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Time waits for no one.
Time has a way of changing everything. Even someone like Bakugou Katsuki.
At 26, he’s a far cry from the explosive, hot-headed teenager he once was—through the fire never really left. Years of climbing, fighting, bleeding for the top have hardened him, sharpened him. But in the process, they also taught him lessons that had nothing to do with being number one. He’s come a long way, and though he'd never admit it out loud, he’s not the same angry kid he used to be.
Still, Bakugou doesn’t look back. Don't talk about the past. Would rather bite his tongue or blast a wall than bring it up.
That’s why when your name comes up, his whole demeanor changes. Like someone pulled the pin on a grenade and handed it to him with a smile.
“You see Deku lately?” Kirishima asks, knocking back a bottle of water as they sit on the agency rooftop.
Bakugou grunts. “What about him?”
“He and Uraraka are finally making it official,” Kirishima grins. “About damn time, huh?”
“Tch. Took ‘em long enough. Idiots.”
Kirishima laughs, but he sees it, the way Bakugou’s jaw tightens just a little. How his eyes flicker, distant for a second. He doesn’t push. He never does. They’ve been through too much for that.
Some things even time haven't smoothed out.
Kirishima leans back against the railing, gaze cast over the city lights below. The night’s quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional bark of a patrol drone.
He hesitates, then says, carefully, “I ran into her the other day. She’s back.”
Bakugou doesn’t react at first.
Then, slowly, his fingers curl into fists in his lap.
Kirishima keeps his voice easy, like he’s just making conversation. “Didn’t say much. Just said she’s freelancing now. Floating between agencies, picking up gigs. She looked... good. Strong.”
“Don’t.”
The word is low, sharp, final.
Kirishima glances at him but doesn’t flinch. “I’m not trying to stir shit up, man. Just thought you’d wanna know.”
“I don’t.”
But he does. Of course he does.
He’s spent years trying to forget you, burying your name under broken bones and smoke, under headlines and late-night battles. But it never really stuck. Your ghost still lingers in the corners of his mind, just out of reach. Laughing. Smiling. Leaving.
Kirishima sighs, scratching the back of his head. “Alright. Dropping it.”
Bakugou stands up suddenly, the metal railing creaking under his palm as he grips it. His voice is rough, almost hoarse.
“She say anything else?”
Kirishima looks at him, a bit surprised. Then nods. “She asked if you were doing okay.”
Bakugou doesn’t respond. Just stares out into the dark skyline, the wind tugging at his hair.
“She didn’t mean it in a weird way,” Kirishima adds quickly. “She just… I dunno. I think she still cares.”
“Yeah,” Bakugou mutters. “That’s the problem.”
He doesn’t sleep that night.
Not because of nightmares, he’s long since learned how to fight those off, but because silence leaves too much room for thoughts. And lately, it feels like everyone’s moving past him. Like they’re sprinting ahead in a race he didn’t realize he was running.
Midoriya and Uraraka, finally getting their shit together. Kaminari and Jirou, already living together. Even Iida’s talking about marriage now, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Bakugou?
He’s alone.
Always has been. That used to feel like a badge of honor… a proof that he was focused, that he wasn’t wasting time on distractions. But now, at 26, with a city full of noise and no one to come home to, it just feels… hollow.
And then there’s you.
The one person who saw through all his walls back then. The one who left, not because you didn’t love him, but because he couldn’t say it back.
Not in the way you needed to hear it. Not when it counted.
He thinks about what Kirishima said. That you asked about him. That you still care.
And for the first time in a long time, he wonders if maybe he fucked up something he can’t get back.
He thought he’d be first. At everything.
But now, standing alone in his high-rise apartment, watching the early morning light spill through the windows, he realizes something painful and bitter:
He’s behind.
Not in strength. Not in reputation.
But in love.
The word itself sounds foreign to him, like a language he doesn’t quite understand. He’s always been the type to take , to fight for what he wants, to blaze a path forward and leave the rest of the world behind. And maybe that’s why he’s always had a hard time with the idea of love. It wasn’t something he could control, something he could conquer or claim with sheer willpower.
He’s had plenty of close calls. He’s been in situations where he’s worked alongside people, teamed up with them, fought beside them—but it’s never been like this. Never like how it felt around you.
You were always different. You weren’t like the others who came and went in his life. There was something in the way you saw him—really saw him—that no one else ever did. It wasn’t about the power he wielded or the rank he held; you never cared about that. You just... saw him. The real him. The messy, imperfect, stubborn bastard he never tried to keep hidden.
But you never pressed. You never pushed him to open up, to be something he wasn’t ready to be. You just waited, patiently, quietly, knowing that maybe one day—just maybe, he’d be ready. And now, that patience feels like a weight pressing down on his chest.
But was it love? Was what he felt for you ever really love, or was it just... attraction? Or maybe admiration? Maybe it was both. He can’t quite tell.
But he knows it’s different from what he’s seen around him. He knows it isn’t the kind of love Midoriya has with Uraraka. It isn’t the cute, clumsy, high-school-crush kind of love. It’s not even the idealized love he’s heard about from movies or books. It’s something else. Something quieter. Something real.
But is he ready for it?
The thought gnaws at him. He’s spent so many years alone, so many years pushing people away, because he didn’t need anyone. He didn’t need to rely on anyone. He didn’t need the soft, mushy feelings everyone else seemed to thrive on. He was stronger than that. Smarter than that.
Yet, as time goes on, it’s harder to ignore loneliness. The quiet moments when he looks at his phone, thinking about how he could reach out to you, but never does. The nights when he lies awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you’re out there, with someone else, moving on with your life while he stays frozen in place.
Maybe that’s the real reason he hasn’t done anything. Because, deep down, he’s terrified. Terrified of letting someone else close. Terrified of falling in love and having it slip through his fingers. Terrified of being weak.
But the more he thinks about it, the more it eats at him. Is it really weakness to let someone in? Is it weakness to care?
He doesn’t know.
But he does know one thing: he’s not going to get anywhere if he keeps running from it. He can’t just keep fighting for the top and ignoring the rest of his life. He’s starting to see that being the strongest doesn’t mean shit if you’re standing there alone at the end of it.
The city lights flicker outside, stretching into the distance like a thousand little dreams. In the stillness of his apartment, Bakugou drags his hands through his hair, feeling the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him.
You.
The thought of you has been with him for years now, creeping into his head when he’s alone. When he’s quiet. When he’s not distracted by everything else that’s always screaming for his attention. And it pisses him off.
He never meant to let it get this far. He never meant to leave things hanging between you two like that. But there it is… the truth he’s been avoiding, you’ve always been there.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind. The person he could never really get —not fully. You were never like the others, never easy to understand or figure out. You challenged him. You made him feel things he didn’t want to feel.
And somewhere along the way, when he was busy proving himself, proving he was the best, proving he didn’t need anyone else… you slipped through the cracks.
Now, everyone’s moving forward. Everyone’s finding someone, connecting, doing the things that make them whole. But Bakugou? He’s still alone, just like before. Still stuck in his own head, still too stubborn to admit how much he actually wants something real. And damn it, it pisses him off even more to know that you’re probably out there moving on, too.
But you never did anything about it, either. Neither of you did.
Maybe you were scared, too. Maybe you were waiting for him to say something, to make the first move. But now, here he is—sitting at the edge of his bed, fists clenched, feeling like the world’s passing him by while he stays stuck in this goddamn place where nothing gets done.
I’m not gonna fall behind.
The words echo in his head, but they don’t sound as confident as they used to. He looks at his phone—your name is still saved there, but he hasn’t touched it in months. He can feel the weight of the words he hasn’t said, the conversations that never happened.
He stares at the screen for a long time, long enough that the glow starts to hurt his eyes. His thumb hovers over the screen, but it’s like something’s holding him back. Pride? Fear? Stubbornness? All of it. And then it hits him—he’s been holding himself back this whole time. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know how to.
What if she’s already gone? What if she’s already with someone else, moved on, done with me?
He hates that thought. Hates it more than anything.
With a growl of frustration, Bakugou slams the phone down onto the bed, pushing himself to his feet. He paces around the room, his mind racing with a million scenarios. Maybe he should just let it go, move on like everyone else. But then, what? Live the rest of his life with this weight hanging around his neck? The what-ifs and the could-have-beens?
No. That’s not who he is.
He’s not someone who lets things slip through his fingers.
Bakugou’s eyes drift back to his phone, his thumb still hovering over your contact. He’s been staring at your name on the screen for what feels like an eternity, that nagging voice in his head telling him to just do it . To finally close the gap between what’s been unspoken for so long. But just as he’s about to type something… anything —his phone buzzes in his hand, making his heart skip a beat.
He looks down.
The screen lights up with your name.
“Happy birthday, Katsuki.”
Just those four words. Simple. Casual. Yet, they strike him like a punch to the gut.
He stares at it, his finger frozen above the screen. That’s it. That’s all you sent. No question, no small talk, just a quiet acknowledgment of the day. He knows you’re probably not expecting a response—hell, you’re probably just being polite, remembering that it’s his birthday. It’s not like the two of you ever had some grand tradition of keeping in touch.
But there’s something about it. Something about the timing. The way the words settle on the screen, like a soft invitation, a possibility, and it makes the tension in his chest flare back up.
He doesn't even realize he’s holding his breath until it catches in his throat.
Happy birthday, Katsuki.
He reads it again. And again. His thumb hovers over the screen, uncertainty churning inside of him. What does it mean? Does it even mean anything at all? Or is it just… a friendly gesture? Polite. Like you always were—too polite, too careful around him.
But then something shifts. He’s already been battling with this nagging feeling of falling behind. Of not moving, while everyone else does. And he’s sick of it. Sick of standing still. Sick of wondering if he’s missing something he could’ve had, or if it’s too late.
What if it’s not too late?
What if this is the sign? The nudge he’s been waiting for.
His heart pounds as he types, his fingers a little more frantic than usual as the words come together.
“Thanks.”
But as soon as the message is out, he feels the sting of it—the weight of how little it says. That’s it? That’s all he has to say? The message feels empty, a hollow shell of what he actually wants to say, but... it’s all he can manage. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to ask for more than this.
He wants to, though. He wants to ask how you’re doing. Ask about your life. About everything he’s missed. He wants to tell you that he’s thought about you, that he’s been fighting this urge to reach out for years now.
But he’s still not ready. He’s not sure if he’s even allowed to be ready.
The ping of his phone distracts him again, and he sees your reply almost immediately.
“Hope you’re doing okay.”
And it hits him. The simplicity of it. The ease with which you just… slipped back into his life, even with all the years between you two. The gap wasn’t as wide as he thought it was.
You’re waiting. You’re offering him the chance to step forward, if he wants it. You’re not pushing. You’re not demanding. You’re just there, as you’ve always been.
His chest tightens again, but this time it’s not from anger or frustration. It’s something else, a deeper kind of ache.
Maybe love isn’t about having the right words, or making grand gestures. Maybe it’s just about showing up, being there when it counts.
He stares at the screen for a long moment, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. Maybe the timing’s still wrong. Maybe he’s still not ready for what it could mean.
But in this moment, just for a second, he wonders if maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect. If maybe, for once, it’s okay to just try.
Finally, he types again, the words more deliberate this time, less forced.
“Thanks. I’m… I’m good. I hope you’re good too.”
And then, just like that, the floodgates crack open, just a little. He hasn't hit "send" yet.
Bakugou’s thumb hovers over the screen, his mind still swirling. His heart is beating louder now, the words on the screen too simple, too safe. He wants more— no, he needs more —and he can’t keep pretending like he doesn’t care.
Without thinking, he hits delete on the last line, his fingers quickly typing, heart racing faster with each tap.
Where are you?
It’s blunt, sharp. But it’s real. It’s everything he should’ve said a long time ago. Everything he’s been too damn stubborn to admit.
And just as he’s about to hit “send,” it hits him.
Wait…
His eyes darted to the top of the screen.
The time.
It’s past midnight.
His eyes widen slightly in realization as he glances at the clock on his phone—12:03 AM. It’s already his birthday. You remember.
He rubs his eyes, the weight of it all hitting him harder than expected.
Before he can process it fully, the familiar buzz of his phone interrupts his thoughts. A flood of notifications. The usual suspects; Kirishima, Kaminari, and a handful of others. Their usual greetings, half-joking messages, and birthday memes start popping up one by one. He almost laughs, but it’s bitter.
“Happy birthday, man!”
“You old bastard, how’s it feel to be another year closer to retirement?”
“Hope you're spending it blowing stuff up, ya maniac.”
Then, there’s the one from Midoriya—always so sincere, always with that goofy smile attached, even if it’s just through text.
“Happy birthday, Kacchan! Hope it’s a great year for you! You deserve it!”
And there, at the bottom of the screen, nestled among all the messages and memes, is one from Kirishima.
“Happy birthday, man. You gettin’ some rest tonight, or you gonna blow up the city again?”
A chuckle escapes him, but it’s short-lived. None of these messages really matter. Not in the way they used to. Sure, they’re from friends—people who care about him, in their own way—but it’s not what’s been occupying his mind. It’s not what’s been gnawing at him for weeks , months even.
He glances back at your message, still sitting there in the middle of the screen, as if waiting for him.
“Happy birthday, Katsuki.”
For a moment, he just stares at it again. It’s so simple, so casual—but there’s something in it that digs deeper. Something that doesn’t need to be loud or grand. Just you… checking in, remembering, acknowledging. It feels different from the others. It feels real.
And the nagging voice in his head gets louder.
Why the hell are you still waiting?
Without giving himself a chance to second-guess it, he presses "send" on the message.
Where are you?