Chapter Text
The morning news are too bright for this hour.
In the staff lounge, a wall-sized holo-screen spills hard light across the tables, bleaching color out of everything it touches. Even the steam rising from a neglected mug looks wrong under it—tinted, thin, almost the shade of something underwater. Izuku should be grading yesterday’s quizzes. He should be revising the curriculum All Might asked him to adjust. He should be doing anything that keeps his eyes off the screen.
Instead, he watches.
Smoke clings to the footage like a living thing, curling and folding over itself in slow, stubborn layers. The shape of a collapsed warehouse looms behind it, half-swallowed by ash. Heroes move through the haze in careful lines, silhouettes cutting in and out of view as they search, assess, count what can be counted. The broadcast calls it a “clean operation,” the kind of phrase that makes disasters sound tidy.
The camera shifts. Zooms.
And there—like an omen someone insists on replaying until it feels inevitable—Dynamight steps through the drifting gray.
Bakugo Katsuki.
His palms still glitter with leftover sparks, brief and sharp, as if his Quirk refuses to believe the fight is over. His new costume is leaner than the one Izuku remembers from their school days—built for speed, for heat, for efficiency. Reinforced forearms. Streamlined bracers. A harness set across his chest with the pragmatism of someone who learned, the hard way, that weight slows you down. His ash-blond hair is still a violent mess of spikes, perfectly mirroring the way he moves: like the world should make room.
The audio kicks in a heartbeat later.
Bakugo turns on the camera crew and barks at them to back off. The words are lost under the announcer’s chatter, but the intent is unmistakable. Even through a screen, he radiates the same pressure—an invisible field that warns people not to come too close.
Typical.
Bakugo has never been someone who runs out of things to say. He has always been someone who makes his words hit first.
Izuku feels it anyway: that small, involuntary shiver that has nothing to do with the cold light in the room. Memory isn’t loud, not like Bakugo. It doesn’t need to be. It just slips in where it fits, a blade-thin presence between one breath and the next.
Classrooms. Training fields. The long stretch of years where being near Bakugo meant bracing for impact.
Izuku exhales, the sound catching on something like an uneasy laugh. He tells himself—again—that it’s over. That it’s distant. That it’s the past.
His fingers tighten around the mug. The coffee has gone lukewarm. He drinks it anyway. Anything is better than sitting here with empty hands while the screen keeps reminding him how a name can still make his chest hurt.
On-screen, Bakugo’s shoulders rise and fall with heavy breaths. When he lifts his right arm, there’s a faint twitch in the shoulder—barely there, just a misalignment that most eyes would skip past.
Izuku doesn’t.
It’s the kind of detail you only notice after years of watching someone in motion. After fighting beside them long enough to learn what they hide. After learning that Bakugo’s idea of pain management is denial.
The broadcast doesn’t see any of that. The crowd sees only one of Japan’s top heroes:
Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, currently ranked number nine.
The announcer says he could be higher, and offers the easy explanation—temperament, PR problems, “difficult personality.” The camera lingers on Bakugo’s face as if it wants to capture a softer version of him and sell it.
Izuku sees the cracks instead.
The exhaustion that sits behind the eyes. The tension in the right arm that says he pushed an explosion too far and will pretend he didn’t. The way he moves like he’s daring the world to complain.
“Deku?”
The voice behind him is close enough to cut through the trance.
He flinches so hard the coffee sloshes toward the rim. He steadies it with both hands, pulse jumping like he’s been caught doing something wrong.
Ochako drops into the seat across from him, hair pulled into a messy bun, teacher ID hanging crooked at her collarbone. Her gaze flicks to the holo-screen, then back. The curve of her mouth isn’t quite a smile.
“They’re rerunning yesterday’s broadcast,” she says, like he hasn’t noticed. “Again.”
“Are they?” Izuku answers too quickly. “That’s… good. Visibility for the hero industry is—”
“Deku.”
It’s gentle, but it lands like a hand on his shoulder, turning him away from whatever excuse he was about to build. Izuku sinks a little into his cardigan as if fabric can make him smaller.
On the screen, Dynamight turns from the reporters and shouts orders at sidekicks still dealing with stray fires. The camera follows him like it’s magnetized.
Izuku knows he should look away. He knows it, the way you know a stair is loose before you step on it. It never helps. It never makes anything better. It only widens that empty space in his chest, like something has been scooped out and left raw.
But he doesn’t move.
“You know,” Ochako continues, resting her chin in her hand, “most people watch the news, recognize an old classmate, and go: ‘Oh, haven’t seen them in a while.’ And then they move on.”
“We’re not most people,” Izuku mutters before he can stop himself.
The words fall between them, unguarded. He regrets them instantly.
Ochako grins. “And you’re not most people. You’re the tiny, pining gremlin who watches the same replay three mornings in a row.”
“I’m not a gremlin,” he protests, but there’s no strength in it.
“Mhm. You are when you go off on your muttering tangents.” She straightens and pitches her voice into a painfully accurate imitation:
“Dynamight’s blast radius seems reduced by precisely 4.7% compared to last week’s footage, which might suggest a new stamina routine or a minor strain in the deltoid—”
“I do not sound like that,” Izuku groans, dropping his face into his hands.
“Well, you used to,” she amends, softer. “Back when you actually talked to him instead of… this.”
“This is fine,” Izuku lies into his palms.
“You’ve been ‘fine’ for a year,” Ochako says, like she’s been counting. “A whole year, Deku. Do you realize today officially marks it?”
His heart stutters. Of course he realizes.
He realizes every time he passes the training grounds where they used to spar until they collapsed laughing. Every time he looks up at the roofline of their old apartment building and remembers hours spent there after the war, talking until the sky changed color. Every time—
He shoves the memory away before it can finish forming. He’s learned how to do that. He’s learned too well.
“Hey,” Ochako says, gentler now. “You okay?”
Izuku lifts his head and forces a smile—the kind he’s practiced until it looks real. “Really. I am. I have work. The students are… amazing. Seeing them grow, understanding heroics and ethics and quirk application—well, not quirk application in my class anymore, but—”
Ochako raises an eyebrow. “Don’t change the subject.”
Izuku’s gaze drops to the surface of his coffee. Tiny brown swirls spin slowly, like they can’t decide where to settle.
“It’s better this way,” he says quietly.
“Better for who?”
“For him,” Izuku answers before he can stop himself.
The words hit the table between them with a dull weight.
Ochako sighs, rubbing her temples. “Deku…”
“He has enough to deal with,” Izuku insists. “Rankings. Patrols. Public expectations. And after everything—after what he did for me, after what I—” His voice catches, and he forces it steady. “He doesn’t need me hovering around, making things complicated.”
“You didn’t—”
“I did,” Izuku cuts in, sharper than he means. He swallows, presses the edge back down. “I dragged everyone into my mess. I took One For All. I ran. I thought I could fix things alone. And he had to pick up the pieces. Again.”
On the holo-screen, Dynamight launches into the air, an explosion flaring beneath his palms. For a split second he’s suspended against the sky—brilliant, furious, almost unreal.
Izuku’s chest aches, deep and immediate.
“He nearly died because of me,” Izuku says, the words barely making it past his throat. “More than once. I can’t keep asking him to be near that. To be near me. Not when I’m just—”
He doesn’t say the word out loud. He doesn’t need to.
Quirkless.
It sits in his mind like something heavy on his tongue, familiar and unwelcome. He flexes his fingers around the mug and feels the faint tremor that never fully left after too many battles. No crackle of power. No hum beneath his skin. Just bones and scars and the memory of having been more.
“I’m a teacher now,” he says, because job titles are safer than feelings. “He’s… Dynamight. Our lives are different. That’s okay.”
Ochako watches him for a long moment, like she’s measuring the space between his words and the truth behind them. “You still love him.”
It isn’t really a question.
Izuku exhales. “Since our first year at U.A.,” he admits, like it’s an old bruise he can press without flinching. “Since before he ever looked at me like I was anything but… less.”
“And now?” Ochako asks softly.
Izuku doesn’t look up. If he does, he might not be able to keep his voice calm.
“Now,” he says, “he’s someone who deserves a life that isn’t haunted.”
Ochako’s expression softens in that way that makes Izuku’s eyes sting. “You know he’d probably punch you for talking about yourself like that.”
A small, helpless laugh escapes him. “Yeah. He’d call me a damn nerd and tell me to stop moping.”
“There it is,” Ochako says, and her smile turns gentle. “That face. You miss him.”
“Of course I miss him,” Izuku says too loudly, then lowers his voice like it’s a confession. “But missing someone doesn’t mean you’re good for them.”
Ochako leans back, arms crossing. “You know what I think?”
“I have a feeling you’ll tell me either way.”
“I think you’re using ‘I’m bad for him’ as a shield,” she says. “So you don’t have to risk finding out whether he actually wants you around.”
Izuku starts to protest, but the words don’t assemble fast enough.
“Because if he doesn’t,” Ochako adds, quieter, “that would hurt more than watching him on TV.”
Silence stretches. The news anchor’s voice becomes background static. Footsteps pass in the hallway outside, distant and indifferent.
Ochako exhales and stands. “Anyway. You don’t have to decide anything today.”
Relief flickers—brief, fragile.
“Except,” she says, digging her phone out of her pocket, “whether you’re going to panic or not.”
Izuku’s stomach drops. “That’s… not a good lead-in.”
She winces. “I was going to ease you into it. But I know you prefer directness now.”
“Ease me into what?”
Ochako holds out her phone. An email is open, U.A.’s staff header crisp at the top. Izuku skims the polite greeting, the explanation, the bullet points—until his eyes catch on a line that seems to darken the room around it.
Pro Hero Guest Week – Confirmed
Participants: … Katsuki Bakugo (Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight)
Izuku’s breath stutters as if the air has turned thick.
“He—” His voice breaks. “He accepted?”
“His agency confirmed yesterday,” Ochako says quietly. “Iida and Shoto already replied in the group chat you never comment in, by the way.”
The letters blur, sharpen, blur again. The world narrows to that one name.
Dynamight is coming to U.A.
Katsuki is coming here.
Here—where Izuku works, where he teaches, where he’s spent a year moving through hallways like a careful ghost, avoiding the simplest possibility of running into the person he hasn’t spoken to.
His heartbeat thumps hard against his ribs, painful in its insistence.
“I thought he’d say no,” Izuku whispers. “He hates time-wasting PR events and—and kids and—”
“And yet,” Ochako says, “he said yes.”
She steadies Izuku’s hand where it grips the phone too tightly. “You have a month,” she reminds him, voice soft. “Guest Week isn’t until after midterms. You can think about what you want to do until then.”
A month.
Izuku nods, but it feels like the motion belongs to someone watching from far away.
After a year of silence, he has one month until Katsuki Bakugo walks back into his life.
And the worst part is not the fear.
It’s the strange, ominous certainty underneath it—like something has shifted, like an old orbit has been disturbed, like a door he thought he locked has clicked open on its own.
Meanwhile—on the other side of the city.
The news feed cuts off mid-sentence as a locker door slams shut with enough force to make the metal rattle.
The agency’s changing room drops into silence—thick, heavy, almost relieved. Katsuki doesn’t look at the darkened screen. He doesn’t need to. The echoes of it are still lodged under his skin, buzzing in places exhaustion can’t reach.
“Oi, turn that crap off,” he snaps, even though it already is.
From the bench behind him, Denki groans. “Come on, man. They were talking about how insane that last blast was. ‘A spectacular display of Dynamight’s unwavering resolve—’”
Katsuki grabs the towel off Denki’s head and smacks him in the face with it. “You were there, idiot. Don’t need commentary for my own damn fight.”
Denki sputters, tugging the towel free and messing up his hair even more. “Yeah, yeah, but it sounds cooler when they say it. Plus—free PR.”
“You get enough PR just breathing near me,” Katsuki growls as he yanks his hero top over his head and tosses it into the laundry bin. The fabric sticks to his skin, still damp with sweat. His muscles ache in that familiar, earned way.
That ache is manageable.
The one under his ribs isn’t.
“Dude,” Mina says, leaning around the lockers with a grin that promises trouble, “your name alone could fund my entire snack budget.”
“Get a better budget,” Katsuki mutters.
“Speaking of names,” Mina continues brightly, already enjoying herself, “guess what just dropped.”
Katsuki’s hands pause on the strap of his tank top. Just for a fraction of a second. He focuses on the motion—pull, adjust, breathe—like staying physical will keep his thoughts from catching fire.
“Another endorsement you’re gonna trap me into?” he says flatly. “Last time it was flavoured water.”
“Hey, hydration matters,” Mina protests, then lifts her phone. “But no. U.A.’s Pro Hero Guest Week lineup just went public.”
Something tightens low in Katsuki’s chest, sharp and immediate.
“We already confirmed,” he says. “You, me, Pikachu, and Shitty Hair. What’s the surprise?”
“The surprise,” Mina sings, tapping the screen, “is the full list.”
Eijiro rounds the lockers, hair still damp, posture easy in that unbreakable way of his. “Oh yeah, that thing. Iida and Todoroki are gonna be there too, right?”
“And Uraraka,” Denki adds. “It’s basically a reunion.”
“Eight years since graduation,” Eijiro says. “Feels unreal.”
“You’re old,” Katsuki fires back on instinct. “I’m in my prime.”
“Sure,” Mina says. “Your prime, which will be happening at U.A. alongside—”
She pauses.
Katsuki knows that pause. It’s calculated. Weaponized.
“Say it,” he growls.
“Midoriya Izuku,” Mina announces cheerfully. “Current U.A. teacher. Former Symbol of Hope trainee. Ethics prodigy. Walking emotional catastrophe.”
The name lands like a direct hit.
Izuku.
It punches the air out of Katsuki’s lungs before he can brace. His jaw locks as memory surges—unwanted, unfiltered.
A freckled kid chasing after him despite every reason not to.
A voice that shook but never stopped.
Green eyes that looked at Katsuki like he was something worth believing in.
The one person who stayed.
The one person Katsuki nearly broke.
The one person he walked away from anyway.
A year of silence stretches behind the name, vast and unresolved.
Katsuki glares at Mina. “Don’t say his full name like it’s some damn title.”
Denki winces. “I mean… kinda is. Guy’s a legend. Even without a Quirk.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Katsuki snaps, sharper than intended. “Izuku’s brilliant. We know.”
The mood shifts. Eijiro’s expression turns careful. Mina’s grin softens just a notch. Denki looks at the floor.
“You okay, bro?” Eijiro asks.
“I’m fine.”
“Bakubro—”
“I SAID I’M FINE.”
The words echo too loudly. The silence afterward hums, stretched thin and vibrating.
Katsuki scrubs a hand through his hair, pushing damp spikes back. The smell of smoke and detergent clings to the room. He stares at the gauntlet rack like it might offer answers.
They think they’re subtle. They’re idiots.
Mina breaks the quiet. “So. You’re gonna have to talk to him.”
“No,” Katsuki says immediately.
“You’re gonna be in the same building,” Denki points out. “Panels. Q&A. Group photos. Probably Aizawa staring at us until someone cries.”
“Not it,” Mina says.
“Same,” Denki agrees.
Eijiro rubs the back of his neck. “It’s been a year, man.”
“Exactly,” Katsuki bites out.
“Is it?” Eijiro asks, quiet but firm.
Katsuki slams his locker shut again, harder than necessary. “What do you want from me? To act like nothing happened? Like I didn’t spend our whole childhood tearing him down, then years trying to make up for it?”
The words spill out before he can stop them.
“I waited a year,” he adds, voice rough. “For him to reach out. He said he would. He never did.”
Mina’s expression fades. Denki’s shoulders slump. Eijiro doesn’t look away.
“Yeah,” Eijiro says slowly. “That’s bad. But not reaching out yourself isn’t exactly fair either.”
“I got the message,” Katsuki snaps. “He wants space. After everything. After we finally got it right.”
Images crowd in—fights, apologies, nights spent bleeding and laughing in equal measure. Promises whispered after the war, fragile but sincere.
Then nothing.
Katsuki drops onto the bench, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The floor looks solid. Predictable. Easier than his thoughts.
“I finally got him to look at me like a friend,” he mutters. “Do you know how long that took?”
Mina crouches in front of him. “Katsuki—”
“Don’t.”
She softens anyway. “You can’t protect him from your feelings by disappearing.”
“I’m not protecting him,” Katsuki growls. “I’m protecting the peace.”
Because he doesn’t know how that conversation would end.
Because he doesn’t know if Izuku would even want to see him.
Because being ignored would hurt worse than being hated.
“He’s better off,” Katsuki says quietly. “He’s got his job. His students. His life.”
Denki frowns. “That sounds like you punishing yourself.”
“Good,” Katsuki snaps. “I deserve it.”
Eijiro exhales and steps closer. “You know he never blamed you the way you blame yourself, right?”
Something sharp flares in Katsuki’s chest—hope, pain, both. He crushes it without mercy.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I did what I did.”
Silence settles again, heavy but steady.
Mina straightens, expression resolute. “Too bad. You already said yes. You’re going to U.A.”
“And if you run into a certain green-haired teacher,” Denki adds lightly, “that’s just life.”
Eijiro claps a hand on Katsuki’s shoulder. “We’ve got your back.”
Katsuki stands, rolling his shoulders. His reflection stares back from the locker mirror—red eyes, tired but unyielding, scars worn like proof.
Dynamight doesn’t flinch.
Neither does Katsuki.
“I’ll go,” he says. “I’ll do the week. For the kids.”
“And if you see Izuku?” Mina asks, quieter now.
Katsuki’s hands curl into fists.
“If I see him,” he says slowly, “I’ll deal with it then.”
Not a plan.
But it’s more than he’s allowed himself in a year.
A few days later the walk back to the classroom feels longer than usual.
Izuku moves through the hallway on autopilot, shoes echoing softly against polished floors as sunlight pours in through tall windows and paints the ground in warm, deceptive stripes. Outside, cherry blossoms sway in the breeze, petals drifting down like fragments of something gentle and fleeting. On most days, he would stop to watch them. He would catalog the way the light catches on pink and white, maybe snap a picture for his students—proof that softness still exists in a world built for impact.
Today, he barely notices them.
His mind keeps circling the same sentence, over and over, like it’s been etched into the inside of his skull.
Katsuki is coming back to U.A.
Every time the thought resurfaces, his chest tightens—too warm, too sharp, too close to something that feels like panic. It’s the kind of sensation that comes right before a bruise fully forms, when the pain hasn’t decided how deep it wants to settle.
A year.
An entire year of silence. Of careful distance. Of teaching himself how to breathe without waiting for a message that never came.
And now—
Just like that, Katsuki is going to walk these halls again.
Izuku’s hand trembles as he slides open his classroom door. The room is exactly as he left it: desks in neat rows, lesson objectives written cleanly across the whiteboard, stacks of graded papers waiting patiently on his desk. Order. Routine. Safety.
It should ground him.
Instead, it makes him feel like an intruder.
The air smells faintly of chalk dust and disinfectant. Morning light warms the wooden floorboards. Everything is familiar. Everything is unchanged.
So why does it feel like the ground beneath him is shifting?
Izuku closes the door behind him and sinks into his chair, exhaling slowly. His pulse hasn’t settled since Ochako handed him that email. His heart keeps jumping like it expects Katsuki to burst through the door at any second—explosions crackling, voice sharp and familiar, shouting MOVE, NERD like they’re still teenagers crammed into dorm hallways.
But they aren’t kids anymore.
Katsuki is Dynamight now—an elite pro hero with international recognition and enough power to level city blocks.
And Izuku is… a teacher.
A quirkless one.
He rubs his palms against his slacks, grounding himself in the sensation, reminding his body where he is. The present matters. The past doesn’t get to dictate everything.
He should be preparing lesson notes. His students will arrive in twenty minutes. But his thoughts refuse to latch onto curriculum and objectives.
They drift—uninvited, relentless—back to Katsuki.
How does he look up close now?
Sharper, probably. Broader. Still carrying that stubborn scowl like armor.
Does he still bite the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking?
Does his right palm still twitch before he uses his Quirk?
Does he ever—
Does he ever think about Izuku at all?
Izuku swallows hard.
Katsuki wasn’t the one who walked away first.
After the war. After the long stretch of rebuilding, of learning how to exist without constantly bracing for disaster. After the years where they finally stood on equal ground, no shouting, no cruelty—just an awkward, hard-earned friendship.
Izuku was the one who stopped reaching out.
For good reasons, he tells himself—for reasons that made sense at the time. Katsuki was becoming everything he was meant to be. Rising fast. Burning bright. Izuku was afraid of being an anchor. Afraid that if he stayed too close, he’d say something foolish, something selfish, and fracture the fragile peace they’d fought so hard to build.
Distance had seemed necessary.
Maybe it still is.
He presses his fingers to his temples and breathes. Focus. Just teach your class. Just breathe.
The door slides open suddenly.
“Midoriya-sensei!”
Izuku startles, nearly knocking over his mug of tea.
Hana and Koji—two first-year students—peek inside, folders stuffed with hero analysis worksheets clutched to their chests.
“Oh! Sorry, sensei,” Hana giggles. “We didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s okay,” Izuku says, forcing a smile. “I was just… thinking.”
Koji tilts his head. “You look pale.”
“Did you not sleep?” Hana asks, concern creasing her brow.
Kids always notice. Somehow, they always do.
“I slept,” Izuku lies gently. “Just a busy morning.”
Hana brightens. “Is it because of the Guest Hero Week announcement? Everyone’s talking about it already!”
Izuku’s stomach flips.
“Oh?” he says lightly, though the effort makes his jaw ache. “Really?”
“Yeah!” Hana grins. “My brother freaked out because Dynamight is coming! He watches all his livestreams!”
Of course he does.
“That’s… great,” Izuku manages. “He’s very skilled.”
“Skilled is an understatement!” Hana says. “He’s like a living fireworks show!”
Koji nods solemnly. “My parents say he’s the strongest explosive-type hero in the world.”
Izuku looks anywhere but at their eager faces. “He works very hard,” he says softly.
Too hard. Always too hard.
The students chatter a bit longer before heading off, and when the door closes again, the silence crashes in around Izuku like a wave.
Katsuki.
Even hearing his hero name from students makes something warm and dangerous bloom in Izuku’s chest. He hates it. He can’t afford it.
He pulls his lesson plan closer and stares at the words until they stop blurring.
You’re a teacher, he reminds himself. A stable adult. Someone students rely on.
You can’t fall apart just because someone from your past is coming back.
Even if that someone is the person you’ve loved since your first year.
A soft chime alerts him to a new message on his phone.
He unlocks it, expecting a schedule update.
Instead, it’s from Shoto.
Meanwhile—far from U.A., where the city gives way to concrete and steel.
The punching bag never stood a chance.
Katsuki drives his fist into it again, explosion snapping sharp and contained against reinforced material. The chain rattles violently overhead. Sweat runs down his temples, drips off his chin, stings his eyes. His muscles burn in a way he understands—clean, honest, earned.
The burn in his chest is something else entirely.
He hits the bag again. Harder. The impact echoes through the training room like a warning shot.
“Dude,” Eijiro says from behind him, impressed and a little concerned, “you’re gonna kill that thing.”
“Shut up,” Katsuki growls, launching another punch.
Mina sits cross-legged on a weight bench nearby, kicking her feet. “Someone’s cranky.”
Katsuki ignores her. He focuses on the rhythm—step, strike, detonate, pull back. Control. Precision. If he stops moving, his thoughts will catch him.
Denki leans against the wall, energy drink in hand. “So… are you training because you’re stressed, or are you stressed because you’re training?”
“Both,” Katsuki snaps.
They exchange looks.
He hates when they exchange looks.
Eijiro steps closer. “You’re thinking about U.A.”
“No shit.”
“Specifically,” Mina adds, grinning, “you’re thinking about a certain green-haired teacher who works there.”
“I swear,” Katsuki snarls, “if you say one more word—”
“Kacchan—” Denki sings.
“DON’T CALL ME THAT.”
The room goes dead quiet.
Katsuki’s chest rises and falls too fast. He drags his forearm across his forehead, smearing sweat and frustration alike.
Why does even hearing that old nickname twist something in his gut, like a wire pulled too tight?
Eijiro approaches more carefully now. “Bro… you’re gonna have to talk to him eventually.”
“No,” Katsuki says immediately. “I don’t.”
“Yes,” Mina counters. “You do. Because if you walk into Guest Week carrying all this emotional landmine nonsense, the students will feel it.”
Denki nods gravely. “Kids are psychic. It’s science.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
But they aren’t wrong.
Seeing Izuku again is inevitable. He agreed to the schedule before he even knew Izuku would be there—before he knew Izuku was the one coordinating half the panels, before he knew how deep this was going to cut.
Katsuki steadies the punching bag with one hand, fingers digging into the rough material. His knuckles throb. His chest does worse.
“Look,” he mutters, staring at the floor, “I’m not… ready.”
Mina’s voice softens. “What scares you more? That he hates you—or that he doesn’t?”
Katsuki freezes.
Eijiro’s hand lands on his shoulder. Solid. Familiar. “You miss him,” he says quietly.
Katsuki grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches.
Missing him isn’t strong enough a word. He hasn’t stopped thinking about Izuku for a single day. But what right does he have to miss him? After everything he did? After all the damage?
He stayed away because he thought it was better for Izuku. He still thinks that.
“I don’t know what I’ll do when I see him,” Katsuki admits, voice low. “I’ll get through the week. And then… it goes back to how it is.”
Eijiro exhales. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Denki raises a finger. “Rule one: don’t explode at him.”
“Rule two,” Mina adds, “don’t emotionally explode at him.”
“Both,” Denki says.
Katsuki rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches despite himself.
Idiots. All of them.
He throws one last punch into the bag, letting the impact ground him, then steps back. His breathing slowly evens out.
A month.
Just a few weeks until he walks back into U.A.—the place where everything started, where everything nearly broke, where everything changed.
A few weeks until he sees Izuku again.
Katsuki blows out a breath. “I’m gonna shower.”
Mina beams. “Progress!”
He flips her off on his way out.
She just laughs.
And as Katsuki leaves the room, one thought follows him like a shadow he can’t quite outrun:
He has no idea whether he’s walking back into a fight—or something far worse.