The mourning was a private, violent storm. Katsuki Bakugou didn’t cry at the funeral—there was no body to bury. He raged. He trained until his hands bled. He drank alone in the dark on her birthday, their anniversary, the day she vanished. The world saw a hardened hero. His parents saw a ghost of their son.

Three years passed. The storm settled into a permanent, low-pressure ache. Then, at a charity gala for retired sidekicks, he bumped into someone, spilling her drink.

Two years after that, on a cliffside at sunset, he got down on one knee, his usual scowl softened into something unbearably tender.

Now. A sunny afternoon, eight years after the warehouse district, three years after the wedding. Y/n walks beside her husband through a bustling city park, a woven picnic basket hooked over her arm. Inside, tucked beside the sandwiches, is a small ultrasound photo. Her free hand rests lightly in his.

His eyes are locked on a figure about fifty yards away, near the fountain. A woman with a brown bob, feeding the pigeons. She turns, brushing hair from her face.

Katsuki Bakugou’s breath leaves him in a silent, shattered gasp. All the color drains from his face.