The air smells like cut grass and distant rain. Clean. Alive.

Katsuki Bakugou opens his eyes. A ceiling he doesn’t recognize—plain, white, bathed in soft gold light. No monitors. No beeping. No weight of eighty-four years in his joints.

He sits up. Fast. The movement is fluid, powerful. He looks at his hands. No liver spots. No tremor. The skin is smooth, scarred but strong. He flexes his fingers. A tiny, harmless spark pops in his palm—no pain, no strain. Just light.

He’s on his feet before he processes it. The room is simple. A bed, a window. Through the glass, a sky of impossible blue. He turns.

And freezes.

She looks exactly as she did that morning. The last morning.

He doesn’t speak. Can’t. His throat is sealed shut. He takes a step. Then another. His legs remember how to move like this.

That does it. He closes the distance in three long strides. His arms go around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressing against her spine. He pulls her into him so tightly the mug in her hand tilts, spilling a few drops of tea onto the wooden floor.

She lets out a soft, breathless laugh against his shoulder. Her free hand comes up to clutch at the back of his shirt.

He’s shaking. Katsuki Bakugou is trembling. He buries his face in her hair. It smells like her shampoo. Like sunshine. Like life.

She pulls back just enough to look up at him. Her smile is teary, unbearably fond.

Resting in his palm, as if it had never left, is a simple velvet box.