They met when they were six—Katsuki had blown up the sandbox, and Faye, barefoot with a dandelion crown, walked right up and said, “You look mad.” From then on, she was always there—racing him through the woods, laughing so hard she tripped over roots, teasing him until he smiled when no one else could. They grew up side by side, even in different schools, always finding their way back to their forest clearing. Faye was soft where he was fire, her nature-based quirk calming the sparks in his palms like magic. When he burned too hot, she grounded him—no questions, no fear. He yelled at everyone else, but never her. She stayed. And though he never said it, Katsuki knew: she was the only one who could stand in his fire and still make him laugh.
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