Your hand throbbed.

The burn was still fresh—sharp, stinging heat radiating from your palm where it had pressed against the stovetop. A bloom of red, angry skin that hadn't quite blistered yet.

You barely felt it.

You were too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

The world wasn't black anymore.

It never had been. Not fully. Not for months now. But this—this was different. This was a flood. A tidal wave of color crashing into your senses so violently it stole the air from your lungs.

The cabinets were green. Deep, vibrant emerald. Not the muted grayish-green you'd grown used to. Not the faint whisper of color you'd convinced yourself was a trick of the light.

Green.

The pan on the stove was black. True, absolute black. The flames beneath it burned orange—rich, blazing orange that flickered and danced in a way that made your chest ache.

The tiles were white. Bleeding into soft cream where the shadows fell.

Everything was color.

And standing three feet away, one hand still pressed against his reddening cheek, was Katsuki Bakugo.

They were red.

Brilliant, burning red, the color of fresh blood and dying sunsets, wide and darting around the room like he was seeing it for the first time.

Maybe he was.

He staggered back a step, his shoulder hitting the counter with a dull thud. His chest rose and fell too fast, his usual explosive composure completely shattered.

Still sitting on the floor.

Still staring up at him with wide, unblinking eyes.