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The first thing Midoriya Izuku learned was that Bakugo Katsuki did not sail like other pirates.

The reports called him reckless—volatile, violent, driven by impulse rather than reason. Inked words stacked neatly on official parchment, stamped with seals and certainty.

The maps told a different story.

Izuku stood over the chart table as the ship rolled beneath him, the steady groan of wood and rigging filling the cabin like a living thing. A brass lantern swung overhead, casting long, wavering shadows across the parchment. His fingers were braced against the polished wood, knuckles pale, as his eyes followed the familiar web of ink.

Trade lanes intersected in neat, predictable lines. Navy patrol routes curved with disciplined precision. Known pirate territories sat like stains the empire had never quite scrubbed away.

And then there was Katsuki’s path.

It cut through them all.

Not in jagged slashes or chaotic zigzags, but in deliberate, confident strokes—each deviation purposeful, each encounter calculated. Like a blade drawn slowly, carefully, where it would hurt the most.

Not random. Never random.

Izuku traced the route again, slower this time. He had done this countless nights already, alone in lamplit cabins, long after his officers had turned in. Each time, the conclusion remained the same.

This wasn’t the sailing of a madman.

This was the work of someone who understood the sea.

“Captain Midoriya.”

Izuku lifted his head as Commander Hitoshi stepped into the cabin. The door shut behind him with a solid thud, sealing out the wind and the noise of the deck. His coat was still damp with sea spray, darkened at the hem, his expression set in the hard lines of a man who did not waste words.

He never did—especially when the subject was Bakugo Katsuki.

“You’re being reassigned,” Hitoshi said. “Primary target.”

Izuku already knew.

He straightened, shoulders squaring as his hands fell to his sides. His pulse remained steady, his mind leaping several steps ahead even as the words continued to come.

“Bakugo Katsuki,” he said evenly.

Hitoshi’s mouth tightened, as if the name itself left a bitter taste. “Infamous pirate captain. Responsible for the loss of six naval vessels. Known for excessive force. No confirmed civilian survivors.”

Izuku did not argue. Not yet.

He listened, as he always did—quiet, attentive, absorbing every detail while his gaze drifted back to the map. Katsuki’s ship, Dynamight, was marked in red. It always was. A moving wound across the sea.

“Your orders are to pursue, capture, and return him to port for execution,” Hitoshi continued. “You are not to engage unnecessarily. Do not let him escape.”

Execution. The word settled heavily in the air between them.

Izuku nodded. “Understood.”

It was what he was trained to say. What was expected of him.

What he didn’t say was that he had been studying Bakugo Katsuki for months already. Long before the orders had ever come down.

Because pirates did not usually circle trade routes only to veer away at the last moment. They did not disengage when merchant vessels strayed too close to a battle. They did not reposition to take hits meant for ships that couldn’t defend themselves.

Izuku’s finger brushed the edge of the parchment, following the pattern he knew by heart now. Every recorded encounter ended the same way: chaos, damage, retreat.

But never slaughter.

Never burning ports reduced to ash. Never bodies left floating in harbors. Never wreckage thick with the innocent.

“He’s dangerous,” Hitoshi said, his voice lowering slightly, more warning than statement. “He won’t hesitate.”

Izuku thought of the last engagement.

Of the moment—brief, easily dismissed in official reports—when Dynamight had held the upper hand. When Katsuki could have turned, unleashed hell, and obliterated an exposed supply convoy in a single, decisive strike.

Instead, he had vanished into the fog.

“I won’t either,” Izuku replied.

Hitoshi studied him then, sharp eyes lingering as if searching for something unspoken. Whatever he found—or didn’t—made him nod once, sharply. Without another word, he turned and left.

The door closed behind him.

Silence returned.

The ship creaked softly around Izuku, timbers shifting with the swell of the sea. Somewhere above, waves struck the hull with a low, rhythmic thunder. He exhaled slowly.

With careful precision, Izuku straightened the charts, aligning their edges until they sat perfectly square. Then he began issuing orders—measured, calm, absolute. Adjust the sails. Alter the patrol rotation. Ready the cannons, but do not load them yet.

The crew moved when he spoke. They always did.

Later, as the sky darkened and the horizon bled into night, one of his officers approached hesitantly.

“Captain,” the man said. “Do you really think we’ll catch him?”

Izuku stepped toward the window, gazing out at the endless stretch of black water ahead. The sea rolled restlessly beneath the moon, vast and unyielding.

“Yes,” he said. “Eventually.”

Because Bakugo Katsuki left patterns behind. Because storms did not frighten him. Because men like that believed the sea belonged to them.

And because Izuku had learned something important, poring over ink and rumor and smoke-stained reports late into the night:

Bakugo Katsuki did not run from the navy.

He danced with it.

Izuku’s mouth curved—just slightly—as the wind snapped the sails overhead.

“Set course,” he ordered.

Somewhere out there, a pirate captain was charting his own path through the same waters—loud, blazing, impossible to ignore.

And the sea, it seemed, had decided to throw them together.

They spotted the Dynamight at dawn.

It was Izuku who saw it first—its dark hull cutting cleanly through the thinning mist, sails black against a sky that hadn’t yet decided whether it wanted to be blue or cruel. The ship moved with unnerving confidence, steady and sure, as if the ocean itself parted out of habit rather than resistance. It didn’t bob or hesitate. It advanced.

“Pirate vessel off the starboard bow,” Izuku called calmly, his voice carrying over the deck without strain.

The response was immediate. The navy ship surged to life beneath his feet as the crew snapped into motion—ropes hauled taut, boots pounding wood, cannons rolled into position with practiced efficiency. Orders rippled outward in tight, disciplined bursts, each one absorbed and obeyed without question. Izuku remained at the helm, coat snapping sharply in the morning wind, his gaze fixed on the approaching shape as the distance between them closed, mile by measured mile.

He lifted the spyglass.

Movement flickered across the pirate deck, and then there he was.

Bakugo Katsuki stood at the bow like he owned the horizon.

No coat. Sleeves rolled up his forearms. Hair wild and unrestrained, catching the wind as if it belonged there. His stance was loose but grounded, a predator’s ease, and his grin—sharp, unapologetic—was bared in open anticipation. He was shouting orders, loud and unfiltered, and his crew moved instantly, fluid and fearless, as though this chaos was a language they spoke fluently.

Izuku lowered the glass.

So the rumors were right.

“Maintain course,” he ordered evenly. “Don’t fire until I say.”

The sea churned between them as the ships began to circle, slow and deliberate, each testing distance and nerve. The Dynamight veered first—just enough to skirt the navy’s broadside, just enough to force Izuku’s hand. A calculated provocation. Smart.

Katsuki turned his head then.

Their eyes met across the water.

It lasted no more than a heartbeat, a fleeting sliver of time swallowed immediately by wind and waves, but Izuku felt it like a hook driven straight into his chest. Katsuki’s gaze was sharp and assessing, burning with interest—not fear, not surprise. Recognition, maybe. As if he’d already been wondering who had orchestrated this pursuit, and now he knew.

Izuku straightened without realizing he’d done it.

“Captain,” an officer murmured from behind him. “Orders?”

“Fire a warning shot,” Izuku said, never looking away.

The cannon roared. Smoke bloomed thick and white as the shot struck wide, exploding into seawater and sending spray skyward like shattered glass. The echo rolled across the open water.

Katsuki laughed.

Izuku heard it even over the wind.

The Dynamight answered with a shot of its own—close enough to rattle the navy ship’s hull, close enough to make the message unmistakable, but angled just off true. Deliberate. Controlled. Bakugou could have aimed clean.

Izuku’s jaw tightened. “Return fire. Starboard cannons. Now.”

The sea erupted.

Thunder cracked through the air as smoke swallowed the space between ships. Cannonballs tore through mist and spray, splintering wood, sending sailors scrambling as the two vessels wove dangerously close. Izuku moved through it like he’d been built for this—issuing commands, adjusting course, predicting Katsuki’s maneuvers a breath before they happened.

Because Bakugo Katsuki didn’t fight like a madman.

He fought like someone who knew the sea listened.

Izuku saw it then, sudden and unmistakable—a merchant ship drifting too close to the chaos, small and slow and utterly defenseless. Katsuki saw it too. There was a moment, brief enough to be missed by anyone not watching closely, where the Dynamight had a clean shot. One command. One strike. The chase would have ended before it truly began.

Katsuki didn’t take it.

Instead, he turned sharply, interposing his ship between the battle and the merchant vessel, barking orders that pulled his crew into a defensive formation without hesitation.

Izuku’s breath caught. “Halt fire,” he snapped, the command tearing out of him before thought could intervene.

The cannons fell silent.

For a suspended moment, the ships drifted apart as smoke thinned and waves lapped insistently against their hulls. Katuski looked back at him then—no mockery, no laughter. Something else flickered there instead. Something like respect.

And then the Dynamight turned, sails catching the wind, and vanished into the fog as if it had never been there at all.

Silence settled over the navy deck, thick and disbelieving.

Izuku stood motionless, hands clenched at his sides, staring at the empty horizon long after the last shadow had disappeared. “Yes,” he said quietly when someone muttered that it could have gone worse.

Somewhere out there, a pirate captain was grinning into the wind, already replaying the encounter in his mind, already marking the navy officer who had dared to match him shot for shot.

The storm didn’t arrive all at once.

It announced itself in fragments, the way disasters often did—quietly at first, almost politely. The wind shifted without warning, sharp and wrong, tugging at the sails with a sudden impatience that hadn’t been there moments before. The air thickened, heavy with salt and something darker, something that sat low in the lungs. Izuku felt it before anyone spoke, a tightening in his chest as the horizon bruised from washed-out blue to a deep, unsettled slate.

“Captain,” someone called from the deck. “Pressure’s dropping.”

Izuku was already moving. “Reef the sails. Secure the cannons. All hands, storm protocol—now.”

The crew responded instantly, disciplined and fast, but the sea had already decided it was in a mood. Waves began to swell, lifting the ship higher than they should and dropping it harder than expected, the impact shuddering through the hull. Above them, clouds folded in on themselves like fabric being wrung dry, the sky darkening with alarming speed.

And then—through the rising mist—

The Dynamight emerged.

Izuku’s breath stilled.

Katsuki’s ship rode the growing swell like it had been built for this, leaning into the wind instead of fighting it. Its black sails snapped violently as the crew adjusted without hesitation, every movement sharp and purposeful. Lightning split the sky behind it, casting the ship into stark white relief for a blinding second.

For one absurd, unguarded thought, Izuku found himself thinking: He looks at home.

Then thunder crashed, close enough to rattle teeth.

“Pirate vessel to port!” someone shouted.

Izuku didn’t answer right away. His eyes were locked across the chaos, on the familiar figure braced near the helm, hair plastered to his face by rain, mouth open as he barked orders that were half-lost to the wind. Bakugo Katsuki looked feral in the storm—untamed, alive, like the violence of the sea had simply recognized one of its own.

The first wave crashed over the bow, soaking the deck in an instant. Rain followed in relentless sheets, visibility plummeting as the world narrowed to wind, water, and the groan of straining wood.

“This is a bad idea!” an officer yelled, gripping the rigging. “We should disengage!”

Izuku held the railing as the ship lurched beneath him, boots sliding slightly on the slick deck. His pulse was steady. Focused. “No,” he said firmly. “If we turn now, we lose them.”

Another wave slammed into the hull, harder than the last, and the ship protested with a deep, wounded groan. Lightning flashed again, close enough to burn the image into his vision. Through the rain and chaos, Izuku saw Bakugou turn—just for a moment—and their eyes met.

Katsuki’s mouth moved.

Izuku couldn’t hear the words, but understanding landed anyway, sharp and unwelcome.

You should leave.

The thought irritated him more than it had any right to.

“Hold course!” Izuku snapped.

The storm worsened with vindictive speed. Wind howled until orders were swallowed whole, rain blinding and relentless. The sea reared up in dark, rolling walls that crashed down with bone-rattling force. Shouted commands dissolved into hand signals. Every step became a calculated risk as the deck turned treacherous beneath their feet.

Another wave hit.

The ship pitched violently, tilting at an angle that stole the ground out from under him. Izuku stumbled, caught himself on instinct, and straightened—only for the deck to surge upward again, throwing him forward with brutal force.

“Captain!”

He hit the railing hard, the impact driving the breath from his lungs in a sharp, useless gasp. His fingers scrabbled for purchase, boots sliding as the ship tilted again, the world skewing violently—

—and then the sea took him.

The cold was immediate and merciless, ripping the air from his chest as he was dragged under. Water roared in his ears, louder than the storm above, his coat pulling him down with unforgiving weight. Panic flared, brief and sharp, and then training cut through it.

No.

He kicked hard, arms thrashing as he fought his way upward. His head broke the surface for a heartbeat—just long enough to glimpse his ship through the rain, distant and blurred, already beginning to turn away.

Not intentionally.

Necessarily.

They were leaving.

The realization settled over him with strange calm. Storm protocol. Survival. No one stopped for one man overboard in seas like this—not if they wanted to live.

Another wave crashed down, forcing him under again. His limbs felt heavier now, movements slower as the cold bit deep and unforgiving. Thoughts drifted in and out, oddly disconnected—unfinished reports, maps still spread across his desk, the memory of a pirate captain who had looked at him like he was worth noticing.

The sea pulled him under once more, dark and endless.

Katsuki saw him fall.

It happened in the space of a blink—one violent tilt of the navy ship, one sharp flash of green swallowed whole by churning grey water—and something twisted hard in Katsuki’s chest before he could stop it, before he could even put a name to it. Lightning split the sky, bleaching the sea white, and for that frozen instant Katsuki saw the navy officer’s body strike the waves and vanish beneath them as if the ocean had been waiting.

“Man overboard!” someone shouted from the Dynamight. “Navy—!”

Katsuki’s hands tightened on the railing, knuckles whitening as thunder rolled overhead. Rain plastered his hair to his face, soaked him through to the bone, but he barely felt it. His world narrowed to the water below, to the writhing, chaotic surface churned into something violent and unrecognizable by the storm.

He scanned wildly, breath caught somewhere between his ribs and his teeth.

Then—there.

The officer resurfaced.

Once.

Katsuki sucked in a sharp breath as the man’s head broke the surface, rain-slick and pale, eyes unfocused as he dragged in air. It lasted barely a heartbeat before another wave surged up, dark and merciless, and dragged him under again like the sea was claiming something it believed belonged to it.

“Captain!” a crew member yelled, voice nearly torn apart by the wind. “Storm’s getting worse—we need to—”

“Turn the ship,” Katsuki barked.

The words ripped out of him raw and immediate, beating thought to the punch, beating reason down before it could open its mouth. The Dynamight shuddered as the order landed, the crew freezing for half a heartbeat in stunned disbelief as rain lashed sideways and the deck pitched beneath their feet.

“Captain,” another voice cut in, urgent and strained. “He’s the enemy.”

Katsuki rounded on them, teeth bared, rain dripping from his lashes, eyes burning. “I don’t give a damn,” he snarled. “I’m not letting the sea take him.”

Something in his tone snapped whatever hesitation lingered. The Dynamight groaned as it shifted course, timbers protesting as the ship turned hard into the waves. Wind screamed its displeasure, rigging shrieking as rain hammered down, but Katsuki was already moving—shouting orders, pointing sharply, tracking the chaos with brutal, unrelenting focus.

“There!” he roared. “Starboard side—rope, now!”

They spotted him again just as another wave lifted his body, limp and terrifyingly still against the dark water. The sight drove something hot and vicious through Katsuki’s veins, a surge of fury and fear he refused to examine too closely.

He didn’t wait for confirmation. Didn’t wait for caution.

Katsuki grabbed the rope as it was thrown and lunged forward, boots skidding as the ship bucked violently beneath him. Mistiming this would mean joining the navy officer in the sea, letting the storm decide both their fates.

Timing it right—

The rope caught.

The crew hauled back with practiced force, muscles straining as they fought the weight of water and soaked fabric. Izuku’s body slammed against the hull with a sickening thud, scraped along the side before strong hands dragged him up and over the rail. He collapsed onto the deck in a boneless sprawl, rain pouring down around him as thunder cracked overhead.

Katsuki was on his knees beside him instantly.

“Hey,” he snapped, grabbing fistfuls of the man’s coat and hauling him onto his side with more force than necessary. “Don’t you dare.”

There was no response.

Izuku’s skin was icy beneath his hands, shockingly cold, lips tinged blue, chest horrifyingly still. For a split second, Katsuki’s breath stuttered, his heart slamming painfully against his ribs in a rhythm he didn’t recognize—too fast, too sharp, too close to panic.

“Get him below deck,” Katsuki ordered hoarsely. “Now.”

The crew didn’t hesitate. They moved with grim efficiency, lifting Izuku carefully as the ship rocked violently around them, boots slipping as they carried him toward the stairs. Katsuki followed close behind, one hand still clenched tight in the fabric of a navy coat he absolutely, unequivocally should have let go of.

Above them, the storm continued to rage—wind screaming, waves battering the hull like a challenge—but below deck, as Izuku was carried into dim lanternlight and relative warmth, Katsuki stayed at his side, jaw clenched tight enough to ache, breath uneven in his chest.

Because whatever else this man was—enemy, target, problem, nuisance the navy had thrown in his path—

He was alive.

And Katsuki refused—flatly, violently—to be the kind of man who let the sea decide otherwise.

Consciousness returned in fragments.

Sound came first—the low, intimate creak of wood shifting against water, the rhythmic groan of a ship moving steadily through the sea. Not the crisp, regimented cadence of a navy vessel, where every sound had a place and purpose, but something looser. Lived-in. The kind of noise a ship made when it had learned the ocean by heart rather than by command.

Then warmth.

It startled him more than the sound ever could.

Izuku’s eyes flew open as he sucked in a sharp breath, lungs burning as air rushed in too fast, too deep. His chest ached with it, every inhale reminding him that he’d come back from somewhere cold and unforgiving. The ceiling above him swayed gently, beams exposed, lanternlight rocking with the motion of the waves. Too low. Too close.

Wrong.

Not his ship.

Awareness slammed into him all at once, setting off alarms in rapid succession. He was lying on a narrow bunk, wrapped in a blanket pulled neatly to his waist. His clothes—if he could call them that—were dry, loose, and unfamiliar, heavy fabric hanging oddly on his frame. The faint scent of smoke and salt lingered in the air, undercut by something sharper. Gunpowder, maybe. Oil. Fire.

Not my uniform.

His heart kicked painfully against his ribs.

Izuku forced himself upright, ignoring the way his head swam and his vision narrowed at the edges. The movement sent a wave of dizziness through him, sharp enough that he had to grip the edge of the bunk and breathe through clenched teeth until it passed. When the room steadied, he began to catalog his surroundings with the same frantic precision he’d used on battlefields.

A small cabin. One porthole rattling faintly with the ship’s motion. A table bolted to the floor, a chair tucked beneath it. No visible weapons. No restraints.

The door.

He swung his legs over the side of the bunk and stood too quickly, knees buckling as the world tilted. He caught himself against the wall, jaw tight, pulse roaring in his ears.

Think. Don’t panic.

He crossed the short distance to the door and tested the handle.

Locked.

Of course it was.

Izuku exhaled slowly through his nose, fingers curling into the fabric of the shirt he was wearing. It wasn’t rough. Clean, actually. Well cared for. Too big for him, the sleeves hanging past his wrists like it had never been meant for his frame at all.

That made his chest tighten for an entirely different reason.

He turned back toward the bunk, eyes sharper now, catching details he’d missed in his rush. His navy coat lay folded neatly on the chair, unmistakable in the dim light. His boots sat drying near the wall. His sword—still sheathed—rested against the table, exactly where someone could have taken it away and chosen not to.

They hadn’t stripped him.

Hadn’t bound him. Hadn’t disarmed him completely.

That was worse.

The door opened without warning.

Izuku whirled, hand flying instinctively to where a weapon should have been—and froze.

Katsuki filled the doorway.

He was still damp from the storm, hair wild and curling at the ends, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A faint bruise darkened the line of his jaw, and one knuckle was wrapped hastily, stained through. He looked infuriatingly solid, like the ship itself might splinter before he ever did.

Their eyes locked.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Katsuki’s gaze swept over Izuku in a quick, assessing pass—upright, breathing, clearly conscious—before something unreadable settled behind his eyes, tightening his expression just slightly.

“You’re up,” he said at last.

Izuku straightened, forcing his spine steady despite the lingering weakness in his limbs. “You have a funny way of taking prisoners.”

Katsuki snorted and stepped into the cabin, closing the door behind him with a decisive click. Not locking it this time. Izuku noticed immediately.

“You fell overboard,” Katsuki said bluntly. “Storm damn near killed you.”

“I noticed,” Izuku replied coolly. “What I didn’t notice was agreeing to board a pirate ship.”

Katsuki crossed his arms, the movement crowding the space between them, making the cabin feel smaller than it already was. “You were unconscious,” he said flatly. “Didn’t seem like the right time to ask.”

Izuku’s eyes narrowed. “So you saved me.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

The question landed heavy between them, dense as the air after thunder.

Katsuki’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping. “Didn’t feel like watching the sea win.”

Izuku studied him then—really studied him. The way he stood subtly between Izuku and the door without drawing attention to it. The way his gaze kept flicking back to Izuku’s face, as if checking for signs he might drop where he stood.

“You know who I am,” Izuku said quietly.

Katsuki scoffed. “Hard to forget the navy officer who won’t stop chasing me.”

“And you still pulled me out of the water.”

Katsuki’s eyes sharpened. “You think I should’ve let you drown?”

“I think most pirates would have,” Izuku shot back.

Katsuki stepped closer.

Not threatening. Just… present.

“I’m not most pirates.”

Izuku held his ground, heart hammering despite himself. “Then what am I to you?”

Katsuki’s gaze flicked, brief but telling, to the navy coat folded on the chair.

“A problem,” he said. “One I haven’t decided what to do with yet.”

Izuku huffed a quiet laugh. “Comforting.”

Katsuki’s mouth twitched despite himself. “You’re alive. Dry. Fed. Try not to sound ungrateful.”

“I didn’t ask to be saved.”

“No,” Katsuki agreed. “But you’re still here.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and electric. The ship creaked softly around them, waves steady now, no longer violent but far from calm. Izuku became acutely aware of how close Katsuki was—of the heat of him, the solidity, the fact that this man could have ended everything and had chosen not to.

“I want to leave,” Izuku said finally.

Katsuki regarded him for a long moment. “Not yet,” he replied. “You can barely stand.”

“That’s not your decision.”

Katsuki’s voice dropped, firm but not unkind. “It is while you’re on my ship.”

They stared at each other, neither willing to yield, tension coiling tight between them like a drawn line that begged to be crossed.

Then Katsuki stepped back.

“You’ll recover faster if you rest,” he said, turning toward the door. “Food’ll be brought up. Try not to do anything stupid.”

Izuku’s mouth curved sharply. “No promises.”

Katsuki paused, hand on the door. “Yeah,” he said, glancing back with something dangerously close to amusement. “Figured.”

The door shut behind him.

Izuku let out a shaky breath and sank back onto the bunk as the adrenaline finally began to drain from his system. His heart was still racing, thoughts tangled and restless—but beneath it all, unwelcome and unsettling, something else stirred.

Curiosity.

Recovery came quietly, without ceremony, without the sharp snap of panic that had greeted him every other time he’d woken since the storm.

Izuku surfaced slowly, awareness drifting back in gentle layers instead of crashing down on him. The first thing he noticed was the ship—steady beneath him now, the familiar creak of wood no longer erratic or threatening but rhythmic, almost… soothing. The violent rise and fall that had rattled his bones those first nights was gone, replaced by a smooth, confident glide through the water. The sea had settled, and somehow, so had he.

His chest still ached when he drew in a deep breath, but it was a manageable soreness now, the kind that reminded rather than warned. His head throbbed faintly if he shifted too fast, but the thick fog that had dulled his thoughts had lifted enough for everything to line up again. He could think. Clearly. Fully.

That, more than the pain, unsettled him.

Izuku opened his eyes and stared at the low ceiling above him, lantern light swaying softly with the ship’s movement. He lay still for a long moment, waiting for his pulse to spike, for the instinctive surge of alarm that had plagued him before—but it never came. Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself upright. No dizziness followed. No sudden weakness. Just the quiet protest of muscles that had been idle too long.

He exhaled through his nose.

The cabin was unchanged—clean, spare, undeniably pirate. His coat still folded neatly over the chair. His boots still drying near the wall. His sword resting exactly where it had been left, untouched. And yet, the space no longer felt like a cage.

The realization earned him a sharp scowl.

By midday, Katsuki let him on deck.

“Don’t push it,” Katsuki said, voice gruff, eyes fixed firmly on the rigging as he spoke. “Or I’ll lock you back in the cabin.”

Izuku bristled instantly. “You can’t just—”

Katsuki finally looked at him. One sharp red eye, assessing, unyielding. “I can. Try me.”

Izuku shut his mouth.

Which was new. Disturbing. Infuriatingly new.

The deck opened up around him in a wash of light and sound. Sunlight glinted off salt-worn wood and taut ropes, the air sharp with sea spray and tar and something faintly smoky drifting from below deck. The crew moved with an ease that caught Izuku off guard—not rushed, not chaotic, but smooth and practiced, like every step had been taken a thousand times before. There was laughter threaded through the work, shouted remarks, easy camaraderie that didn’t falter when Katsuki barked an order or shifted position at the helm.

They weren’t afraid of him.

They weren’t afraid of Katsuki either.

They trusted him.

Izuku leaned against the railing, letting the cool breeze brush against his skin. The sea stretched endlessly before them, deceptively calm, sunlight dancing across its surface as if it hadn’t tried to swallow him whole days ago. For a fleeting, dangerous moment, he almost forgot where he was.

Almost.

“So you’re alive.”

He startled, spine straightening on instinct, then immediately scowled when he turned and saw who had spoken. A woman with pink skin and curved horns leaned casually against a nearby mast, arms crossed, grin wide and unapologetic. Her gaze swept over him with open curiosity, like he was something interesting she’d already decided to enjoy.

“You sound disappointed,” Izuku said dryly.

She laughed, bright and fearless. “Nah. Just surprised. You were real dramatic when they hauled you up.”

“I nearly drowned.”

“Details.”

She pushed off the mast and stepped closer, far too close, peering at him like he might suddenly sprout gills. “Mina Ashido,” she said cheerfully. “You’re the navy officer.”

“Izuku Midoriya,” he replied automatically, then paused. “You know who I am?”

Mina snorted. “Please. You’ve been living in our captain’s cabin like a cursed heirloom. Hard to miss.”

Izuku stiffened. “I’m not—”

“Oh, relax.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Cap’s had stranger guests.”

He doubted that, but kept it to himself.

Mina tilted her head, studying him with an intensity that felt far too perceptive for someone so openly playful. “You don’t look like what I expected.”

Izuku raised a brow. “And what did you expect?”

“More yelling,” she said thoughtfully. “Less… this.” She gestured vaguely at him. “You’re very calm for someone surrounded by pirates.”

“I’m injured,” Izuku replied flatly. “And outnumbered.”

“Still,” she hummed. “Most navy folk start foaming at the mouth by now.”

His gaze drifted across the deck despite himself—to Kirishima laughing as he hauled rope with effortless strength, to Kaminari nearly tripping over a coil and being loudly corrected, to Katsuki at the helm. The man stood with relaxed authority, posture easy but alert, eyes always moving, always watching. The ship seemed to respond to him as much as the crew did.

“They don’t seem interested in killing me,” Izuku admitted quietly.

Mina’s grin widened. “That’s ‘cause Cap hasn’t decided you’re a threat.”

His stomach tightened. “Yet.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. But if he wanted you gone?” She snapped her fingers. “You’d be gone.”

The words settled heavy in his chest. Izuku found himself watching Katsuki again—not as an enemy, not as a pirate, but as a captain. As a man whose crew trusted him without question.

“You trust him,” Izuku said softly.

Mina didn’t hesitate. “With my life.”

“Why?”

Her expression softened, just a fraction. “Because he never pretends to be something he’s not.” Her smile returned, sharp and knowing. “And because he pulled me out of the sea once, too.”

Izuku’s breath caught before he could stop it.

Mina straightened, clearly satisfied she’d said enough. “Anyway! Welcome to the ship, Navy Boy. Try not to fall overboard again. Cap hates paperwork.”

She walked off humming, leaving Izuku alone with the horizon and thoughts he very much did not want.

By the fourth day, Izuku’s strength returned the way everything seemed to on this ship—quietly, in pieces, without asking his permission.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no sudden rush of energy, no triumphant moment where he felt whole again. But the stairs no longer felt like a personal insult crafted specifically to spite him, and his legs no longer trembled every time the deck shifted beneath his feet. He still moved carefully, still measured each breath and step, still listened closely to the dull echoes of pain in his chest—but the weakness had softened, dulled into something he could manage.

Which meant he had more time to think.

This was deeply unfortunate.

He sat near the rail, the sea stretching endlessly beside him, sunlight glancing off the waves in lazy flashes. The wind tugged at his hair and clothes, cool and clean, carrying the sound of creaking wood and murmured voices. The ship felt alive beneath him, steady and confident, and it unsettled him how natural it was beginning to feel.

He was staring out at the horizon when a shadow fell across him.

“Hey,” Kirishima said, voice easy, cheerful as ever. He crouched beside Izuku, broad shoulders blocking the sun for a moment before shifting just enough to let the light spill back in. “Figured you’d be hungry.”

He offered a bowl.

Izuku blinked at it, then up at Kirishima. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, I did,” Kirishima replied simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Cap said you’re cleared for solids.”

Izuku froze mid-reach. “He said that?”

Kirishima grinned, completely unbothered. “Yup. Asked twice, actually. Wanted to be sure.”

That… did not help. At all.

Izuku took the bowl with a quiet thank you and ate slowly, the warmth seeping into him in a way he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. It tasted good—simple, hearty, comforting—and that alone felt dangerous. They sat together for a while without speaking, watching the water slide past the hull, the ship cutting cleanly through the sea like it had always belonged there.

“So,” Kirishima said eventually, casual as anything, “you gonna try escaping today?”

Izuku snorted before he could stop himself. “Tempting. But I doubt I’d make it very far.”

“True,” Kirishima agreed cheerfully. “Plus, Cap’d catch you.”

Izuku’s eyes betrayed him immediately, drifting toward the helm.

Katsuki stood there like he belonged to the sea itself. The wind tugged his coat loose around his shoulders, sunlight catching in his hair in sharp flashes of gold. His hands rested easily on the wheel, steady and sure, veins faintly visible along his forearms as he adjusted their course with minimal effort. Everything about him spoke of control—of someone who understood this world intimately and bent it to his will without ever forcing it.

Izuku looked away far too quickly.

“That’s… reassuring,” he said, tone carefully neutral.

Kirishima followed his gaze and smiled, softer this time. “He’s good, right?”

“At navigating,” Izuku corrected immediately.

“Sure,” Kirishima said, clearly humoring him.

Izuku tightened his grip on the bowl. “You’re all very loyal to him.”

Kirishima shrugged. “He earned it.”

“How?”

The answer came without hesitation, like Kirishima had been waiting for the question. “He listens. He doesn’t sacrifice us for glory. And when things go bad?” His grin sharpened, pride flashing in his eyes. “He’s always the last one off deck.”

Izuku swallowed, the words settling heavily in his chest.

That didn’t match any pirate profile he’d ever studied. Not the ruthless marauders the navy painted them as. Not the monsters he’d been trained to hunt.

“Why keep me here?” Izuku asked quietly. “I’m… inconvenient.”

Kirishima laughed. “Yeah, you are.”

Then, gentler, more honest, “But Cap made a call. When he does that, we back him.”

Something tight twisted beneath Izuku’s ribs—not fear, not exactly, but something heavier. More complicated.

Across the deck, Katsuki glanced over.

Just once.

It was quick, almost casual—checking wind, crew, horizon—but his eyes flicked to Izuku and lingered a fraction longer than necessary.

Their gazes met.

Izuku felt it like a jolt straight through his chest.

Katsuki’s expression didn’t change. Still sharp. Still guarded. But there was something else there, too—something unreadable, assessing, like he was making sure Izuku was still standing. Still breathing. Still here.

Then Katsuki turned away.

Izuku exhaled shakily and stared resolutely down at his soup like it had personally betrayed him.

Kirishima watched him with open amusement. “You okay, man?”

“Yes,” Izuku said far too quickly. “Fine.”

“Cool.” Kirishima stood and stretched. “Anyway, don’t overdo it. And if you need anything—”

“I know,” Izuku said softly. “You’ll bring it.”

Kirishima grinned. “Damn right.”

When he was gone, Izuku leaned back against the railing and closed his eyes, letting the sound of the sea wash over him. The ship creaked beneath him, steady and sure, and for a moment he simply breathed.

He told himself the warmth in his chest was gratitude.

That the quickened pulse was lingering weakness.

That the image of Katsuki framed by sunlight meant nothing at all.

He was very bad at convincing himself.

Izuku was beginning to think the ship itself was conspiring against him.

Not in any obvious, dramatic way—no snapped ropes or sudden lurches meant to toss him overboard again—but in subtler forms. In the way the deck always seemed to tilt just enough to keep him aware of his balance. In the way the wind carried voices to him whether he wanted to hear them or not. In the way Bakugo Katsuki—Katsuki, he corrected fiercely—kept ending up far too present in his line of sight.

He stood near the rigging, stretching his shoulders the way the ship’s medic had instructed. Slow. Careful. Controlled movements meant to ease stiffness without reopening old pain. The ropes creaked softly above him, sails snapping lazily in the breeze, sunlight warm against his skin. The sea rolled on beside them, endless and blue, deceptively peaceful.

He was mid-stretch when someone slid into his personal space with absolutely zero regard for boundaries.

“Heyyyyy.”

Izuku didn’t bother looking. “If you’re about to ask me something illegal,” he said flatly, “the answer is no.”

“That’s fair,” the voice replied, thoughtful. “What if it’s just mildly inappropriate?”

Izuku sighed and turned.

Kaminari Denki grinned at him like they were old friends reunited after a long separation instead of pirate and navy officer sharing a deck under extremely questionable circumstances. His hair was sun-bleached at the tips, grin lazy and unapologetic, eyes bright with the kind of mischief that had clearly never learned restraint.

“I’m Denki,” he said cheerfully. “You’re the navy guy.”

“I have a name.”

“Yeah,” Denki said, nodding. “But ‘navy guy’ is funnier.”

Izuku pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do you want?”

Denki leaned against the railing beside him, far too close, elbow brushing Izuku’s sleeve as if personal space were merely a suggestion. “Just checking in. You’re recovering well. Cap’s been asking.”

Izuku stilled. Completely. “He’s been what?”

“Checking,” Denki clarified easily. “Like—‘Is he eating?’ ‘Is he dizzy?’ ‘Is he being stupid?’ That sort of thing.”

Heat crept up Izuku’s neck despite his best efforts. “He didn’t need to—”

“Oh, he totally did,” Denki interrupted, grin widening. “He pretends not to care, but it’s really obvious.”

Izuku opened his mouth to argue—to deny it, dismiss it, rationalize it—

“Denki.”

Katsuki’s voice cut across the deck.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t sharp.

It didn’t need to be.

Denki flinched like a man who had just been personally addressed by the concept of consequences. “Gotta go!” he chirped immediately, backing away at record speed. “Great chat, Navy Guy. Try not to steal the captain’s heart or whatever!”

“I’m not—!” Izuku protested.

Denki was already gone.

Izuku exhaled, mortified, and turned—

Straight into Katsuki.

He hadn’t heard him approach.

That alone set Izuku on edge.

Up close, it was worse. Infinitely worse.

Katsuki smelled like salt and smoke and sun-warmed leather, the kind of scent that lingered without being overpowering. His coat hung open, shirt clinging faintly to his torso, the line of his collarbone sharp beneath sun-kissed skin. There was a faint scar above his eyebrow Izuku hadn’t noticed before, pale against tan, and another at his throat, half-hidden beneath fabric.

Izuku noticed all of this.

Regrettably.

Katsuki’s eyes were bright in the daylight—red, yes, but not flat. There was depth there. Heat. Focus. When they narrowed, it wasn’t mindless anger; it was precision, the kind that measured and calculated without mercy.

“You dizzy?” Katsuki asked.

The concern was blunt. Undressed. Bare.

Izuku swallowed. “No.”

Katsuki studied him anyway, gaze sweeping over his posture, his color, the way Izuku stood a little too stiffly, like he was bracing for something. When whatever internal checklist Katsuki was running came back satisfactory, he nodded once.

“Good.”

Izuku hated the relief that flooded him.

Katsuki turned back toward the sea, resting his forearms against the railing beside Izuku’s. Their shoulders almost touched. Almost. The space between them felt deliberate—charged, heavy with things neither of them seemed willing to name.

Izuku became acutely aware of details he had no business noticing: the slope of Katsuki’s nose, the curve of his mouth when it wasn’t pulled into a scowl or barked orders. Just neutral. Human.

Attractive.

No, Izuku thought immediately. Absolutely not.

Sunlight caught on Katsuki’s lashes when he blinked, casting brief shadows across sharp cheekbones. There was something unfair about how well he fit this space—how natural he looked framed by open sky and endless water, like the sea itself had shaped him and decided to keep him.

“You’re staring,” Katsuki said without looking.

Izuku nearly jumped out of his skin. “I’m not.”

Katsuki hummed, unconvinced, and finally turned his head. Their eyes met again—closer this time, no distance to soften the impact.

Izuku’s breath caught.

Katsuki’s gaze flicked to his mouth.

Just for a second.

Izuku felt it like a pulled tide, something slow and powerful shifting beneath the surface. Neither of them moved. The world narrowed to the space between them, the creak of the ship and rush of the sea fading into background noise.

Then Katsuki straightened abruptly, like he’d snapped himself out of something dangerous.

“Get some rest,” he said gruffly. “You’re not fully healed.”

And just like that, he was gone—leaving behind the echo of his presence and Izuku’s traitorous heart pounding like it was trying to escape his ribcage.

Izuku pressed a hand to his chest and stared out at the endless blue, jaw tight.

This was bad.

This was very, very bad.

Dusk softened the ship in a way daylight never did.

The clamor of the afternoon had ebbed—ropes secured, orders given and obeyed, the crew settling into quieter rhythms as the sun dipped low. What wind remained had gentled, no longer biting or demanding, just a steady presence at Izuku’s back. The sea stretched out before him, molten gold and bruised orange, light shattering across the waves until the horizon blurred into something almost unreal.

Izuku stood near the stern, arms folded loosely over his chest, breathing it in. Salt. Warm wood. The faint creak of a ship that knew its own weight and balance. His body felt… better. Not whole, not yet, but no longer fragile glass. The ache in his ribs was a dull echo instead of a warning. His legs held him without complaint.

That might have been the most unsettling part.

He didn’t realize he’d been joined until a voice spoke at his side.

“Best view on the ship,” Sero said mildly.

Izuku startled despite himself, then let out a slow breath. “You’re good at that.”

Sero smiled faintly and leaned against the railing beside him, careful to keep a respectful distance. He didn’t crowd. Didn’t test. Just existed there, easy and unassuming, gaze turned outward toward the sea as if Izuku weren’t a puzzle to be examined.

They watched the water together for a long moment, the ship cutting through gold-lit waves, gulls wheeling in the distance.

“You move better today,” Sero observed at last.

“I feel better,” Izuku admitted. “Still slower than I’d like.”

“Recovery’s annoying like that.” Sero tilted his head slightly, studying Izuku from the corner of his eye. “Cap’s been adjusting speed for you.”

Izuku stiffened. “He has not.”

Sero hummed, unconcerned. “We’d be further by now otherwise.”

The words landed heavier than they had any right to.

Izuku swallowed, fingers tightening on his own sleeves. “That’s… inefficient.”

Sero’s mouth curved into something wry. “Yeah. Katsuki’s not known for inefficiency.”

Silence settled again, comfortable and unforced, the kind that didn’t press or itch. Izuku let it stretch until the thought in his chest demanded air.

“Why am I still here?” he asked quietly.

Sero didn’t pretend not to understand. He didn’t deflect or joke.

“Because he chose to pull you out,” he said simply. “And because turning you loose half-dead would’ve been worse.”

“That’s not the whole reason,” Izuku replied, voice low.

Sero turned fully toward him now, calm and assessing. “No. It’s not.”

Izuku gripped the railing, knuckles whitening as the truth pressed in around him. “He knew who I was.”

“Yeah.”

“He knew what I represent.”

“Also yeah.”

“And he still did it.”

Sero nodded once. “Katsuki makes choices. Big ones. He doesn’t walk them back.”

Something tightened painfully in Izuku’s chest.

“He could’ve tied me up,” Izuku said. “Could’ve used me. Ransomed me.”

Sero’s gaze softened, not pitying, just certain. “That’s not how this ship works.”

Izuku’s eyes drifted across the deck.

Katsuki stood near the helm, silhouetted against the dying sun. His coat fluttered in the evening breeze, dark against firelight, hair catching gold where the sun kissed it. He looked carved there—solid, unyielding—hands steady on the wheel as if the sea itself deferred to him. The crew moved around him with quiet trust, no fear in their steps, only certainty.

“You’re not afraid of him,” Izuku murmured.

Sero snorted. “Oh, we’re terrified.”

Izuku huffed a quiet laugh before he could stop himself.

“But fear’s not why we stay,” Sero continued. “We stay because when Katsuki decides something matters? It matters all the way.”

Izuku closed his eyes briefly, letting that sink in.

That choice—saving him—hadn’t been a lapse.

Hadn’t been weakness.

Hadn’t been pity.

It had been conviction.

When Izuku opened his eyes again, Katsuki had shifted slightly, gaze finding him across the deck. The distance between them felt suddenly thin, fragile as glass. For a moment, the world narrowed to details Izuku couldn’t seem to stop noticing—the slope of Katsuki’s shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw softened by dusk, the way his eyes eased just a fraction when they landed on Izuku.

Izuku looked away first.

“That choice might cost him,” he said quietly. “The navy won’t ignore this.”

Sero nodded. “We know.”

“Then why—?”

“Because Katsuki decided you were worth it.”

The words hit harder than any threat ever had.

Sero straightened, clapping Izuku lightly on the shoulder before stepping back. “Get some rest. Tomorrow’ll be interesting.”

When Izuku was alone again, he exhaled slowly, chest aching with something dangerously close to gratitude. He watched the sun sink beneath the waves, the last light bleeding into indigo. He watched Katsuki command the ship with quiet authority and unshakable resolve.

And for the first time since he’d been dragged from the sea, Izuku didn’t see a pirate.

He saw a man who had made a choice—and stood by it.

Izuku told himself it was just another afternoon.

The sea lay calm and obliging beneath a sky stretched wide and blue, the ship cutting through it with the kind of easy confidence that came from long familiarity rather than luck. The earlier tension of dusk had eased into something almost peaceful, the crew settling into small, ordinary tasks that made the day feel deceptively normal. Izuku had been allowed to help more now—nothing strenuous, nothing that would risk reopening half-healed wounds—but enough to keep his hands busy and his thoughts from wandering too far.

This was important. Necessary, even.

Because when his mind wasn’t occupied, it betrayed him.

He sat near the side of the ship, carefully sorting fishing line, fingers working through the repetitive motion while the deck creaked softly beneath him. The rhythm helped. Almost lulled him. He was just beginning to relax when a sharp hiss cut through the air, followed immediately by a familiar, sharp-edged curse.

Katsuki swore.

It was quick and irritated, more offended than hurt, but Izuku’s head snapped up anyway, attention zeroing in on him without permission. Katsuki stood a few paces away, fishing hook dangling uselessly from one hand, a thin line of red already welling along his palm where the hook had caught skin.

“Idiot,” Katsuki muttered to himself, scowling at the wound like it had personally insulted him.

“You’re bleeding,” Izuku said, already on his feet before he realized he’d moved.

Katsuki flicked a glance at his hand. “I noticed.”

“You should clean it,” Izuku insisted, frowning as he stepped closer. “Saltwater can—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Katsuki turned toward the barrel of fresh water, then paused. With a small scowl, he reached up and tugged his shirt over his head in one smooth, careless motion.

Izuku froze.

Not metaphorically. Fully, catastrophically froze.

His thoughts scattered like startled birds, leaving nothing behind but static as Katsuki’s sun-warmed skin came into view. His build wasn’t ornamental—muscle earned through work and weather, shoulders broad from hauling rope and wrestling wind rather than any desire to show off. Scars mapped him in pale lines and faint ridges, stories written into skin without explanation.

And then there was the ink.

Tattoos spiraled around Katsuki’s forearms, dark and deliberate, patterns that looked like waves and smoke and something older than either. They weren’t uniform. Some lines were bold and sharp, others softened with age, edges blurred slightly by sun and salt and years at sea. They wrapped his arms naturally, as if they belonged there, as if they had grown with him.

They moved when he did.

Izuku stared.

He absolutely, categorically did not mean to.

Katsuki dipped his injured hand into the water, jaw clenched as he cleaned the cut. His other hand braced against the railing, tendons standing out beneath inked skin, veins faintly visible as his grip tightened. The sight derailed Izuku’s thoughts entirely.

Those hands.

Hands that steered a ship through storms.

Hands that hauled ropes, barked orders, pulled people from the sea.

Hands marked deliberately, permanently.

Why did that suit him so well?

Izuku swallowed hard and tried—failed—to look away. His gaze drifted back again and again, tracing the way the tattoos wrapped, the way they disappeared beneath fabric when Katsuki shifted, the flex of muscle as he straightened.

He’s beautiful.

The thought landed fully formed and horrifyingly sincere. Izuku’s chest tightened, breath catching before he could stop it. This wasn’t simple admiration anymore. It was something warmer, sharper—dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with cannons or storms.

“You gonna keep staring,” Katsuki said dryly, without looking up, “or are you planning to say something useful?”

Izuku startled violently. “I—I wasn’t—”

Katsuki glanced over then, red eyes sharp—and immediately flicked down to where Izuku’s gaze had very obviously been lingering. A slow, knowing smirk curved his mouth, lazy and infuriatingly pleased.

Izuku’s soul left his body.

“They’re just tattoos,” Katsuki said, tone maddeningly casual. “Didn’t think the navy was scared of ink.”

“I’m not scared,” Izuku snapped automatically. “They’re just—unexpected.”

Katsuki hummed, rinsing his hand again. “Got ’em over the years.”

The words slipped out before Izuku could stop them. “Do they mean anything?”

The question hung between them, heavier than it should have been.

Katsuki studied him for a moment—really studied him, gaze sharp and searching—before shrugging. “Some of ’em.”

That answer felt intimate in a way Izuku couldn’t articulate.

Katsuki gave his hand a final rinse, then pulled his shirt back on, fabric swallowing ink and muscle far too quickly. Izuku mourned the loss with an intensity that felt frankly unreasonable. Katsuki flexed his fingers, checked the cut, then nodded once, satisfied.

“All good.”

Izuku forced himself to look anywhere else—the sea, the rigging, the endlessly patient sky—anything but Katsuki. His heart refused to slow, pulse loud in his ears as his thoughts spiraled.

This is bad.

This is really bad.

I am a navy officer actively admiring a pirate’s tattoos.

Katsuki stepped closer, voice lowering just enough to feel personal. “You okay, Navy Boy?”

Izuku nodded too fast. “Fine. Perfectly fine.”

Katsuki’s smirk deepened, eyes bright with something amused and entirely too perceptive. “You don’t look fine.”

Izuku glared at him, flustered and frustrated and painfully aware of how close they were. “You don’t help.”

Katsuki chuckled under his breath—soft, pleased, devastating.

“Didn’t say I was trying to.”

Night came softly at sea, the way it always did after a long day—without drama, without warning, slipping in layer by layer. Blue deepened into indigo, then ink, the last streaks of sunset dissolving as stars began to appear one by one, tentative at first, then bold. The ship slowed as if it, too, were settling down, sails eased, footsteps quieter, voices dropping into low murmurs that blended with the steady hush of water against the hull.

Izuku couldn’t sleep.

Every time he closed his eyes, his thoughts betrayed him—inked arms, steady hands, the way Katsuki had looked at him earlier with something sharp and knowing in his gaze, like he’d felt the shift too and simply hadn’t named it out loud. The memory sat heavy in his chest, restless and insistent, until lying still became unbearable. So he dressed quietly and made his way back to the deck, letting the cool night air bite at his skin and clear his head just enough to breathe.

Lantern light pooled in warm circles along the wood, leaving the rest of the ship draped in shadow. The sea stretched endlessly around them, dark and alive, reflecting starlight in broken fragments. Izuku leaned against the railing, fingers curling around the smooth wood, listening to the rhythm of the ship and the distant creak of ropes. It should have been calming. It wasn’t.

“You’re up late.”

Izuku startled, breath hitching, then relaxed when he turned and saw Katsuki standing a few steps away. Of course it was him. Katsuki looked different at night—coat draped loosely over his shoulders, hair mussed by the wind, edges softened by shadow instead of sun. The sharpness was still there, but muted, shaped into something quieter and more dangerous.

“I could say the same,” Izuku replied.

Katsuki shrugged, resting his forearms against the rail. “Captain doesn’t really clock out.”

Izuku moved closer without thinking, stopping beside him, not touching but close enough that he felt the warmth of him even through the cool air. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was charged, stretched tight by everything neither of them said as the water slid past below.

“You healing okay?” Katsuki asked, voice lower now, stripped of its usual bite.

“Yes,” Izuku said. Then, after a moment, quieter, “Thank you. For… everything.”

Katsuki turned his head, really looking at him this time. “You don’t owe me.”

“I know,” Izuku said. “I still wanted to say it.”

Something shifted then—subtle but undeniable. The wind picked up, tugging a loose strand of Izuku’s hair across his face. Before he could move it away, Katsuki reached out—then stopped. Hesitated. His hand hovered between them, close enough that Izuku felt the heat of it, saw the dark ink peeking from beneath his sleeve.

“Midoriya,” Katsuki said, low.

Izuku looked up. They were closer now, close enough that he could see the faint freckles across Katsuki’s nose, the pale scar above his brow, the way his eyes softened when they met Izuku’s. This was a mistake. He knew it even as he didn’t move, even as his heart hammered against his ribs.

Katsuki’s thumb brushed the strand of hair aside, knuckles grazing Izuku’s temple. The touch was careful, restrained—and electric. Izuku’s breath caught, pulse roaring in his ears.

“Katsuki,” he breathed.

Hearing his name like that—quiet, unguarded—changed something. Katsuki leaned in slowly, not taking, not demanding, but asking. Their foreheads nearly touched. Izuku could feel his breath now, warm against his cheek, smell salt and smoke and something unmistakably him. Just a little closer, and Izuku tilted forward without thinking, fingers curling into Katsuki’s coat as their noses brushed.

The world narrowed to that moment—to the pull, the tension, the terrible inevitability of it. Katsuki’s hand settled lightly at Izuku’s waist, grounding and possessive all at once, and their lips hovered so close Izuku swore he could feel the heat of them.

Then Katsuki stopped.

He pulled back just enough to break it, jaw tight, breath uneven. “Damn it,” he muttered.

Izuku blinked, disoriented. “What—?”

“We shouldn’t,” Katsuki said roughly. “Not like this. Not yet.”

The words stung—but the restraint in his voice, the way it clearly cost him something, hurt worse. Izuku swallowed and nodded, even as his chest ached. “Right. Of course.”

Katsuki stepped back, his hand dropping from Izuku’s waist far too slowly. “Get some sleep,” he said, and turned away before Izuku could stop him.

Izuku stayed there long after Katsuki disappeared below deck, heart racing, lips tingling, body humming with everything that hadn’t happened. The sea rolled on beneath the stars, indifferent and endless.

And that might have been the cruelest part of all.

Because now he knew.

Katsuki had wanted it too.

Izuku didn’t sleep.

Not really—not in any way that mattered. He lay awake in the narrow cabin long after the lantern had been extinguished, staring at the low ceiling as the ship creaked and breathed around him. Every sway of the hull dragged him back to the deck, to salt-dark air and warm breath and a hand that had hovered, then touched, then pulled away. The moment replayed itself endlessly, each detail sharpening instead of dulling—the closeness, the restraint, the way Katsuki had stopped like it physically hurt him to do so.

Not yet.

The words echoed until they lost meaning and became something heavier, something lodged beneath Izuku’s ribs. By the time dawn crept in through the small window, pale and unforgiving, exhaustion had settled into his bones. It made everything too loud, too bright, too raw. It made him restless, irritable, painfully aware of every glance and every unsaid thing.

Which was how he ended up snapping.

Morning brought movement and purpose, the deck alive with the shuffle of boots and the unfurling of sails. A map lay spread across a table near the helm, weighed down at the corners. Izuku leaned over it, eyes tracking familiar lines and markings, watching the way the ship cut through water that wasn’t behaving the way it should. He pointed out the discrepancy almost automatically—quiet, technical, correct.

Katsuki bristled immediately.

“I know how to read a damn chart,” he growled, fingers tightening against the edge of the table.

“I didn’t say you didn’t,” Izuku shot back, sharper than intended. “I said the current’s shifting. If you keep this heading—”

“I’ve sailed these waters longer than you’ve worn that uniform.”

The words struck harder than they should have. Izuku’s jaw tightened, frustration and sleeplessness boiling over. “And yet you asked for my input.”

The air went still.

Crew members abruptly discovered very urgent reasons to be elsewhere. The deck seemed to hold its breath as Katsuki stepped closer, eyes sharp and warning.

“Don’t push,” he said.

Izuku laughed, breathless and brittle. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Katsuki’s brows drew together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Izuku said, voice trembling despite his best efforts, “you don’t get to pull me close one night and shove me away the next like nothing happened.”

Silence crashed down, heavy and absolute.

Katsuki stiffened. “That’s not what I—”

“Then what was it?” Izuku demanded, the words tearing free now that they’d started. “Because from where I’m standing, you don’t seem to know what you want.”

Katsuki’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “I know exactly what I want.”

“Then say it.”

Katsuki laughed, sharp and humorless, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. “You think this ends well? Navy officer and pirate captain?” He gestured vaguely at the endless water around them. “You think the sea cares about your feelings?”

Izuku stepped closer, refusing to give ground. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle.”

“This isn’t about you,” Katsuki snapped. “It’s about what happens when you leave.”

Izuku froze.

“—when,” Katsuki corrected, quieter now. “Not if.”

The word landed like a wound, sudden and deep. Izuku felt something in his chest give way, the ache spreading sharp and cold.

“So that’s it,” he said softly. “I’m temporary.”

Katsuki flinched. Just a fraction, but Izuku saw it.

“You were never supposed to be here,” Katsuki said, voice low and strained. “And that’s exactly the problem.”

Izuku swallowed, throat tight. “Then why did you save me?”

Katsuki opened his mouth.

Closed it.

That silence hurt more than any answer could have.

Izuku laughed, shaky and hollow. “Right. I should’ve known.” He turned away before Katsuki could stop him, before he could see whatever was written too clearly on his face, and walked off with his shoulders squared and his chest aching.

Behind him, Katsuki watched him go, jaw clenched, eyes dark with something dangerously close to regret.

The sea rolled on beneath the rising sun.

Uncaring.

Avoidance settled in like fog after a storm—quiet, unannounced, impossible to ignore once it was there.

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no declarations, no sharp turns or slammed doors. Just small adjustments that stacked on top of one another until the space between them felt deliberate. Izuku began taking his meals later than usual, waiting until the mess had mostly cleared before slipping in to eat in silence. He chose the deck when Katsuki was below, retreated to his cabin when footsteps he recognized approached from the corridor. When he spoke, his voice stayed polite. Controlled. Navy-clean and carefully distant.

Katsuki mirrored it with ruthless precision.

Orders were relayed through others. Conversations ended before they could begin. Paths shifted by a step or two in narrow corridors so they wouldn’t brush shoulders or meet each other’s eyes. The ship ran smoothly—too smoothly, like a knot pulled tight instead of untangled, tension humming beneath every efficient movement.

The crew noticed. They always did.

Mina watched them pass one another without a word and frowned, her gaze sharp with unasked questions. Kirishima hesitated before speaking to either of them now, careful and quiet, like he was afraid of choosing wrong. Kaminari whispered theories under his breath until a single look from Katsuki shut him up for good.

Izuku felt it most at night.

Sleep came in fragments, if at all. He lay awake in the dim cabin, listening to the sea breathe against the hull, to the distant rhythm of footsteps overhead, to the creak of wood he had come to recognize as Katsuki’s pace—steady, measured, familiar in a way that made his chest ache. He hated that he knew it. Hated more that he missed it.

During the day, he caught himself looking anyway.

Katsuki at the helm, jaw tight, eyes locked on the horizon like he was daring the world to challenge him. Katsuki conferring quietly with Sero, brow furrowed in concentration. Katsuki rolling his sleeves to his elbows, tattoos briefly revealed—dark lines against sun-warmed skin—before fabric swallowed them again.

Izuku looked away every time.

It didn’t stop the pull in his chest, the quiet, persistent ache that followed him like a tide.

Once, when the deck was nearly empty and the lanterns hadn’t yet been lit, Izuku paused by the railing, fingers tapping restlessly against the wood as his thoughts drifted dangerously inward.

“Midoriya.”

Katsuki’s voice—low, careful—cut through the fog.

Izuku turned despite himself.

They stood a few feet apart. Too far to touch. Not far enough to breathe easily.

“I’m adjusting course at dawn,” Katsuki said. “Currents’ll be rougher tomorrow.”

“I know,” Izuku replied, because he did. He’d been tracking them too, watching the numbers shift, watching everything except the man in front of him.

Silence stretched between them, taut and fragile.

Katsuki opened his mouth, hesitated—then closed it again.

Izuku felt the ache sharpen at the sight. “If that’s all,” he said softly, already bracing himself.

Katsuki nodded once. “Yeah.”

They didn’t move.

For one fragile heartbeat, Izuku thought—hoped—Katsuki might say something else. Anything. But he didn’t. The moment slipped away like water through fingers, and Izuku turned first, retreating before the weight in his chest could pull him back.

Later, Kirishima found Katsuki alone near the bow, staring out at the darkening horizon.

“You gonna keep doing this?” Kirishima asked gently.

Katsuki didn’t look at him. “Doing what.”

“Hurting,” Kirishima said. “Quietly.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. “It’s necessary.”

“Is it?” Kirishima pressed, voice soft but unyielding.

Katsuki didn’t answer.

Across the ship, Mina sat beside Izuku with her legs dangling over the edge, lantern light reflecting faintly off the water below.

“You know,” she said lightly, like she wasn’t aiming straight for the truth, “distance doesn’t make feelings smaller.”

Izuku swallowed. “I’m aware.”

She bumped his shoulder, gentle but pointed. “Just… don’t wait too long, okay? The sea doesn’t.”

That night, Izuku dreamed of hands that almost touched him—of inked arms and low voices, of warmth that lingered just out of reach. He woke with his heart racing and the echo of something unfinished pressed deep into his chest.

Katsuki dreamed too.

Neither of them slept well.

And the longing—quiet, persistent, relentless—kept growing, stretching the space between them until it felt too fragile to hold.

Something had to give.

It happened at sunset—because of course it did, because the sea had a cruel sense of timing and a taste for drama.

The sky bled orange and gold into the water, light spilling through the cabin window in molten bands that turned the wood warm and unreal. The ship rocked gently, deceptively calm, as if nothing inside it was about to break. Izuku was halfway through packing his coat, fingers slower than they needed to be, when the tension he’d been pretending not to feel finally snapped.

“Are you planning on telling me,” Katsuki said from the doorway, voice tight and edged with restraint pushed too far, “or were you just going to disappear?”

Izuku froze with his hands still on the fabric. For a second, he didn’t turn—he couldn’t—then he straightened slowly, breath shallow, heart pounding hard enough to hurt. “I wasn’t disappearing,” he said, measured, careful in a way that tasted bitter even as the words left him.

Katsuki scoffed, sharp and incredulous. “You’ve been avoiding me for days.”

That did it. Izuku turned, irritation flaring hot and immediate, exhaustion stripping the patience clean out of him. “You told me I was temporary.”

Katsuki’s jaw clenched so hard Izuku could see it. “I told you the truth.”

“No,” Izuku snapped, stepping closer before he could stop himself. “You told me your fear.”

The words landed like a slap.

For a heartbeat, Katsuki just stared at him, eyes dark, something volatile flashing behind them. Then he stepped into the cabin and shut the door behind him with more force than necessary. The sound echoed, final and enclosing, and suddenly the space felt too small—too full of heat and breath and everything neither of them had said.

“You think this is easy for me?” Katsuki growled, pacing once like a caged thing before turning back on him. “Watching you walk around my ship like you belong here?”

Izuku’s voice shook, but he didn’t retreat. Couldn’t. “Then stop acting like I don’t.”

Katsuki laughed, sharp and frustrated, like the sound hurt him. “You’re a navy officer, Midoriya. You hunt people like me.”

“And you save people like me,” Izuku fired back without hesitation, chest tight, words spilling faster now. “So what does that make us, Katsuki? Because it sure as hell isn’t nothing.”

Silence snapped tight between them, electric and unbearable.

Katsuki dragged a hand through his hair, breathing hard. “You don’t get it. If I let myself—if I want—”

Izuku stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the heat rolling off him. “You already do.”

Katsuki stopped dead.

For a second, he looked wrecked—like the fight had finally turned inward. His shoulders rose with a harsh breath. “Damn it.”

Izuku swallowed, the ache in his chest breaking something loose. “You don’t get to pull me close one night and shove me away the next like I’m already gone,” he said, voice cracking despite himself. “You don’t get to look at me like that and pretend this didn’t happen.”

Katsuki turned on him fully now, eyes blazing. “I’m trying not to ruin you.”

Izuku laughed, breathless and a little wild. “You already did. You pulled me out of the sea.”

That was it.

Katsuki exhaled—long, ragged, like surrender ripped out of him. Then he crossed the space between them in two strides, grabbed Izuku’s coat, and hauled him in.

The kiss was sudden and heated, all pent-up frustration and want colliding at once. It wasn’t gentle—not at first. It was desperate and real, mouths pressing together like they’d been waiting far too long. Katsuki’s hand fisted in Izuku’s collar, grounding him, anchoring him there like an unspoken stay.

Izuku gasped—and then melted completely.

His hands came up without thought, clutching at Katsuki’s shoulders, fingers curling into fabric like he was afraid Katsuki might vanish if he let go. The heat of him, the certainty, the sheer yes of it flooded Izuku’s chest until his knees nearly gave.

Then Katsuki softened.

The kiss slowed, turned careful, like he was realizing Izuku wasn’t made of glass but still deserved gentleness. His thumb brushed Izuku’s jaw, steady and reverent, anchoring him as the world narrowed to breath and warmth and the quiet creak of the ship beneath their feet.

Izuku leaned in, forehead resting against Katsuki’s, breath trembling. “Don’t push me away,” he whispered.

Katsuki swallowed. “I won’t.”

The promise was quiet. Fierce. The kind that cost something to give.

They stayed like that for a moment, breathing each other in, the sunset fading beyond the window, the sea humming its endless song as if it had always known this would happen.

When Katsuki finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. He rested his forehead against Izuku’s anyway, eyes closed, voice barely audible. “Stay.”

“Allright.”

It was quiet in the way only the open sea ever was—not empty, never empty, but hushed, as though the world itself had drawn in a careful breath and decided not to let it out yet.

Izuku woke slowly, awareness drifting back to him in pieces. The soft, rhythmic slap of waves against the hull. The faint creak of wood settling beneath its own weight. And then—warmth. Solid, undeniable warmth pressed along his side.

He blinked.

Registered fabric. Heat. The weight of an arm draped across his waist, heavy and sure, like it had always belonged there.

Oh.

Oh.

Katsuki was asleep.

The realization hit him all at once, sharp and disorienting, like being hauled under by an unexpected tide. Katsuki—pirate captain, terror of the seas, walking embodiment of barely restrained violence—had his face pressed into Izuku’s shoulder, breath slow and even, lashes resting against freckled skin like he wasn’t capable of setting the world on fire before breakfast.

Izuku did not move. He didn’t dare.

The cabin was dim, early light spilling through the porthole in soft gold ribbons that painted the walls and the tangled sheets. Katsuki’s hair was a mess, spikes softened by sleep, one calloused hand curled loosely in Izuku’s shirt as if anchoring himself without even realizing it. His chest rose and fell steadily, unguarded in a way Izuku had never seen him be.

This was… domestic. Alarmingly so.

Carefully—achingly slowly, like he was defusing a bomb—Izuku lifted his hand and brushed his thumb over Katsuki’s knuckles. Rough skin. Familiar strength. Katsuki hummed at the touch, barely audible, and pulled him closer without waking, tightening his hold just enough to steal Izuku’s breath.

His heart stuttered.

“You’re going to kill me,” Izuku whispered, fond and helpless, the words meant for no one but himself.

One red eye cracked open. “Already did,” Katsuki muttered, voice rough with sleep.

Izuku laughed quietly, unable to help it. “You’re unbearable.”

Katsuki smirked faintly. “You stayed.”

The simple statement settled between them, heavier than it had any right to be. Izuku’s smile softened. “You asked.”

That shut Katsuki up.

He studied Izuku then—really studied him—as though committing the moment to memory. The curl of his hair against the pillow, the sleep-soft crease between his brows, the way his eyes glowed green even in the low light. Something in Katsuki’s expression shifted, eased, like a knot loosening at last.

Then he leaned in and kissed him.

Not desperate. Not heated.

Just warm. Unrushed. Katsuki’s thumb traced slow, absent circles at Izuku’s hip, grounding and steady, like he was saying you’re real, you’re here, I’ve got you. Izuku melted—of course he did—and let himself linger there, wrapped in the quiet certainty of it.

By the time Izuku made it to the deck later, the sun had climbed higher, the ship alive with movement again. He leaned against the rail, wrapped in one of Katsuki’s coats—too big, heavy on his shoulders, smelling like salt, smoke, and him—and watched the crew move around him like a well-oiled chaos machine. Kirishima tossed him an apple with a grin. Mina shot him a knowing look that made his ears warm. Denki gave him a thumbs-up so aggressive it bordered on a threat.

Katsuki pretended not to notice any of it.

Pretended not to hover near Izuku’s side. Pretended not to angle his body just slightly between Izuku and the rest of the world. Izuku noticed anyway. He always would.

He watched Katsuki instead—the way the sun caught on the tattoos curling around his forearms, inked waves and flames twisting together like they were alive, the way his hands moved with practiced certainty over the rigging. Strong. Scarred. Careful.

God.

This was bad.

This was very, very bad.

Katsuki caught him staring. “You’re doing it again.”

Izuku blinked. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like you’re about to drown.”

Izuku smiled, soft and unguarded. “You pulled me out of the sea once,” he said. “Figured I’d return the favor.”

Katsuki snorted, then leaned closer, voice pitched low enough that only Izuku could hear it. “Stay close today.”

Izuku tilted his head. “Why?”

Katsuki’s gaze flicked to the horizon—just for a second—before returning. “Bad feeling.”

Something tight curled in Izuku’s chest, but he stepped closer anyway, fingers brushing Katsuki’s wrist like a promise. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The sea rolled on, calm and endless.

And far, far away, just at the edge of sight—

White sails cut the horizon.

Night settled over the ship like a breath held too long.

Not silence—never silence at sea—but a hush that pressed close, heavy and intimate. Most of the crew had drifted below deck, their laughter and movement fading until the world narrowed to moonlight on worn planks, the slow, familiar creak of wood, and the endless dark shimmer of the water. Stars spilled across the sky in careless abundance, as if someone had scattered them without bothering to arrange the pattern.

Izuku sat on the raised edge of the deck near the helm, legs dangling over the side, Katsuki’s coat pulled tight around himself against the chill. The fabric was still warm from earlier, smelling faintly of salt and smoke, and he found himself absently tracing constellations he half-remembered, murmuring their names under his breath like they might answer him back.

He didn’t hear Katsuki approach.

He just… felt him.

One moment Izuku was alone with the sky, and the next Katsuki was there—solid, unmissable—stepping into his space without hesitation. He planted himself between Izuku’s knees, close enough that Izuku had to lean back slightly, hands settling on his thighs like they belonged there. Warm. Grounding. Certain.

Izuku’s breath caught hard in his chest. “K-Kats—”

Katsuki tilted his head and studied him. Not the sharp, assessing look he wore at the helm, not the guarded one he used with the crew—but something quieter. Intent. Moonlight spilled over Izuku’s face, catching on the freckles dusting his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, turning them faintly luminous.

Katsuki’s voice came out lower than usual. Softer. “Huh.”

Izuku flushed instantly. “W-What?”

Instead of answering, Katsuki lifted one hand and brushed his thumb gently beneath Izuku’s eye. The touch was feather-light, barely there, and Izuku froze anyway, heart hammering like he’d been caught doing something criminal.

“Never noticed before,” Katsuki murmured. “You’ve got stars on your face.”

Izuku’s cheeks burned. “Th-They’re just freckles.”

Katsuki leaned in.

The kiss didn’t land where Izuku expected. It pressed softly into his cheek instead, right beneath his eye—warm, deliberate, unhurried. Izuku gasped despite himself, fingers tightening in the fabric of Katsuki’s coat. Katsuki followed the pattern, kissing another freckle, then another, like he was mapping them, like he was afraid they might disappear if he didn’t commit them to memory.

Each kiss lingered just long enough to make Izuku dizzy.

“Katsuki,” Izuku breathed, his voice wrecked and helpless.

Katsuki paused, resting his forehead against Izuku’s. His hands tightened just slightly on Izuku’s thighs, protective and steady, anchoring him there against the sway of the ship. “You’re beautiful,” he said quietly, like the admission cost him something.

Izuku’s heart somersaulted painfully. “You can’t just say that.”

Katsuki’s mouth curved into a faint smirk. “Watch me.”

This time, when he kissed Izuku, it was slow and deep—no rush, no heat chasing urgency. Just warmth and certainty, tasting of salt and night air. Izuku leaned down into it instinctively, fingers sliding into Katsuki’s hair, the height difference making everything feel unbalanced and unreal. The ship rocked gently beneath them, wood groaning in familiar rhythm, and for one suspended moment the world narrowed to breath and closeness and the quiet promise between them.

Katsuki pulled back just enough to rest his nose against Izuku’s, their foreheads touching. “If I get reckless tomorrow,” he muttered, “this is why.”

Izuku smiled softly and brushed his thumb over Katsuki’s cheek, grounding him in return. “Then I’ll stay right here and remind you what you’re fighting for.”

At first he smiled all lazy and soft then, something tightened in Katsuki’s jaw. His gaze drifted—just briefly—to the dark horizon beyond the rail.

The wind shifted.

And then it came.

A sound that didn’t belong.

Not waves. Not wind.

A horn—low, distant, carrying across the water in a way that made Izuku’s blood run cold.

Katsuki’s head snapped up. His posture changed instantly, every line of him going sharp and alert. “…Get below deck,” he said, voice cutting through the quiet like steel.

The horn sounded again—closer this time—and the night shattered.

Katsuki’s blood went cold.

“Battle stations!” he roared, his voice ripping across the deck like thunder. “NOW!”

The ship exploded into motion. Boots pounded against wood as crew surged into place, sails snapping violently as they were hauled tight. Lanterns swung, casting wild shadows. Mina swore loud and vicious as she ran for her position, all humor gone. Kirishima was already at the cannons, grin wiped clean, jaw set with brutal focus. Denki scrambled up the rigging with frantic speed, fingers flying despite the pitch of the deck.

Chaos—controlled, practiced chaos.

Izuku barely had time to draw a breath before Katsuki’s hands were on his shoulders, grip iron-hard.

“Below deck,” Katsuki snapped. “Stay there.”

Izuku opened his mouth to argue—

The cannon fired.

The sound tore the night open, a violent crack that seemed to split the sky itself. The first shot screamed past the port side and detonated in the water, sending up a towering wall of spray that drenched the deck and rattled the hull. Shouts followed instantly, overlapping, urgent.

“They’ve got our flank!”

“Three ships—no—four!”

Izuku’s heart slammed painfully against his ribs.

White sails cut through the darkness. Gold trim caught the moonlight.

Navy ships.

Familiar formation. Familiar precision.

They found him.

Katsuki swore, vicious and raw. “Of course it’s them.”

Another cannon roared—this one hit. The ship lurched violently, wood groaning like a wounded animal as the impact rippled through the hull. Izuku stumbled, barely catching himself on the rail as the deck pitched beneath his feet.

Katsuki was there instantly, hauling him back upright, hands tight, desperate. “I said below deck.”

“I can help!” Izuku shouted over the din, breath ragged. “I know their tactics—I know how they think—”

A grappling hook slammed into the railing beside them with a shriek of metal on wood.

Too close.

Katsuki’s expression changed in a heartbeat. Not anger. Not fury.

Fear.

He shoved Izuku backward, hard enough to stagger him. “That’s exactly why you can’t stay.”

Smoke flooded the deck, acrid and choking. The crew fought like hell—sharp, coordinated, loyal to the bone—but the navy ships were relentless, circling tighter, cannons firing in calculated intervals. Herding them. Boxing them in.

“Captain!” Kirishima yelled through the smoke. “They’re closing us off!”

Katsuki’s mind snapped into motion, strategy unfolding with brutal clarity. “Hard starboard! Dump the cargo—now! Denki, wait for my mark—”

Another explosion ripped through the air.

This one rocked the deck so violently that Izuku lost his footing entirely.

Hands grabbed him.

Not Katsuki’s.

Uniformed. Gloved. Unyielding.

“Izuku Midoriya!” a voice barked over the chaos. “By order of the—”

“No!”

Katsuki turned just in time to see Izuku being dragged backward, boots scraping uselessly against the deck, fingers clawing for purchase.

Something in Katsuki snapped.

He moved like a force of nature. Explosions tore from his hands as he charged, clearing a path in seconds, blasts ripping through smoke and shadow. Men went flying. Wood splintered. Fire bloomed in his wake.

But the navy was ready.

Smoke grenades detonated at his feet. Nets shot through the air. Three men hit him at once, dragging him down, locking his arms, pinning him just long enough.

“Katsuki!” Izuku shouted, panic tearing his voice raw.

Katsuki tore free with a roar, just long enough to look up.

Their eyes locked.

For one unbearable second, the world narrowed to that look—Katsuki’s face stripped bare with fury and something dangerously close to heartbreak.

“Hold on!” Katsuki roared. “I’m coming.”

Izuku reached out—

And the deck dropped away.

He was hauled onto the navy ship, wrists restrained, the world tilting violently as distance yawned open between them. The air felt wrong. Cold. Empty.

Katsuki stood on the deck of his own ship, watching Izuku being dragged farther and farther away, white sails cutting between them like a blade.

His chest went hollow.

Then something inside him went very, very cold.

“Captain!” Mina shouted through the smoke. “Orders?!”

Katsuki turned slowly.

Smoke clung to his coat. Firelight danced in his eyes, reflecting something feral and unyielding.

“Full burn,” he said, voice deadly calm. “We punch through.”

The ship surged forward.

Cannons roared in answer.

The sea erupted into chaos.

The navy ship felt wrong in the quiet that followed.

Too orderly. Too clean. The deck no longer groaned with personality beneath his feet, no voices barked with familiar chaos, no salt-and-smoke tang hung in the air. Everything was polished, restrained and disciplined, calm, and it pressed in on Izuku until his chest felt tight.

He sat on a crate just outside the med bay, back straight out of habit more than comfort, coat folded neatly beside him as if he were still a guest instead of a recovered asset. His hands rested uselessly in his lap while Hitoshi finished examining the raw bruises circling his wrists, fingers gentle, movements practiced.

“You’re cleared,” Hitoshi said at last, offering a small, reassuring nod. “Nothing broken. Just some swelling.”

Izuku murmured a quiet thanks, though it felt distant, like the words belonged to someone else.

Todoroki stood a few paces away, arms crossed, posture calm but weighed down by exhaustion. His gaze lingered on Izuku, sharp without being unkind. “You should’ve signaled sooner,” he said—not as an accusation, not even frustration. Just fact. Just tired honesty.

Izuku nodded, eyes dropping to the deck. “I know.”

Someone pressed a cup of water into his hands. Another officer clapped his shoulder and muttered that they were glad he was safe. That the captain had been worried. That the navy had been searching for weeks, combing trade routes and storm paths, refusing to write him off as lost.

Izuku heard every word.

They just didn’t land.

Because every creak of this ship sounded wrong without the familiar rhythm he’d learned by heart. Because the salt in the air didn’t carry smoke or fire or gunpowder anymore. Because Katsuki—loud and brilliant and infuriating, all sharp edges and fierce conviction—had been ripped from his orbit so violently that the absence felt louder than cannon fire.

“You did the right thing,” Todoroki said quietly, stepping closer, voice pitched low as if he knew how fragile the moment was.

Izuku swallowed, throat tight. “I know.”

That was the cruelest truth of it.

Later that night, alone in the narrow cabin assigned to him, Izuku pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the small round window and stared out at the endless dark. The sea rolled on beneath the moon, indifferent and vast, swallowing distance with ease.

Somewhere out there, beyond white sails and gold trim, a ship cut through the night without permission or apology.

Somewhere out there, Katsuki was alive.

The thought hurt more than it soothed.

Izuku closed his eyes, breath fogging the glass. “For the best,” he whispered, the words thin and unconvincing even to himself.

The sea didn’t answer.

It never did.

Months later, fate got bored.

It crept in quietly, the way it always did—on steady seas and official paper, under lantern light and clipped voices that pretended the world was still simple. Izuku had learned by then that fate never announced itself with drama. It waited until you were almost breathing again, and then it reached in and twisted.

The briefing room smelled of ink and salt and restrained tension. Maps were spread across the long table, corners weighed down by compasses and brass instruments, red lines slashed violently through familiar trade routes. Officers stood shoulder to shoulder, expressions grim, murmurs low and uneasy.

“A pirate ship,” the commander said, voice sharp enough to cut through the room. “Fast. Brutal. 

Strategic. It’s been tearing through convoys like a blade.”

He tapped the map once, hard. “Too dangerous for one side to handle alone.”

The words hung there, heavy.

“We’ll need cooperation,” he continued. “Temporary.”

Izuku lifted his head.

And the world tilted.

Across the table stood Katsuki.

Bakugou Katsuki—older now, sharper somehow, scars catching the light like medals he’d never admit to earning. His stance was familiar in a way that hurt: arms crossed, weight balanced, chin tipped up just enough to dare the world to challenge him. He looked carved from hostility and defiance, fire barely leashed beneath skin.

Their eyes met.

The air snapped, electric and immediate, like a storm remembered by the body before the mind could catch up. For a fraction of a second, everything else—the officers, the maps, the careful words—fell away.

Then Katsuki scoffed.

“If he gets in my way,” he said coldly, voice flat and lethal, “I won’t hesitate.”

Izuku didn’t miss a beat. He straightened, shoulders squared, expression calm in the way he’d learned to wear like armor. “Likewise, Captain.”

A few officers exchanged uneasy glances. Someone cleared their throat. The commander frowned but pressed on, because professionalism demanded it, because no one in the room wanted to acknowledge the tension humming like a live wire between them.

Perfect performance.

Izuku didn’t look at Katsuki again for the rest of the briefing. He didn’t need to. He could feel him anyway, like gravity—resentful, burning, alive.

Later—much later, after logistics and patrol routes and strained coordination meetings—the final insult arrived in the form of a single key.

Shared cabin.

Because of course it was.

The corridor was dim and quiet when they reached it, lanterns swaying gently with the motion of the ship. Izuku unlocked the door and stepped inside first, pulse steady only because he forced it to be. The cabin was small, efficient, barely meant for one person—two bunks, a narrow desk, a single porthole staring out into black water.

The door shut behind them.

The silence lasted exactly half a second.

Katsuki moved first.

Izuku barely had time to inhale before hands were on him, strong and familiar, hauling him forward into a crushing embrace. His face was pressed into Katsuki’s shoulder, the rough fabric of his coat scraping his cheek, the solid heat of him real and overwhelming. Katsuki’s grip was desperate, fingers digging in like he was afraid the universe might snatch Izuku away again if he loosened even a fraction.

“You’re an idiot,” Katsuki muttered into his hair, voice rough and cracked in a way Izuku had never heard on a battlefield. “I thought—”

Izuku laughed, breathless, the sound coming out wet and shaky. “You’re hugging a navy officer.”

“Shut up,” Katsuki said, and kissed him.

Once. Twice. Again and again—cheek, jaw, temple, anywhere he could reach, like he was making up for months of absence in seconds stolen from time. Each kiss was fierce and reverent all at once, burning with relief and restrained fury at the world for daring to separate them.

Izuku melted instantly, arms sliding around Katsuki’s waist, clinging just as tightly. “I missed you,” he whispered, the confession soft but devastatingly true.

Katsuki pulled back just enough to press their foreheads together, breath warm, eyes blazing. “We’re not done,” he said, like a promise and a threat all wrapped into one.

Izuku smiled—soft, certain, unafraid. “I know.”

Outside, the sea waited, vast and patient, carrying enemies and storms and unfinished business toward them.

Inside the cabin, they stole every quiet second they could—touches lingering too long, hands brushing in the dark, breaths shared like secrets. By day, they would stand on opposite sides of the table, voices sharp, blades barely sheathed.

Enemies in daylight.

Lovers in the dark.

And the horizon?

Wide open.