 

║ Bet she’s married. Pro hero homewrecker arc. ║

║ The way she clings? Desperate. He’s already over it. ║

║ Y’all jealous but she ate . You saw his hands? ║

║ If he wanted me, I wouldn’t be walking straight. ║

║ He’s been real quiet since this dropped. Guilty conscience? ║ 

║ He didn’t even look into the camera. That man’s a pro. ║

║ Imagine having Katsuki Bakugo’s face buried in your neck 😩 ║ 

║ So we’re all just ignoring the fact he picked a nobody? ║

║ Tell me how I trained five years and he still chose some civilian with a nice ass. ║

Yaname blinked. Her stomach didn’t drop, exactly — it just stopped existing. Like her whole body had gone hollow.

She forced her hands to move. Passed the phone back with a hum, neutral enough to slide.

"People are wild," she said lightly.

Mira scoffed, still looking at the screen. "Right? I mean, I know he’s hot, but damn. That angle? He knew what he was doing. And the comments—god, they’re feral. I saw one that said she looks like a plain yogurt cup. Like, rude."

Yaname let out a breath that might’ve passed for amusement. Something between a laugh and a choke.

She turned before she had to fake another sound. Her limbs felt wrong. Her name wasn’t there yet, but her face was. Her hair. The shape of her mouth when she kissed him. The way she adjusted her skirt, like she’d done something wrong.

She made it halfway down the hall before her knees nearly gave.

~

Katsuki

Katsuki sat stiff in the chair, jaw locked, arms crossed. His PR agent, Mitsuru, hovered near the door with her tablet clutched to her chest like it might shield her from getting fired. She flinched when one of the senior handlers sighed. Two additional handlers sat across from him—one with a tablet, one with a file open on the table like they were about to present a quarterly earnings report.

“This is contained,” one of the handlers said, barely looking up as he scrolled. “We have control of the narrative for now. But moving forward, our recommendation is you don’t comment directly—”

“Say that again,” Katsuki said flatly.

“We’re advising you not to address the incident. No statements, no identification. We’re also floating a low-pressure frame if the story gets traction: training simulation misinterpreted by media. Just something vague to throw water on it.”

“You want me to treat her like a fucking incident?”

“We’re not saying—”

“That’s exactly what you’re saying.”

The handler sighed again, then turned on Mitsuru. “This is exactly why we’ve been pushing you to get him out there more. If we had a steadier narrative—public appearances, joint ops, charity coverage—we’d have something to anchor this to. Control the story before it writes itself.”

Mitsuru let out a quiet, strangled noise. “I—I’m sorry,” she said, voice going thin. “I thought we were pacing it carefully. I didn’t want to—”

“You didn’t want to what?” one handler snapped. “He’s been media-silent for months. This is the first time the public’s seen him in anything unscripted, and it’s a damn hallway hookup. There’s no counterbalance, no prebuilt narrative, nothing to point to but this.”

She shrank a little further, clutching her tablet like it could protect her.

“She did her fucking job,” Katsuki said sharply, voice cutting across the table like a blade. “If anyone dropped the ball, it’s whoever let that feed leak in the first place.”

Her shoulders curled inward like she was bracing for fallout, clutching her tablet like it could protect her.

The handler ignored him. “You’re his liaison. You’re supposed to build preemptive insulation. Instead, this is the first headline in six months. And it’s a goddamn hallway makeout.”

She sank behind the tablet like it might shield her, barely keeping upright. "We don’t control hallway camera access—"

Mitsuru’s boss cut in sharply, not even looking at her. “Dynamight, the less you say, the better. Right now she’s still technically a ‘mystery civilian.’ No one’s confirmed a name. That protects you. It protects the agency.”

Katsuki’s hands flexed on his arms.

His leg bounced once. Then again.

“She’s not a fucking headline. She’s a person.”

“We understand that. We do. But if you escalate this, it becomes your scandal. Let it pass. We’ll monitor it.”

He was already up.The chair scraped behind him, hard.

“I’m gonna break someone’s jaw.” He growled.

“Please don’t.”

Out in the hallway, the air felt thinner. His phone buzzed again. He looked at the screen for a long time before calling.

**Yaname**

She answered on the third ring. “Hey.”

“You seen it yet?” Katsuki asked. “Where are you?” Katsuki’s voice was lower than usual. Still raw, but trying.

“Yeah.” Her voice was flat. “Breakroom. At work.”

Silence stretched.

Then: “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t buy it. “You don’t sound fine.”

“I’ve lived through worse.”

Another beat passed. The quiet buzzed in both their ears.

She stared at the vending machine across the room like it had answers. Like if she stared long enough, this would all un-happen.

“Yaname—”, he started.

The TV mounted in the corner shifted volume automatically for the news hour. She barely noticed it—until the host’s voice sharpened into something glossy and pleased with itself.

"Our top story tonight: the hallway kiss heard 'round the internet."

Someone chuckled. Another nurse turned it up.

"After a flurry of speculation, sources close to the Hero Commission have confirmed the identity of the woman caught in that steamy security footage with Pro Hero Dynamight."

Pause. Slight grin in the voice.

"She’s not a hero. She’s not an intern. She’s certainly not media-trained."

Another beat.

"Her name is Yaname Laname. She’s a civilian nurse working at a local children’s hospital.”

On the other end of the line, Katsuki muttered, “Fucking hell.”

It wasn’t loud. Just enough for her to hear. Just enough to confirm it was real.

The breakroom went still.

Three pairs of eyes turned toward her. One nurse looked away too fast. Another whispered something behind her hand. The vending machine buzzed louder than before. The words on the TV barely registered—something about how this could knock Dynamight down the rankings, how it undermined his whole untouchable bad boy image.

Yaname didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her throat was tight. Her body was detaching from the room.

Katsuki’s voice came through the line again. Quiet. Immediate.

“Still with me?”

She pressed her hand to her mouth. “I have to go.”

“Wait—”

But the call was already ending.

She fled the room on unsteady legs, made it to the staff bathroom, and vomited into the sink.

The metal bit at her arms as she clutched the basin, knuckles white. Her stomach kept heaving long after it was empty. Everything was spinning — the tiles, the air, the voice still echoing in her head.

Her name is Yaname Laname.

She didn’t even hear the door at first.

“So… you wanna maybe explain that?” Mira asked lightly — too lightly. Her voice cracked halfway through. “Yaname, you—”

“I can’t do this right now,” she whispered, not looking up.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and walked out.

She wasn't sure where she was going. Just that she couldn’t stay here.

~

Katsuki

He calls back immediately.
No answer.
Again. Voicemail.

He texts:

<Pick up.>
<Tell me where you are.>
<Just say you’re okay.>

No reply.

He paces the hallway. Tries calling again. Straight to voicemail.

He doesn’t wait. Turns and heads straight back into the PR war room.

Katsuki reenters like a storm with the fuse already lit. The handlers barely look up—no surprise, no alarm. They already know.

Mitsuru straightens, tablet clutched tight against her chest again.

“We saw,” one of the handlers says, without looking up. “Her name’s trending with yours now. Second wave just started.”

Another flips through screens. “Hospital’s fielding press calls. Some verified accounts already pulling her name and medical license info from the public registry.”

“She was working,” Katsuki says. His voice is flat, but not calm. “You sat here and gamed this out while she was doing her fucking job.”

The handler glances at him. “This changes the landscape. We’ll need to pivot. Full background sweep, redirect, minimal exposure if possible. Maybe even—”

“Minimal exposure?” he cuts in. “She’s being doxxed. It’s only a matter of time before there’s press waiting outside both our apartm—”

“We’re aware,” the handler interrupts, cool and sharp.

Another handler chimes in. “This narrows our options, but it also makes the timing cleaner. We could reframe this as a personal lapse—keep it brief, controlled. Civilian contact during a period of heightened emotional stress—”

“Stop talking.”

“Bakugo—” Mitsuru starts, her voice small. She flinches as he slams his hand on the table, the sound cracking across the room. Not to lash out. Just to make them shut up.

“You all keep saying ‘strategy’ like it makes you sound smart,” he growls. “But you weren’t ready for this. And now she’s in it. Alone.”

They don’t interrupt. They don’t argue.

Because he’s right.

“She doesn’t have protection. Doesn’t have press training. Doesn’t even have a fuckin' security alarm. And she’s still the one paying for this.”

“Dynamight—”

“She’s not answering,” he says, quieter now. “We all sat on our hands. Now she’s out there with a target on her back, and none of you know how to fix it.”

He takes a slow breath, eyes sweeping the table. “You’re gonna find a way to shield her. I don’t care what it costs me. She doesn’t get dragged any deeper into this because you weren’t ready.”

No one responds.

He turns and walks toward the door—but not before driving his fist into the edge of the wall on his way out, drywall cracking under the blow. The impact echoes like punctuation.

Then he leaves.

~

He drives to their apartment building. The streets blur past in streaks of light and shadow, too fast and not fast enough. The city’s alive, pulsing, but he can’t hear it over the thrum in his chest. His hands are tight on the wheel.

Damn Mina. Damn her for bringing up the party. For teasing him like it was just a joke, like their biggest worry was getting caught, like the world wouldn’t actually care enough to find them.

Except—no. It’s not her fault. He swallows hard.

It’s his.

He was supposed to be the hero. Supposed to protect her.

Instead he walked her into the lion’s mouth and pretended it was safe. Pretended they could have this quiet little corner of the world no one would touch. He’d let himself believe they could keep it private. Sacred. Hidden.

He didn’t prepare her. Didn’t talk about what would happen if it got out. Didn’t warn her what people would say. What the agency would do.

Because he hadn’t wanted to admit it might end. That someone might take her away.

He remembered how she looked at the party. That ridiculous dress. That stupid little smirk. The way she leaned into him like an extension of him. She made it look easy. Like being with him didn’t cost her anything.

And now it was costing her everything.

He pulls into the lot, parks badly, doesn’t care. His throat is dry. He calls again on the way up. Straight to voicemail.

He unlocks the door. Steps inside.

Silence.

The blanket on the couch is rumpled. One mug in the sink. The scent of her still clinging faintly to the air. There’s a hollow where she should be.

Her cat blinks at him from the windowsill, tail flicking once. Doesn’t come over.

He shuts the door behind him and just stands there. Doesn’t bother calling again.

What was he thinking?

He’d been so focused on keeping it all to himself—her, their time, their quiet —he hadn’t noticed how exposed he’d left her. And now he might lose it all.

Not just her trust. Not just her voice in the dark. Everything.

He sinks onto the couch, elbows on knees, phone still in hand. The cat watches him from a distance.

Then he calls Eijiro.

“Yo,” comes the answer. Immediate. Familiar.

“She’s not here.”

“I figured.”

“She won’t pick up. She’s gone to ground.”

Beat.

“What do you need?” Eijiro asks.

Katsuki closes his eyes. Exhales. It doesn’t fix anything. But it’s something.

“Help me find her,” he says, voice low and tight. “I’ll send what I’ve got. Just... start looking.”

“Send it. I’m on my way.”

Chapter Text

Yaname pulled her hood up outside the hospital, fabric bunching at her neck. The automatic doors hissed closed behind her, sealing off the sterile quiet. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Then again. And again.

She didn’t check the screen. Didn’t have to. It was him. She knew — the weight behind the call, the pressure of his voice that she didn’t want to hear because she didn’t know what she’d say.

So she didn’t answer. Then, turned off her phone.

She walked.

And walked.

And walked.

The streets blurred into each other. Neon signs. Streetlamps casting pools of light on the wet pavement. People passed her without a glance, bundled into their own nights. She kept her head down, hands in her coat pockets, shoulders hunched like she could fold into nothing.

It was stupid. All of it.

She should’ve known better.

This was always coming. She’d just pushed it away, made excuses, told herself it wouldn’t matter.

Her fingers curled tighter inside her pockets.

Someone brushed past her. She flinched. Didn’t look. Kept walking.

She couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Couldn’t risk it.

Not when the whole world might already know her face.

Eventually, her legs started to ache. Her throat was dry. She wasn’t even sure what part of the city she was in anymore — nothing looked familiar.

A fluorescent sign flickered ahead. The kind of place you only noticed when you needed it.

She ducked inside.

The 24-hour internet café smelled like cup noodles, old plastic, and the last gasps of ambition. Half the booths were full — overworked students, chain-smoking manga artists, maybe someone gaming through a breakup. No one looked up. No one cared.

Good.

She paid cash, slipped into a sticky vinyl booth in the back, and curled her legs up beneath her. The monitor buzzed faintly. She didn’t log in.

She just sat. And for the first time in hours, let herself be nowhere.

After a while, she ordered a tea from the front counter — too hot, too bitter, probably brewed with the same water they used to mop the floor. But she drank it anyway. Deep, steady swallows.

It reminded her of her apartment.

Late night. Winding down. Her legs across Katsuki’s lap, the cat batting lazily at his socked foot, the TV murmuring low in the background. He’d looked at her then — that look he gave when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. Unguarded. Sure.

Her fingers tightened around the paper cup.

The memory hit too cleanly. A lump caught in her throat. A tear swelled behind her eye, sharp and sudden. But she didn’t let it fall.

She turned her phone back on.

Thirty-one missed calls. The lock screen bloomed with unread messages.

She opened the thread from him. Scrolled.

They weren’t frantic.

Where are you.
Please tell me you’re safe.
I’m coming to find you.

She read them all.

But she didn’t write back. Couldn't bring herself to.

Instead, she turned to the monitor. Logged in.

The browser was already open to a news aggregator. She didn’t have to search.

The headlines came first:

DYNAMIGHT’S SECRET FLING IDENTIFIED — WHO IS SHE?
PRO HERO OR PUBLIC LIABILITY? FANS REACT TO BAKUGO'S NIGHT OUT
LEAKED FOOTAGE GOES VIRAL: THE GIRL IN THE HALLWAY

Then the comment sections. The tweets. The tag threads.

They weren’t just cruel. They were personal.

Who does she think she is?
She’s not even pretty.
No quirk? Seriously?
She looks like a nobody. He must be hiding her for a reason.
Probably just some slut who got lucky.

Yaname scrolled. Refreshed. Scrolled again. A different article. Same photos. Same framing.

Same comments, reworded. Reposted. Recycled.

Someone got up in the next booth. A new one sat down. A chair scraped. Her tea cooled without her noticing.

She rubbed her eyes. Read the same paragraph twice without absorbing it.

The posts about him were sharp. Calculated. Angry.

He’s getting soft.
Distractions like this kill careers.
Falling for some nobody? Weak.
He’s gonna drop down the charts if this keeps up.
Too emotional to be top ten.

She closed the tab. Reopened it. As if it might say something different the second time.

It didn’t.

The light above her flickered. The café was dimmer now, buzzing with a low murmur of late morning voices. Someone ordered another bowl of noodles. Outside, daylight had started to bleed in — silvering the grime on the glass.

She’d been there all night.

Her back hurt. Her eyes burned. Her body had gone still hours ago, and now it didn’t want to move at all.

And she didn’t know what to do.

The thought settled in like a weight, low and mean. She scrolled again. Read another post dragging her name through the dirt, then another praising Katsuki for putting up with her. The split was clear. She was the burden. He was the headline.

She shouldn’t have let it get this far. She shouldn’t have let herself believe it could be real — that someone like him could want someone like her and not pay the price.

He didn’t need this. He didn’t need her.

She clicked over to their message thread again, thumb hovering above the text box. The cursor blinked like it was daring her.

Maybe she should end it. Just send one line. Something clean. Something that made it easier for him to walk away before it ruined him.

I’m sorry. This was a mistake.

She typed it. Looked at it. Backspaced the whole thing.

Her chest ached.

The crowd didn’t want her on his arm. The press didn’t want to believe he could care about someone like her — someone without a title, or a rank, or even a quirk that made pretty headlines.

She knew she wasn’t the kind of woman the world expected next to a top ten hero.

And maybe that meant she had no business being there at all.

She typed another message. Short, bloodless.

You don’t owe me anything.

Deleted it.

I'm not strong enough.

Deleted that too.

She stared at the blinking cursor until it blurred.

Across the street, past the smeared window, someone crossed in a hoodie with hair that stuck up in the back — not quite the right shape, not quite the right color. But it made her heart catch anyway. Just for a second.

She didn’t move. But she watched until they were gone.

Her reflection lingered in the glass: pale, hunched, forgettable.

They said she looked like a nobody. He looked at her like she was the only person in the room.
They called her forgettable. He memorized the way she held a cup when she was tired.
The world wanted proof she was worth him. He never once asked her to prove a thing.

And that made it worse.

Because he never gave her a reason to doubt him. So she had to try to survive this.

She didn’t know how many hours had passed. Maybe five. Maybe fifteen. Her body didn’t know either.

She shut down the computer. The screen went black, leaving only her reflection — smeared and warped across the dusty glass.

She stared at it for a long moment.

Then she drew in a breath. Slow. Steady. Steeling herself against the part of her that wanted to curl up and disappear. She wasn’t going to roll over and die just because they wanted her to.

She stood.

Immediately, her vision swam. The floor tilted. Her knees wobbled beneath her.

She grabbed the edge of the booth, knuckles white.

Her stomach turned in on itself.

She hadn’t eaten.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had.

All the more reason to get herself home.

Outside, the light had changed. No longer soft morning haze — it was afternoon now, sharp and bleached. The sun angled in through the streaked windows and turned the dust into glitter. Traffic outside had thickened. Car horns. Brakes. Life.

The world kept turning.

So would she.

She rode three buses to get back. Transfer after transfer, hands shoved in her coat pockets, forehead pressed to fogged glass. The motion kept her upright. Barely.

She was starving. Exhausted. Her body was moving, but her mind dragged behind it — half-asleep, half-wired, operating on instinct alone.

When her usual stop came into view, she almost missed it. Pulled the cord with a delayed jolt and stepped off on shaky legs.

One block left. Just one more block.

And there it was.

The crowd. Or mob? She couldn't tell.

It spilled across the sidewalk in front of her building — cameras, microphones, phones held high. Some wore fan merch. Others had press badges. Some were just... there. Waiting.

Waiting for her.

She froze.

Someone spotted her. The movement rippled.

"Is that her?"

"Hey! Over here!"

A microphone shoved forward. A camera flash. Voices piling over each other.

"How long have you been seeing him?"
"Did Bakugo know you were being filmed?"
"What’s your quirk?"
"Are you two in love?"

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Her body locked up.

And then—

A concussive boom split the air.

The crowd ducked. Cameras jolted. Something sparked overhead — then Katsuki landed hard, the pavement cracking beneath his boots.

No words. Just the explosion still echoing off glass.

She didn’t remember moving — only the moment he was there, hand locking around hers like a lifeline, chest heaving from the speed of descent, heat rolling off him in waves.

"We're leaving," he muttered. Not loud. Not gentle either.

He didn’t ask if she was ready.

He just held tight.

Then he launched them.

One blast — aimed low, controlled — sent them soaring up, away, into the sky above the fray. Her stomach dropped. She pressed in close, wind in her ears, arms curled into herself as he held tight.

The city shrank below them, and the mob left behind.

They landed on a flat rooftop two buildings over — an old maintenance access point, long since forgotten. He set her down with care, like she might shatter.

She wobbled but stayed upright. Her stomach churned.

He scanned her, hands rough but not unkind — checking her arms, her shoulders, her face.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, voice tight.

She shook her head. Couldn’t speak.

She would’ve vomited if she’d had anything in her stomach.

Once he was sure she was in one piece, the storm hit.

"What the fuck were you thinking?"

His voice tore out of him — sharp, loud, uncontrolled.

"You ghosted me! You—fuck, you turned your phone off? Are you out of your mind?"

He paced once, tight, like his body couldn’t hold the charge.

"I thought you were—" His voice cracked. "I thought you were fucking dead, Yaname."

A beat. Then sharper:

"I had half the fucking city looking for you. Heroes. Contacts. Mina hasn’t slept. I haven’t—"

He stopped himself. Breathing hard.

"You can’t just vanish on me like that. Not you. Not after—"

He stopped. Looked at her.

Her cheeks were wet.

She hadn’t realized it. Tears slipping down in silence, rolling past her chin and soaking into her collar.

His face shifted. The rage fractured.

He stepped forward and pulled her into his arms — hard and all at once, like holding her was the only thing keeping him upright.

She broke. Bawled. Loud, aching sobs into his shirt, her hands fisted in his jacket like she might fall through the roof if she let go.

He held her tighter. One arm locked around her back, the other cradling the back of her head.

Not saying a word.

But after a long moment, when her sobs had quieted just enough to breathe, he muttered into her hair, low and rough:

"I'm glad you're okay."

They stayed like that for a long time. Long enough for the wind to start biting at their skin, long enough for her breathing to settle into something closer to quiet.

Then he pulled back, just enough to see her face.

"Come on. We’re going to my parents’."

She blinked, confused. "What?"

"They know we’re coming," he said. "I filled them in. Your cat’s already there."

Her lips parted. "You… brought my cat?"

"Yeah. Figured you’d want him safe. Didn’t want you going back to that building."

Something shifted behind her eyes — soft, stunned. He could see it.

"You’ll be safe there," he added. "It’s quiet. No press. Just a bed, a door, and people who give a shit about you."

His car was parked in the street below. They descended another fire escape, Katsuki leading the way, never letting go of her hand.

He opened the passenger door, waited for her to get in.

She sank into the seat like her bones had turned to water.

Then he slid behind the wheel, slammed the door shut, and finally exhaled.

They didn’t speak.

Not during the drive. Not through the turns or the silence between traffic lights. The radio stayed off. The city blurred by.

When they finally pulled up in front of the Bakugo family house, it was already late afternoon.

Katsuki got out and unlocked the door without hesitation. He held it open for her, waiting in the frame until she stepped inside.

The smell of garlic and soy hit her first — something homey and rich drifting in from deeper in the house.

Footsteps. Then a voice from the kitchen — sharp, female, and not exactly welcoming:

“About damn time.”

A woman appeared in the hallway, dish towel tossed over her shoulder, still holding a wooden spoon. She was short, wiry, blonde — and clearly Katsuki’s mother, if the scowl meant anything.

She looked Yaname up and down, then turned her glare on her son.

“This the first time you’ve brought a girl home?” she said. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Maa!” Katsuki yelled back. Not quite a warning. Not quite embarrassed.

His mother sniffed and turned back toward the kitchen. “Well. You both look like shit. Dinner’s almost ready. Hope she likes curry.”

Dinner wasn't exactly quiet. But his parents didn’t ask her questions, didn’t press. They just let her eat. It was the first real food she’d had in over a day, and even then, she barely tasted it.

It was clear she was running on fumes.

When she finished, Katsuki stood and murmured something low to his mom. Then he touched her shoulder — gentle, grounding — and nodded toward the stairs.

Upstairs, she went through the motions. Shower. Teeth. His shirt — soft, worn, far too big. It smelled like clean laundry and something unmistakably him.

She didn’t think. She just moved. Like a body following a map she’d walked blind.

He tucked them into his too-small childhood bed, careful with the blanket, careful with her. Her cat climbed in like it belonged there, curled stubbornly at his feet. He didn’t complain.

“Get some sleep,” he said, voice low. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

She was already fading, lids heavy, breath slowing.

Then his hand brushed her hair back, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I’m gonna fix this,” he murmured. “For us.”

She didn’t answer. She was already asleep.

Chapter Text

Yaname blinked awake to a narrow room washed in soft morning gray. The bed beneath her creaked faintly as she shifted, warm in one spot but empty — Katsuki had only just left. His scent still lingered on the pillow. Clean fabric, sharp heat, the faint echo of smoke.

She lay still for a moment, breathing it in.

The room was simple. A desk shoved under the window, an aging bookshelf lined with tightly stacked notebooks, and a single poster — All Might, mid-pose, edges curling where the tape had loosened. The bedding was plain, dark. No decorations, no softness. It was the kind of room a kid outgrew without ceremony.

It was, unmistakably, his.

She sat up slowly, letting the familiarity of it settle like dust. There was discipline here, even in absence — surfaces clear, shelves neat, years of order trained into habit. But beneath the quiet, something more: pressure. It wasn’t a space that had been loved into being. It was shaped by purpose. A room built for becoming — just like his current apartment. Clean lines, no excess, nothing that didn’t serve a function. Except now, she realized, there were two mugs instead of one. A toothbrush that wasn’t his. Quiet signs of a life cracking open.

Her bare feet touched the floor. Her cat padded over from under the bed and curled around her ankle, purring. She crossed to the All Might poster and brushed her fingers along its cracked surface. One corner was torn — like it had been yanked once, then carefully tacked back in place.

A sharp voice cut through the floor.

“…You think this just fixes itself?!”

Yaname froze.

Mitsuki.

“I’m not the one who leaked her damn name,” Katsuki snapped back.

“No, but you gave them nothing else to chew on. You want to act like this wasn’t coming? If you were really doing your damn job — all of it — they wouldn’t have gone looking.”

A pause. Footsteps. Clinking dishware.

“I do the job. I’m top four in the damn country.” His voice had gone hard — defensive, deflecting.

“You handle the parts you like . The easy shit. But when you leave the rest blank — the cameras, the damn story — someone else fills it in. And you blew it.”

Another pause.

Yaname stepped closer to the door, breath held.

“…So what, you want me to play damn house on TV?!”

“You want to be number one and still act like a feral stray when the cameras roll? Doesn’t work like that. You can’t claim to protect someone while pretending she doesn’t exist.”

Katsuki didn’t respond right away.

When he finally spoke, it was quieter. Rough.

“Yeah. I know.”

Yaname closed her eyes.

She leaned into the door, heart still thudding from his last words. The wood was warm from the sun, and she pressed her ear against it, breath quiet — just for a second — when the handle clicked suddenly from the other side.

The door swung open fast.

She yelped, lost her balance, and fell forward into the hall.

“Shit,” he said, catching her arm a beat too late.

She stared up at him from the floor, heart racing. Her cat darted out of the bedroom like a shot.

Katsuki looked stunned for half a second — then his mouth twitched. “Idiot,” he muttered, half amused. “You alright?”

Yaname gave a breathless nod. “Yeah. Just startled.”

He offered her a hand and helped her up.

A pause.

“So,” he muttered, not quite meeting her eyes, “I guess you heard that?”

She gave a soft, breathy, “Yeah.”

He exhaled through his nose. Not angry. Just... resigned.

For a beat, neither of them moved. The hallway felt too still — like it was holding its breath with them.

Katsuki rubbed a hand over his mouth, jaw tight, eyes flicking past her to nothing.

Then, quieter: “We need to talk.”

“We need to talk.”

He stepped aside to let her back into the bedroom. She hesitated — then went.

She sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap. He took the desk chair, spinning it once before settling.

“I need to know,” he said, voice low. “After everything — after last night, the leak, all of it... do you still want this?”

Her breath caught.

He pressed on. “I’m in. No bullshit. But I’m not walking into whatever’s next if you’re still halfway out the door. I need to know you’re still with me."

She swallowed, hard.
“It’s not you I’m unsure of Katsuki,” she said. “It’s what being with you means.”

Her eyes didn’t quite meet his.

“They tore me to shreds. I listened to them say I was dragging you down. And the worst part is—”
Her voice caught.
“Part of me believed it.”

She looked up, finally.
“I don’t want to be your soft spot, Katsuki. I don’t want to be the thing they use to hurt you because. . .”

He shook his head immediately, mouth tight.

“They’re nobodies,” he cut her off. “Useless extras with too much time and nothing better to do than run their mouths. You think I give a shit what some faceless freak online thinks of you? Of us?”

“Katsuki—”

“They don’t know you,” he said, sharper now. “They don’t see you. They couldn’t drag you down if they tried—”

“I love you,” she said, quietly.

He stopped mid-sentence.

Just stared at her. Like the words had stolen his footing.

“…What?”

She met his eyes this time. Steady. Soft.

“I-I said I love you,” she said again. “And I can’t let myself be used to hurt you. Not if I can help it. Not when I feel this way.”

Katsuki’s mouth twitched. Not with amusement — something else, energized and too full.

“You think I need protecting from you?” he muttered almost laughing. “That I’d let anyone use you like that and just sit back?”

Before she could answer, he grabbed her — fast but not rough — and swung her up onto the bed like it cost him nothing.

He followed her down with a kiss, hard and unsteady, breathing against her mouth as he spoke.

“I’m not as fragile as all that,” he said. “If you love me — if you really fucking love me — then let me carry it. All of it. I can handle what comes next.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared up at him, wide-eyed and breathless, her hands still fisted in the fabric of his shirt where she’d caught him without realizing.

“Okay,” she said. A whisper. Then again, stronger: “Okay.”

Her palms opened. Flattened over his chest. She felt his heartbeat — fast, sure, steady.

“I don’t want you to do it alone,” she said. “You don’t have to shoulder all of it just because you can. If this is going to work… you have to include me.”

Katsuki’s eyes softened, just a little. He leaned down still hovering above her, his forehead brushing against hers.

“Alright,” he murmured. “But you don’t get to disappear like that again. Not from me.”

In response, she leaned up and pressed a kiss to his mouth — small, certain, and steady. A promise sealed without words.

They didn’t move for a while. Just lay there, sharing breath and silence.

Eventually, Katsuki stirred. “I’ve got to make a call,” he said gruffly, brushing his thumb over her hip before rising from the bed.

Cut to an hour later: the front door buzzed. The sound of it jolted the house like a warning shot.

Yaname peeked from the hall as Katsuki pulled it open.

Eijiro grinned the moment he stepped inside, arms full of takeout bags. "Damage control party’s here," he called, loud and cheerful. "Hope you’ve got room, 'cause we brought enough food for a siege."

Mina followed with her usual bright energy, though her eyes flicked toward Yaname with quiet understanding. Not pity — something gentler.

Mitsuki met them in the entryway with a raised brow and a muttered, “Tch, you bring food but no damn manners?” Then, without waiting, she turned and barked toward the kitchen. “Set the table. You’re not animals.”

Masaru popped his head out of the living room to greet them, gentle and vaguely alarmed as always. “Ah, welcome, welcome. Leave your shoes here, just—watch the cat.”

Plates clattered. Steam rose from plastic containers. Katsuki hovered near Yaname without thinking, elbow brushing hers as they moved to sit.

They gathered in the living room afterward, the remains of lunch still warm on the low table. Mina perched on the arm of the couch like she’d done it a hundred times. The room quieted. Tension replaced small talk.

Katsuki leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His gaze flicked to each of them — Eijiro, Mina, then Yaname.

“Alright,” he said. “Here’s the plan.”

Chapter Text

The cicadas were already screaming.

Katsuki sat cross-legged on the tatami, back to the sliding door cracked just wide enough to let in the heat. His boots sat untouched beside him. He was fully dressed — black slacks, dark shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearm, jaw tight. The kind of clean-cut look that meant war.

They were still at his parents' house. The safehouse. Yaname hadn’t left since he brought her here. Not even once.

She leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, wearing one of his shirts and nothing else. Her hair was still damp from the shower, strands clinging to her neck. She looked like she hadn’t slept — because she hadn’t. Neither of them had.

Miso lingered on the air. He hadn’t touched breakfast.

The cat jumped into his lap with a soft thud, curling into the hollow between his knees. He didn’t move. Just stared out at the overgrown yard, expression unreadable.

She said nothing for a long time.

Then: “You don’t have to do this.”

His shoulders flexed. Not quite a flinch.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “I do.”

Her fingers twisted in the hem of the shirt. “You don’t owe me—”

“It’s not about owing.”

Silence.

The cicadas filled the space between them. The cat shifted in his lap, tail twitching.

Finally, he reached for his boots.

“I’ll be back before lunch.”

He stood, and for a second, it looked like he might say something else — but instead, he crossed the room to her. She didn’t move.

He kissed her — slow, firm, one hand cupping the side of her neck like it was instinct. Like he couldn’t leave without it.

When he pulled back, his thumb brushed her jaw once. Then he turned, slid the door shut behind him, and was gone.

~

Eijiro was already there when he stepped through the side entrance, leaning against the wall near the green room, arms crossed. He gave Katsuki a look — steady, wordless. The kind of look that said, I'm here. Katsuki met it with a nod.

Katsuki nodded once, eyes sweeping past her toward the press room.

Mitsuru lingered.

“…Something about this whole thing feels wrong,” she said quietly. “I can’t pin it, but—just watch yourself.”

“I’ve got it,” he said. Not unkind. Just final.

She gave a tight nod, stepping aside to let him pass.

He didn’t look back.

The press room swallowed him.

The lights hit first — hot, white, ruthless. They weren’t made for comfort; they were made for exposure. Overhead rigs buzzed faintly, warming the air despite the heavy A/C. His jacket clung to his back almost immediately.

Then came the eyes. Rows and rows of them — some behind cameras, some behind phones, some just watching with breathless hunger. The silence was too clean, engineered. Not a real hush. A waiting one.

Microphones crowded the podium like a hydra of polished steel necks, each one bearing a different logo. Red, blue, black. Every outlet that mattered.

Flashbulbs snapped. One. Then three more. The light bloomed behind his eyes. He didn’t flinch.

Katsuki stepped up to the mic. No cards. No prompter. Just him.

He exhaled once through his nose. Gripped the podium with both hands.

"Let’s get this over with."

Flashbulbs popped. He didn’t blink.

"You all know why you’re here. You’ve seen the footage. You’ve seen the speculation. The stories. The headlines."

He scanned the room — the crowd didn’t stir.

"So I’m going to say this once. And I’m not answering it again."

A pause. Controlled. Sharp.

"Yeah. That was me in the video. And yeah — that was her. Her name is Yaname. She didn’t ask for this. She didn’t leak it. She didn’t want it public."

Another flash. He stared straight ahead.

"For the past few days, the media’s made a show out of digging into a civilian’s life because she’s seen next to me. Because you all wanted a story."

He let it hang.

"Well, here’s the story: she’s important to me. That’s it. That’s all."

Murmurs rippled across the back row. He didn’t acknowledge them.

"We kept it private. Because I didn’t want her chewed up by this circus. Because I thought I could shield her."

His voice dropped half a register.

"I was wrong."

A brief silence followed. Dense and hot.

"So. Here’s what’s going to happen. From this point forward, I’ll be handling this directly. No spin. No deflection. You’ll hear it from me. You want soundbites, you want statements — fine. But you leave her the hell out of it."

He leaned slightly toward the mic.

"If you’ve got a problem with who I care about, take it up with me. I’m not hiding."

One final breath.

"You want a headline? Fine. I love her. That’s your story. That’s all you’re getting."

He stepped back, already turning.

The room erupted.

Shouts. Microphones scraping forward. Reporters rising half out of their seats. One voice cut through, too clear, too practiced to be accidental.

"Dynamight — do you feel any responsibility, knowing her parents died during the Kamino incident?"

Everything stopped.

His head turned before the rest of him did. Not fast — slow. Mechanical.

The reporter didn’t blink. Young. Crisp suit. Press badge swinging from a branded lanyard.

"Sources say she lost both parents during collateral damage that day," the reporter added. "Does that influence your decision to go public now?"

The lights didn’t feel hot anymore. They felt sharp. Surgical.

Katsuki stared at him.

The silence bent under its own weight. You could hear cameras resetting. A throat being cleared near the back.

Katsuki opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

His hands curled once at his sides. His jaw locked, sharp with something unspoken. Then he turned — steady, deliberate — and walked out without a word.

The door shut behind him, and the noise vanished like a snapped wire.

Backstage was dim and too quiet. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a printer kicked on.

Katsuki kept walking until he hit the far wall of the green room. Then he braced both hands against it and just—breathed.

Once. Twice.

Then he punched it.

Not hard enough to break anything. Just loud enough to feel.

His breath shuddered out of him. He stared down at the floor, chest rising unevenly. That voice echoed in his head — collateral damage . Her parents . Kamino.

No. That couldn’t be right.

He turned sharply, pacing. Jaw set. His hands wouldn’t stop twitching.

Eijiro stepped into the doorway, quiet but steady.

"What the hell was that?"

"Where’s my phone?"

Eijiro didn’t argue. Handed it over without a word.

Katsuki unlocked it fast, thumbs stiff on the screen. Typed. Scrolled. Clicked.

Article after article. Her name. Kamino. Death records.

His brows drew tighter.

"No fucking way," he muttered. "They wouldn’t… they couldn’t…"

He clicked one link. Scanned for the casualty list.

There it was. Her name again. Their names.

His chest tightened. The room felt smaller.

"...Shit."

The phone lowered. Slower this time. As if it weighed more now.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Then, suddenly — he sat. Right there on the floor, back against the wall, legs out, shoulders hunched like the air had left his lungs.

Eijiro hovered for a second, uncertain.

"Katsuki—"

"What the fuck am I supposed to do?" It came out strangled. Not angry. Just cracked.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, eyes wide but unfocused. Embarrassed. Guilty. Like he was sixteen again, crying in front of All Might, breaking open where no one was supposed to see.

"I didn’t know," he said, quieter now. "I didn’t fucking know. And now—what the fuck do I even say to her?"

His hand trembled around the phone. He set it down like it burned.

Eijiro sat beside him.

Didn’t touch him. Didn’t speak.

Just stayed there, shoulder to shoulder, while Katsuki unraveled in silence.

He hesitated in the doorway. Took one look at Katsuki on the floor and… paused.

Then a voice — not sharp, not silk. Just his name, flat and quiet.

“Bakugo. You look like you’ve been through the wringer — and not even the spin cycle.”

Katsuki’s head snapped up.

Best Jeanist stood in the doorway, sleeves cuffed, denim-blue eyes cool and sharp.

Eijiro tensed, but didn’t speak.

Katsuki dragged a sleeve over his face, sat up straighter. “How long’ve you been there?”

Jeanist stepped inside but didn’t answer right away. His gaze swept over Katsuki, over Eijiro, over the dropped phone. His jaw worked, but whatever instinct he had to speak — he overruled it.

“I heard the question,” he said finally. “And I saw your face after.”

Katsuki didn’t look at him.

“Is it what they said? Or what you didn’t know?” Jeanist asked, voice quieter now.

Katsuki gave a bitter huff. “I don’t know.”

“You’re not unraveling because of public scrutiny,” Jeanist said. “You’ve faced worse with your hair singed off and blood on your boots. This isn’t about the press.”

“She didn’t tell me,” Katsuki muttered. “I didn’t know. About her parents. That they. . . that it was —Kamino.”

Jeanist nodded once. “Then it’s not the truth that undid you. It’s the gap it exposed.”

Silence stretched.

“I didn’t want to hurt her.”

“And yet,” Jeanist said lightly, “intentions are like hems—”

“Jesus, would you stop with the fucking metaphors?” Katsuki snapped.

Jeanist blinked, once. Then gave a small nod.

“Fair.”

Katsuki scrubbed both hands over his face. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You do,” Jeanist said simply. “You just don’t like it”

Katsuki didn’t argue.

Jeanist crouched, folding long limbs with irritating grace. “Speak to her. Tell her the truth. Not the version you gave the press — the one with polish and pride. The real one. The ugly one.”

Katsuki looked at him.

Jeanist’s voice softened, barely. “You want to protect her? Then let her see the seams. All of them. Otherwise, you’re just dressing the wound.”

Katsuki breathed, shallow. Then nodded, once.

Jeanist rose. Adjusted his cufflinks.

“Good,” he said. “Now get up. You’ve got a woman to face and a suit to dry.”

~

Earlier that morning

The living room was quiet except for the hum of the fan and the occasional rustle of fur against cotton. Yaname sat curled into one corner of the couch, knees drawn up under Katsuki’s oversized shirt, bare legs tucked beneath her. Miso was purring happily, sprawled across Mitsuki Bakugo’s lap like he owned the place. She didn’t seem to mind.

Masaru sat at the low table, sipping tea and occasionally flipping through a newspaper, though his eyes weren’t really on it. A television screen sat blank for now, muted in its standby mode. Everyone was waiting.

“I told him to keep it together,” Mitsuki muttered, scratching behind Miso’s ears. “It wouldn't be the first time that stubborn brat went and lost it in front of the whole damn country.”

Yaname gave a breath of a laugh, but it came out tight. Her fingers played with the fabric of her sleeve.

“He’s been like this since he was little,” Masaru said, glancing at her. “When something mattered, it showed. He's never been one to hide it.”

Yaname nodded faintly. She hadn’t asked to be part of this moment. She didn’t know what the press conference would be — Katsuki hadn’t told her the details. Just that he was going to fix it. That he’d be back by lunch.

She didn’t know what that meant.

The screen flickered to life on its own as Mitsuki’s finger hit the remote. The logo of a news station appeared, followed by footage of a press room filling with bodies and flashing lights.

“There he is,” Masaru murmured.

Katsuki stepped up to the mic — alone, unsmiling, sleeves rolled, expression like stone.

Yaname felt her breath catch.

He began to speak.

At first, she just listened — heart climbing her throat, stunned by how calm he sounded. Then by how personal it got. Her name. Her story. Her. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t look away. Just stood there and said it plain.

"She’s important to me. That’s it. That’s all."

Yaname’s hand crept over her mouth.

"We kept it private. Because I didn’t want her chewed up by this circus. Because I thought I could shield her. I was wrong."

Masaru made a soft sound in the back of his throat — not quite approval, not quite concern. Mitsuki’s eyes were narrowed, arms crossed, but her chin lifted slightly. Proud. Maybe.

Yaname didn’t even realize she was crying until Masaru handed her a tissue.

Then Katsuki leaned toward the mic, voice low.

"You want a headline? Fine. I love her. That’s your story."

Her chest tightened. Her whole body stilled. It didn’t sound performative. It sounded like breathing.

Masaru let out a quiet exhale.

"Took him long enough," Mitsuki muttered. Her cat shifted in her lap but didn't move away.

Yaname pressed the tissue to her eyes and tried to stay upright.

Then came the question.

“Dynamight — do you feel any responsibility, knowing her parents died during the Kamino incident?”

The words hit like a slap.

Yaname froze.

Masaru sat forward slowly, brows knitting. Mitsuki stopped scratching Miso's back.

“What the hell did they just say?” Mitsuki asked, voice sharp.

Yaname blinked hard. “Did he say—Kamino?”

“I—I think so,” Masaru said. “Her parents?”

“No one told me that,” Yaname whispered. Her voice sounded far away. She pressed her palms flat to her thighs. “Why would he say that? Why would they ask that like it’s—like it’s known?”

Mitsuki looked at Masaru, her mouth a thin line.

Masaru shook his head once. “I didn’t know either. I swear it.”

The room fell into a hush.

Yaname stared at the screen. Katsuki was already walking off. He hadn’t answered. Hadn’t said a word.

She couldn’t make sense of it. Kamino. That day. The wreckage on TV. But her parents? Why would that matter to him?

“…I don’t understand!” she said. “Why would he feel responsible for that?”

Mitsuki looked at her for a long moment, then gently shifted the cat off her lap and stood. She crossed to where Yaname sat and lowered herself beside her on the couch. Her arms folded loosely, but her eyes held steady on Yaname’s face — direct, not unkind.

“Katsuki was in school when Kamino happened,” she said. “Still a kid. That was the day he was taken — kidnapped by villains. Whole world watched it play out. And when they pulled him out, when it was over… everything had changed.”

Yaname didn’t move. Her breath felt caught in her chest.

“He blamed himself,” Mitsuki went on. “Still does. For being weak. For needing rescue. For what it cost to get him back.”

She turned then, eyes landing squarely on Yaname.

“If your parents died that day — if they were anywhere near that mess — then he’ll never see it as coincidence. Not Katsuki.”

Yaname blinked out hot tears, swallowed hard.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “No one ever told me it was—Kamino.”

Her fingers curled into the hem of her shirt, knuckles white.

Mitsuki said nothing. Just let the silence settle between them.

“I thought it was just… some accident. A building collapse. That’s what the hospital said. They never… they never said it was that. ”

She wiped her face again, slower this time.

“I didn’t even know how they died,” she said. “Not really. Just that it happened. Suddenly. That I was… alone.”

Mitsuki's expression softened, but she didn’t reach for her. Just stayed close. Steady.

“He didn’t know either,” she said quietly. “You should know that.”

Yaname nodded — once, small. But she didn’t look up.

“He’s probably out of his mind right now,” Masaru murmured from the table. “That boy doesn’t take guilt lightly.”

Her cat returned, jumping lightly onto the couch. He curled into Yaname’s lap like he knew something was wrong. She laid a hand on his back but didn’t pet him.

“What the hell do I even say to him?” she asked, voice raw and small — not expecting an answer.