Archive of Our Own

The heat was the first thing Izuku noticed.

June in the Midwest always came early, thick and humid enough to make the air feel like warm syrup. By the time he reached Hillside Outfitters for his first shift—five minutes early, because his father had raised him to believe lateness was basically a mortal sin—his shirt was sticking to his back, and his curls had puffed into something resembling a stressed-out dandelion.

He stood inside the staff entrance, clutching a cardboard box of onboarding materials against his chest like a life raft. Every step deeper into the employee hallway echoed off the concrete, loud enough that his anxiety spiked with each tap of his shoes. He stopped just outside the break room door, inhaling slowly, exhaling shakily.

You need this job, he reminded himself. Mom and Dad can’t cover everything. You’re almost eighteen. You have to help. You can do it. People work in retail all the time. You won’t screw it up. Probably.

He blinked hard, trying to calm the buzzing under his skin.

The buzzing didn’t calm.

He tightened his grip on the box and took one more deep breath—

“Oi.”

Izuku jolted so hard he nearly dropped everything.

Standing a few feet away was a man who, at first glance, looked like he could bench-press a refrigerator. Broad shoulders, arms crossed, expression sharp enough to slice through steel. His blond hair stuck up like an explosion that had been forced to take vaguely human shape. And his eyes—deep scarlet, focused—looked like they didn’t miss much.

“You Midoriya?” he asked flatly.

Izuku swallowed, nodded very quickly, then remembered words existed. “Y-yes! Um—yes, that’s me.”

The man stared at him for three long seconds. Izuku tried not to squirm, but he was ninety percent sure he failed spectacularly.

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” the man said.

“I—I’m fine!” Izuku insisted. “Just first-day nerves. Nothing major. Nothing terrifying. Nothing that will impact my performance in any measurable—”

“Stop,” he said, raising a hand. The man stepped closer and held out his hand. “Bakugou Katsuki. Department lead.”

Izuku grabbed it too quickly. “Midoriya Izuku! Thank you for training me—uh, I mean... it’s nice to meet you.”

Bakugou’s grip was firm, confident, and over before Izuku could embarrass himself further. Bakugou’s eyes narrowed—not critically, but like he was cataloging Izuku’s entire personality from one interaction.

He must not have found anything too troubling, because a second later he snorted.

“Relax, nerd. You’re foldin’ shirts, not performin’ surgery.”

Izuku felt his face catch fire. “N-nerd?”

“You muttered to yourself for a whole minute before I said anything,” Bakugou deadpanned. “Yeah. Nerd.”

Izuku spluttered. “That’s—that’s not—that’s just how I cope! With new environments. And stress. And humidity. And literally everything.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “Come on. I’ll show you around before you spiral or whatever.”

Izuku trailed after him like an anxious duckling.

As they walked, Bakugou pointed out the important areas: the break room, the schedule corkboard (“Check it. Every day. Don’t make me hunt you down when you miss a shift”), the supply closet, the cleaning station, the storage racks, the register area.

Izuku tried to absorb it all, nodding furiously at every explanation, but his brain was so overloaded with nerves that the words blurred together like watercolors.

They reached the front of the store, where the cool air conditioning hit Izuku full in the face. The sales floor stretched out before them—bright lights, tall displays, carefully folded shirts, racks of jeans arranged by wash and cut, mannequins wearing pastel summer outfits. Customers milled about, chatting and browsing.

To Izuku, it looked like controlled chaos.

To Bakugou, it looked routine.

“Welcome to hell,” Bakugou said dryly. “Try not to die.”

Izuku let out a tiny, nervous laugh.

Bakugou stared at him again. His expression was hard to read—half amusement, half something else, something softer around the edges.

“Hey,” Bakugou said, nudging Izuku’s arm with two fingers, oddly gentle. “You’ll be fine. Just listen. Don’t panic. And ask questions.”

Izuku blinked, surprised by the warmth under the bluntness. “I—I’ll try.”

“Good.” Bakugou smirked. “Now grab a name tag. We’re open in five minutes.”

Izuku turned away to hide the tiny smile forming on his lips.

Bakugou Katsuki was…intense. Scary, even.

But for the first time since he’d stepped through the staff door, Izuku didn’t feel like he was drowning.

Izuku learned very quickly that Bakugou Katsuki was not, in fact, mean.

He was harsh, yes. Blunt. Direct to the point of being abrasive. But he was also intensely competent, weirdly protective of the staff, and shockingly patient in his own prickly way.

On Izuku’s second week, a customer exploded at him over a misprinted coupon. Izuku’s throat tightened. His hands shook. He tried his best to explain the policy, his voice wavering despite all efforts to hide it.

And then Bakugou appeared. Out of nowhere. Like he had been summoned by Izuku’s rising panic.

“Ma’am,” Bakugou said in a voice that was firm but calm, “he gave you the correct information.”

“Well he didn’t do it nicely,” she snapped.

Bakugou’s eyes sharpened. “Ma’am, he is literally shaking. You are yelling. Let’s rethink who’s being ‘nice,’ yeah?”

The customer sputtered, floundered, and then, defeated, walked away with her expired coupon still expired.

Izuku stared at Bakugou, stunned.

“You…you didn’t have to do that.”

Bakugou shrugged. “You were gonna cry.”

“I wasn’t going to cry!”

“You were making the cry face.”

“I don’t have a cry face!”

“You do.”

Izuku’s cheeks burned, but for the first time at that job, he felt seen—not in a humiliating way, but in a “someone is actually looking out for me” way.

Bakugou walked away before Izuku could respond, but Izuku stood there with his heart fluttering like an idiot.

He wasn’t used to people defending him.

Not like that.

Not so instinctively.

Over the next months, they found a rhythm.

Izuku came in after classes, always slightly out of breath from jogging to work. He carried textbooks in his backpack and sometimes spilled pens everywhere when he tried to take notes during lunch. Bakugou teased him mercilessly for it, but he also grabbed rolling pens before they hit the floor.

Bakugou did morning shifts mostly. Izuku always arrived to find the floor neat, the displays crisp, the registers stocked—because Bakugou had already fixed everything.

They worked side by side during overlaps, Izuku handling the meticulous tasks—inventory checks, folding displays to exact dimensions, updating SKU logs—while Bakugou dealt with customers, chaos, and anything requiring a commanding presence.

“Midoriya!” Bakugou yelled one afternoon. “How many units of the navy flannels do we have left?”

Izuku called back from inside the stockroom without looking. “Twenty-eight on the floor, three damaged, nine in back!”

Bakugou paused. “How the hell do you remember this shit?”

“I—it’s just how my brain works,” Izuku said shyly.

Bakugou grunted, but Izuku caught the faint upward curve at the corner of his mouth.

Their coworkers started joking that they were “the weirdly functional duo.”

Izuku didn’t fight the label.

Bakugou pretended to hate it but secretly enjoyed it.

Not that he’d ever admit that.

Four months after Izuku started, Bakugou was promoted to floor manager.

The news spread through the store before Bakugou even had time to accept the formal paperwork.

Izuku practically sprinted to find him. “Kacchan! Congratulations!”

Bakugou looked up from a stack of inventory sheets, eyebrows raised. “Calm down. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It is! You deserve it! You’re amazing at this job—”

“Deku.” Bakugou’s ears were turning pink. “Shut up.”

Izuku clamped his mouth shut, but the grin refused to fade.

Bakugou muttered something about needing to “check the delivery schedule” and left in a hurry.

Izuku only realized later—Bakugou fled because he’d been embarrassed.

The thought made Izuku’s chest warm.

Izuku’s own promotion came almost exactly a year later, when he was eighteen and a half.

The Business Development Assistant role had been empty for months, mostly because the job required someone willing to bury themselves in spreadsheets, product lists, vendor emails, and tedious data entry.

Izuku was not only willing—he thrived on it.

Still, when the store manager called him into the office and offered him the position, Izuku nearly fell out of the chair.

“I—I—really? Me?”

“Yes, you,” the manager laughed. “Honestly, Bakugou’s been talking you up for months.”

Izuku blinked rapidly. “…Kacchan has?”

“Oh yeah. Said you’re one of the most reliable people in the building. Called you ‘a workhorse,’ I think.”

Izuku had no idea whether to be flattered or insulted.

Bakugou found him after the meeting, leaning against a counter with two cold energy drinks in hand.

“Here,” he said, handing one over. “Congrats.”

“Thank you!” Izuku beamed. “I had no idea you recommended me.”

“I didn’t recommend you,” Bakugou grumbled, looking away. “I just said you don’t suck.”

Izuku giggled. “Kacchaaaan, that’s so nice of you—”

“You’re annoying,” Bakugou muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Izuku held the can close to his chest and whispered, more to himself than anyone:

“I’m really happy.”

Bakugou didn’t respond.

But he watched Izuku with a softness he didn’t know how to control.

They never declared friendship.

It just… happened.

Bakugou started bringing Izuku drinks on long shifts because “you’re gonna pass out, dumbass.”

Izuku started bringing Bakugou homemade lunches because “you never eat properly, and it stresses me out.”

Bakugou didn’t like sweets, but he ate Izuku’s brownies anyway. Izuku didn’t like spicy food, but he let Bakugou convince him to try spicy ramen and immediately regretted everything when it sent him into 45 minute bathroom breaks.

Bakugou made fun of him the entire time.

Izuku pretended to be offended, but the sound of the blonde's rare laugh lodged itself in his memory like a bright ember.

They walked to the bus stop together sometimes after closing. Bakugou rarely spoke, too tired from the shift, but Izuku didn’t mind filling the silence with rambling stories about school, his dreams, the documentaries he’d watched, and the little things that fascinated him for no reason.

Bakugou listened. Really listened.

Occasionally, he’d comment.

“That’s stupid.”

Or:

“That’s kinda cool.”

Or, Izuku’s favorite:

“You get weirdly excited about shit. It’s… kinda funny.”

Izuku would blush every time.

He tried not to wonder why Bakugou talking to him like that made him feel so warm.

He tried not to wonder why Bakugou’s silence felt safe.

Bakugou had a habit.

Whenever a coworker looked stressed, exhausted, or even slightly annoyed, he’d smirk and say:

“Wanna go out with me?”

Everyone knew it was a joke. Bakugou wasn’t exactly a dating type, as far as anyone could tell. Too busy, too intense, too prickly. Plus, he made the joke a little too often for it to be serious.

Izuku always laughed it off. Everyone did.

Until one afternoon.

He was in the back office, buried under a mountain of paperwork for an institutional order—forty uniforms for a local tech company. The forms contradicted each other, the inventory numbers made no sense, and the vendor emails were written by what had to be an unmedicated chaotic goblin.

Izuku’s heart raced. His hands shook. He muttered to himself as he worked. “Okay—if I sort these by size, then SKU, then cross-check with the vendor spreadsheet—wait—no—the spreadsheet is wrong—why is it wrong?—”

Bakugou leaned against the doorway. “You look like shit,” he observed. “Wanna go out with me?”

Izuku didn’t look up.

“Hell no,” he said automatically.

Bakugou snorted.

Izuku’s pen scribbled frantically, his wrist pushing against his temple. “Ask me again when I’m not so fucking busy.”

Bakugou froze.

Izuku didn’t notice—too wrapped up in the fragile task of keeping his brain from melting.

Bakugou stared for a long, silent moment.

Then said quietly, “…fine. I will.”

Izuku looked up, confused. “What—?”

But Bakugou was already walking away.

Izuku blinked.

And blinked again.

And then the realization hit him like a freight train.

He had basically told Bakugou Katsuki—his Kacchan—to ask him out for real.

Izuku covered his face with both hands and groaned into his palms.

“Oh god.”

Three. Days.

Izuku spent three days panicking.

Every time Bakugou walked near him, Izuku’s heart did a weird hiccup. Every time Bakugou spoke to him, Izuku turned red. Every time Bakugou didn’t speak to him, Izuku also turned red.

He told himself Bakugou wouldn’t ask again. It was a joke. Just a joke.

Except Bakugou wasn’t acting jokey. He was watching Izuku. Evaluating. Considering.

On the third day, after closing, Bakugou cornered him behind the stockroom door.

“I’m asking again,” Bakugou said.

Izuku stared. “Huh?”

“Wanna go out with me?”

Izuku’s brain short-circuited.

His mouth moved before the rest of him caught up. “Yes.”

It came out embarrassingly fast.

Bakugou’s eyebrows lifted in mild amusement. “Friday. After closing.”

Izuku nodded so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

Bakugou smirked. “Relax, nerd.”

“I am relaxed,” Izuku squeaked.

“You’re shaking.”

“I am NOT shaking.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I—" Izuku looked at his hand. It was indeed shaking. “Fuck.”

Bakugou laughed.

Izuku felt himself melt a little.

Friday came faster than Izuku expected.

Bakugou met him outside the store after closing, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders loose in a rare moment of non-work tension. Izuku showed up in a slightly nicer shirt than usual, hair as tamed as it could be, cheeks already pink.

“Hey,” Bakugou said.

“Hey,” Izuku echoed, trying not to look as starstruck as he felt.

They walked to a little ramen shop that Bakugou liked—not fancy, but warm and intimate, with wooden booths and the smell of broth filling the air. They sat across from each other. Bakugou ordered extra spice. Izuku ordered mild and still regretted it.

They talked more than Izuku expected.

Bakugou asked about Izuku’s plans after finishing school.

Izuku asked how long Bakugou had worked retail (“Too fucking long”).

Bakugou commented on Izuku’s habit of nerding out over random topics.

Izuku teased Bakugou for pretending not to care when he obviously did.

There was a moment—long and quiet—when Izuku caught Bakugou watching him with something tender in his eyes.

Izuku’s stomach fluttered wildly.

After dinner, as they stood outside, Bakugou cleared his throat.

“…Wanna get a hotel?”

Izuku’s breath caught.

“Yes,” he said before he could stop himself.

Bakugou blinked, as if he’d expected hesitation.

But Izuku wasn’t hesitating.

He wanted this.

He wanted him.

The room was simple. Clean. Dimly lit. The air conditioner hummed softly.

Izuku stood near the bed, heart pounding so hard he was sure Bakugou could hear it. Bakugou paused beside him, studying his expression with unusual care.

“You okay?” he asked.

Izuku nodded. “Yeah. Just... nervous. But in a good way.”

Bakugou stepped closer, hand lifting to brush a curl from Izuku’s forehead. The touch made Izuku shiver.

When Bakugou kissed him—slowly, gently—Izuku felt his knees weaken.

It was warm. And real. And everything he’d been wanting without knowing how to say it.

But when Bakugou’s hands moved to his shoulders, Izuku’s breath hitched—not in fear, but…

“Kacchan—wait,” Izuku whispered.

Bakugou stopped immediately. “What’s wrong?”

Izuku looked down, face burning, voice barely audible. “This will be my first time.”

Silence.

Bakugou’s expression softened in a way Izuku had never seen before—gentle, protective, unexpectedly vulnerable.

“Then we go slow,” Bakugou said. “Or we don’t go farther. Whatever you want.”

Izuku exhaled shakily, relief washing through him so strong his eyes stung.

“I—I want to. Just…slow.”

Bakugou cupped his cheek. “Yeah. Slow is good.”

The lights dimmed.

The door to the rest of the world stayed closed.

Nothing overwhelming.

Just warmth.

Softness.

Hands interlaced.

Bodies close.

Breaths shared.

Izuku would remember the feeling of Bakugou holding him afterward—one arm wrapped around his waist, the other resting gently on his back—as if Izuku were something precious.

He fell asleep that night thinking:

I could fall in love with him.

He didn’t realize he already had.

The month that followed was… uncertain. Fragile. Like walking on a tightrope suspended above a stormy sea, except the sea was invisible and only Izuku felt it.

They hovered in limbo.

Friends with benefits.

More than friends.

Not quite boyfriends.

Not quite anything clearly defined.

Izuku hated it and loved it in equal measure. Every text from Bakugou made his chest squeeze with hope and dread. Every touch—light, fleeting, unspoken—made him feel simultaneously safe and untethered.

He wanted clarity. He wanted a title. He wanted Bakugou to admit what they were, to commit, to say the words Izuku had been rehearsing silently for weeks.

Bakugou, on the other hand, treated labels like live grenades. He sidestepped them, brushed them off with sarcasm, and promised “later” every time Izuku tried to pin him down.

And yet… Bakugou stayed close.

He texted Izuku goodnight every day, even after long shifts. He brought him food—random snacks, little convenience-store sweets, a soda left chilling on his desk with a handwritten note that simply read: Eat.

He kissed Izuku behind racks of winter coats during inventory shifts, fingers brushing lightly over his forearm in a way that left Izuku’s entire body buzzing.

He acted jealous when anyone else lingered near Izuku. He didn’t shout or make scenes—he just stood a little too close, muttered something sharp under his breath, and Izuku knew exactly what that meant.

Izuku endured it.

He endured the teasing, the deflection, the messy, incomplete moments, because he wanted Bakugou. He wanted all of him—the impatient, broken, anxious, avoidant man who could shut down at any moment, but who also offered warmth, protection, and an intensity that made Izuku feel alive in ways he had never known.

Bakugou, in turn, stayed close because Izuku grounded him. Made him feel something he didn’t have words for.

Something warm.

Something safe.

Something terrifying.

And for the first time in a long time, Bakugou didn’t run.

Summer in the Bakugou household was chaos with a capital C.

Bakugou’s family hosted a massive annual cookout. The backyard was a riot of mismatched chairs, sizzling grills, smoke curling into the sky, and children darting between adults’ legs, their laughter loud enough to echo across the neighborhood.

When Bakugou asked Izuku to come, he did so with his usual nonchalance, brushing off any mention of meeting the family like it was “just food and yelling.”

Izuku, however, felt a flutter of nerves he could not name.

He dressed carefully, in his mind anyway. A soft green button-up, jeans, hair combed slightly neater than usual. He checked himself in the mirror three times and then tried to look casual, like he wasn’t hyper-aware of every detail.

Bakugou, true to form, didn’t comment immediately. He scanned him up and down, eyes lingering a little longer than Izuku thought they should. Finally, he grunted.

“You look fine.”

“Fine?” Izuku asked, voice faint, trying not to sound disappointed. “Or good?”

Bakugou cleared his throat, a little stiffer than usual. “…Good.”

Izuku smiled anyway. His chest felt like it was swelling. He had been waiting for this small validation all week.

The walk to the backyard was awkward and quiet at first. Bakugou’s hand brushed Izuku’s only once, but that one touch sent a ripple of warmth up Izuku’s arm and left him flushed.

Bakugou’s mother spotted them instantly.

“Katsuki!” she called, arms wide, and then her gaze fell on Izuku. “And who is this cute young man?”

Izuku’s face turned the color of a tomato. He nearly forgot to breathe.

Bakugou, for the first time in what felt like forever, didn’t hesitate.

“This is my boyfriend,” he said, voice firm, with none of his usual sarcasm.

Izuku froze. His brain short-circuited. His mouth opened, then closed.

“I—I’m your—?”

Bakugou leaned down slightly, brushing his lips against Izuku’s ear. “You’ve been hinting at it for weeks. Figured I’d just tell them.”

The warmth that flooded Izuku’s chest was overwhelming. His eyes stung, tears threatening, but these were happy, right? Overjoyed tears.

“You—you can’t just…declare it like that,” Izuku breathed. “You have to ask.”

“You’d have said yes,” Bakugou muttered, not looking defensive, just stating a fact.

“Yes! But—!”

“Then what’s the problem?” Bakugou said, almost impatiently.

Izuku didn’t respond with words. He hugged him instead, arms wrapping around Bakugou like he could somehow anchor himself. Bakugou made a startled sound, a soft huff, and patted his back awkwardly. Not with discomfort, but with a strange, gentle ease.

Around them, the grill smoke curled lazily, laughter drifted from one corner of the yard to another, and the sun cast a warm glow over everything. Izuku believed—truly believed—that this moment, with Bakugou at his side, was perfect.

He didn’t see the cracks forming beneath the surface.

He didn’t know how life, responsibilities, and unspoken fears could erode the edges of perfection over time.

Not yet.

But he clung to this moment, to Bakugou’s hand brushing his back, to the simple declaration of a title he had been craving, to the warmth and chaos around them.

He would remember it forever.

The first two years of their relationship unfolded slowly, almost like a careful dance where neither knew the steps fully but both were eager to learn.

Izuku remained living with his parents, a small but comfortable room cluttered with textbooks, sketches, and stray pens that never quite seemed to find a home. Bakugou stayed with his own family, though he rarely lingered at home more than necessary. The separation suited him in ways neither of them fully admitted — it gave him control, boundaries, and the illusion of emotional safety.

And yet, every evening after closing, Bakugou would call. The ringtone, sharp and unmistakable, would set Izuku’s heart racing in anticipation, whether he wanted it to or not.

“Hey,” Bakugou would say, his voice low but steady. “You still alive over there?”

“I’m alive,” Izuku would reply, sometimes with a small laugh, sometimes with a sigh if his day had been particularly exhausting.

They would spend hours talking about work, the little details of their lives, or sometimes just silence, the kind of comfortable, shared quiet that only people who understood each other could experience. Bakugou, for all his avoidance of affection in person, could be startlingly tender over the phone. He would ask if Izuku had eaten, if he’d taken breaks, or simply tell him to stop worrying.

In these moments, Izuku felt safe. He felt known. He felt…seen.

But living apart also meant that their flaws didn’t collide immediately. Bakugou’s avoidant tendencies, his small withdrawals, were easy to ignore when he was a few streets away. Izuku’s chronic anxiety and depression were manageable in the familiar surroundings of his parents’ home, where routines and comforts softened the edges of reality.

Still, cracks appeared even then.

On days when Bakugou skipped calls or answered tersely, Izuku’s chest would tighten. He would replay conversations, wondering what he had said wrong. His mind spiraled, tangled in what-ifs and self-recriminations. He tried to shield Bakugou from these anxieties, but often, he would lay awake at night, heart pounding, scrolling through old messages for reassurance.

Bakugou, for his part, noticed Izuku’s small hesitations and late-night worries, but he rarely addressed them directly. He wanted to help, sometimes even leaned in, but fear of being overwhelmed or smothered pushed him back. He became adept at small gestures: a quick text during the day, leaving a snack in Izuku’s locker, or showing up unexpectedly with a late-night takeaway. Nothing too intimate, nothing that required words. Words were dangerous. Words demanded vulnerability.

And yet, the foundation of trust grew, subtle but steady. They learned each other’s rhythms, learned to navigate distance, and learned that even imperfect attention could be a lifeline.

By the third year, the idea of living apart became unsustainable. The city felt smaller when they couldn’t see each other every day. The little phone comforts were no longer enough.

“It’s time,” Izuku said one evening, voice barely above a whisper, staring at the half-filled boxes he had started accumulating in his room.

Bakugou, arms crossed, leaned against the doorway. He was quiet, unreadable, but Izuku saw the tension in his jaw, the slight furrow of his brows.

“Are you sure?” Bakugou asked finally. His voice was softer than usual.

“Yes,” Izuku said firmly. “I want this. I want us. I want to wake up to you. To live with you. Even if it’s messy, even if it’s hard.”

Bakugou’s shoulders slumped slightly, and he ran a hand through his spiky hair. “…Okay.”

They signed the lease for a modest apartment downtown. Two bedrooms, small kitchen, a living room with barely enough space for a couch, but it was theirs.

The first week was chaos. Boxes everywhere. Furniture that wouldn’t fit. Arguments about where to place a rug. The couch was crooked, the dishes didn’t match, and the fridge was empty because neither had thought to plan groceries properly.

Izuku, meticulous by nature, tried to create order. Lists. Charts. Cleaning schedules. Bakugou rolled his eyes, grumbled, but still moved the heavier furniture with surprising care.

The first night in their new apartment, they sat on the slightly-too-small couch with paper plates of instant noodles. Silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable, but tentative.

“You okay?” Izuku asked, half-teasing, half-concerned.

Bakugou shrugged. “…Yeah. You?”

Izuku smiled faintly. “…Yeah.”

But inside, both felt the weight of reality settling around them. Living together wasn’t just about kisses and late-night talks. It was about bills, schedules, cleaning, exhaustion, and the quiet ways someone could hurt or disappoint you daily.

And neither of them was prepared for how much real life could strain their fragile connection.

It hit Izuku first.

He had left the safety of his parents’ home, leaving behind routines and support systems he had relied on for years. His new job required eight to ten-hour shifts, leaving him drained physically and emotionally. The apartment felt bigger, emptier, and lonelier than he had anticipated.

He began noticing things: Bakugou’s small detachments, his delayed responses, the way he seemed less interested in planning dates or helping with mundane chores. Things that used to feel like minor quirks now pressed against Izuku’s chest like weights.

Izuku’s anxiety flared. His depression deepened. He wanted to talk to Bakugou, to say, I’m struggling. I need you. I need us.

But Bakugou’s avoidant walls rose immediately. He would shut down, muttering, “I’m fine,” or “You’re overthinking it,” or, worse, leaving the room entirely. The silence that followed was suffocating, a tangible presence in their shared space.

Even small things—Bakugou forgetting to put out the trash, leaving socks on the floor, ignoring Izuku’s attempts to schedule a night out—accumulated into a crushing weight. Izuku felt invisible in his own home, alone despite the man who slept in the next room.

And Bakugou… he felt it too. The anxiety, the need to fix everything, the pull to withdraw before he could be pulled apart emotionally. He loved Izuku, yes—but love didn’t come with easy manuals, and he had no idea how to navigate the vulnerability of sharing a life so intimately.

The breaking point came subtly, disguised as a weekend outing.

They were out with friends—Kirishima and Mina, and their two-year-old son. Izuku had always loved kids, feeling a warmth he couldn’t articulate. The child called him “Uncle Izu,” a small title that made his chest tighten with affection.

They wandered into IKEA, the fluorescent lights bright, the floor slick under their sneakers, the air filled with the faint smell of polish and furniture varnish.

Bakugou, as usual, wandered with a detached curiosity, pointing out toddler chairs and plastic play kitchens with a smirk.

“Look at this,” Bakugou said, lifting a tiny table. “Perfect for your little… nerdling someday.”

Izuku froze. His throat constricted. His chest felt like it had been hit with a hammer.

He smiled weakly, nodded, but every step after that was heavy with unshed tears. He wanted a family. He wanted children. He wanted marriage. And his Kacchan... he hadn’t even flinched. He hadn’t addressed it, hadn’t acknowledged that Izuku’s heart had been begging for these things for months.

By the time they left IKEA, Izuku’s stomach ached, a physical manifestation of the heartbreak he carried. He didn’t speak the pain aloud. He couldn’t. Bakugou wouldn’t know what to do. He’d pull away. He always pulled away.

And so Izuku held it in. And it ate at him.

The decision had been months in the making, though Izuku hadn’t admitted it out loud even to himself. Returning to university was a choice born of necessity: to reclaim some control over his life, to pursue a career that could provide stability, to escape the creeping weight of his deepening depression that seemed heavier when compounded by Bakugou’s emotional distance.

Packing his bags that evening, Izuku felt an unusual mixture of excitement and dread. Their room, which had once been a sanctuary of cluttered comfort, now felt suffocatingly small. Every stack of textbooks, every sketchpad, every stray sock in the corner seemed to whisper reminders of the life he was leaving behind.

Bakugou had been unusually quiet as he helped load boxes into the car. He hadn’t made any jokes, hadn’t teased Izuku about over-packing or his overthinking. He simply carried bags, his brow furrowed in a way Izuku didn’t quite understand.

“You sure you want to do this?” Bakugou finally asked, voice low as they drove through the city streets bathed in the soft orange glow of sunset. His eyes flicked to Izuku out of the corner of his vision. “This... university thing. Going away.”

Izuku nodded, hands clutching the straps of his backpack. “Yeah. I need this. For me. For us... or maybe... for my future. I can’t keep feeling stuck.” His throat tightened as he spoke, words catching halfway. “I... want more, Kacchan. I want stability. A future. And I feel like I’m losing myself trying to fit into this life...”

Bakugou’s jaw tightened. He was silent for a long moment, gripping the steering wheel like it might protect him from what was coming. Finally, he exhaled, a short, harsh sound. “Deku... don’t... don’t expect me to—”

Izuku turned to him, eyes glistening. “Expect you to what?”

Bakugou shook his head, frustration and fear mingling in the harsh lines of his face. “To... handle this. Handle me. Handle everything you’re asking. I can’t do it.”

The words hit Izuku like a punch to the stomach. His chest constricted, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The car felt suddenly too small, too loud, filled with the space between them that had always existed but now felt cavernous.

“I... what?” Izuku whispered, voice trembling. “You... you don’t want to be with me?”

Bakugou’s hand went to his face, rubbing at his eyes in a gesture so unlike him that it made Izuku’s heart twist painfully. “I don’t know if I can... keep up with you. I thought I could, I really did... but...”

Izuku swallowed hard, tears spilling over despite his efforts to blink them away. “So... this is it. Now?”

Bakugou’s eyes flicked to him, a flash of regret buried behind the familiar mask of stubbornness. “…Yeah. Now.”

The words hung in the air, unyielding. Izuku’s body felt heavy, as if gravity itself had shifted, pulling him down. He had imagined this moment in countless hypothetical conversations — arguments, tearful confessions, dramatic exits — but reality was silent and merciless.

“I understand,” Izuku said finally, voice breaking. “I... love you, Kacchan. I probably always will.”

Bakugou flinched at the admission, twisting the steering wheel with tension in his hands. “Deku...”

“No, don’t,” Izuku whispered. “Just... drive. Let me get there.”

The remainder of the ride was quiet, punctuated only by the occasional muffled sniffle from Izuku and the occasional shuffle of Bakugou’s restless hands.

When they arrived at the university dorm parking lot, Izuku sat in the car for several long moments, staring out at the unfamiliar buildings, the neatly trimmed lawns, and the excited, oblivious chatter of students around him. It felt like another world — one that didn’t have Bakugou, yet demanded he navigate it alone.

Bakugou finally opened the door. “…Deku, get your stuff.”

Izuku moved slowly, dragging his bags with leaden arms. His chest ached with the weight of both his luggage and the breakup. For a split second, he looked up at the blonde, hoping for something — an apology, a hug, a single word that might make this less final. But Bakugou’s expression was unreadable, his jaw tight, and his eyes carefully shielded.

“I... I guess this is it, then,” Izuku whispered, almost to himself, almost as a prayer.

“Yeah,” Bakugou muttered, voice low. “Goodbye, Deku.”

The dorm doors swallowed Izuku, and Bakugou’s figure disappeared behind the car. The distance was instantaneous and cruel, the absence a palpable wound in Izuku’s chest.

He felt hollow, broken, and yet, there was a flicker of determination. He had chosen this path for a reason. A chance to reclaim himself, even if it meant leaving the person he loved most behind.

The next months were brutal.

Phone calls became sporadic. Texts were short, clipped, or unanswered for hours. Izuku’s heart ached every time he saw Bakugou online but didn’t receive a message. Every delay, every small omission felt like confirmation of what he already feared — that distance had eroded the fragile trust they had built over years.

Bakugou was hesitant, pulling away when Izuku sought more intimacy over the phone. Even when he answered, his tone was clipped, casual, avoiding the depth of emotion Izuku desperately wanted.

Izuku tried not to think about the growing void between them. He buried himself in classes, assignments, and the dizzying social life of university students who didn’t know the gravity of the years he had shared with someone else.

But the emptiness followed him everywhere. It gnawed at him during lectures, during walks across the campus, late at night when the dorm was quiet and his roommate slept. He would stare at his phone, thumb hovering over Bakugou’s contact, heart racing, wondering if tonight would be the night they would talk, or if tonight would be another silence stretching impossibly long.

And yet, even in that distance, he couldn’t stop loving him.

He didn’t want to.

He remembered every brush of a hand, every whispered “goodnight,” every soft, terrifying, warm touch that Bakugou had allowed. And it made the distance sting even more.

At first, Bakugou’s distance seemed bearable. Occasional texts, sporadic video calls, and the few messages that cut through the silence were enough to keep Izuku tethered to him.

But gradually, Izuku noticed patterns — subtle withdrawals, silences that stretched for hours, sometimes days, and vague promises that never solidified.

“You okay?” Izuku typed one evening after waiting over four hours for a response. His chest was tight, breath shallow, fingers hovering over the send button for too long.

Bakugou replied almost immediately:

“Yeah. Fine. Stop overthinking.”

Izuku’s chest sank. He knew that voice — the one Bakugou used to dismiss his emotions, the one that always shut down deeper conversations. He typed, hesitated, deleted, and finally sent:

“I just... miss you.”

Bakugou didn’t reply for an hour. When he finally did, it was a single line:

“Miss you too. Go to bed.”

It wasn’t cruel. Not exactly. But it wasn’t enough. And yet, Izuku clung to it. He read meaning into the words, reassured himself, and replayed their memories together, desperate for warmth.

Bakugou was aware of Izuku’s neediness. He saw the late-night texts, the endless messages of affection, the subtle pleas for reassurance. And in his own way, he wanted to respond. He wanted to reach across the distance and hold him, protect him, soothe him.

But the walls Bakugou had built over decades were tall, thick, and terrifying to him. The vulnerability required to meet Izuku in that space — to truly communicate, to truly commit — was almost unbearable.

So he flinched. Pulled back. And led Izuku on.

Two months into the long-distance limbo, Izuku reached his breaking point.

He sat alone in his new dorm room at a sister university abroad, the glow of the desk lamp washing over scattered textbooks and empty coffee mugs. His heart was raw, his chest aching. Every day of silence, every delayed response, every small withdrawal from Bakugou had compounded into a weight he could no longer carry alone.

He called Bakugou, sobbing as soon as the older man answered.

“Kacchan... please... please just give me another chance,” Izuku cried, voice breaking, muffled by his hands over his face. “We can... we can do therapy. Couple’s therapy. I... please, we can try! I love you. I still want... everything we wanted!”

Bakugou was silent on the other end. Not the usual avoidance. Not sarcasm. Just... silence.

“Deku,” he finally said, voice low, cautious, almost shaking with something he didn’t have words for. “I... need time. I don’t know if I can—”

“Please, Kacchan! Just think! Please!” Izuku pleaded, tears streaming down his face. “I can’t do this without you! I can’t... I can't live without you.”

Bakugou swallowed audibly. “I need time. Please. I’ll... get back to you.”

The line went dead before Izuku could respond, leaving him trembling, broken, and desperate.

The week dragged on like a weight pressing down on Izuku’s chest. Every hour felt longer than the last, and every unanswered text or missed call carved another hollow into him. He replayed every interaction with Bakugou in his mind, searching for clues, for reassurance, for a single word that might undo the gnawing emptiness.

By Friday evening, Izuku could barely hold himself together. His dorm room felt oppressive, the dim lighting casting shadows that seemed to close in around him. He hadn’t eaten properly in days, had barely slept, and every noise outside his window made him jump, heart thudding. His thoughts spiraled uncontrollably: Maybe he’s done. Maybe I’m not enough. Maybe... maybe it’s easier if I just—

The river called to him, or at least that’s how it felt in the pit of his stomach. He walked the darkened streets, shoes slapping softly against the wet pavement, a chill in the air biting through his hoodie. His hands trembled, pulling at the sleeves, twisting them nervously. The city felt distant, indifferent, unfeeling—like the world itself was conspiring to leave him alone with his thoughts.

By the time he reached the riverbank, moonlight glimmered across the dark, swirling water. The sound of it rushing over rocks was hypnotic, almost soothing in a terrible way. He knelt at the edge, fingers brushing the surface. Cold. Deep. Endless. It mirrored how he felt inside.

A voice pierced the night before he could go any further.

“Izuku! Stop! Don’t!”

He froze. Heart pounding, chest constricting painfully, as the sound of hurried footsteps approached. One of his university friends emerged from the shadows, grabbing his arm with firm hands. “Please! I knew something was wrong. I can't just let you do this!”

Izuku trembled violently, tears blurring his vision. “I... he... Kacchan—he doesn’t... he doesn’t want me. He…he’s leaving me again! I'm all alone.” His voice broke, choked by sobs.

His friend crouched beside him, arms wrapping around Izuku’s shaking shoulders. “No, listen. That’s not true. You’re not alone. You don’t have to do this by yourself. We’re here, okay?”

The words felt distant, almost unreal, but the warmth of human contact — the firm hold, the gentle insistence — started to pierce through the fog of panic. Izuku collapsed against him, knees on the damp grass, and sobbed uncontrollably. His chest heaved, arms clinging, tears soaking his hoodie. The world felt like it was closing in, yet at the same time, he was tethered again, pulled back from the brink by someone who saw him, who wouldn’t let him vanish into the darkness.

It was a turning point. He realized he couldn’t continue without help. He needed more than Bakugou’s sporadic attention, more than his own willpower to stay afloat. He needed therapy, structure, support, and—maybe eventually—Bakugou, but only if they could navigate the storm together.

The plane ride home felt unreal, suspended between the city he had been forced to leave behind and the familiar streets of his childhood. The engines droned, the air smelled of recycled cabin air, and every jolt of the plane against turbulence made his stomach clench. He stared out the window at the clouds, gripping his carry-on until his knuckles turned white.

His parents had moved to a different state, downsizing their home and leaving him without a place to land. University friends couldn’t host him — some had roommates, others had cats (and his allergies made even short visits dangerous). Every option narrowed until one remained: his old job and, more importantly, Kacchan.

Calling Bakugou felt impossible. The phone hovered in his hand, digits memorized but trembling. When he finally dialed, the first ring was agony. His heart thudded in his throat. On the third ring, Bakugou answered.

“Deku...?” His voice was low, cautious, barely above a whisper.

“I...Kacchan... hi,” Izuku said, voice raw, breaking. “I, um... I tried to hurt myself. I almost... I almost did something terrible.”

Bakugou’s silence stretched long enough to make Izuku’s chest tighten. Then, finally: “...Izuku...” His voice cracked slightly, tight with emotion he couldn’t name. “You’re okay now?”

“I’m— I'm coming home. I need help. And... can I stay with you? Just until I figure things out?”

Bakugou’s pause was heavy, filled with his own conflicted emotions. “Yeah, fine. Come. But don’t expect me to fix everything, alright?”

Izuku exhaled, a tremulous, shaking sound, the weight of months lifting slightly off his chest. “I understand. Thank you, Kacchan.”

The ride back to the apartment was quiet, filled with a tense mixture of relief and fear. Izuku stared out the window at the familiar city lights, each one a reminder of memories and moments, good and bad. He wondered if he could trust himself again, if he could survive the uncertainty that awaited.

When they arrived, Bakugou was waiting at the door, hands shoved into his pockets, posture stiff, but eyes alert. “Move your stuff in,” he muttered. Not warm, not affectionate, but firm. Enough.

Izuku stepped inside, dragging his bags, heart pounding in a mix of fear and cautious hope. The apartment smelled of faint lingering clothes and furniture polish, slightly dusty but welcoming.

“Deku,” Bakugou began, voice hesitant. “Don’t... don’t push yourself.”

“I won't,” Izuku said softly, swallowing back tears. “Thank you. For letting me stay. For... being here.”

Bakugou didn’t respond with affection, not yet. But the fact that he didn’t shut him out entirely, that he allowed him to step across the threshold, was enough. For the first time in months, Izuku felt a fragile flicker of hope: that maybe, just maybe, they could start again.

He knew it wouldn’t be easy. There would be therapy, hard conversations, relapses, and setbacks. But for the first time, he didn’t feel entirely alone.

The first morning back in the apartment, Izuku woke to the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen. He hadn’t expected the blonde to be up so early, but he found him leaning against the counter, mug in hand, eyes half-lidded and wary.

“Morning,” Bakugou muttered, voice gruff but carrying a softness that made Izuku’s chest ache.

“Morning,” Izuku replied, voice small, hesitant. He felt raw in every way—emotionally, mentally, physically—and the thought of facing the world outside the apartment was almost unbearable.

“I have an appointment,” he said finally, shifting awkwardly. “Outpatient therapy. For, um... everything.”

Bakugou’s eyebrows knit together. “Everything?” he asked, tone a mix of concern and suspicion.

Izuku nodded, hands fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. “Yeah. Anxiety, depression…other things. They... they think I might have BPD. I don’t know fully yet.”

Bakugou stared at him for a long moment, silent. Then, finally, he grunted. “...Okay. Fine. You go. I will... wait.” The words were clipped, but the weight behind them spoke of an unspoken promise: he would be here, he would stay.

The first few sessions were exhausting. Intense. Confronting. Izuku had to confront patterns he had spent years suppressing—the impulsivity, the emotional swings, the panic spirals, and the feelings of abandonment he had carried with him since childhood. Every week, he left the therapist’s office raw, shaking, and tear-streaked.

Yet, at the same time, he felt... lighter. He began to understand his reactions, his triggers, and his emotional responses. He learned tools to ground himself, manage overwhelming moments, and communicate needs without spiraling.

And Bakugou began to notice the small changes.

When Izuku received his official diagnoses—Borderline Personality Disorder and ADHD, alongside the chronic anxiety and depression he already knew about—it was both terrifying and liberating. There was clarity at last. A framework to understand why certain emotions had felt impossible to manage, why certain patterns had dominated his life, and why Bakugou’s avoidance had hit him harder than anyone else could.

He sat on the couch, therapy paperwork spread across the coffee table, breathing deeply. Bakugou sat across from him, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“So…” Izuku began, voice small but steady. “They... they said BPD, ADHD. That... explains a lot.”

Bakugou shifted, leaning forward slightly. “…Yeah. I mean, I kinda figured there was something going on.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “…I just never really knew how to deal with it. And... sometimes I panicked. So I just shut down.”

Izuku blinked, taking in the confession. It was not an apology. It was not full acknowledgment. But it was something. A crack in the wall he had hit so many times before.

“I understand,” Izuku said, eyes softening. “And... we can work through it. Together. I’m willing to try, if you are.”

Bakugou’s jaw clenched, and he exhaled sharply. “…Yeah. Okay. We can try.”

It was tentative. Fragile. But it was a start.

The first time Bakugou suggested they go out together after Izuku’s return from the crisis, Izuku felt his chest pound with equal parts excitement and fear.

“Dinner?” Bakugou asked one evening, leaning against the doorway of the apartment, hands shoved into his pockets. “Just food. No expectations.”

Izuku nodded eagerly, adjusting his jacket. “…Yeah. That sounds good.”

The restaurant was small, intimate, with warm lighting that made the world feel slightly softer. They sat across from each other, menus untouched at first, both hesitant.

Bakugou broke the silence with a small, almost imperceptible smirk. “…You okay?”

Izuku swallowed, feeling the tremor in his hands. “I'm... I'm getting there. Slowly.”

They talked, awkward at first, about mundane things: work, the city, the food. Small victories for Izuku were met with Bakugou’s clipped affirmations: a nod, a grunt, a soft “good” when he described a new coping strategy.

After dinner, they walked through the city streets, side by side. Izuku’s hand hovered near Bakugou’s, and after a long pause, he slowly reached for it. Bakugou glanced down, eyes sharp and wary, but didn’t pull away. He let Izuku intertwine their fingers, a small act of trust and intimacy.

It was imperfect. Tentative. Awkward at times. But for the first time since the crisis, Izuku felt something he hadn’t felt in months: hope.

Walking home, they passed a small park, and Bakugou stopped, glancing at Izuku. “You want to sit for a bit?”

Izuku nodded, and they found a bench under a streetlamp, quiet except for the distant hum of the city. Izuku leaned against Bakugou, who tensed slightly at first, then relaxed, letting the moment exist without words.

It was not perfection. There were still cracks, still moments of tension, still unspoken fears. But it was a start. And in that quiet, tentative touch, in that fragile, careful presence, Izuku felt the flicker of a second chance.

The weeks after the dinner date passed in a delicate balance between hope and hesitation.

Bakugou was learning, in his own gruff, imperfect way, how to be present. He still avoided long emotional conversations, still flinched at moments of vulnerability, but he made small, deliberate gestures that mattered more than words could capture.

He showed up for Izuku’s therapy appointments when asked, waiting in the lobby with a neutral expression that belied the nervous tension in his shoulders. He asked about his day, genuinely, sometimes for the first time in years without brushing it off.

Izuku, meanwhile, worked on himself daily. He practiced grounding exercises from therapy, scheduled his medications, and slowly learned how to communicate needs without spiraling into panic. He documented his progress, small wins, and setbacks in a journal, which he occasionally shared with Bakugou in quiet, hesitant bursts.

“Did you remember your pills today?” Bakugou asked one morning, voice rough but steady, as Izuku fumbled through his backpack.

“Y-yes,” Izuku said, cheeks warm at the concern. It wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t sweeping, but it was a thread holding them together.

Small victories accumulated over time. Bakugou started asking more questions about Izuku’s therapy, learning terminology, acknowledging triggers, and, sometimes, apologizing when he slipped into avoidance.

They established new routines: Sunday evenings were for cooking together, with Bakugou reluctantly following recipes while Izuku guided him, laughing at his stubborn insistence that measurements didn’t matter. Friday nights became their time to explore small joys—parks, bookstores, or cheap movies. Texts became a bridge rather than a battlefield, with Bakugou making a deliberate effort to respond more promptly and without defensiveness.

It wasn’t perfect. There were moments of tension, arguments about missed cues, and times when Bakugou would retreat into silence. But now, Izuku had the tools to cope, and Bakugou was learning to notice before his walls slammed shut.

The hardest moments were still the conversations neither could escape forever: the future.

Izuku wanted to talk about marriage, family, shared finances, and stability. His therapy had taught him how to frame his needs clearly and calmly, yet Bakugou’s avoidance still clashed with every word.

“Are you thinking about... us, like... marriage?” Izuku asked one evening, voice tentative as they washed dishes together.

Bakugou froze mid-motion, soap suds dripping from his hands. “I don’t know. Stop thinking about stuff like that.”

“I’m not thinking, I’m talking,” Izuku said softly, trying not to let his frustration break through. “We’re living together. I want to know where you stand. I want... I want to plan, even a little.”

Bakugou turned, tension radiating off him. “I’m not good at planning. I can’t think that far ahead. Stop pushing me, Deku.”

Izuku’s chest constricted. He knew this was Bakugou’s avoidant pattern — shutting down instead of engaging — but it still hurt. He swallowed hard, exhaling slowly. “Okay... we’ll keep taking it slow,” he murmured, voice low. Disappointment fizzed in his chest.

They finished the dishes in silence, the unspoken tension lingering between them. But even here, in avoidance, there was progress. Bakugou didn’t storm out, didn’t dismiss him entirely. He stayed, awkward, uncomfortable, present.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the romance returned.

Bakugou began leaving small notes for Izuku—on the bathroom mirror, on the fridge, in the pockets of his jacket. They were simple: Don’t forget your pills, Coffee’s in the pot, I saw a dog today and thought of you. Words that were minor gestures in another relationship, but monumental in theirs.

Izuku responded in kind. He left sticky notes in Bakugou’s wallet, tucked letters into his bag, and cooked meals that he knew Bakugou would secretly enjoy but never admit to liking aloud.

Their dates grew longer, more intimate, though still carefully paced. They explored the city in small ways, walked parks hand in hand, and discovered that laughter could return after months of tension and heartbreak.

One evening, after a particularly successful therapy session, Izuku suggested they walk along the river near their apartment. The city lights reflected in the water, and for the first time in months, Bakugou stayed close without hesitation.

“Deku,” Bakugou murmured, voice low and hesitant. “I don’t know if I can do everything you want. I fuck up sometimes. I don’t always say the right things.”

Izuku squeezed his hand gently. “I don’t need perfection. I just need you here. Present. Trying. That’s enough for me.”

Bakugou’s jaw clenched, eyes scanning the river. “…You... you really mean that?”

“I do,” Izuku said softly, leaning closer. “And I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure it out together.”

Bakugou exhaled, a long, shaky breath. Then, for the first time in months, he allowed himself a small, genuine smile. “Okay,” he muttered. “…We’ll try. Together.”

And in that quiet moment, under the dim city lights and the soft hum of the river, their second-chance romance truly began—not perfect, not free of fear, but real, fragile, and ready to grow.

Living together again, post-crisis, was both comforting and exhausting. The apartment felt like a shared ecosystem, each of them adjusting to the other’s rhythms, habits, and quirks.

Bakugou still had mornings where he would wake before Izuku, moving around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, making coffee and breakfast without a word. Izuku would linger in bed, eyes open, listening to the low hum of the refrigerator and the clatter of dishes, feeling simultaneously safe and overwhelmed. He had to remind himself not to overthink Bakugou’s silence; sometimes, it wasn’t avoidance, just presence in a form he wasn’t used to recognizing.

They developed unspoken routines: Bakugou would handle heavy lifting, grocery runs, and errand-type tasks, while Izuku managed schedules, therapy appointments, and bills. Conflict arose when responsibilities overlapped.

One evening, Bakugou grunted as he carried the last bag of groceries into the kitchen. “I don’t get why you color-code the pantry. It’s just cans.”

Izuku tilted his head, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “It makes things easier for me to find. Helps me stay organized. And it saves time in the long run.”

Bakugou huffed, setting the bags down. “…Fine. Whatever. Just don’t yell at me if I mess it up.”

Izuku laughed softly, the sound easing the tension. “Deal.”

Moments like this, mundane yet layered, became markers of stability for them. They were learning to coexist not just as romantic partners, but as people who had shared trauma, distance, and misunderstanding. The apartment wasn’t just a space to live—it was their laboratory for trust, compromise, and small victories.

Even with progress, communication remained the most delicate battlefield.

Bakugou’s avoidant tendencies were persistent. When Izuku brought up future plans—graduation, career, marriage—Bakugou’s instinct was to retreat. His jaw would tighten, eyes flicking away, fingers drumming on surfaces. He didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to over commit, and didn’t have the vocabulary to express the fears knotting his chest.

Izuku, attuned to Bakugou’s subtle cues from years of observation, felt the panic rising in his own chest during these moments. His BPD symptoms made emotional intensity almost unbearable; he craved clarity, certainty, and reassurance that Bakugou didn’t yet have the words to give.

One night, as they lay on the couch together, Izuku reached for Bakugou’s hand, tentatively, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Kacchan... can we talk about next year? About us? About maybe... moving forward?”

Bakugou’s hand froze in his grip. He swallowed, jaw tight. “I... don’t know. Can we... not tonight?”

Izuku’s stomach twisted. The disappointment hit like a physical blow. He had practiced grounding techniques in therapy, but nothing could fully shield him from the emotional sting.

“I... okay,” he said softly, hiding the tears threatening to spill. “We can wait.”

Bakugou turned to him, eyes soft but conflicted. “I’m trying. I just don’t know how to do it all.”

Izuku reached up, brushing a hand against Bakugou’s cheek. “I know. That’s why I’m here. We’ll figure it out... together.”

Even in avoidance, even in discomfort, Bakugou let himself be touched, let himself be present. And slowly, that counted as progress.

It was late evening when Izuku suggested they stay in. The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the heater, the soft ticking of the clock, and the occasional creak of the floorboards. Outside, the city lights glittered like distant stars, casting a soft glow across the living room.

Izuku sat cross-legged on the couch, a mug of tea warming his hands, and watched Bakugou move around the apartment. The older man was folding laundry, his movements efficient, almost mechanical, but Izuku noticed the small things—the way his shoulders stiffened when he thought Izuku was watching, the quiet hum Bakugou made when satisfied with his folding, the way his eyes softened whenever they met Izuku’s.

“Kacchan,” Izuku began, voice small, hesitant. “Can we please talk?”

Bakugou glanced at him, expression guarded. “About what?”

“About us,” Izuku said, setting his mug down. “About everything we’ve been through. About how we’ve been living together, how we work through things. I want to understand you better. And I want you to understand me better.”

Bakugou’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, hands stilling. “You’re not going to like everything I say.”

“I know,” Izuku replied softly. “I’m not going to stop listening, either.”

For a long moment, Bakugou was silent. Then he exhaled, a shaky sound, and sank onto the couch beside Izuku, careful to leave space between them. “I... don’t... I don't know how to do the future. I get scared. And I panic. You asking me questions about marriage, family... makes me feel like I’m drowning.”

Izuku reached for his hand slowly, letting his fingers brush against the blonde's. “I know,” he whispered. “And I don’t want to overwhelm you. I just... want to share the water with you. To swim together, even if it’s scary.”

Bakugou’s fingers twitched against his, hesitant, almost retreating. But then he squeezed, a tiny, deliberate pressure that spoke volumes. “Deku...” he murmured. “You make it easier, I think. Not perfect, but... better.”

Tears welled in Izuku’s eyes, not from sadness, but from relief and gratitude. “That’s all I need. I just... I need you here, trying. We’ll figure everything else out.”

Bakugou leaned back, head tilted slightly, eyes soft. “I don’t do relationships well,” he admitted. “I mess up. But I like this. I like you.”

Izuku smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair from Bakugou’s forehead. “I like you too. Imperfect, grumpy, impossible you.”

For the first time in months, they sat in quiet companionship, letting the simple presence of the other fill the space between them. No words were needed beyond what had already been said. The silence was safe, grounding, and intimate—a fragile but real step toward a deeper connection.

And in that moment, Izuku realized that the second-chance romance he had been longing for wasn’t about perfection or speed. It was about vulnerability, patience, and learning to navigate fear together. That evening, in the quiet hum of their apartment, they began to rebuild something stronger than before.

Bakugou had sat in therapy before. He had accompanied Izuku to a few sessions over the past months, mostly observing while Izuku spoke, nodding or offering brief input when prompted. But this was the first time the therapist explicitly wanted to address his patterns—the avoidance, the shutdowns, the tendency to retreat whenever the future or strong emotions were involved.

Izuku sat beside him, fingers entwined with his, drawing quiet strength from the physical connection. Bakugou’s jaw was tight, his hands fidgeting in his lap. The office smelled faintly of coffee and paper, a neutral calm that contrasted with the storm brewing in Bakugou’s chest.

The therapist, a soft-spoken woman with an encouraging presence, looked between them. “Katsuki, today we’re going to talk about patterns that come up in your relationship. Izuku has shared how your avoidance affects him. I’d like you to share your perspective.”

Bakugou exhaled slowly, as if trying to push the panic down. “I... I don’t like talking about feelings,” he muttered. “I freeze when it gets too much. Especially future stuff. Kids. Marriage. Work stuff. I just... shut down.”

Izuku gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I know, Kacchan. And I don’t blame you for that. I just... sometimes... I feel alone. Like I’m asking for something you can’t give, and that makes me really scared.”

Bakugou’s eyes flicked up, briefly meeting Izuku’s. “…I don’t want to hurt you,” he admitted quietly, voice rough. “But the more I think about it, the more panicked I get. Then I pull away. And I know that just makes you feel worse.”

The therapist nodded. “That’s an important insight. You’re recognizing the cycle: fear leads to withdrawal, which leads to hurt feelings. Now, let’s practice strategies to interrupt that pattern.”

For the next hour, they worked through exercises: Bakugou practiced saying small truths before the instinct to shut down overtook him. Izuku practiced expressing his feelings calmly, without letting panic spiral, so Bakugou could engage without fear. They role-played conversations about hypothetical future plans—Bakugou allowed himself to speak his uncertainty, and Izuku acknowledged it without judgment.

At one point, Bakugou exhaled heavily, leaning back in the chair. “This sucks. But it feels... better? I don’t know. Weird, but…”

Izuku smiled softly, brushing a hand over his knuckles. “It’s okay. We’re learning. I don’t need perfect answers. I just want you here with me. Trying is enough.”

Bakugou’s lips twitched into a small, hesitant smile. “Yeah. I can do that.”

By the end of the session, there was no dramatic breakthrough, no sudden epiphany. But there was progress: a shared understanding of patterns, acknowledgment of fear, and an opening to communicate honestly. For Izuku, that was enough. For Bakugou, it was a start—a tentative step toward breaking down walls that had been built for decades.

And when they walked home together afterward, fingers linked, neither spoke much. The silence was comfortable this time, quiet but full of meaning. Trust wasn’t perfect. The future wasn’t fixed. But for the first time in a long while, it felt like they were navigating it—together.

Even with therapy and months of effort, living together brought a new kind of tension: the uneasy calm that follows crises. It wasn’t anger or resentment, but a persistent awareness that either one of them could trigger an old habit—a sudden withdrawal from Bakugou or an anxious spiral from Izuku.

One Thursday evening, Izuku returned from a long therapy day, his mind buzzing with insights and his body exhausted. He found Bakugou on the couch, headphones in, reading quietly, a cup of coffee steaming beside him. The sight was familiar, comforting, but Izuku felt a small pang of guilt—he didn’t want to unload too much, didn’t want to pull Bakugou into his chaos.

“Kacchan?” he asked, hesitantly.

Bakugou looked up, removing the headphones. “Hey. Long day?”

Izuku nodded, sinking into the couch beside him. “…Yeah. Therapy brought up some stuff. Some heavy stuff.”

Bakugou set the book down and leaned back, shoulder brushing Izuku’s. “Want to talk about it?”

Izuku paused, noticing the careful balance in Bakugou’s voice—interested, but not hovering, not forcing. “Maybe just a little. I learned some patterns about myself. About how I react to fear and stress. I don’t always know how to ask for what I need without panicking.”

Bakugou exhaled softly, leaning closer. “I get it. And... I see it. I'll try to be better.”

Izuku smiled faintly. “That’s enough.”

It was a quiet, understated exchange, but it marked a new kind of intimacy: both aware of each other’s vulnerabilities, both willing to navigate them without falling back into old patterns. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t explosive. But it was real—and that reality carried weight.

It was a Sunday morning with soft sunlight spilling through the curtains. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and toasted bread, a small, comforting ritual they had begun together. Izuku sat at the table, notebook open, jotting down thoughts from his latest therapy session. Bakugou was in the kitchen, humming quietly as he prepared their breakfast.

“Deku,” Bakugou said suddenly, placing two plates on the table. His voice was softer than usual, tentative, but steady. “Can we talk?”

Izuku looked up, heart fluttering. “Of course.”

Bakugou pulled out a chair and sat across from him, posture tense but hands resting openly on the table. “I’ve been thinking about... us. About what we’re doing, and where we’re going.”

Izuku’s chest tightened—not panic, but hope. “Go on.”

“I know I’ve avoided stuff before. Marriage. Kids. The future. I panicked,” Bakugou admitted, eyes meeting Izuku’s for the first time without darting away. “But... being with you and seeing how patient you are makes me think I can... try. Think about it. Not just push it away.”

Izuku’s fingers trembled slightly as he reached for Bakugou’s hand. “That means a lot, Kacchan. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Just to know we can talk about it, even if it’s scary.”

Bakugou’s jaw tightened, a shadow of his old fear, but he held his gaze. “So... where do we start? I... don’t want to screw it up.”

Izuku smiled, a mix of relief and warmth flooding through him. “Small steps. We can start with... next year. Where we want to live. Savings. Work goals. Then we can slowly talk about marriage, maybe kids, maybe bigger plans.”

Bakugou exhaled, leaning back slightly, letting the words sink in. “Okay. Small steps. I can do that. As long as we... figure it out together.”

Izuku nodded, squeezing his hand. “We will. Together.”

The moment was quiet, unhurried, but heavy with significance. They weren’t just surviving—they were building, cautiously but intentionally, a life that could accommodate fear, anxiety, and love in equal measure.

Over the next few weeks, they began small, practical discussions about the future. Nothing extravagant. No talk of wedding dates or house hunting yet—just logistics, shared responsibilities, and financial planning.

One evening, Bakugou pulled out a notebook from his bag. “I made a list. Not super romantic, but stuff we might need to think about.”

Izuku peered over it. “Okay, let’s see!”

Items included: budgeting, work schedules, potential apartment upgrades, emergency plans, and even health insurance details. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was real.

“What about fun things?” Izuku asked, raising an eyebrow.

Bakugou smirked slightly. “I put a few on there. Vacations, maybe a road trip. Not sure if you’ll like my ideas.”

Izuku laughed, warmth spreading through his chest. “I’ll take it. As long as we’re planning together.”

For the first time in a long while, planning for the future didn’t feel like pressure or panic—it felt like collaboration, like they were building a shared life instead of tiptoeing around fear.

Later that afternoon, they spread out their finances. Bakugou had prepared a rough spreadsheet, carefully itemizing their combined savings, monthly expenses, and projected costs for moving.

“Okay,” Bakugou said, pointing at a column. “If we cut back on eating out, split utilities evenly, and keep a steady savings plan, we could realistically move within eight months. Maybe sooner if one of us picks up extra hours.”

Izuku leaned over, examining the numbers. “That sounds doable. And we can start putting a small fund aside for wedding stuff. Even just... small deposits here and there.”

Bakugou smirked faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. “...You’re really serious about this, huh?”

Izuku smiled, feeling a warmth spread through him. “Yes. We’re doing it. Not rushing, but doing it. Together.”

Bakugou’s fingers found his, thumb brushing along Izuku’s knuckles. “Together,” he echoed.

The next week, Bakugou called a few real estate agencies. They scheduled viewings for apartments big enough for a family someday, even ones with rooms that could one day become children’s bedrooms. Every viewing was filled with whispered debates, soft laughter, and quiet excitement.

“I like this one,” Izuku admitted during one viewing, tracing a finger along a windowsill. “It has a good light. And... a playroom for future kids could fit here.”

Bakugou crouched down beside him, letting their shoulders brush. “Yeah, I can see it. Us. Here. Me, you, a few kids, maybe a dog too. Don’t get your hopes up too high, but I like it.”

Izuku’s heart lifted. “I’m not worried about the hopes. I’m worried about keeping up with you.”

Bakugou’s arm found him, and he squeezed lightly. “You’ll manage. We’ll manage. Together.”

One evening, after a long day at work, they sat at the coffee table with a blank calendar and a set of colored pens.

“Let’s... try to make a timeline,” Izuku suggested. “Not rigid. Just... guidelines.”

Bakugou nodded, opening a fresh page. “Okay. First step—savings target by six months. Second step—realistically applying to apartments in seven months. Third step—moving within eight months if everything lines up.”

“And wedding planning could start in a year,” Izuku added. “Research venues, start a fund, talk about priorities.”

Bakugou smirked faintly, reaching for Izuku’s hand. “You’re really making this concrete, huh?”

Izuku leaned closer. “I like concrete. I like us. I like taking steps we can actually touch, instead of just dreaming.”

Bakugou’s thumb brushed over Izuku’s knuckles. “Me too. Let’s keep going. Step by step.”

They sat together late into the night, mapping out dreams in a tangible way, laughing over absurd hypotheticals, and sometimes falling silent, letting the weight of what they were building sink in. For the first time, the future didn’t feel scary—it felt possible.

The new apartment smelled faintly of fresh paint and cardboard boxes, a comforting chaos that signaled the first chapter of their shared life. They had spent the past week unpacking, organizing, and slowly transforming the empty space into a home. Every shelf, every corner, held pieces of both of them: Izuku’s notebooks, Bakugou’s carefully folded clothes, small tokens of memories and inside jokes.

It was late November, the early evening light soft and gold as it filtered through the living room windows. Bakugou was unusually quiet, fiddling with a small velvet box he had been hiding in a drawer for weeks. Izuku, curled up on the couch with a mug of tea, noticed the tension in his posture.

“Kacchan, you’ve been weird all day,” Izuku said softly, tilting his head. “What’s up?”

Bakugou’s eyes flicked up, just for a moment. “Nothing, nothing. Just thinking.”

Izuku’s brow furrowed. “You’re up to something.”

Bakugou huffed, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe. Maybe not. Just... wait.”

He moved to the kitchen and came back carrying a small tray with two mugs of hot chocolate, steam curling like tiny clouds. He set it down and sank onto the floor in front of the couch, looking up at Izuku. “Drink first. Don’t spill it. Then look at me.”

Izuku raised an eyebrow but did as instructed, sipping slowly. When he finally looked up, Bakugou’s hands were steady, the small velvet box now resting on his knee. His usual fire was tempered by vulnerability, a quiet intensity Izuku hadn’t seen before.

“Izuku,” Bakugou began, voice low but deliberate, “we’ve been through... a lot. We’ve fought, grown, messed up, fixed what we could... together. You’ve been patient with me. You’ve helped me feel safe with feelings I didn’t think I could handle.”

Izuku’s chest tightened, warmth flooding his heart. “Oh, Kacchan...”

Bakugou took a deep breath, opening the box to reveal a simple yet elegant ring. “I don’t want to just dream anymore. I want you. I want us. I know I’m messy, stubborn, anxious, maybe terrifying sometimes. But I love you. I want to marry you. I want to start our life. Our family. All of it. With you.”

Tears pricked at Izuku’s eyes. He set his mug down, fingers trembling as they reached for Bakugou’s hands. “Kacchan, yes! Yes, of course I’ll marry you! I’ve wanted this. I’ve wanted you, us, all of it.”

Bakugou’s expression softened, a rare, unguarded smile spreading across his face. He slipped the ring onto Izuku’s finger, and the moment felt timeless. The apartment, the cardboard boxes, the soft winter light—they all became part of their memory, a perfect, ordinary setting for an extraordinary promise.

They stayed like that for a long time, hands entwined, hearts full, letting the weight and beauty of their commitment settle between them. Outside, the city hummed faintly, but inside, it was quiet, safe, and theirs.

Bakugou leaned close, pressing his forehead to Izuku’s. “So... Christmas together, now with... future plans. Sounds right.”

Izuku laughed softly, tears sliding down his cheeks. “Perfect. It’s perfect. All of it. Us. Everything.”

Bakugou grunted, pulling him into a gentle hug, his usual sarcasm softened by emotion. “Don’t get mushy on me.”

“I can’t help it,” Izuku whispered. “Not after this.”

And for the first time in a long while, they didn’t just imagine the future. They were actively building it—together.

The apartment smelled faintly of pine and cinnamon from a small Christmas tree Izuku had insisted on setting up early. Boxes of decorations were scattered across the floor, glitter catching the soft glow of string lights. Bakugou was perched on a chair, laptop on his knees, while Izuku spread out adoption brochures across the coffee table.

“So…” Izuku began, carefully flipping through a brochure featuring smiling children. “I’ve been looking into adoption programs. I found a few options that feel like a good fit for us.”

Bakugou raised an eyebrow, leaning over the table to glance at the pamphlets. “Options, huh? You’ve been thinking this far ahead?”

Izuku nodded, eyes bright with determination. “Yeah. We talked about a future together. About kids. This is how we start making it real. Small steps.”

Bakugou ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “Alright. Let’s see them.”

One folder featured Mahoro and Katsuma, siblings in the foster system who were looking for a permanent home. Izuku paused on their photos: Mahoro’s confident smile, Katsuma’s shy curiosity, and the undeniable bond between them.

“They look perfect,” Izuku whispered, voice trembling slightly. “I can already imagine them running around this apartment someday. Our kids. Or... our family. Our life.”

Bakugou studied the photos silently, chest tightening. “Yeah... they’d fit with us. With you. With me. I can see it, too. I want... to try. For them. For us.”

Izuku smiled through the tears that had gathered, reaching for Bakugou’s hand. “We’ll figure it out. Step by step. First we meet them, then we see what we can do legally. All of it. Together.”

Bakugou squeezed his hand, voice quiet but full of conviction. “Together. No backing out. No running.”

They spent the afternoon drafting emails, making notes, and even imagining weekends filled with laughter and chaos, toys scattered across the living room, Mahoro’s confidence growing under their guidance, Katsuma slowly coming out of his shell. Every step felt heavy with responsibility—but also brimming with hope.

Bakugou leaned back, eyes soft. “I never thought I’d be this scared, but....also this happy. Doing this with you. Building a family. For real.”

Izuku rested his head against Bakugou’s shoulder. “It’s okay to be scared, Kacchan. That just means we care. That means we’re ready.”

Bakugou pressed a kiss to the top of Izuku’s head, a quiet promise. “We’ll do this right. Our way. Together.”

And in that cozy apartment, surrounded by the soft glow of the Christmas lights, they began taking the first real steps toward a family, not just imagining it, not just dreaming—but building it, one careful, loving decision at a time.

The day of the meeting arrived crisp and bright, the kind of late winter morning where the air feels sharp but invigorating. Izuku had spent the previous evening double-checking the paperwork, rehearsing how to introduce themselves gently, and even picking out small gifts—a sketchbook for Mahoro and a small plush for Katsuma. Bakugou had been unusually quiet the night before, pacing, muttering under his breath about “not screwing this up,” before finally sitting down to go over the same things with Izuku.

Now, standing outside the adoption agency, Bakugou’s hand brushed against Izuku’s. “You nervous?” he asked, voice low.

Izuku exhaled, fingers tightening around his. “Terrified. But, a good terrified, I think. This is real, Kacchan. We’re really doing this.”

Bakugou’s jaw shifted, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Real. Let’s go.”

Inside, the agency staff led them to a small room with a low table and a few chairs. And then—they entered.

Mahoro bounded in first, confidence practically radiating off her. She had a sharp, curious gaze, assessing everything quickly, and her posture exuded independence. Katsuma followed more quietly, shyly peeking from behind Mahoro’s shoulder, clutching the plush Izuku had brought.

Izuku knelt slightly, smiling warmly. “Hi, Mahoro. Hi, Katsuma. I’m Izuku, and this is Katsuki. We’re really happy to meet you both.”

Mahoro studied them, brow slightly furrowed, then grinned. “So you’re the people who might be our parents?” Her tone was teasing but cautious, testing the waters.

Bakugou, crouching beside Izuku, gave a small nod. “Yeah. That’s us. But... we’re not here to scare you. Promise.”

Katsuma’s tiny hands clutched the plush tighter, but his eyes were curious. Izuku held out his hand gently. “We brought this for you, Katsuma. Just a small thing to start.”

The tension in the room was palpable, but in a warm, hopeful way. Mahoro walked closer, taking in Bakugou first. “You’re tall. And loud!”

Bakugou raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Thanks?”

“And you,” Mahoro said, looking at Izuku, “seem nice. You’re calm.”

Izuku laughed softly, “That’s the plan.”

The initial awkwardness began to dissolve as they played simple games with the children—drawing, stacking blocks, and talking about favorite hobbies. Mahoro challenged Bakugou to a quick drawing contest, resulting in Bakugou’s exaggerated scowl and the young girl's triumphant grin. Katsuma, slowly warming, nestled into Izuku’s side, drawing quietly in his sketchbook.

At one point, Bakugou glanced at Izuku, who was softly talking to Katsuma about his favorite characters, and felt a tight warmth in his chest. This—these small moments, the children’s laughter, their tentative trust—was worth every fear he’d felt, every hesitation he’d wrestled with.

By the end of the visit, Mahoro had climbed onto Bakugou’s lap for a quick hug, while Katsuma held Izuku’s hand, letting it linger longer than expected.

Bakugou exhaled, brushing a hand through his hair. “They’re good kids, and I think we can do this. We... we can be their family.”

Izuku leaned into him, whispering softly, “Yes. Together. Just like we promised.”

Outside the agency, Bakugou’s arm found Izuku’s, fingers intertwining naturally. "Step by step,” Bakugou murmured, voice rough but steady.

Izuku smiled, warmth flooding him. “Step by step. Together.”

And in that moment, the idea of a family—the home, the children, the future they had dreamed of—began to feel not only possible, but real, a tangible part of the life they were building together.

The weekend arrived with a mix of excitement and quiet apprehension. The couple had spent days preparing—organizing the apartment, baby-proofing certain areas, and mentally rehearsing how to navigate the responsibilities of hosting two children for the first time. Even with all that preparation, the butterflies in Izuku’s stomach refused to settle.

“They’re coming soon,” he muttered, pacing the living room while double-checking snacks, books, and little toys.

Bakugou was perched on the couch with a tired but determined look. “Don’t overthink it, Deku. They’re just kids. We’ve got this.”

Izuku exhaled shakily. “I know, I just want it to go well. For them, for us.”

Bakugou reached over, brushing his thumb along Izuku’s knuckles. “We’ll manage.”

The doorbell rang, and the butterflies in Izuku’s stomach multiplied. He opened the door to Mahoro and Katsuma, who entered like small bursts of energy: Mahoro bouncing forward with a grin, Katsuma hanging back shyly, clutching a small backpack.

“Hi!” Mahoro shouted. “Are we gonna have fun?”

“Yep,” Bakugou said firmly, kneeling to Mahoro’s level. “We’re gonna have a lot of fun.”

Katsuma hesitated, then let Izuku take his hand. “I hope it’s okay,” he murmured.

“It’s perfect,” Izuku said, kneeling beside him and offering a warm smile. “We’re glad you’re here.”

The apartment quickly transformed into a whirlwind of activity. Mahoro ran from one room to another, inspecting every corner, while Katsuma clung to Izuku, slowly exploring. Snacks were spilled, toys scattered, and Bakugou barked gentle reminders about boundaries and safety.

At one point, Bakugou attempted to assemble a simple toy set, only to have Mahoro dismantle it faster than he could keep up. “Hey! No cheating!” Bakugou growled, though a smile tugged at his lips.

Izuku watched, laughing softly. “They’re adorable, and a little wild.”

Bakugou’s jaw tightened briefly, frustration flickering. “Yeah, wild’s one way to put it. We’ve got to... figure out a system, or I’ll lose my mind.”

Izuku reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “It’s okay. Stress doesn’t mean failure. We’ll handle it together.”

Bakugou exhaled, the tightness in his chest easing slightly. “Right. Together.”

By mid-afternoon, the stress of constant movement, noise, and attention demanded by the children began to wear on both of them. Izuku, already prone to anxious spirals, found himself growing tense when Katsuma knocked over a stack of books. Bakugou, usually patient but still learning to manage his avoidant tendencies under pressure, felt the urge to snap when Mahoro refused to follow instructions.

“Mahoro! Sit still for two seconds!” Bakugou barked, then immediately felt the familiar guilt pressing in.

Izuku placed a hand on his shoulder. “Breathe, Kacchan. It’s okay. We’re learning. They’re learning. Together.”

Bakugou exhaled, jaw unclenching.

They spent the next few hours taking turns guiding the kids, stepping back to calm themselves when emotions rose too high. The regressions were minor, fleeting—but they reminded both men that even with progress, stress could trigger old habits, and that patience and communication were essential.

Despite the stress, there were undeniable moments of joy. Mahoro giggling uncontrollably when Bakugou pretended to chase her, Katsuma shyly handing Izuku another crumpled drawing he’d made, and quiet moments where Bakugou and Izuku exchanged glances, sharing a wordless appreciation for the life they were beginning to build.

“Look at them,” Izuku whispered, resting his head against Bakugou’s shoulder. “They’re our family.”

Bakugou’s hand found his, thumb brushing gently over his knuckles. “Yeah. Our family. Messy, loud, chaotic, but ours.”

As the evening approached and the kids finally settled with storybooks and quiet cuddles, Bakugou and Izuku sank onto the couch, exhausted but smiling. The apartment was a mess, but the chaos felt alive, warm, and real.

“I think we can do this,” Izuku murmured.

Bakugou leaned back, eyes soft but firm. “We can. Step by step. Together.”

And as the first weekend with Mahoro and Katsuma came to a close, both men realized that building a family meant patience, flexibility, and sometimes relapsing into old fears—but also incredible joy, love, and partnership. They weren’t perfect parents yet—but they were committed to growing together, for each other and for the children who were now part of their lives.

The adoption papers sat on the polished wooden table, bathed in soft morning light. Izuku and Bakugou sat side by side, hands entwined, fingers tapping nervously against the stack of documents. Mahoro and Katsuma sat nearby, coloring quietly, their small faces bright with excitement and curiosity.

“This... this is really happening,” Izuku whispered, voice thick. “They’re officially our kids.”

Bakugou’s jaw shifted, a rare softness in his usually stern expression. “I almost can’t believe it. I thought about it for months, how it would feel. But now…” He trailed off, squeezing Izuku’s hand gently. “Now it feels real. Finally.”

The social worker smiled warmly. “Everything is in order. When you sign these final papers, Mahoro and Katsuma will legally be your children.”

Mahoro looked up, eyes wide. “So we’re really family now?”

“Yes,” Izuku said, kneeling to her level. “We’re a family. Forever.”

Katsuma’s hand found Bakugou’s, gripping it tightly. “Forever?”

Bakugou nodded, voice soft but firm. “Forever. I promise, kid.”

They all signed the documents together. The weight of it—the permanence, the love, the responsibility—settled in, and yet it felt right. Mahoro threw her arms around Izuku in a tight hug, and Katsuma leaned into Bakugou.

Bakugou exhaled, a low, contented sound. “We did it. We... we really did it.”

Izuku leaned his head against Bakugou’s shoulder, smiling through tears. “We did. Together.”

The room seemed brighter somehow, filled with the laughter of their children, the promise of their shared future, and the quiet certainty that no matter the chaos, they had built something lasting.

The wedding was modest—an intimate celebration at a small, snow-dusted chapel just outside their small city. Only their closest friends attended, the same people who had supported them through therapy, long nights of stress, and countless moments of growth. Mahoro and Katsuma were at the front, dressed in tiny formal attire, beaming proudly, their excitement infectious.

Bakugou stood at the altar, suit sharp, shoulders squared—but there was a softness in his eyes that Izuku had only seen in rare, quiet moments at home. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him, fingers brushing nervously, betraying the calm façade.

Izuku stepped up the aisle slowly, heart pounding, clutching the small bouquet in his hands. Every step felt deliberate, as if walking toward Bakugou was walking toward every triumph and hardship they had faced together—the heartbreak, the therapy sessions, the long nights of rebuilding trust.

When Izuku reached the altar, Bakugou’s usual fire was tempered by emotion. “Izuku,” he said quietly, voice rough, almost trembling, “we’ve been through a lot. But I love you. I promise to keep learning, to stay present, to be the husband, the father, the partner you’ve always believed I could be.”

Izuku’s own voice quivered with tears, but he smiled through them. “Katsuki, I love you. I love you for your strength, your stubbornness, your heart. I promise to support you, to love you, to dream with you—and to be the family you helped me see we could have.”

Bakugou reached for Izuku’s hands, holding them firmly as they exchanged rings, the weight of their vows settling into a quiet, enduring promise. The officiant pronounced them husband and husband—though for them, it felt like something far larger: the culmination of years of growth, healing, and shared dreams.

Mahoro ran forward to hug Izuku, while Katsuma grabbed Bakugou’s hand tightly, each child radiating joy and belonging. Bakugou glanced down at them, eyes softening, and whispered, “We did it. All of us.”

The reception was small but warm, filled with laughter, stories, and quiet moments of reflection. Bakugou and Izuku danced slowly together, children in tow, and for the first time in years, both felt completely at home. Their past struggles—the anxieties, the avoidant tendencies, the heartbreak—had shaped them, but they no longer defined them.

As snow fell gently outside the chapel windows, Bakugou rested his forehead against Izuku’s, whispering softly, “Our family. I still can’t believe this is real.”

Izuku smiled, holding him close. “It’s real because we made it real. Together.”

And in that small, snow-kissed chapel, surrounded by love, laughter, and their two adopted children, Bakugou and Izuku finally had the family—and the life—they had dreamed of for so long.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows of their living room, casting a warm glow over the small chaos of a home lived in. Mahoro and Katsuma were sprawled on the floor with crayons, giggling and arguing over whose turn it was to draw a dragon. The faint hum of the city outside was a reminder that the world continued beyond these walls, but inside, it felt like they had carved out a little universe of their own.

Izuku leaned against the couch, notebook in hand but forgotten for now, eyes following the children as they darted around. Bakugou sat beside him, one arm draped casually over the back of the couch, thumb brushing along Izuku’s fingers. For a moment, they just watched, taking in the sounds, the motion, the life they had created together.

“Deku,” Bakugou said quietly, breaking the comfortable silence. “You ever think about... how far we've come?”

Izuku smiled, a soft warmth in his eyes. “All the time. Sometimes I still can’t believe it. From where we started... all the chaos, the fights, the heartbreak…”

Bakugou chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Yeah. Me too. I never... never thought I’d learn how to stay. How to really stay with someone. I was scared. I shut down a lot. But you you made me see that it’s okay to be messy. To feel. You fought for me, for us.”

Izuku reached for Bakugou’s hand, squeezing it gently. “You’ve grown so much, Kacchan. I’ve grown too, but watching you face your fears, your past... yourself... it’s incredible. And we did it together. That’s what matters.”

Bakugou’s eyes softened, and for the first time in a long while, he let himself relax completely. “Yeah... we did. And look at this,” he said, gesturing toward Mahoro and Katsuma, who were now stacking building blocks precariously high. “This chaos. These two little terrors. I never imagined I’d be here like this. But I... I love it.”

Izuku laughed softly, warmth spreading through him. “Love them. Love us. Every messy, imperfect moment.”

Bakugou leaned in, resting his forehead lightly against Izuku’s. “Thank you, Izuku. For not giving up on me. For not letting me run when I wanted to. For... everything.”

Izuku smiled, eyes misting slightly. “We didn’t give up. We grew. We learned. And we still are. Step by step. Together. Always.”

For a while, they just sat there, hands intertwined, hearts quiet but full. Outside, the world went on, but inside their home, the years of struggles, of therapy sessions, of late-night anxieties, and painful separations all folded into the background. What remained was love—steady, resilient, and true.

Outside, Mahoro toppled a tower of blocks with a triumphant shout, and Katsuma laughed, scooping up a fallen piece. Bakugou chuckled, pulling Izuku close. “Yeah, this... this is perfect. Our life.”

Izuku squeezed his hand. “Our life.”

And in that quiet, sunlit room, surrounded by the laughter of children and the warmth of their home, Bakugou and Izuku finally let themselves fully feel it: the culmination of years of growth, healing, and love. They had built something lasting. Something beautiful. Something entirely their own.

And for the first time, neither of them feared the future—because they would face it together, every step of the way.