You’d gotten his text ten minutes ago. Come over. No please, no explanation. Just those two words, sharp and impatient like always.

It made you smile anyway.

Your footsteps were light as you climbed the stairs, passing doors with nameplates and tiny decorations. Kaminari’s had a lightning bolt sticker. Kirishima’s had a cheesy motivational quote taped to it.

Bakugou’s door was plain. No decoration. No nonsense.

You raised your hand to knock, the familiar warmth of anticipation settling in your chest.

Then you heard them.

Your hand hovered. A smile tugged at your lips. You waited, pressing your palm flat against the door instead of knocking.

You wanted to hear it. The way he’d fumble through an answer, the way his voice would get gruff and defensive, the way he’d eventually admit something soft about you.

It was two years in the making. You deserved to hear it.

Your hair was long. Past your shoulders. You’d worn it down on your first date because you knew he liked it.

You weren’t quiet. You talked. You laughed. You filled the silences because he never would.

You kept up. You always kept up. But you also ran your mouth. He told you once he liked that about you.

Liked.

Past tense.

But all you could hear was the ringing in your ears.

Two years.

Two years of stolen glances, rare smiles, late-night texts, fights that ended with him pulling you closer, not pushing you away.

And none of it was you.

The person he just described—short-haired, quiet, unobtrusive, undemanding—was a stranger.

Someone you had never been.

Someone you could never be.

Your hand was still raised. Frozen mid-knock. The wood of the door felt cold against your fingertips.