Chapter 1: Paper Wings
Chapter Text
The cheers still echoed in his ears.
“Izuku! I love you!”
“Angel of Japan!”
“You’re perfect!”
Backstage lights dimmed, and the rush of the performance vanished like smoke. Izuku Midoriya, glitter still dusting his eyelashes, slipped quietly into the silence of his unit room—a minimalist luxury box far too clean, far too sterile. The second the door clicked shut, the mask fell.
His smile evaporated.
His hands trembled.
His stomach growled—loud, painful.
He hadn’t eaten since… Was it morning? Half a banana and a protein cube. His manager had handed it to him like a reward, not a necessity. “
We’re cutting sodium this week,” she’d said sweetly. “You bloated in that green jacket last night.”
He clutched his stomach, almost collapsing to the floor as the cramps twisted like knives in his gut.
“Fuck—” he gasped, staggering to the kitchenette. “I can’t—I need something. I’m dying.”
Izuku yanked open cabinets, shoving aside empty wrappers and hidden boxes. His hands found what he’d stashed during rehearsals: instant ramen, stale crackers, a single can of beer hidden like contraband.
His fingers trembled as he boiled water. The ramen hit the pot with a hiss.
He didn’t wait. The noodles were barely soft when he poured them into a bowl and shoved them down, burning his tongue. He chased the heat with the beer, then the crackers. His hands moved fast, desperate, like if he could just finish before the guilt set in, before his body betrayed him again—
But it did.
Minutes later, he was on his knees in the bathroom, coughing and gagging into the toilet.
Everything came back up.
His body refused to accept it. His stomach clenched in betrayal, trained by months—years—of restriction and conditioning. Even now, it rejected comfort like poison.
He slumped against the cold tile, tears slipping silently down his face.
“You’re supposed to love this,” he whispered to himself bitterly. “You’re supposed to be living the dream.”
His reflection in the mirror—a hollowed-out boy in glitter and eyeliner—stared back like a stranger.
His body was no longer his own. It belonged to the cameras, the fans, the magazines. It belonged to a schedule, to branding deals, to trending hashtags. It belonged to everyone except him.
And worse…
It had learned to punish him for trying to reclaim it.
The private rooftop was a rare treat after weeks of grueling rehearsals and high-pressure showcases. Fairy lights strung overhead swayed in the gentle night breeze, and the cityscape of Tokyo glimmered in the background.
Izuku sat with a practiced smile at the circular table. Beside him were his long-time co-trainees—now successful idols in their own right. Uraraka from girl group Stellar Beat, Jirou the sultry soloist with razor-sharp vocals, and the famously beloved Mina and Kirishima, the couple who defied dating bans by being too charismatic to cancel.
Laughter echoed around the table.
Kirishima had just finished retelling a behind-the-scenes blooper from their last music video. Mina snorted into her drink. Uraraka clapped with a bright giggle. Jirou rolled her eyes but smiled.
Plates of grilled meat, sushi rolls, dumplings, and tangy side dishes littered the table, the smell rich and inviting.
Except for Izuku’s plate.
He picked at a single cucumber slice.
“Deku,” Mina said mid-laugh, raising an eyebrow. “You haven’t touched anything since we sat down.”
“Yeah,” Kirishima added, concern slipping into his voice. “You okay, man? You barely moved all day, and now you’re not eating?”
Izuku waved them off with that same wide, toothy smile that had graced every fan cam and magazine cover.
“Ah, I’m just full from earlier. Ate a bit backstage,” he lied smoothly. “I’m honestly just here for the company.”
Jirou narrowed her eyes slightly, observant. “But you haven’t had time to eat since noon.”
Uraraka, always gentle, leaned forward. “You sure? You look pale…”
Izuku laughed again—carefree, bright, and polished. “Seriously, guys. I’m good.”
But even as he deflected them, his eyes drifted past the edge of the rooftop. Down below, on the street across from their building, he caught sight of a small, softly lit sign:
“Komegami Kitchen – Home-style Comfort Food”
It was new. He hadn’t seen it before.
The warm glow inside reminded him of… something. Something far away. Maybe his mother’s cooking. Maybe the fantasy of freedom he no longer had.
His heart skipped.
Would they let me eat until I’m full?
Would they judge me if I cleaned the whole plate? Would I cry while doing it?
Would I throw it all up the moment I got home anyway?
A bitter taste curled in his throat.
He wanted to sneak out tonight. Walk into that place like a normal person. Just… order something warm. Something that tasted like belonging.
But his fingers curled tightly beneath the table.
What would be the point?
His body wouldn’t keep it. It never did. Everything comforting had become fleeting. Foreign. Forbidden.
He wasn’t a person with cravings anymore—he was a product with limits. A symbol of discipline. Perfection. Control.
Even hunger had become a threat.
An hour after laughter faded and hugs were exchanged, Izuku Midoriya slipped out the back exit of the agency building with his hood up and mask on. The streets were quiet, the neon signs casting streaks of color across the pavement like dreams he once dared to chase.
His steps were light but quick, his heartbeat anxious and fast. He couldn’t explain why—he didn’t have to.
His body knew this was rebellion.
Across the road, the soft golden light of Komegami Kitchen welcomed him like an old friend. A modest place—wooden signage, wide windows fogged gently by the kitchen’s warmth. A little bell chimed when he pushed the door open.
There were only a few late-night patrons inside—some students chatting in the corner, a tired office worker sipping soup near the window. The woman at the counter gave him a polite nod.
“Welcome, dear. Sit anywhere you like.”
Izuku nodded silently, slipping into a booth near the back. The cushion hugged his frame.
The scent—rice, grilled miso, fried garlic, warm soy broth—hit him like a memory of a life he’d left behind.
She brought the menu.
He stared.
Everything screamed home.
Oyakodon.
Pork Katsudon.
Nikujaga.
Handmade gyoza.
Fried saba.
Miso eggplant.
Fresh tofu.
Steamed rice.
Tamagoyaki.
Udon.
Kare raisu.
He couldn’t decide. So he didn’t.
“I’d like… all of these,” he said, tapping the list with shaking fingers.
The server blinked. “Oh. You mean—these four? Or—?”
“All,” he whispered. “Just half servings. Please. I want to try all.”
She hesitated, studying him. He kept his mask on, eyes lowered. Maybe she sensed something—but not who he was. After all, idols don’t eat like this.
“Coming right up,” she said softly.
Twenty Minutes Later
The table looked like a family feast. Small plates of rich, lovingly prepared food surrounded him like a banquet of dreams.
He stared at it. Hands trembling.
He started with the oyakodon—chicken soft in sweet egg, warm rice soaking in comfort. He brought it to his lips, took a bite.
Then another.
Then miso eggplant. Then a spoonful of curry. A mouthful of udon, delicate broth sliding down his throat. Then crispy gyoza, dipped in vinegar soy. Then sweet tamagoyaki, fluffy and golden like his mom used to make.
By the time he hit the fifth plate, his hands were shaking violently.
Tears slipped down his cheeks before he noticed.
He took another bite. The flavors were nostalgic. Humble.
Human.
His body felt full after just a few bites from each—but not the comforting kind. His gut turned. Pain crept up his sides, squeezing his ribs. He clenched his stomach, trying not to react.
Not here. Please—not here.
But it was happening again.
That slow, building sickness. A heaviness crawling up his throat like betrayal. Like guilt.
Like punishment.
He dropped his spoon.
His breath came shallow and fast.
A quiet voice escaped. “Excuse me,” he whispered, calling the waitress over with shaking fingers. “Can you—can you please pack these up? I don’t want to waste them…”
She blinked at the untouched spread, surprised, but nodded kindly. “Of course. Are you alright?”
He smiled through his tears. “Y-Yeah. I just… overestimated my appetite.”
Chapter 2: Back Alley Magic
Chapter Text
He ran.
As soon as he got the bag of leftovers, he bowed quickly, muttered a thank you, and pushed out the door.
The night air hit his face like ice.
He turned the corner, ducked behind the neighboring building into a narrow alley. Garbage bins lined the side, the only witnesses to his spiral. He dropped to his knees, covered his mouth with one hand, clutching his stomach with the other.
He vomited everything.
Each heave felt like another piece of him unraveling.
The warmth, the love, the hope in every bite—gone in minutes.
He sat there panting, shaking. Silent tears ran down his face again as he stared at the cold concrete.
He didn’t deserve that food. He couldn’t even keep it. And worse—he had wasted something made with kindness. Something sacred.
He hated himself for that.
The plastic bag of leftovers sat nearby.
Still warm.
His body trembled under the weight of guilt and hunger and sadness that never quite left. He clutched the bag like a lifeline and whisper to no one:
“I just wanted to feel… okay.”
The sour taste lingered on his tongue, his ribs still sore from retching. But the ache in his chest had softened.
Izuku pulled his mask up again, hiding his swollen eyes as he leaned back against the cold brick wall, the warm bag of packed food nestled beside him like a secret apology.
He didn’t move for a long time.
Until—
Laughter.
Music.
Feet slapping the pavement.
He turned his head slowly, blinking as his ears caught the faint sounds of singing. Childish, off-key, and glowing with joy.
Down the alley’s curve, under a flickering streetlight, he saw them.
Five kids, ragged in mismatched clothes, cheeks smudged with soot and city dust. One had a toy microphone made of foil and tape. Another held a broken phone playing tinny instrumental music. A girl twirled in oversized slippers. The others clapped off-beat but beamed like they stood on the Tokyo Dome stage.
“♪ We’re shining like the stars above—yeah! Even if we got no roof, we got love! ♪”
They danced, giggled, mimicked routines they'd seen online—little feet stumbling in earnest passion. One boy even posed dramatically, arms spread. “I’m Izuku Midoriya! Angel voice of the sky!” he shouted.
Izuku choked on a small laugh.
They didn’t know. They didn’t recognize the tired man in the hoodie watching from the shadows, the one who sang that very song in front of fifty thousand fans just three nights ago.
They were just… being kids. Dreaming.
The way I used to.
Without thinking, Izuku stood and stepped closer. The motion was slow, tentative. He didn’t want to scare them.
The kids froze, startled.
But then they saw his smile.
“Hey,” Izuku said gently. “That was amazing. You all sounded better than me.”
One of the girls blinked.
“You know the song?”
He chuckled, soft and warm.
“Yeah… I listen to it sometimes.”
The smallest boy eyed the bag in his hand.
“Mister… is that food?”
Izuku knelt down without hesitation, sitting on the dirty concrete like it was a royal seat.
“It is. I can’t finish it. Think you can help me?”
Their eyes widened.
“You’re sharing? Really?!”
He nodded, passing out the containers like precious treasure. No one hesitated. They were polite, murmuring thank-yous and quick bows before digging in with clumsy, starved hands.
Izuku watched them, heart full and breaking at the same time.
No cameras. No lights. No fake laughter or diet notes. Just… hunger and gratitude and wonder.
He stayed with them as they ate. Wiped one boy’s mouth with a napkin. Let the girl braid his sleeve strings. Even helped beatbox with them as they sang another chorus—his chorus—completely off key.
And when they got sleepy, bellies full, they leaned against him.
“Sing to us?” the oldest asked, voice already soft with sleep.
Izuku hesitated.
Then nodded.
He began to hum—just barely at first. Then quietly, tenderly, the notes flowing from his throat like a lullaby he'd never been allowed to sing for himself.
“♪ Even if I fly too far,
And lose the light behind the star,
Just whisper once—I’ll find my way
Back to your heart someday. ♪”
The kids slipped into sleep, curled around each other like stray cats.
He kept singing. His voice cracked once.
He cried again, but this time quietly, gently.
They didn’t know.
They didn’t know they were resting against the idol they pretended to be. That the real Izuku Midoriya—not the shining one, not the perfect one—was here in their alley, holding onto their tiny dreams like they were lifelines.
Meanwhile...
Katsuki Bakugo had taken the long way home that night. He wasn’t sure why.
His shift at the auto garage had ended late. He’d grabbed some dinner from a cart vendor and let his feet wander. There was something about walking through this old district—less polished, more human—that made him feel... less alone.
As he turned a corner, he saw the faint outline of someone in the alley.
Someone singing.
A soft, aching voice.
Real.
Beautiful.
Like it didn’t belong in a place like this.
He stepped closer, cautious.
There, under the dim alley light—
A man in a hoodie, with a mask on his face and sitting on the ground was there. Surrounded by sleeping kids. One of them resting on his lap. The man is brushing a hand through a boy’s tangled hair with more tenderness than Bakugo had seen in a long time.
Bakugo didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Just stared.
Because something in his chest twisted.
That voice.
That face he couldn't full see.
That pain in his voice.
And even though he didn’t know the man—didn’t know his name or story or why he was holding kids and heartbreak in the same breath—
Katsuki couldn’t look away.
Chapter 3: Eat, Smile, Swallow
Chapter Text
The room was white, clean, and cold. Not literally—but in atmosphere. A long oval table, glass walls, and the echo of keyboards ticking in rhythm.
Izuku sat in one of the chairs, back straight, eyes glazed.
Across the table, his manager flipped through slides on a monitor. Brand logos flashed: skincare, athletic wear, water bottles, more photoshoots. Izuku nodded at intervals like clockwork.
She kept speaking, voice high and bright.
“—Then there’s the spring campaign for the vitamin brand. We’ll schedule your shoot next Monday morning. Just a shirtless segment, quick. Oh! And Midoriya, you’ll be doing that food commercial, too.”
Izuku blinked slowly.
“Food commercial?”
“Yes. You’ll love it.”
She turned a page in her planner without even looking at him. “It’s with the top new restaurant—Umi to Hi. Owned by Katsuki Bakugo? Ring any bells? He’s the chef that won the European Platinum Flame and Tokyo’s Rising Star this year. Genius-level palate, zero tolerance for pretentious food. That kind.”
Izuku’s blood ran cold.
“W-We’re eating?”
His voice cracked slightly, but she didn’t notice.
“Well, yes. It’s a tasting spot commercial, so you’ll be filmed trying his signature dishes, then reacting. Something heartfelt. Natural. Or performed, doesn’t matter—we’ll get the angles right. The public loves seeing you in more ‘earthy’ roles.”
She laughed like it was a compliment.
Izuku couldn’t breathe.
Food. I have to eat? On camera?
His thoughts spiraled.
How many takes will they do? Will I be expected to swallow everything? Can I hide a napkin in my sleeve? What if I throw up right after the first cut? What if he notices? What if he doesn’t?
What if I insult his cooking just by being me?
He looked at the apple core still on the side tray.
That was all he had this morning. One apple. His stomach had twisted in knots for hours. He hadn’t even digested it properly.
“I… I don’t think I can—”
She cut him off cheerfully.
“You’ll be great, Midoriya. This chef is picky as hell about who represents his brand, and guess what? He chose you. Can you believe that? Out of all the idols, all the actors—he said your name first.”
Izuku blinked, stunned.
“He… chose me?”
She nodded.
“Apparently, he saw one of your earlier videos—you singing in that soft cafe concept shoot. Said you looked ‘human enough to make the food matter.’ Whatever that means. He’s weird.”
Izuku went silent.
His chest was a warzone of panic and confusion.
Why would a culinary genius—someone who clearly valued food—choose him, of all people, to represent his creations?
Didn’t he know?
Didn’t he see the hollowness in his cheeks, the tremble in his hands?
Didn’t he know that Izuku Midoriya hadn’t truly eaten a full meal in years?
His manager clapped her hands and stood. “Alright, meeting’s done. We’ll send you the details. You’re filming at Umi to Hi next Thursday at noon. Don’t be late. The chef’s very strict.”
As the door closed behind her, Izuku stayed still.
The clock ticked.
A chill crept down his spine.
"Umi to Hi."
Sea and Fire.
Elegant.
Sharp.
Like the man who ran it.
Izuku leaned forward and covered his mouth with his hand, pressing his palm against his lips until the tremor stopped.
“I’m so fucked,” he whispered.
The soft hiss of the last burner going off echoed through the pristine kitchen.
Bakugo Katsuki stood alone in the sleek, open-concept space of Umi to Hi. The final guest had left an hour ago, his staff had already clocked out, and the dim lighting turned the glossy marble and matte black counters into a quiet stage of their own.
He moved with muscle memory—cleaning, storing, locking up. But tonight, like the past few nights, he made something extra.
A small bento box of glazed saba, tamago, rice, and miso-soaked vegetables. No fancy plating. Just nourishment. Just respect for food. For hunger.
He packed it into a canvas bag and slung it over his shoulder.
Then he left through the side entrance.
It was in an alley that wasn’t on any scenic route.
No tourist appeal. Just worn-out bricks, flickering signs, and the smell of the real city breathing through its cracks.
Katsuki came here anyway.
Ever since that night.
The night he saw him—the stranger in the hoodie, crying while singing lullabies to a bunch of street kids who curled against him like he was home.
That voice.
That look on his face.
Like he was breaking while holding the world together in his arms.
Katsuki couldn’t stop thinking about it.
So every night after work, he took the long way.
Just in case.
And every night, he brought food. Not leftovers—never that. Always made with intention.
Tonight was no different.
He turned into the alley and spotted them.
Five kids, laughing around a pile of crates, turning them into a spaceship or a concert stage depending on their mood. They noticed him instantly—like he’d become one of them now.
"Food guy!" one of them yelled.
“Shut up, Kenji,” the girl said, hitting him with a slipper. “Say thank you first!”
Katsuki dropped into a crouch, passing the bag over.
“It’s warm. Eat before it cools.”
“Thank you, Mister!” they chorused, grabbing the boxes with delighted squeals.
He watched them dig in for a moment, then leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.
“Hey,” he asked, trying to sound casual, though his voice still came off gruff. “That guy from before. The one who gave you food and sang... you seen him again?”
The kids slowed.
Chewed.
The smallest one looked up and shook his head.
“Nope.”
“Not once?” Katsuki pressed.
They all shook their heads, too busy munching to think much of it.
“Are you sure? Hooded guy. Pretty voice. Real gentle.” His voice dipped lower, almost hopeful. “He... looked like he needed someone to check on him.”
The same girl from before paused mid-bite and sighed like she was used to this.
“Mister,” she said bluntly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “are you bribing us with food or something?”
Katsuki blinked.
“What?”
“We already told you—” she pointed her chopsticks for emphasis, “we don’t know him. He never said his name. He didn’t even tell us what he did. We wish he came back. We wanna hear him sing again. But…”
Her voice quieted.
“But no one came.”
The others nodded, almost sadly, as if they'd been waiting without knowing they were.
Katsuki stared at them, a dull ache blooming in his chest.
He wanted to say something—maybe ask more, maybe stop asking. But instead, he just reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, neatly folded napkin.
He handed it to the girl. “If he shows up… give him this.”
“What is it?”
“Just... something.”
The girl took it and nodded solemnly.
The kids went back to eating.
Katsuki didn’t stay long after that. But as he walked away, he couldn’t stop thinking:
Where the hell did you go, stranger?
Why do I want to see you again so badly?
The soft buzz of fluorescent lights made everything feel sterile, quiet—a waiting room for shame.
Izuku stood in the back corner of the drugstore, his hood up, mask on, eyes darting between brightly colored boxes on the shelf. The air smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol, mint, and plastic.
Antacids.
Digestive enzymes.
Motion sickness meds.
Probiotics.
Herbal pills.
He didn’t know what half of them did.
He clutched a small shopping basket with clammy fingers, three boxes already inside: something for bloating, something for cramps, and something that just said “soothing” in lavender cursive font. He didn’t know if they’d help. He just hoped they’d do something.
He kept pacing the aisle like he was stalling.
The knot in his stomach had been there all day. Not from food—from the idea of food.
Eat on camera.
Eat.
Smile.
Swallow.
Act like you’re not about to throw it up later in the bathroom when no one’s watching.
He crouched, his eyes scanning the bottom shelves.
Then finally—desperately—he walked up to the counter.
A young store clerk looked up from her scanning, surprised to see someone in a face mask and sunglasses at nearly 10 p.m.
“Hi,” Izuku rasped quietly. “Uhm. Is there something I can take… so I don’t throw up? Like, something to stop that?”
The girl blinked.
“You mean anti-nausea medicine?”
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “I mean—not motion sickness. Not like in a car. Like… when you eat, and you feel like… sick. It just… doesn’t stay. You know?”
She gave him a long look. Then carefully said, “If you’ve been vomiting regularly, you should really go see a doctor. It could be something serious.”
He flinched.
“I don’t have time,” he said, too fast. “I just… need something. Even temporary.”
The clerk hesitated, then slowly pointed to the shelves on the left.
“You could try ginger tablets? Or mild digestive support. But they won’t stop it completely. Nothing over-the-counter really can, not if it’s… a chronic thing.”
He nodded absently and walked over without another word.
He grabbed the ginger tablets, some anti-gas chewables, and a random packet of stomach-soothing herbal tea.
Then added mints. Because maybe that would help too.
At the register, the girl didn’t say anything, just rang it up and slipped the receipt into the bag silently.
Izuku paid with a tap of his phone. He didn’t look at her.
The bag sat untouched on his coffee table.
He stared at it, curled into himself on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest.
The box labeled “Calm Tummy Complex” stared back at him.
His stomach growled.
He hadn’t eaten dinner.
He was too afraid.
And yet… in two days, he would have to pretend like eating was the most natural thing in the world.
Chapter 4: Umi to Hi
Chapter Text
The restaurant was quiet. Closed for the day, lights dimmed to a warm amber glow. The sound of clipboard pages flipping and camera lenses clicking filled the air as the production crew made their way around the space.
The meeting was short—logistics for tomorrow’s shoot, prop placements, expected plate presentation, lighting angles, and quick cues.
Izuku stood behind his manager, nodding silently at all the right places. The soft scent of broth and charred scallions still clung to the air from the lunch rush, making his stomach twist in both hunger and fear.
As the others wrapped up, his manager clapped her hands, then turned to him.
“Midoriya, stay for a bit. We need to confirm walking space for the entrance shot. Might as well get it out of the way.”
He nodded wordlessly, hands tightening inside his coat sleeves.
In the corner of his vision, he saw Bakugo Katsuki, wiping his hands with a clean towel, heading for the back door. The infamous chef himself—clean white shirt rolled at the sleeves, dark apron still around his waist, expression unreadable.
Izuku’s body moved before he could think.
“Wait,” he said, more breath than voice.
Bakugo paused.
Izuku swallowed.
“Why me?”
Bakugo raised an eyebrow, turning slowly.
Izuku kept going, voice shaky but steady enough to sound calm.
“My manager said you saw one of my soft cafe shoots and decided I was ‘human enough to make the food matter.’ That’s… kind of vague. Why me?”
There was a beat of silence.
Bakugo didn’t answer at first. He just looked at Izuku—really looked.
The boy in front of him wasn’t shining.
He was pale, lips dry, eyes sunken behind practiced mascara. Shoulders hunched despite the expensive coat. Hands trembling slightly at his sides. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Or eaten. Or truly existed in his own body for a long time.
“You’re nervous,” Bakugo said bluntly.
Izuku flinched.
“You’ve been nervous since the second you stepped into this place. Not just now. Every damn time.”
He took a step closer, not aggressive—just grounded.
“You want the rephrased version?”
Izuku looked up at him, tense. Silent.
Bakugo held his gaze.
“You looked like someone who needed a proper meal.”
Izuku’s throat tightened.
Bakugo shrugged, casual but piercing.
“You looked like I could snap you in half if I even touched you. That’s not the body of an idol who’s ‘working hard.’ That’s the body of someone running on fumes. Starving.”
It hit like a slap.
Izuku’s breath caught. He laughed—a bitter, dry sound.
“Are you saying I’m weak?” he whispered, voice taut with something deeper.
Bakugo blinked.
“I said you look hungry.”
“That’s the same thing, isn’t it?” Izuku shot back, louder now. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“No,” Bakugo said, calm but unflinching. “But I know what it looks like when someone’s body is trying to survive something their mouth won’t say.”
Izuku’s fists clenched at his sides.
The room felt smaller.
He hated that it made sense. Hated how much those words felt like truth. And he hated more that it came from someone who barely knew his name but somehow saw everything.
“I hope you’re not getting your hopes up,” Izuku muttered, voice sharp now, shielded behind practiced coldness. “Don’t be too disappointed tomorrow when I mess up your precious promotion. I might not even like your food.”
Bakugo didn’t flinch.
“That’d be a shame,” he replied coolly. “But if you don’t like it, at least I’ll know it wasn’t because I cooked it wrong.”
Izuku froze, breath halting.
Bakugo stepped away finally, wiping his hands again on the towel.
“See you tomorrow, Midoriya.”
Then he disappeared into the kitchen shadows, leaving Izuku staring after him, chest tight, skin burning, and shame curling inside his stomach like hunger that never leaves.
The sky above Tokyo had dimmed into a hazy mix of purple and steel. Neon lights flickered against puddles from an earlier rain, and the city hummed around Izuku as he walked, hood up, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets.
He didn’t have a destination.
He had told himself he’d walk to clear his mind, to breathe, to stop thinking about what tomorrow might bring—the filming, the food, him. But his feet, like they had a memory of their own, began guiding him through alleys and side streets until the noise of the city faded, replaced by the softer chaos of something real.
Trash bins.
Rusted fences.
Torn tarps over makeshift corners.
Then—
Laughter. Voices. Small and bright.
He turned the corner and stopped.
There they were.
The five kids he hadn’t been able to forget.
Sitting together under a weak streetlamp, backs pressed to a graffiti-covered wall. Each one holding a small takeout box—neatly packed, warm if the steam rising into the cool air said anything.
He watched as they devoured the food with the wild gratitude only the truly hungry knew. Not desperate. Not greedy. Just thankful.
Izuku took a shaky step forward.
“Hey,” he said, gently.
The kids looked up. Eyes widened.
One of them—the girl with the sharp tongue and soft eyes—froze mid-chew. The youngest boy let out a high-pitched squeak. Another gasped and pointed.
“It’s him!”
“The nice guy!!”
Kenji, still holding a half-eaten dumpling, practically shouted, “We’ve been waiting for you!”
Izuku laughed—a genuine sound that startled even himself.
“You remember me?”
“Of course!” the girl huffed. “You sang to us, dummy. No one forgets something like that.”
The others all nodded in agreement, voices layering excitedly.
“Your voice is like an angel!”
“You gave us your food!”
“We kept waiting every night just in case you came back!”
Izuku knelt beside them, ignoring the damp ground, his heart quietly breaking in the softest way.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I got… caught up with work. And I didn’t really know how to get back here, but… I guess I needed to come tonight.”
The girl gave him a serious look. “You better start visiting again. We thought you were a dream or something.”
Izuku smiled.
“What are your names?” he asked, genuine.
“You already know mine,” Kenji said proudly, puffing his chest. “But I’ll say it again. Kenji. I’m the leader.”
The others giggled.
“I’m Aki,” said the girl with the short ponytail. “And I’m the actual leader.”
“Yuu,” said the small boy beside her. “I can read a little. I’m learning.”
“Sora!” said the other boy with the tin can hat. “I made the best rice fortress last time!”
“I’m Hina,” the last one said quietly. “Thank you for… singing. And for the food. Last time. And now.”
Izuku’s smile wobbled.
“Nice to meet you all.”
Hina held up her chopsticks, like a scepter.
“Wanna eat with us? Mr. Food Guy just came by and dropped off all this!”
Izuku blinked.
“Mr. Food Guy?”
Kenji nodded.
“Yeah! This guy who brings us food every night now. Since the night you gave us food. It’s crazy. Like… we got adopted by angels or something!”
“He always says ‘eat properly’ and scolds us if we forget to thank the food,” Hina said, rolling her eyes but smiling.
“He’s scary nice,” Yuu added.
Izuku chuckled, even as his heart warmed oddly.
“That sounds… like a good person.”
“He’s awesome,” Aki whispered. “He even asked about you. Every night.”
Izuku froze.
“Me?”
Kenji nodded.
“Yup. Said you gave us food and sang. Said he saw you. Then he started coming. And even if we don’t eat the whole day, we can survive ‘cause of the food he brings. It’s really good food too!”
Sora offered him a dumpling from his box.
“Want some?”
Izuku started to shake his head—then stopped.
He looked at their faces.
Hopeful.
Honest.
Joyful.
He didn’t want to disappoint them.
He reached out, took the dumpling, and took a bite.
It was warm. Perfectly seasoned. Something about it made his eyes sting.
It was the best thing he’d tasted in months.
The kids all whooped. “He likes it!”
“Eat more!”
“You can have some of mine too!”
Izuku ended up sharing from every box, letting them feed him little bites. He smiled through it all—really smiled. And for the first time in so long, his stomach didn’t clench in warning. His throat didn’t burn.
No urge to vomit. No sharp pain.
Just warmth.
He didn’t know if it was the food… or the kids… or both.
Maybe he didn’t need to understand it yet.
Then—his phone rang.
The shrill tone cut through the laughter.
He looked at the screen.
Manager-san
His breath hitched. He stood quickly, wiping his mouth.
“H-Hello?”
“Where are you?” his manager snapped. “You're not in your apartment. We have a call sheet update to go over.”
“I—I just stepped out,” Izuku lied. “I’m heading back now. I’ll check in ten minutes.”
“You better. Don’t screw this up.”
The line ended.
Izuku turned to the kids, already halfway backing away.
“I have to go. I’m so sorry—”
“Wait!” Hina cried, and Aki jumped up, thrusting something into his hand.
It was a folded napkin—crisp, though slightly creased from care.
Izuku blinked.
“What’s this?”
“Dunno,” Aki said. “The food guy left it for you. Said if you came back, we should give it to you.”
“We kept it clean!” Sora yelled. “For days!”
“Take care of it!” Kenji added. “And come back, okay?!”
Izuku didn’t get to answer.
His legs were already running. The phone still buzzed in his pocket. The night spun around him.
But his fingers clutched the napkin tightly.
As if it were a thread tying him back to the only place that felt real.
The only place he didn’t feel like a product.
The air smelled of seared butter, fresh miso, smoked yuzu peels, and something warm—almost nostalgic.
Izuku stood at the edge of the private dining area, already dressed in the stylist’s chosen outfit: a cream knit sweater over a tucked-in linen shirt, soft earth tones that framed his pale skin and wiry frame like a delicate sketch. The set was simple—clean oak tables, softly diffused lighting, fresh-cut flowers to add a touch of seasonal life.
The plates were already being placed.
Izuku didn’t need to get close to feel overwhelmed.
He could smell everything from meters away. And that was the problem.
Miso-glazed duck with black garlic butter.
A steamed egg custard infused with shiso.
White rice cooked in dashi and sake.
Seared scallop over red pepper coulis.
All plated with elegance. Balanced. Intimate.
Art.
His mouth was already salivating.
His stomach already tightening.
He’ll know I can’t eat this. He’ll know. I’ll ruin everything.
His eyes flicked to the kitchen entrance.
And there he was.
Bakugo Katsuki.
Dressed in a simple black chef’s jacket, sleeves pushed to his forearms, hair tied back slightly, his jaw set with quiet command as he finished speaking to the food director. There was a controlled fire to him—not explosive, but simmering just beneath the surface.
Izuku tried to breathe.
Their eyes met briefly.
But Izuku looked away too fast.
He couldn’t hold that gaze. Not today.
Not when he was minutes from pretending he could eat like a person again.
"Five minutes!" the director called out.
The team scattered to their places.
Izuku’s manager clapped him gently on the shoulder. “Remember, it’s just one bite per dish. Look moved. Say something soft. We’ll do voiceovers later if we need to.”
Izuku nodded.
His ears were ringing.
He turned quickly and walked out of the set—not too fast to be suspicious, but with purpose.
He run and looked for his bag which sat in the corner.
He dove into it with trembling hands, rustling past his water bottle, notebook, a spare hoodie.
Where is it—?
There.
The white paper bag with faded blue pharmacy print. He tore it open and pulled out the ginger tablets and the calm-tummy capsules he’d bought days ago.
He held them like they were lifelines.
He still didn’t know if they did anything. The night with the kids might’ve been pure coincidence, or maybe the comfort of shared laughter had stilled something inside him that no medicine ever could.
But he couldn’t take chances today.
He popped two pills and took a swig from his water bottle.
Then he stared at himself in the mirror.
His skin was too pale. His lips dry. His collarbone pressed against the fabric like wire.
He gave a soft, bitter chuckle. “This is it,” he whispered. “Angel-voiced idol tries not to vomit on Tokyo’s most famous chef’s food.”
He pressed a hand against his chest. Felt his heartbeat fluttering like wings trapped in a jar.
All is well, he whispered again.
All is well.
And stepped out.
“Places!”
“Quiet on set!”
Izuku walked into the dining space with carefully measured steps. The crew had transformed it into a soft-lit stage. Cameras surrounded him, capturing every move. A warm overhead light haloed the table, the plates shimmering like sacred offerings.
Bakugo wasn’t in sight—yet.
This part was just his solo reaction shot.
Izuku sat down, hands lightly trembling in his lap.
You’ve done harder things, he told himself.
But you’ve never had to eat in front of them. Never had to swallow shame while they filmed it.
The director’s voice came through.
“Alright, Midoriya-san. We’ll start with the duck. First take. Take your time. Bite, breathe, give us a natural expression. We’ll go again if we need to.”
Izuku nodded.
The crew stepped back.
The clapboard snapped.
“Umi to Hi – Spring Feature Commercial. Scene 3A. Take 1.”
Camera: rolling.
Sound: ready.
Set: silent.
The plate was in front of him now.
He picked up the utensils, hands dainty, practiced.
Cut slowly.
He lifted a bite to his mouth.
His throat tightened.
But—he remembered the kids. Their smiling faces. Their warm food. The napkin pressed into his hand.
He took the bite.
Chewed.
Salt.
Smoke.
Citrus.
Balance.
It was incredible.
He didn’t act.
He didn’t need to.
A soft breath escaped his lips—almost trembling.
“This tastes like… something you didn’t know you were missing.”
A hush fell around the room.
No one told him to cut.
Chapter 5: Private Line
Chapter Text
Bakugo stood by the open kitchen pass-through, arms folded, half his face shadowed by the overhead light.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
The director had insisted he didn’t need to be on-set during the taste portion—
“We want the food to speak for itself first, Chef Bakugo.” Typical PR fluff. So, Katsuki stayed behind the line, letting the cameras and lights do their thing.
But he still watched.
A monitor had been pulled near the kitchen for reference. The angle was perfect—framing Izuku from the front, seated alone at the table with his faintly trembling hands resting just beside the polished plate.
Bakugo’s brow twitched.
From the moment this green-eyed idol had stepped into his restaurant a day ago, something didn’t sit right. Not the usual arrogance of fame. Not the over-eagerness to please either.
It was more subtle.
Quieter.
How he’d flinched at the scent of seared scallop. How he avoided looking too long at the broths simmering nearby. The way his throat visibly tensed when the menu was discussed.
People who loved food didn’t move like that.
And Bakugo could read people.
Not their words.
Their reactions.
Their hesitations.
The truths they tried to hide between bites.
But now—watching him on screen…
Katsuki leaned forward slightly.
Izuku lifted the bite of duck to his mouth like it was precious. Like it might hurt him. Or save him.
He chewed slowly. Swallowed like it took courage.
And then—
That smile.
Small.
Honest.
Aching.
His eyes shimmered as if tears were threatening to form, and not from sadness.
Bakugo’s breath caught.
Shit.
There was nothing rehearsed in that face. That wasn’t an idol hitting his mark. That was a man who’d forgotten there were cameras, too busy tasting something he didn’t expect to matter.
Izuku whispered, “This tastes like something you didn’t know you were missing.”
And Katsuki felt that.
Felt it down to the marrow of his bones.
He let out a low exhale, running his tongue along his molars as the corner of his mouth pulled into a smirk.
“Tch. So much for disappointing me.”
He stepped out from the kitchen shadows, moving toward the edge of the set where the scene had just wrapped. No one noticed him immediately—too focused on playback or clearing props.
Izuku was sitting quietly at the table, chewing the last bit of rice that had been plated for him. He didn’t see Katsuki until he spoke.
“You said yesterday not to get my hopes up.”
Izuku blinked up, startled.
Katsuki’s smirk deepened.
Not cruel.
Not smug.
Just… teasing.
“But I don’t see disappointment right now.” He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. “Looks like I made you crave more.”
Izuku flushed, lips parting slightly—but no words came. His hand instinctively moved toward the napkin on his lap, then hesitated.
He looked like he was about to reply—when someone interrupted.
“Izuku!”
His manager.
She hurried over, holding a small water bottle and a pack of capsules.
“Your pills. You almost forgot.”
Izuku blinked.
“Ah—right.”
He took them quickly, as if the moment with Bakugo had never existed. He downed the pills in practiced silence, barely flinching as they slid down.
Bakugo’s smirk faded.
His gaze sharpened—not at the manager, but at the act itself.
Pills. After just a few bites.
Why? What kind of pills?
Something about it didn’t sit right.
Katsuki didn’t speak as Izuku handed the bottle back to his manager and mumbled a quiet thank-you.
Then Izuku turned and met his eyes again.
No smile. No cheeky comeback.
Just a tired look, like he’d remembered something too heavy to say out loud.
Bakugo furrowed his brows.
He wanted to ask—
Was that necessary? Why now?
After just a few bites?
But the crew called out again. Another setup.
Their moment—whatever it was—was over for now.
But Bakugo didn’t walk away.
He just watched Izuku get ushered back into position, his soft glow dimmed by anxiety again.
And for the first time in a long time, Katsuki wasn’t thinking about his plating.
He was thinking about why the hell this shining idol had to medicate himself just to eat his food.
The cheers outside had finally died down.
The crowd’s voices, once deafening through the walls, faded like the tide pulling away from shore. Izuku sat on the small couch inside his dressing room, still in his stage clothes. His eyeliner was smudged at the corners, sweat clinging to his neck despite the cold air.
He had just finished another round of performances, another full day of appearances, interviews, and fan greetings. His cheeks still ached from smiling. His body? A different story. Strained. Hollow. Empty.
He glanced at the small table where a clear plastic container sat. Salad. Again. No dressing. A few cherry tomatoes. It was his only meal for today. Again.
His stomach clenched—not from hunger, but from dread.
He stared at it. Then closed the lid.
He couldn’t.
He shouldn’t.
But he wanted to eat.
Not rabbit food. Not the diet his manager swore by.
Real food.
His fingers moved without thought, reaching into the side pocket of his bag. He pulled out the small calling card he'd asked for weeks ago, after the commercial filming had wrapped at Umi to Hi. He’d told his manager it was for “promotion records,” but deep down, he just…
He just wanted to know if the chef who saw through him—who made food he could eat without flinching—was real.
He looked at the card. Ran his thumb over the crisp gold lettering.
Umi to Hi
Chef Katsuki Bakugo
Private Line (For Inquiries/Orders)
He hesitated. Then tapped the number into his phone.
Calling...
His thumb hovered over the cancel button.
His heartbeat sped up.
Stupid. This is stupid. He doesn’t remember you. It was a commercial. Nothing more—
Click.
The line picked up.
"...Yeah?" The voice on the other end was gruff, slightly husky. Bakugo’s voice, for sure. Tired, maybe. Natural.
Izuku froze.
The hallway outside buzzed faintly with crew members walking by, muffled conversations and distant doors closing. But all he could hear was the low hum of the phone against his ear.
He opened his mouth—then closed it.
"...Hello?" Bakugo asked again, a bit sharper now.
Still, Izuku said nothing.
"...Tch. I swear, if this is a prank—"
“I want to order food.”
The words spilled out—soft, clipped. Not rehearsed.
There was silence on the other end.
Bakugo didn’t respond right away. Izuku pressed on.
“I want you to cook for me. Just… a meal. A real one.”
A pause.
A long one.
Then, like a click in the dark:
“...Midoriya Izuku?”
His full name. Spoken not like a fan, not like a reporter. Just... spoken.
Izuku’s eyes widened, panic rushing in.
He knows its me.
How?
Did his name flash on the caller ID?
Did his voice give him away?
Izuku’s heart raced. Heat crept up his neck. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t supposed to be found.
He slammed his thumb onto the End Call button.
Silence.
His screen dimmed, call history now showing Bakugo Katsuki – 00:46.
Less than a minute. And it already felt like he’d done something wrong.
Izuku dropped the phone onto the couch and leaned forward, burying his face into his hands.
Why did it feel like he just asked for something he wasn’t allowed to want?
Why did it scare him… that Bakugo remembered him?
And even scarier…
Why did that one moment of being recognized feel like relief?
The day had been long.
Endless poses for a skincare brand. Then a quick-change into another outfit for a department store photoshoot. At some point, someone handed Izuku an energy drink and said, “This should last you until the fan call at 8.”
He didn’t even remember tasting it.
By the time he returned to his private waiting room, his shoulders were aching, his jaw tense from holding back yawns and hunger.
Then he saw it.
A brown insulated delivery bag—sleek, minimal, too elegant to be just another courier drop-off. No stickers, no receipt, no flashy branding.
Just a sealed paper envelope resting on top.
His heart stalled.
He reached for the envelope first, fingers slow, uncertain.
His name was written on the front in black ink. Neat, all caps.
MIDORIYA
He opened it.
Inside was a single folded sheet of thick white paper, the kind high-end restaurants used for handwritten menus. But this wasn't a menu.
It was a note.
You hung up on me.
Still, I cooked.
Delivery address was pinned to your last shoot post. Dumb move. Anyone could’ve found you. Fix that.
Next time, give me your actual address so I don’t have to guess where to drop this off.
Eat while it’s hot.
And if I call, answer. —K. Bakugo**
Izuku blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then—he smiled.
A real one. Tiny. Fragile. But real.
His hand hovered over the clasp of the delivery bag, then finally opened it.
Inside:
-
A small serving of soy-butter grilled fish, packed with warm vegetables that smelled of home.
-
A lidded bowl of soft tamago porridge—gentle and perfectly balanced.
-
A side of lightly pickled plum and daikon.
-
And one—just one—mochi ball in a wax-paper pouch with “for dessert, not bribery” scribbled across the corner.
His eyes burned instantly.
He didn’t understand it.
The food wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t for cameras or commercials. It wasn’t even portioned like the strict meals his manager demanded.
It was made for him.
Only him.
Izuku sat down, opened the bowl, and let the scent hit him.
His stomach didn’t twist this time.
His throat didn’t close.
And as he lifted the spoon to his mouth, he whispered, “You really remembered me…”
The food tasted warm. Savory. Thoughtful.
Every bite said what Bakugo never needed to:
I saw you. I still see you.
And Izuku already knew—he would answer the phone next time.
Chapter 6: One Meal at a Time
Chapter Text
The sun had just started to dip past the rooftops, casting long golden shadows across the alley where the kids often gathered. It had rained the night before, but the ground was dry now, and a thin breeze carried the scent of grilled meat from some far-off food stall.
Bakugo Katsuki walked into the alley with a paper bag in one hand, his keys in the other.
The moment the kids saw him, they exploded into shouts.
“FOOD GUY!!!”
“You came back!”
“Mr. Food Boss!”
“Did you bring the dumplings again?!”
He let out a low scoff, stepping forward with the smallest of smirks.
“Brats, calm the hell down. You’ll scare the food off.”
Kenji took the bag immediately like he’d been appointed food captain by divine law. Aki and Yuu hovered close, their eyes wide and bright. Hina, as always, stayed a little behind the others but offered a shy wave. Sora was already sniffing the air.
Bakugo sat down beside a stack of worn crates and watched as they dug into the food. Rice balls. Chicken skewers. Little veggie cakes packed neatly in paper wrappers.
He didn’t say much.
He never needed to. Their chatter filled the space without asking.
But then—
Aki suddenly spoke up, licking a bit of sauce from his thumb. “Hey, guess what?”
“What?” Bakugo asked casually, sipping from a canned coffee he’d bought on the way.
“The nice guy came back!” Aki announced, bouncing on her heels.
Bakugo paused mid-sip. His eyes flicked to her. “The what now?”
“The guy who gave us food before you started coming around,” Yuu clarified. “You always ask about him, right?”
Bakugo’s brows lifted faintly.
“He was here?”
Kenji nodded, mouth full.
“Yeah. We finally gave him the napkin you told us to give him. The one you wrote on. He looked really happy. Said sorry for being gone so long.”
Bakugo’s heart gave the tiniest skip, like a hitch in the rhythm.
“And?” he asked.
The kids looked at each other.
Aki tilted her head. “And… what?”
“His name.” Bakugo set down his coffee can. “Did you get it?”
Silence.
A pause.
Then—five horrified expressions.
Kenji slapped his forehead. “Damn it!! We forgot to ask!”
“Again?!” Bakugo groaned, slumping slightly. “That was the whole point—”
“But—but—but—” Yuu interrupted, eyes wide with sudden inspiration. “If we do get it next time… will you get us more ice cream?”
Bakugo stared at him.
Then leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Pfft. I’ll do you one better.”
The kids froze.
“If you get his name,” he said, eyes narrowing in challenge, “I’ll get you a whole cake.”
“EH?! A cake?!” they all screamed together.
“Like… one of those big round ones with whipped cream and strawberries?” Sora gasped.
“Whatever you want,” Bakugo shrugged, feigning indifference. “You just better deliver.”
“We swear, we’ll get it next time!” Hina said, fist raised like she’d just declared war.
“Cake cake cake cake cake—” Sora chanted, spinning in a circle.
“You better not forget again,” Bakugo muttered, but the slight curve of his lips betrayed him.
They followed him like ducklings, each kid choosing their ice cream from the store freezer while Bakugo leaned on the counter, sipping another black coffee. He watched them through the reflection in the store’s front glass—laughing, sticky-fingered, alive.
He didn’t know why he kept coming back.
Maybe it was the way their joy filled the gaps he didn’t realize were forming in his chest.
Maybe it was because they reminded him what it looked like to eat without fear.
Or maybe, deep down, it was still him.
The man with sad eyes and a too-thin frame who smiled like the food had given him something he'd lost a long time ago.
The man who hung up on him.
The man who somehow haunted both his cooking... and his thoughts.
Bakugo took another sip of coffee and stared down the street.
“You better come back soon, nice guy,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m not gonna bake a whole damn cake just for these kids.”
The city outside his window glowed soft orange. Neon signs buzzed. Cars hissed by on wet pavement. But in his quiet little apartment, it felt like everything had slowed down.
Izuku sat on his futon, the brown delivery bag folded neatly beside him, the empty food containers already washed and set aside on the sink rack—like they were too important to just throw away.
He held the note again.
Eat while it’s hot.
And if I call, answer.
He hadn’t answered that night.
But he was ready now.
His fingers hovered over the call button. His heart thumped once, twice.
Just say thank you, he told himself.
That’s all this is. Thank him. That’s it.
He pressed Call.
Ring...
Ring...
Click.
“Bakugo.”
Still as blunt as before.
Izuku swallowed.
“Hi. Uh… it’s me.”
A pause.
Then Bakugo’s voice shifted slightly—recognition warming the edges.
“Well, well. The idol speaks.”
Izuku let out a nervous breath, then laughed awkwardly.
“Sorry. I panicked last time. I didn’t expect you to recognize me.”
“Tch. Not like you changed your voice or anything. Not hard to tell.”
Another silence settled.
Izuku stared at the dark ceiling above him.
“I, um… I wanted to thank you. For the food. And the note... I actually didn’t eat anything else that day. So… that really helped.”
Bakugo’s voice was quieter when he replied, like he didn’t want to scare the moment off.
“You always this bad at feeding yourself?”
Izuku tried to laugh, but it came out hollow.
“Only on days that end with a Y.”
Bakugo gave a dry snort.
“That supposed to be humor?”
“I’m trying.”
Izuku rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess what I’m saying is… I don’t really know what it is about your food. I’ve only eaten three meals from you, but…”
He hesitated.
It was too soon to say everything. Too soon to explain why those meals mattered.
That before Bakugo, everything else just came back up.
That his body was a war zone of shame and hunger.
That he didn’t know how to fix it.
So he just said—
“…I like it. I really like it. I—I feel like I can breathe when I eat it. And I was wondering…”
He trailed off.
Bakugo didn’t interrupt.
Izuku forced himself to finish.
“...if you could be my personal cook?”
He winced as soon as it left his mouth.
“I know—I know how that sounds. You’re a big-shot chef. You’re busy. You run an elite restaurant, and I’m just this idol who asks for food at random times—probably sounds like a spoiled fan asking for special treatment.”
“No,” Bakugo said, flatly.
Izuku blinked.
“No?” he echoed, heart sinking.
“No,” Bakugo said again, this time more slowly. “It doesn’t sound like that.”
There was a beat of silence, and then Bakugo added, dry as ever, “Sounds like I’ve hypnotized an idol with my cooking. Maybe I should enter an underground culinary ring next time. Cook-offs to the death.”
Izuku stared at his phone.
Then—a real laugh escaped him.
Small, incredulous.
“You joke?”
“Not really. Might win,” Bakugo muttered, and Izuku could hear the smirk.
“This man has humor,” Izuku whispered like he was shocked. “And he’s full of himself.”
“I heard that.”
Izuku chuckled softly, leaning back against his wall.
He felt warm.
He felt... full.
Not just from food. Not just from laughter.
From being seen. Heard. Noticed.
He sighed gently. “I’m not really good at asking for help.”
“I can tell.”
“But… would it really be okay if I ask you to cook for me? Not like a full-time thing. Just—whenever I can’t… when I can’t eat anything else.”
A pause.
Then Bakugo’s voice came, quiet, steady, sure:
“You ask, I’ll cook.”
And just like that, Izuku’s eyes stung.
He didn’t cry.
Not yet.
But the feeling curled in his chest, something like relief.
Something like hope.
“Okay,” Izuku whispered. “Then… I’ll call you next time. Not just hang up.”
“Damn right you won’t,” Bakugo grunted. “Don’t make me chase your address down again.”
Izuku smiled.
“Noted.”
And somewhere—beneath the exhaustion and broken pieces he carried—something in him began to stitch itself back together.
One meal at a time.
Chapter 7: The Sixth Slice
Chapter Text
The city was asleep, or pretending to be.
The only signs of life were the late-night taxis drifting by and the soft hum of the 24-hour convenience store refrigerators. Izuku’s shoes scraped the sidewalk as he walked—hood up, mask on, sunglasses tucked into his pocket.
It is already 3 in the morning. His suitcase was still in his apartment, untouched. His phone showed five missed messages from his manager, reminding him about the meeting in five hours. The biggest concert jam of the quarter, starring not just him but his closest friends in the industry—Mina, Kirishima, Jirou, and Uraraka with Stellar Beat.
He should’ve been asleep.
He wasn’t.
He was starving.
His stomach had been patient on the flight, tight and sour with motion sickness and nerves, but now—now it was clenching like it remembered Katsuki’s food.
Not the plastic fruit cup from his business-class seat.
Not the hard crackers in his manager’s hotel-approved diet plan.
But real food.
Food with weight. With care. With steam rising from soft textures.
He passed three convenience stores but didn’t stop.
Something pulled him forward.
Before he even realized it, his steps brought him in front of a quiet building tucked between a florist and a gallery: Umi to Hi. The same elegant black-and-silver lettering. The same gentle wooden door.
He stood still under the streetlamp, the city hushed behind him.
His breath fogged faintly in the early morning air.
“...Damn,” he whispered, rubbing his thumb over the side of his phone. “I want to eat steamed egg custard with shiso again.”
The memory hurt—that first meal during the commercial shoot, when his body didn’t flinch or resist. The soft, silken texture that soothed something in him he didn’t even know needed healing.
He bit his lip. Looked down at his feet. He wasn’t even sure why he walked here.
You’re being weird again, Izuku. It’s been two months. You didn’t even message him. You’re a damn coward—
Clank.
A soft sound cut his spiral—metal on pavement.
From the narrow alley beside the restaurant, a side door creaked open. The backlight spilled out, painting gold across the street.
A figure stepped out holding a black trash bag in one hand, apron loose around his waist, hair tied back under a bandana.
Izuku froze.
Katsuki.
He looked like he’d just finished prep or cleaning—sleeves rolled up, arms lightly dusted in flour. There were faint shadows under his eyes, but they sharpened instantly when they landed on the familiar silhouette standing outside.
Katsuki blinked.
Then said, voice rough and flat:
“...Midoriya Izuku?”
Izuku jolted slightly.
“Kacchan?” he whispered.
Katsuki’s brow twitched at the name, but he didn’t comment.
He glanced down at his watch.
Then back up.
One look was enough.
He could tell.
Izuku’s guilt was written all over his face.
Unspoken apologies under his eyes. Two months’ worth of exhaustion in his posture. And right there, just behind the mask—that aching, familiar hunger.
Katsuki let out a short breath and jerked his chin toward the door.
“You wanna come inside?”
Izuku’s voice cracked before it fully formed.
“I—I’m sorry,” he said quickly, biting his lower lip as he took a step closer. “I didn’t mean to come unannounced. I know it’s been months and it’s weird and stupid and I just— I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know I’d end up here.”
Katsuki dumped the trash bag in the bin without looking away from him.
“Didn’t ask for a speech.”
Izuku blinked.
Katsuki tugged the back door open and held it.
“You hungry?”
Izuku hesitated for a heartbeat.
Then nodded. Just once. But enough.
Katsuki turned and walked inside. “Then come in. I’ll make the damn egg custard.”
The lights were dimmer than usual. The restaurant was asleep like the rest of the world, but Katsuki moved through the kitchen with the ease of muscle memory. A kettle clicked on. Bowls were arranged. Stock reheated.
Izuku sat on the little bench near the end of the prep table, fingers curled around a warm cup of barley tea Katsuki had handed him without a word.
The steam eased his chest.
The scent of dashi and shiso made his throat feel tight—for reasons he couldn’t name.
Katsuki cracked eggs with one hand.
“You look like shit,” he said casually.
Izuku smiled faintly behind his cup.
“That’s fair.”
“And what? You forget how to use a phone?”
Izuku winced.
“I wanted to. I just… didn’t know how to ask.”
Katsuki didn’t stop stirring the egg mixture.
“Asking’s the easy part. Showing up at 4 AM in a mask like a stalker? That’s weird.”
Izuku laughed softly. “You’re right.”
Another pause.
Then—
“...But I’m glad you’re here,” Katsuki muttered.
Izuku blinked.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was warm.
And when Katsuki gently set the small ceramic cup of steamed egg custard with shiso in front of him, Izuku nearly teared up before the spoon touched his lips.
It tasted exactly like that first time.
Maybe better.
Because now he knew what he was missing.
And who he wanted it from.
The egg custard was still warm, steam curling up from the shallow ceramic bowl.
Izuku sat with the spoon between his fingers, posture curled like he hadn’t truly rested in days. But there was peace in the way he moved, even if he didn’t know it—shoulders slowly dropping, lips pressing together in a thoughtful hum, like something buried deep inside was finally breathing again.
Katsuki stood at the sink, rinsing out a ladle, but paused halfway.
He turned.
Watched.
Izuku was humming.
Absentminded. Barely audible.
But sweet—a melody that pulled at Katsuki's memory like déjà vu.
It took a few seconds for Katsuki to place it.
That song.
One of Izuku’s unreleased ballads. Katsuki only knew it because the kids sang it in the alley once, claiming it was the “angel song” the nice guy hummed to them while they fell asleep. They didn’t even know it belonged to the idol they kept dreaming about.
Now, hearing it from the source, Katsuki finally understood what they meant.
It wasn’t just the voice—it was the gentleness behind it.
He chuckled under his breath.
The sound broke the quiet.
Izuku blinked, looked up mid-bite.
“...What?”
Katsuki shook his head, smirking.
“Nothing.”
Izuku tilted his head, suspicious.
“What?”
“You hum when you eat,” Katsuki said bluntly.
Izuku’s cheeks warmed.
“I—I didn’t notice…”
“You didn’t stop either.” Katsuki leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “Guess that’s a good review.”
Izuku ducked his head.
“Sorry. I just— It tastes… safe.”
Katsuki didn’t comment, but he felt that word settle in his chest.
Safe.
Maybe that’s what he wanted to be for him.
After a pause, Katsuki pushed off the counter, casually walking toward the small fridge near the prep table.
“Hey,” he said as he opened the door. “You eat cake?”
Izuku blinked, caught off guard.
“Cake?”
“Yeah.”
He looked up toward the ceiling, like trying to summon a memory.
“I… don’t remember the last time. I don’t think I’m even allowed to eat cake.”
Katsuki’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Allowed?”
Izuku flinched.
“I mean… my manager’s strict with sugar. Weight regulation and all that…”
“Bullshit,” Katsuki muttered, then quickly wiped the expression from his face. “Whatever. Not asking for your nutrition log.”
Izuku tilted his head, smile sheepish.
“Why?”
“I was thinking of baking one,” Katsuki said, grabbing a bottle of cream and setting it on the counter. “Wanted to invite someone over and make it fresh. Thought you might want a slice too.”
Izuku blinked, genuinely surprised.
“I’d… get to eat cake?”
“You’d rate it,” Katsuki corrected. “Be my taste tester. With some other guests.”
Izuku’s brow furrowed a little.
“Guests?”
Katsuki shrugged, turning away just as a small smile tugged at his mouth.
“You’ll see. Just say yes.”
Izuku studied him for a moment.
There was something in Katsuki’s tone—teasing, yes, but also... hopeful. Like he already had someone in mind. Like he already saw Izuku there.
And for the first time in a long time, Izuku felt like saying yes to something didn’t feel like a burden.
“…Alright,” he said, quiet but sure. “I’ll try the cake.”
Katsuki glanced back and gave a satisfied nod.
Good.
That would make six.
One for each of the kids—Kenji, Yuu, Hina, Sora, Aki—and one for him.
No need for the kids to report back anymore.
He’d already found the nice guy’s name.
Midoriya Izuku.
And this time, he wasn’t going to forget it.
The sun was just beginning to rise, bleeding soft golden light into the edges of the sky.
Izuku walked home with a takeout bag in both hands, his steps unhurried, almost light. It was the first time in years—maybe in his whole career—that he was carrying food just for himself without fear or guilt swallowing his appetite.
He didn’t even double-check the calories.
Didn’t hear his manager’s voice in the back of his mind.
Didn’t feel that crushing anxiety that something would go wrong the moment he ate.
He was just… happy.
He held the warmth of the food close to his chest like it was something sacred.
Still wearing his hoodie and cap, he walked through his building lobby quietly and took the elevator up. Once inside his apartment, the silence didn’t feel heavy for once. It felt peaceful.
He sat on the floor, legs crossed, and unpacked the food Katsuki had neatly packed for him before he left—miso grilled rice balls, simmered daikon and carrots, and a small bento of citrus-marinated chicken breast over soft rice.
No manager. No cameras. No mirrors to judge his face while chewing.
Just food.
And him.
And when he ate, nothing bad happened.
No nausea.
No dizziness.
No cold sweat.
No tight knot in his throat.
No trembling hands bracing for the worst.
Just flavor. Just warmth.
Just the way Katsuki cooked like he knew what Izuku’s body could finally handle.
When he finished, he leaned back against the couch, eyes wide with quiet wonder.
He touched his chest lightly.
“No ache…”
His smile grew so soft, so sincere, it almost hurt.
He whispered to no one but himself, “Thank you, Kacchan…”
He didn’t even realize he’d used the name again.
Didn’t think twice about it.
To him, Katsuki already was that—a name tied to safety and warmth, even if they hadn’t grown up together in this universe. It slipped from his lips naturally, like it belonged.
He didn’t sleep that morning.
He just sat, glowing, sipping the barley tea Katsuki had tucked into the bag, already thinking about when he’d get to eat his food again.
And an hour later, he showed up to his meeting beaming.
Hair a little messy.
Voice a little hoarse.
But smile radiant.
Mina noticed first.
“Whoa, you look like someone gave you free cake and a kiss. What’s with the sparkles?”
Izuku just laughed softly, cheeks pink. “Nothing… Just had a good breakfast.”
Katsuki moved through the prep space as usual, prepping early for the lunch shift, sharpening his knives with steady hands.
But his mind… wasn’t focused.
He kept hearing that voice in his head from earlier.
The way Izuku had softly, casually, called him:
“Kacchan.”
He paused mid-cut, frowning slightly.
“...Who the hell is Kacchan?”
He didn’t remember ever telling Midoriya to call him that.
Sounded like a nickname. A close one.
Too familiar.
Too easy on the tongue, like it had history.
He stared at the cutting board, brows furrowed.
“Tch. Weird.”
But his hands kept working.
And for some reason…
he didn’t mind it.
Chapter 8: Controlled Substance
Chapter Text
The meeting was meant to be routine: a project alignment for the "Summer Pulse Concert Jam", a rare collaboration among Japan’s top soloists and idol units.
But for once, the room wasn’t filled with stiff tension or fake smiles.
Laughter echoed against the glass walls.
“I can’t believe we’re finally doing this again!” Mina squealed, practically bouncing in her seat as she nudged Kirishima beside her.
“Two years since we’ve all stood on one stage,” Jirou said, leaning back with a half-smirk. “About time.”
Uraraka from Stellar Beat stretched her arms above her head, beaming.
“I heard the stage design is next level. We're doing cross-unit stages too, right?”
All eyes drifted toward the quietest member of the circle.
Izuku.
He looked… different.
Same fluffy curls, same soft voice. But there was something brighter today—his smile a little more real, his posture looser, like something good had finally reached him.
He nodded with genuine excitement.
“I’m looking forward to it. Sharing the stage with you guys again feels like a gift.”
Kirishima grinned wide.
“Bro, you look like you had cake for breakfast. What happened to the Izuku who only drinks half a protein shake in the morning?”
Izuku chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Just… woke up happy, I guess.”
“Suspicious,” Mina teased.
“Maybe he fell in love,” Jirou muttered under her breath.
Izuku’s ears turned pink.
“N-No! Nothing like that.”
They laughed, light and warm.
But the moment didn’t last.
Just as they were winding down, a staff member poked into the room.
“Midoriya-san? Manager Aida is requesting you for your… routine.”
That one word shifted everything.
Routine.
The others all stiffened.
The infamous “Midoriya Boy Check” as the crew jokingly whispered behind backs, but never to Izuku’s face. No one dared.
They watched Izuku rise quietly, gathering his things like someone preparing for confession.
It was clinical. Cold.
The same spotless white tiles. The same digital scale. The same set of tablets with formulas and thresholds.
Izuku stood silently on the scale in his socks while Manager Aida, arms crossed, scribbled down notes on a clipboard.
The room was dead silent, except for the beeping of numbers.
Then—
“You ate breakfast.”
It wasn’t a question.
Izuku flinched.
“...Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Without telling me.”
“I didn’t think it would affect—”
“You don’t think. That’s my job.” The manager’s voice sharpened. “What was it this time? Another protein bar? Water? Answer properly.”
Izuku hesitated.
He couldn’t say it.
He couldn’t mention Katsuki’s cooking. The warmth of the miso. The softness of the rice.
The taste of comfort.
He didn’t want it tainted by this man’s hands.
“I… don’t remember,” he whispered.
Manager Aida clicked his tongue, face unreadable.
“This isn’t acceptable. Our meal schedule is set to milligram calculations. You can’t deviate.”
He reached into his bag and pulled out a familiar bottle.
The digestion pills.
“I’ve updated your intake window. These will help process it faster. I’m also scheduling a full body scan and bloodwork before the week ends. We might need a stronger dosage. I’ll pair it with two extra training blocks next week.”
Izuku bowed his head.
“Understood.”
His hands clenched around his pants. Just an hour ago, he had felt human again.
Now, he was back in this machine.
Mina gripped the edge of the wall, her nails digging into her palm.
“What the hell are we listening to?”
“Izuku…” Uraraka whispered, voice tight with disbelief.
They had snuck away with Jirou and Kirishima, hoping to peek in and pull Izuku into their post-meeting lunch.
Instead, they heard everything.
The pills.
The tone.
The way Izuku apologized like a child scolded for being alive.
“I hate this,” Kirishima muttered. “He looked so happy earlier.”
“We need to do something,” Mina hissed.
But before they could move, their own managers appeared from down the hall, frowns already on their faces.
“You four—back to your prep rooms. Now.”
“But—”
“No one interferes with Manager Aida’s work,” one said sharply. “You know how this industry works. You’re the best because he makes the best. Stay in your lane.”
Jirou didn’t move.
Neither did the others.
But they didn’t get a choice.
They were pulled away, step by step, while the cold reality of Izuku’s world echoed in their ears.
Izuku sat on the couch, knees tucked up, hands around a cup of warm water.
No smile now.
Just a tired shadow of the boy who had once beamed through their meeting.
He looked at the small pill bottle in his palm. Then to the still-warm takeout box from earlier, half-eaten and now cold.
He didn't want to throw it away.
But he also couldn’t eat it.
Not now.
So he folded the box gently, reverently, as if preserving a part of himself.
And whispered, as if in a prayer only Katsuki could hear:
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t protect it today.”
Chapter 9: Threadbare
Chapter Text
Katsuki stirred the icing slowly, the soft vanilla aroma thick in the air as he adjusted the temperature on his mixer. The base of the cake was already done—light sponge layers cooling on the rack, strawberries washed and prepped for the topping.
He should be focused.
But his eyes kept drifting to the phone on the prep table.
No messages.
No orders.
No short calls.
No awkwardly written “I’m hungry…” text.
It had been almost two weeks since Midoriya Izuku last stepped through his doors or called for food.
He only saw glimpses of him now—flashes across the screen during interviews, looking brighter than ever in the spotlight. Smiling with his fellow artists. Talking about “Summer Pulse” with practiced ease.
And yet…Something felt off.
That smile was stretched too wide. Those eyes were dimmer up close. Even through a screen, Katsuki could feel it.
Tch.
He turned back to the cake and added a few touches of citrus to balance the cream. Then wrapped it carefully, setting it in a box with forks and small plates—he always brought something they could all share.
The kids would be waiting.
But the moment Katsuki arrived, everything in him went cold.
The air didn’t carry the usual buzz of the kids laughing, play-fighting, or singing. There was no bouncing sound of cans kicked over the pavement or the echo of excited voices greeting him.
What he found instead was chaos after the storm.
Kenji stood out front, arms bruised, face twisted in anger and shame.
Sora had his shirt torn and hands clenched so tightly they trembled.
Yuu and Hina were curled protectively around Aki—who was barely holding himself together, eyes wide and filled with panic, the collar of her shirt ripped, her neck red with marks.
Katsuki dropped the cake box without hesitation and rushed over.
“What the hell happened?!”
Kenji looked up with wild eyes, jaw clenched.
“Some men came—two of them—while we were sleeping. Said Aki looked ‘pretty enough to be sold’… We told them to go away but they just laughed.”
Yuu’s small hands tightened around Aki’s arm, tears running down his face.
“They kicked Kenji when he tried to fight them. Sora tried to protect us too but they grabbed him by the neck. Hina screamed so loud they got startled—then we all bit and kicked and ran.”
Sora’s voice was hoarse, filled with fury. “We tried to protect Aki… but we’re scared they’ll come back.”
Then Aki sobbed.
She reached out and gripped Katsuki’s hand tightly, the tiny fingers digging in, trembling like a leaf.
“Bakugo-san… please. Please don’t leave us here again.”
Katsuki froze.
Something inside his chest cracked wide open.
“We fought so hard,” Hina cried, pressing her head to his arm. “But we can’t stay here anymore. Please take us away… please…”
The cake lay forgotten beside them.
Katsuki stood slowly, still holding Aki’s hand.
He looked around—at the stained pavement, the scattered bags, the place where these kids had built a life out of nothing. And now it was shattered.
He clenched his jaw, then took off his apron, wrapping it gently around Aki’s shoulders like a blanket.
“Alright,” he said, voice low but certain. “You’re coming with me.”
Kenji sniffed.
“But where?”
“My place for now,” Katsuki answered. “You’re not staying another damn minute out here.”
“But—won’t we be a burden?” Sora asked, his tough mask cracking.
Katsuki crouched down so he was eye-level with them.
“You’re not a burden. You’re kids,” he said firmly. “And it’s about time someone protected you right.”
No hesitation.
No second thoughts.
He picked up the cake box and tucked it under his arm.
Then, without looking back, he walked them toward the street.
That night, Katsuki converted the back room of his restaurant into a temporary shelter.
Soft futons, towels, clean clothes, and bowls of hot rice and miso soup. Hina and Yuu cried again—this time from relief. Kenji stood watch by the door until he finally felt safe enough to rest.
And Aki?
She stayed clinging to Katsuki’s sleeve the entire time.
Katsuki stood outside when the kids already fell asleep inside the room he prepared for them for now.
Phone in hand, wind cool against his face. His thumb hovered over a contact he hadn’t touched in 13 days.
Midoriya Izuku.
His jaw clenched.
“Damn nerd,” he muttered. “Where the hell are you when I actually need you?”
He tapped the screen.
And let it ring.
The Tokyo skyline glittered around him, neon bleeding into the smog of night. Katsuki leaned against the rooftop railing with his phone to his ear, fingers curled tightly around the edge of his jacket.
The line clicked after the third ring.
“…Hello?”
Midoriya Izuku.
Even through a single word, Katsuki heard it—the scratchiness, the breathlessness, the strain that sleep deprivation carves into a voice. It wasn’t just tired.
It was wrung out.
“I didn’t think you’d answer,” Katsuki admitted, turning his eyes to the streetlights below. “You’ve been off the grid.”
“Sorry,” came the soft reply, apologetic and automatic. “It’s been… nonstop.”
Katsuki exhaled through his nose. He hadn’t planned what he was going to say, not really. But his chest wouldn’t leave him alone since the alley incident. And it wasn’t just the kids now.
He cleared his throat.
“Your concert’s coming up, right?”
“Ah… yeah. Three more weeks,” Izuku said, almost too quietly. “I’m… kind of losing track of time.”
There it was again—that blank laugh.
Like Izuku had grown used to disappearing into his schedule.
Katsuki’s tone softened despite himself.
“You free tonight?”
A pause. Then: “Huh?”
“I made some stuff. Nothing heavy,” he added quickly. “Figured you’d want a proper meal before you burn yourself out.”
“I—” Izuku sounded caught, not just off guard, but like someone holding their breath under water.
“I didn’t make anything weird,” Katsuki added gruffly. “Some grilled tofu, barley rice, and the soup you like. Egg custard too.”
Another silence.
Katsuki listened carefully.
He could hear faint music echoing through the line—bass-heavy, rhythmic. Then voices. Loud clapping. A whistle.
“Wait…” he straightened. “Where are you?”
Izuku hesitated.
“I’m… still at my dance practice.”
Katsuki looked at his watch. 10:09 PM.
“Still?” he said, voice dropping a note.
“They extended it again,” Izuku muttered. “Told me they need a clean take before next week’s blocking rehearsal. We still have another run after this.”
Katsuki gripped the rail.
“What time are you done?”
“Maybe… around 12:30?”
“That late?”
“They said they’d give me two to three hours to nap before I go to the gym.”
“What?”
“Morning training starts at four now since they added new reps.”
Four in the morning.
“Midoriya,” Katsuki said slowly, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “When did you last eat?”
He didn’t mean it like an accusation.
But when the question hung in the air, the silence that answered it hurt more than he expected.
“…Around lunch, I think,” Izuku finally said. “A banana and a protein bar.”
Katsuki’s jaw clenched. “That was—what, 11 hours ago?”
“Twelve, I guess,” Izuku said, trying to laugh again. “But it’s okay. I’m kind of used to it now—”
“Don’t.”
The word came sharp, cutting through his rambling.
Izuku froze on the other line.
“Don’t say that like it’s something to be proud of.”
Izuku didn’t answer.
Katsuki looked at the cooling bento on the table beside him. He hadn’t even started packing it yet. He’d made it hoping tonight would be the night Izuku would come by, maybe with that sheepish look, saying something like “I couldn’t resist your soup again.”
But now—
Now he was picturing that same boy in a mirrored room with his ribs showing through sweat-drenched clothes, dancing on empty lungs.
Still trying to shine.
Still starving.
He swallowed hard.
“Izuku,” he said, his voice steady now, low but intimate. “You said you couldn’t come tonight… but let me do something. I’ll deliver it. It’s just food. No pressure.”
“…I can’t,” Izuku said, breath hitching. “My manager checks everything that comes through. He’ll… he’ll know.”
Katsuki’s knuckles whitened.
“Alright,” he said softly. “Then at least answer me this—when you are allowed to eat, what do you want?”
Izuku didn’t respond at first.
Then, so quietly it was nearly a whisper:
“Your food.”
That broke something in Katsuki’s chest.
“I’ll make it,” he said. “Anytime. You say when. Just…”
He paused, then added more quietly than before:
“Don’t keep going like this.”
Izuku didn’t answer, but Katsuki could hear the sniffle.
“Midoriya?”
“…Thank you,” Izuku said, so fragile that Katsuki nearly hung up and drove there himself. “Even if I can’t come tonight… it means a lot that you called.”
Katsuki didn’t say anything else.
He just held the phone near his ear long after the line had gone silent.
Chapter 10: Cake and Custard
Chapter Text
The arena pulsed with anticipation. Fans screamed with joy from outside the gates, lights flashing, banners waving. All the biggest names in the industry were here.
And behind the stage, everything was chaos.
Makeup artists ran back and forth, sound technicians tested mics, assistants checked lights and visuals. But none of that touched Bakugo Katsuki, who stood just outside the dressing room hallway with a small thermal bag in one hand.
He wasn’t here as a celebrity or judge tonight.
Just a cook.
Inside the sleek black bag was a modest home-style meal—warm chawanmushi (egg custard), grilled saba with a delicate glaze, a small bento of rice and steamed vegetables seasoned just right. Nothing too oily, too rich, or too showy.
It wasn’t for the concert.
It was for Midoriya Izuku.
He’d gotten word from a friend in the event crew that this would be the first time Izuku would be in one place long enough to be reachable again. Katsuki didn’t expect a conversation, or thanks—just a moment where Izuku would get to eat something that didn't feel like punishment.
He found a staff member outside the dressing rooms and handed the bag over.
"Give this to Midoriya. Tell him… it’s from someone who wants him to eat well."
The staffer nodded and disappeared through the door.
Izuku was getting his mic attached when his manager, Aida, stepped in.
“What’s that?” he asked sharply, noticing the staffer placing the black thermal bag on the table beside Izuku’s schedule sheet.
“Delivery for Midoriya-san,” the staff replied politely. “Said it’s food. Came from the back entrance.”
Izuku’s eyes snapped to the bag, his heart thudding. Something about it—simple but clean, the smell, that warmth—his soul recognized it instantly.
Kacchan.
But before he could even take a step toward it, Aida was already at the table.
“Who sent this?” the manager asked, flipping open the note Katsuki had hurriedly scribbled. He didn’t even read it—just scanned it like it was a grocery receipt and scoffed.
“We’ve discussed this. No unauthorized food.” He turned to Izuku. “It could be tampered with. Fans spike things. You of all people know how dangerous this is.”
Izuku's voice caught in his throat. “But—”
“No.”
Without another word, Aida dumped the bag into the trash bin in the corner of the room. Food and all. The clatter was louder than necessary, final and sharp.
“Stick to the nutrition chart. Your salad will be delivered before call time. If I find you touching anything else, I’ll reschedule your weigh-in and increase your intake suppression.”
Izuku froze.
He watched as his manager left the room, tapping instructions into his tablet.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And then the dressing room was quiet.
Painfully quiet.
Izuku stood frozen in place for a long minute, staring at the bin. His throat tightened.
He didn’t move until the assistant left for the next dressing room.
Then, slowly, as if in a trance, he walked to the trash bin.
His knees bent.
His hands trembled.
The black thermal bag was still there, half-crushed. The food inside was barely disturbed, still packed tightly in heat-safe containers, some soup having spilled—but the scent was still there.
Home.
Warmth.
Kacchan.
He reached in.
Fingers trembling, he lifted out the custard cup, twisted it open, and took a bite with a disposable spoon still tucked in the bag.
And then—
he broke.
The first bite melted into his mouth like the first ray of sunlight after a storm. The same flavor he remembered. Steamed egg infused with shiso. Gentle on the tongue. Soft. Familiar.
Comforting.
Izuku’s lips quivered as tears spilled down his cheeks, falling freely now. No stage smile. No spotlight. Just him and the taste of something that said:
“You deserve to be cared for.”
“I’m sorry…” he whispered between bites, choking on tears. “I’m so, so sorry, Kacchan…”
He ate another bite, then another, crying harder now. His hands shook as he fumbled to open the other box—the grilled saba. Even slightly squashed and cooling, it was still better than anything he’d eaten in weeks. His teeth dug in as if his body didn’t want to let go of it again.
“It’s not fair,” he whispered, biting back sobs. “Why does food like this… make me feel like I’m worth something?”
He hunched beside the bin, holding the cup and bent spoon like sacred things.
For the first time in years, he didn’t care if anyone walked in.
He just wanted to feel full.
Not just in his stomach…
But in his heart.
The streets were quieter now, their glow dimmer as neon lights began to fade and nightlife settled. Izuku stood in front of Umi to Hi, hoodie pulled low over his face, scarf tucked to cover his mouth even though it wasn’t cold. His hair was damp, sticking lightly to his temples from his rushed bath earlier.
He didn’t text.
Didn’t call.
He just… walked.
His manager had offered to have his driver take him home, but Izuku declined, mumbling something about clearing his head.
But his feet, like they’d learned the way on their own, led him here.
The last few weeks had been exhausting—flashing lights, camera bulbs, pressure behind every movement. He sang, danced, smiled, waved. And through it all, he imagined that bite of egg custard—not the one thrown away, but the one he’d managed to save and eat on the floor, tasting like memory and safety.
He didn’t know what he was hoping for now. Maybe a chance to say thank you. Maybe just to see Katsuki’s face again, even if it meant nothing would come of it.
He reached for the door.
It opened before he could.
And there stood Katsuki Bakugo, arms crossed, drying his hands on a towel. His eyes widened briefly before narrowing just a little, studying Izuku’s face beneath the hoodie.
“You look like shit,” Katsuki grunted, stepping aside to let him in.
Izuku chuckled weakly, walking in with a soft
“Thanks.”
The scent of warm broth, miso, and faint lemon hit him as he stepped past the threshold, something unclenching in his chest.
They said nothing for a moment. Just stood in the quiet kitchen space, surrounded by soft overhead lights and faint clinks from a resting coffee pot.
Then Izuku spoke, voice low.
“I’m sorry… I didn’t finish the food you sent that night.”
Katsuki looked up, surprised at the sudden apology.
“I wanted to,” Izuku added. “Really. I was so excited when I saw it. But everything started moving so fast. The concert, preparations, the adrenaline crash after…”
He trailed off.
“I didn’t even make it to my tub. I just sat in my dressing room and thought about this place.”
He didn’t mention what happened to the meal. That it was discarded. That he salvaged it from the trash bin and ate it like treasure.
He didn’t have the strength to say that part aloud.
Katsuki didn’t ask.
He just gave a quiet grunt, drying his hands and tossing the towel into the laundry basket.
“Should’ve just come here first,” he muttered. “Food tastes better straight off the stove.”
Izuku smiled.
Then—
a whisper. A gasp. A voice.
“…It’s the nice guy!!”
Izuku turned toward the entrance.
Standing just inside the hallway—barefoot, in pajamas too big for them—were five familiar figures.
Kenji, Yuu, Sora, Hina, and Aki.
Their eyes lit up.
Before either man could react, the kids rushed forward, all shouting at once.
“You’re here again!”
“We missed you!”
“I knew it was you!”
“It’s the nice guy from the alley!!”
They collided with Izuku in a mess of arms and grins and laughter. He nearly lost his balance as Kenji hugged his waist, Hina clung to his leg, and Yuu held his hand.
Izuku’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “Wait—how…?”
He looked at Katsuki.
The older man rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost sheepish.
“They’ve been staying here,” he explained, “for about a month now. After… something happened. They needed somewhere safe.”
“You…” Izuku looked at the kids, then back at him. “You’re the one taking care of them?”
Kenji grinned.
“Not just taking care of us—he’s the food guy!”
Sora chimed in, “The one who gives us rice with egg and that soft fluffy meat!”
Aki shyly added, “He even gave me soup when I had a stomach ache…”
Yuu giggled.
“He’s been looking for you too! He told us he thought you were magic—like your voice made him see stars!”
Hina tugged Izuku’s sleeve.
“The napkin we gave you? That was from him. He gave it to us to give to you.”
“Yeah!” Kenji jumped in. “And he said if we told him your name, he’d bake us a cake!”
Izuku blinked at all of them, overwhelmed.
Then his eyes turned back to Katsuki, who leaned against the counter with arms crossed and a small smirk tugging at his lips.
“So…” Izuku whispered, narrowing his eyes. “That night you invited me for cake…”
Katsuki shrugged.
“That was the night I figured it out. You—the alley guy and the idol—same dork.”
“And the cake?”
“I was gonna surprise them,” he said plainly, nodding toward the kids. “Figured I’d make one when you finally stopped running off.”
Izuku’s mouth fell open in mock offense.
“I wasn’t running off—!”
“You didn’t answer my calls for two weeks.” Katsuki raised an eyebrow.
Izuku looked away, ears pink.
The kids giggled like they were watching a soap opera.
“…So,” Izuku said, breaking the moment. “Is there still cake?”
Katsuki tilted his head with a smug grin. “I can bake better than what I made before.”
The kids erupted in cheers.
“Cake again!? YEHEY!!”
Katsuki waved them off.
“Go grab the plates.”
They all scattered like excited lightning.
Izuku watched them for a moment—those once-homeless kids now barefoot in a warm restaurant, running like they had a future.
Then he turned back to Katsuki.
“…Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”
Katsuki didn’t smile wide. He just nodded. But there was warmth in his eyes.
A silent understanding.
“You’re not the only one who sings in secret,” he said. “I just do it with a spatula.”
Izuku’s laugh came out like a sigh, light and free.
Chapter 11: Side of the Stove
Chapter Text
The scent of sponge cake and whipped cream filled the restaurant like a lullaby.
Katsuki had pulled together ingredients without much effort—it was muscle memory at this point. He baked fast, muttering under his breath while frosting the top. The kids had set the table with mismatched plates and spoons, pulling chairs together like it was a grand banquet.
And Izuku?
He sat between Yuu and Aki, still wearing his hoodie but with his scarf and mask now tucked into his pocket. His hair was still damp and fluffy, his cheeks flushed—not from stage lights this time, but from the joy in the air.
“Okay!” Sora declared proudly, standing on a chair like a ringmaster. “Tonight’s gathering is for two important reasons!”
Kenji threw a hand up.
“One—because the food guy finally baked us the cake he promised!”
Hina clapped excitedly.
“And two—because the nice guy is back!”
“I told you he’d come back!” Yuu said, squeezing Izuku’s arm.
Izuku laughed gently.
“Of course I did. I said I’d try, right?”
Aki tilted his head.
“But we didn’t know your name before…”
That’s when Sora blinked, squinting at Izuku.
“Wait a second…”
The others turned too, eyes narrowing with cartoonish suspicion.
“Can you take off your cap?” Kenji asked, crawling onto the table.
Izuku froze, startled, looking briefly at Katsuki—who simply raised an eyebrow and nodded toward the kids with a lazy smirk.
“You’re caught, might as well accept your fate.”
With a breath, Izuku pulled off his cap, letting his fluffy green curls tumble free.
The silence was so heavy for a second, you could hear a spoon drop.
“…EEEEEEHHHHHHHH!?!?”
Kenji jumped.
“You’re Midoriya Izuku!! The Midoriya Izuku!?”
“The singer?!” Yuu squealed. “The one who sings ‘Sky Promise’!?”
“You’re our favorite idol!” Hina shouted.
Izuku blushed, waving his hands.
“A-Ah, that’s me… but don’t freak out, okay?”
Aki looked up at him in awe.
“You sat with us. You gave us food. Even sang…”
Sora blinked.
“Midoriya Izuku sat in the alley with us.”
The realization rippled through the kids like lightning, then exploded in cheers and giggles and awe.
“You’re even cooler now!”
“You’re the best nice guy ever!”
“I’m gonna tell everyone I had cake with an idol!”
Katsuki just chuckled as he sliced generous pieces of cake and passed them around.
“Alright, alright, save your questions for dessert.”
The kids settled in quickly, spinning spoons like swords and declaring the frosting a “cloud from candy heaven.” Sora declared that Katsuki might be a retired ninja who now bakes in disguise, and Kenji insisted that Aki should open a detective agency because he noticed Izuku first.
They talked about what-ifs—
What if they had a restaurant run by magical kids?
What if Izuku and Bakugo were secret agents who sang to gather clues?
What if the cake was enchanted and gave you a new dream every time you ate it?
Amid their wild chatter, Izuku laughed, free and raw. Every time his eyes met Katsuki’s across the table, he found himself smiling a little longer—and blushing when Katsuki returned it with his rare, crooked grin.
It felt real.
He didn’t worry about the weight of the cake.
He didn’t check the time.
He didn’t think about the pills or the scale or the chart his manager kept.
He just sat, surrounded by mismatched joy, and felt like himself.
And Katsuki noticed.
His eyes lingered just a bit too long—on the way Izuku closed his eyes to savor the cream, the small hum of happiness he made, the calmness in his shoulders.
The difference.
It tugged at something in him.
Later, after the kids had dozed off in a pile of blankets on the back couch, Katsuki washed the last few dishes while Izuku leaned against the bar, sipping water with a soft expression.
“…You really like cake that much?” Katsuki asked, voice low.
Izuku smiled against the rim of the glass.
“I haven’t had one in years.”
“Because of your job?”
Izuku nodded.
“I guess it’s not really allowed.”
There was a pause.
Just the quiet sound of water running and a sponge brushing ceramic.
Katsuki broke the silence again.
“…I saw you that day, y’know,” he said casually. “At the shoot. With those ginger tablets. Calm-tummy capsules. I thought, at first, maybe it was just some idol-prep thing. Nerves or… sensitive stomach.”
Izuku slowly lowered his glass.
“But when your manager came over after you took just a few bites of the dish, shoved more pills at you like you were some ticking bomb…” Katsuki glanced at him. “You looked like you were gonna pass out.”
Izuku didn’t answer immediately. He just stared into his glass, fingers tightening around it slightly.
“I didn’t know what was going on,” Katsuki continued. “Still don’t. But I know this—every time you eat here… you look normal. You look like someone who’s allowed to eat. Who enjoys it.”
Izuku’s breath caught.
Then, softly—
“That’s because…” he whispered, “this place… your food… it makes me feel normal.”
He looked up, green eyes glassy, but not quite sad.
“It’s nice,” he added. “To sit down without fear. To taste something without checking a chart or a label. To smile after eating, not worry if I’ll… regret it.”
Katsuki stared at him, his chest tightening.
He didn’t press. Didn’t ask why. Didn’t demand explanations.
He just nodded once and went back to rinsing the plates.
“…Good.”
Izuku let out a small breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.
In that silence, the flickering kitchen light above them hummed gently.
And for once—
it was enough.
The set was bright—vibrant yellows and oranges, with travel luggage props stacked behind the couch where the guests sat. Fake train signs blinked above, giving it the feel of a chaotic airport or road trip hub.
Izuku sat center, squeezed between Jirou and Kirishima, both of whom were dressed in playful travel gear to match the theme. They’d just finished playing a silly obstacle game involving water balloons and unicycles, and everyone was laughing, breathless and loose from the ice breakers.
The audience was roaring. The hosts were cracking jokes. Even the staff in the background were smiling behind their cameras.
Izuku leaned forward to sip water, chuckling at how Kirishima had completely wiped out earlier and dragged Jirou down with him.
"You owe me a new pair of sneakers!" Jirou was mock-pouting.
"Hey, it's not my fault the floor betrayed me!" Kirishima grinned, offering her a high five.
Then one of the MCs called out with dramatic flair, “Alright, alright! You three have been bonding like siblings—but now it’s time to test your personal truths!”
[SEGMENT: FAN QUESTIONS – ‘LET’S GET HONEST!’]
A monitor popped up with pre-submitted fan questions from social media. The first question was directed to Izuku.
“Midoriya-san! Your skin is glowing and you look so slim lately! Do you follow a special idol diet?”
Laughter echoed, and the camera zoomed in on Izuku’s slightly surprised expression. He blinked once, then chuckled softly, trying to keep it light.
“Am I really that skinny?” he teased, pulling at the hem of his shirt with a mock frown. “I feel like I still look the same as I did in junior high!”
Jirou elbowed him gently, smirking. “You look like a protein bar in human form. Compact and shiny.”
Even Izuku burst out laughing at that.
But somewhere beneath the laughter—his stomach turned.
He caught a glimpse of his manager, just offstage behind the camera, arms folded. Watching.
Her eyes—calculating, always.
They’re noticing it, Izuku thought. If fans are noticing… she’ll double the workouts again. Or cut my food next week.
He swallowed and forced a grin, raising a hand in playful surrender.
“Well, it’s not as exciting as it sounds,” he added, smoothly. “It’s mostly veggies and light proteins. But sometimes,” he leaned closer to the mic with mock secrecy, “I cry over the salad and pretend it’s steak.”
Laughter erupted again.
Even the MC clapped.
“Relatable!”
Izuku glanced to the side—his manager gave a nod.
Safe answer. Not too much. Good job.
Then, another fan question popped up.
“For Midoriya again—if you were to recommend comfort food that doesn’t ruin your diet, what would it be?”
This time, Izuku didn’t rush to answer.
He stared at the screen for a beat.
His hands curled slightly on his lap.
He thought of warm broth. Of steamed egg custard. Of soft meat over rice. Of cake and the sound of kids laughing. Of Katsuki wiping his hands on a towel and saying, ‘Should’ve just come here first.’
He looked up and smiled—not the practiced camera smile, but something soft and real.
“Visit Umi to Hi,” he said warmly. “It’s this small restaurant near the old station downtown. It’s simple. The food is clean, made with care, and it feels like someone’s wrapping your heart in a warm towel.”
There was a little silence.
Even Jirou blinked in surprise at the sincerity in his voice.
Izuku glanced sideways, adding with a light laugh, “And if you see a grumpy blonde guy in the kitchen, that’s the boss. Tell him I sent you, and maybe—maybe—he’ll give you a bigger portion.”
The crowd awww’d.
Kirishima laughed.
“Yo, is this your secret stash? I’m going next week!”
Izuku just shrugged, a bit shy now, hiding behind his water bottle. His ears were pink, and he knew it.
He didn’t name Katsuki directly.
Didn’t say what that food meant to him.
But just saying the name—Umi to Hi—felt like a quiet rebellion. Like a whispered thank you to the place that made him feel human.
And offstage, his manager didn’t move. Her expression unreadable.
But Izuku didn’t care, for once.
Because in that moment—he’d given that place the love it gave him.
The last plate clinked into the drying rack. The sound echoed like a bell signaling the end of a war.
Bakugo leaned against the kitchen counter, sweat clinging to the back of his neck, apron stained with sauces from at least twenty different orders. His shirt was rolled to the elbows, wrists aching, voice hoarse from barking over the roaring hum of full tables and nonstop demand.
The open kitchen smelled of broth, spice, steam, and burnout.
Outside the kitchen pass window, the dining area looked like a battlefield of wiped tables and toppled chairs. A staff member—Kaminari, face flushed and head tilted back—was halfway slumped over the front counter, holding an empty water pitcher like it was a lifeline.
"I think I saw God between table 11 and 13," he groaned.
Bakugo grunted. “If that god was Midoriya Izuku, then yeah. Probably.”
“What even happened today?” Kaminari mumbled, not even opening his eyes.
Another junior staffer—Ishida, a trainee from their culinary school partners—shuffled into the kitchen and collapsed into a stool.
“That one group asked for every single dish Izuku ever tried. Every single one. Then the next table copied them. And then it never stopped.”
Bakugo muttered as he pulled off his apron, “Damn nerd and his smooth tongue.”
It all started when some random customer earlier that morning asked, all starry-eyed:
“Are you the boss that Midoriya Izuku mentioned on that variety show last night?”
Bakugo had blinked. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
They showed him the clip right there, on their phone. The screen still had popcorn butter smudges on it.
“Visit Umi to Hi,” Izuku said with that damn warm smile. “It’s this small restaurant near the old station downtown. The food is clean, made with care. Like someone’s wrapping your heart in a warm towel.”
And suddenly—
BOOM.
Line out the door by noon.
Delivery orders crashed their app.
People ordered dishes just to take selfies with the same food Izuku ate during the promo shoot. They tagged the restaurant in every story. Some asked what seat he usually sat in. Some even left napkins folded like the kids’ had done before.
Bakugo should’ve been pissed.
But part of him—that arrogant part—rose to the challenge like a match to dry kindling.
“Small restaurant?” he’d muttered earlier that day, grabbing his knife like it was a sword.
“I’ll show you how big this is, Izuku. I’ll feed your entire fanbase without blinking.”
And he did.
All 700 of them.
At 11:00 PM, when the final order was served and the chairs stacked, Bakugo stood alone in the kitchen, hands braced on the edge of the sink, body ready to shut down.
Even Kaminari looked like he’d rather be in the ER than clock out.
Bakugo stretched his neck, groaning.
“Alright. Let’s close it down. Store’s off tomorrow morning. We’re out of everything anyway.”
Just as he walked to the front to flip the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED,” a soft voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Am I too late to order something?”
He turned.
There he was.
Midoriya Izuku—hood up, mask tucked under his chin, blinking like he wasn’t sure he had the right timing. Months had passed since the last time they’d shared a meal in the quiet hours. Their contact since then had only been short messages:
Kacchan, I saw a photo of your rice bowl trending. Made me crave it.
Did you eat today? Please say yes.
Concert soon. I’ll stop by after.
But nothing had ever come through.
Until now.
Bakugo blinked.
For the first time all day, something like relief cracked through the exhaustion.
“Izuku,” he said, voice rough.
Izuku gave a sheepish smile.
“I know you usually close at 11, but I was nearby… and I didn’t want to go anywhere else.”
Bakugo huffed, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair.
From the counter, Kaminari sat up slightly.
“Wait… he’s Midoriya Izuku?!”
Bakugo flicked a dish towel at him.
“Go home, Denki.”
Kaminari groaned and waved a hand.
“I’m not even surprised anymore. Goodnight, boss. Don’t burn the place down.”
As the staff slowly filed out with muttered goodbyes, Izuku stepped inside, lowering his hood.
“You’re the reason I’m practically a five-star chef now,” Katsuki muttered as he made his way toward the kitchen again. “I had to cook like hell to keep up today.”
Izuku laughed gently, eyes soft.
“I saw the videos online. The place looks really happy.”
Bakugo glanced over his shoulder.
“You ordering or just admiring the mess you made?”
Izuku stepped closer, his voice lower now.
“…I’d love something warm. Not too heavy. Something I can taste slowly.”
Katsuki paused, turned back around fully—and nodded.
“Alright, nerd,” he said. “Give me ten minutes.”
Behind him, Izuku smiled—relieved, comforted, and finally, just a little bit full without even having eaten yet.
Chapter 12: Starving Light
Chapter Text
The restaurant had already been closed for over an hour. The tables were wiped, chairs stacked along the sides, the faint scent of ginger and roasted sesame still clinging to the warm air. The only light came from the small lamp over the corner booth—the one closest to the window.
Izuku sat there, alone with Katsuki, cradling a bowl of steamed egg custard and grilled soy-glazed chicken. His eyes fluttered half-closed as he chewed, the exhaustion in his shoulders finally softened by the comfort of a warm meal made just for him.
Katsuki leaned against the kitchen archway, arms crossed, watching him silently.
Izuku had been eating slowly—savoring—humming sometimes without even realizing, like the way he did that night with the kids. Now, only half the broth remained.
Then Izuku spoke, quiet but sincere.
“I might be gone for a while again…”
Katsuki looked up.
“I’ll be having more shoots. Overseas,” Izuku added. “Some studio commercials, two interviews, another photo spread. I… I don’t think I’ll be able to come here again for some time.”
There was something painful in how he said it—not apologetic, but grieving.
“I also wanted to ask…” he swallowed, poking gently at the rice grains left on his plate, “Please don’t send food for a while.”
Katsuki frowned.
“Why?”
Izuku glanced up, and his smile was small.
“Because if I eat good food in the middle of all that junk, it’ll make everything worse. I might cry over it.”
Katsuki didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk. He just looked at him with the kind of stillness he rarely ever showed.
“…You said you were fine the other day.”
Izuku shrugged faintly.
“I was lying.”
He finally set his spoon down.
“I felt like dying during the last shoot. I couldn’t think straight. My stomach felt like it was caving in. They keep giving me more pills… fewer greens, less rice. Even my water’s being monitored now. Like if I gain half a kilo, I’ll disappear from this world.”
There was a pause.
Katsuki didn’t ask questions.
He just listened.
Izuku smiled bitterly, picking up the last spoonful of broth and drinking it like it was the only warmth left in his life. Then he gently pushed the empty bowl forward and bowed his head low over the table.
“…Thank you, Katsuki.”
Katsuki blinked.
“For always cooking for me. Even when I show up out of nowhere. Even when I don’t finish everything. I was probably a bother to you. But I…” He looked up again, cheeks flushed from both heat and honesty. “I hope I can eat your food more. In the future. For a long time.”
Katsuki stared at him.
The same kid who looked like a walking ghost under stage lights… was smiling now. Tired, but full.
Outside, the night was clear. The windows reflected the quiet glow of the moon and a smattering of stars. The same moon Izuku had looked up at so many nights hungry, aching, alone.
Now, he just stared at it with gentle peace.
Katsuki turned to look at him again—
Only to find that Izuku had fallen asleep.
His head rested on folded arms, face still tilted toward the window. His mouth parted slightly, the faint trace of a smile on his lips, like he had drifted off mid-thought. In sleep, he looked younger, softer.
Katsuki didn’t dare move.
He didn’t speak.
He just stood there, eyes locked on this rare, unguarded version of the person the world called a star.
And in the silence, Katsuki thought to himself:
You shine just like the sky you’re looking at… But damn, I wish time could stop right now. Just let me look at you like this. For a little longer.
The doors loomed in front of him like a judgment. Cold glass, pristine walls, and the massive logo of OnePoint Management glinting like it was carved from ice.
Midoriya Izuku stood frozen.
He clutched the strap of his messenger bag tightly, knuckles pale. His manager’s heels clicked against the polished tiles behind him like a ticking clock to a bomb that already went off.
A photo—printed on glossy paper—slapped against his chest before falling to the floor.
“There,” his manager said, voice tight with restrained fury. “You recognize yourself?”
Izuku didn’t answer.
The picture had gone viral overnight. Fans were gushing about it.
“LOOK HOW HAPPY IZUKU LOOKS!”
“First time seeing him smile while eating… 🥹”
“So maybe the rumors about his health aren't true?”
“WHO’S THAT GUY HE’S WITH? OMG he has non-celeb friends?”
“He looks…normal. He looks okay.”
The photo was candid—Izuku sitting across a man inside a quiet restaurant. The warm lighting softened his sharp cheekbones, his hair messier than usual, his chopsticks mid-air as he laughed at something.
There was a bowl of rice, grilled fish, soft soup, and steamed vegetables.
A normal meal.
A happy idol.
A photo worth trending.
But here—here in the real world—Izuku was trembling.
“How dare you eat outside?” his manager snapped. “How dare you go off plan without reporting to me?”
He couldn’t look her in the eye.
His throat felt dry.
"You think just because you smiled and took a bite, you fooled everyone? I knew something was off when your weight didn't drop as scheduled. You’ve been sneaking off. Eating things not on your meal chart. Eating whatever you want."
Each word hit him like a slap.
He opened his mouth to speak—but nothing came out.
He wasn’t scared of her. Not really. What scared him was what came after her anger.
The possibility that what he feared might now be true.
He might never go back to Umi to Hi again.
To Katsuki’s warm meals.
To soft tamago tofu and real soup that didn’t taste like punishment.
To sitting in that booth with no cameras and no pressure.
“I told you not to go anywhere for a while,” Izuku finally said, his voice cracking.
His manager raised a brow.
“What?”
“I told him I wouldn’t go back for now.”
She scoffed.
“Good. Because now it’s not for now. It’s forever.”
Izuku felt his heart snap in two.
“You’ll be monitored twice as closely from now on,” she continued coldly. “Weight, food intake, pills—everything. No room for rebellion. We need you in peak shape for the next season. I don’t want any more surprises. And you better wipe that pout off your face before your shoot today.”
She shoved a paper bag into his hands—the same bland salad. A small water bottle. And his pill packet.
“You have four interviews. Eat this. Take your capsules. Try to look like you deserve to be top billing.”
She walked away without a glance back.
Izuku stood alone.
Then, when no one could see—
He started to cry.
Tears slipped silently as he clutched the bag to his chest.
Even the first two bites now made him want to vomit. His stomach ached at the thought of chewing. The taste of his pills already ghosted on his tongue.
“Kacchan… I wish you made this,” he whispered.
His voice cracked like glass.
“I wish you were the one who cooked for me again. It never hurt when it was you.”
But now, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be allowed to taste Katsuki’s food again.
And that hurt more than anything his stomach could ever do to him.
The dining area was quiet—sunlight filtering through the windows, painting golden streaks over the worn wooden tables. Katsuki stood near the counter, wiping a clean dish he didn’t really need to clean. His phone buzzed once on the shelf nearby.
He picked it up absently.
A notification.
"TRENDING: MIDORIYA IZUKU SPOTTED IN CASUAL DINNER OUTING!"
“Fans gush over rare candid photo of the idol smiling while eating.”
Katsuki clicked on the image.
There he was.
Blurry-faced but unmistakable—the tousled curls, the curve of his shoulders, the dimple peeking from his cheek as he smiled at someone across the table.
Katsuki didn't even have to wonder.
That was his restaurant. That was his table.
That was his food.
He should’ve been used to it by now—Izuku being part of the world in ways he never would be. A star, polished and adored, orbiting far above normal days. But that smile…
It was different.
Raw.
Soft.
Real.
A smile he hadn’t seen on Izuku when he was behind the cameras.
He read the comments.
“I didn’t know he could look so normal… so happy.”
“He eats like he actually enjoys it. That makes me feel better.”
“Protect this smile at all costs 🥹”
Katsuki’s chest tightened.
People were happy.
They believed Izuku was doing okay.
But Katsuki hadn’t received a single message from him in weeks.
Not one text.
No photo of a crumpled paper napkin with a vague “craving this soon 👀”.
No late-night call whispering, “I’m starving, but I can’t come tonight. Maybe next week?”
Nothing.
The quiet suddenly felt heavier than usual.
He turned his gaze toward the hallway that led to the storage room they converted for the kids. Their laughter was faint behind the thin wall. He followed the sound, pulling the door open gently.
Kenji was seated on the floor, reading aloud, his fingers carefully following each word.
Sora sat beside him, writing them down in a notebook Katsuki bought last week.
Yuu was giggling as she colored the letters.
Aki leaned on a pillow, whispering along like a secret.
Hina sat closest to the small desk lamp, sorting flashcards.
Katsuki leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, saying nothing.
They were so focused, it took Kenji a moment to notice him.
“Bakugo-san!” he beamed. “Sora wrote my name without help!”
Katsuki smirked. “Tch. Took you long enough.”
The kids laughed, used to his gruff affection now.
He didn’t say it aloud, but seeing them like this—healthy, warm, learning—made something in his chest ache with pride. He’d registered them into a local learning center with part-time schedules. Even got some teachers to help twice a week. It wasn’t much.
But it was enough to make them believe they were worth something.
Maybe that’s why he cared so much.
Maybe… they were just like him. And Izuku.
All five of them.
People who looked bright from far away but needed saving more than they let on.
He remembered that first night clearly. Izuku, shivering under his hoodie, his face hidden, feeding kids like he was pouring the last pieces of himself into their little hearts. Singing softly until they fell asleep. Voice trembling, but still giving.
He looked like he’d fall apart the moment the music stopped.
The truth was…
Katsuki didn’t know who saved who that night.
And now?
Now he wondered how badly Izuku must be hurting somewhere, behind those flashy interviews and rehearsals. Because the silence—the complete silence—was the loudest scream Katsuki had ever heard.
Chapter 13: Until It Doesn’t Hurt
Chapter Text
The lights were bright. The cameras hovered overhead. Laughter bounced off the studio walls as the hosts clapped and the wheel spun.
“Midoriya Izuku-san, you’re next!”
The crowd cheered.
Izuku forced his signature smile—the one fans knew, the one his manager praised. Even Jirou, standing behind him, gave him a playful nudge on the arm.
“Bet you’ll land on something sweet.”
“Or spicy,” Kirishima grinned. “Spicy always gets the best reactions!”
The wheel spun.
Around and around.
Colorful sections labeled:
-
Banana Curry Ramen
-
Pickled Tuna Ice Cream
-
Chocolate-Dipped Anchovies
-
Deluxe Wagyu Bento
-
Grilled Cheese Sushi Roll
-
Mentaiko Pasta with Strawberry Sauce
-
Seaweed Cola Float
Izuku prayed.
Please not the Wagyu. Please not the Bento. Please not the Pasta.
Not because they were bad.
But because they were normal. Because real food meant danger.
The wheel slowed.
Tick. Tick.
“Deluxe Wagyu Bento!”
Cheers erupted.
Jirou patted his shoulder, grinning.
“Lucky!”
Izuku swallowed tightly, smile twitching.
“Actually…”
He turned to the hosts, slightly flustered but charming. “Ah, Jirou’s been wanting Wagyu for a while. Can I offer mine to her? I’ll take the next spin.”
“Awwww,” the host beamed. “Such a gentleman!”
“Look at that friendship chemistry!” one announcer joked. “Midoriya-san, you’re too kind!”
The crowd clapped.
His manager, off-stage, nodded with approval.
Good boy.
Adapt.
Shine.
Obey.
Izuku forced a laugh and stepped back as Jirou happily accepted the meal.
Another spin.
Seaweed Cola Float.
Weird. Acidic. Fizzy. Not deadly.
Perfect.
The drink was handed to him with dramatic flair. He raised it high and smiled to the camera.
“Cheers,” he said with a wink.
He took a sip, the mix hitting his tongue like ocean brine and soda syrup. It was awful.
But better than Wagyu.
He gagged—just enough for it to pass as comedic.
The audience roared in laughter. Even the staff clapped, and even his manager gave him another approving nod.
“See?” her look said. “You’re doing better now. You’re learning how to act through the sickness.”
But the truth?
Izuku wasn’t acting.
His stomach was already churning. His throat burned.
His jaw clenched tightly as he swallowed bile, praying it would hold.
It didn’t always hold.
Sometimes he could mask it with dramatic reactions, spin the segment to humor.
Sometimes, it was in bathrooms.
Sometimes, in trash cans between scenes.
Sometimes, just in his mouth, held in until he could spit out off-camera.
He wasn’t just doing this today.
He was doing this every day.
Every set. Every break. Every time he was handed a plate with expectations, and every time he was too afraid to eat the real meals that tasted like comfort.
Because comfort meant vomiting later.
And vomiting meant shame.
So this—this roulette of weird meals—was his safety net.
A shield made of anchovies and soda.
As the segment ended and the applause faded, Izuku quietly bowed with the others.
He smiled.
He waved.
He looked like he was glowing.
But when he sat backstage again, his stomach twisted so painfully he had to grip the bench to stay upright.
He pulled out his pills.
Swallowed them dry.
Then he checked his phone.
No messages. No food updates.
No comforting words from a voice that once said, “You look like someone who needs a proper meal.”
He missed him.
He missed Katsuki.
But maybe, after today, he missed himself even more.
The part of him that didn’t have to act. The part that could eat real food without hurting. The part that laughed for real with kids around a late-night cake.
He looked down at his shaking hands.
“I can’t tell the world,” he whispered, “but maybe I can survive one more show.”
The sky was gray, like it knew Izuku needed to blend in with something dull today.
He wore oversized sunglasses, a fisherman hat low over his curls, and a thick scarf tucked around his mouth. Not even fans looking for gossip would connect this bundled-up figure with Midoriya Izuku, the radiant idol whose smile sold out stadiums and stirred thousands to tears.
He clutched a plain medical file folder under one arm.
He told his manager he needed "rest and privacy" today.
And for once, they agreed.
What he didn’t say was that this would be the first time in years he would see a doctor for himself, not for a staged health clearance or a company-monitored check-up.
He booked it under a false name.
The nurse was kind.
The waiting room too cold.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
The doctor—a middle-aged man with a gentle tone and crow's feet at the corners of his eyes—set the papers down after a long review.
"Mr. Midori—uh, Hayashi," he corrected himself awkwardly, seeing the false name. "You've described very specific symptoms. Repeated vomiting after eating, even with small portions… your weight is significantly low for someone of your age and lifestyle."
Izuku nodded.
"And you say this has been going on for… how long?"
"A few years,” he answered faintly. “But it got worse when I debuted. I thought it was just stress. Or the diet."
The doctor leaned forward slightly.
“Stress can worsen a condition. But this isn't just about stress.”
He tapped the papers softly.
“Your tests came back clear for physical damage—no ulcers, no infections, no organ failure. But your body reacts violently to food… not because of the food itself, but because of what your mind associates with eating.”
Izuku’s throat tightened.
“You’re describing a psychogenic vomiting disorder. Psychologically triggered. Meaning your body has learned to treat food as a threat—either because of trauma, restriction, pressure, or emotional pain. So even when you try to eat, it treats every bite like an attack.”
Izuku's breath hitched.
The room was silent, save for the soft hum of the heating vent.
"I see," he said quietly.
"And yet," the doctor continued, scanning his notes, “you mentioned something very… rare. You said, there’s one person’s food you can eat?”
Izuku hesitated before answering.
“Yes. It’s a restaurant chef. I don’t know why… but when he cooks, I can eat. Not everything, but… more than usual. It doesn't make me sick right away. Sometimes, not at all."
The doctor’s expression didn’t change, but his tone softened further.
“That makes sense.”
Izuku blinked.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve likely developed a psychological trust in that person’s food. That cook—he might not realize it, but he represents something emotionally safe to you. Your brain has created an exception for him. His cooking might feel like care. Stability. A part of you is convinced it’s safe… so the usual panic response doesn’t activate as violently.”
Izuku didn’t speak.
He couldn’t.
Because suddenly, he remembered the first time he ate Katsuki’s food.
That ramen, steaming gently, not overly rich. The soft egg. The hint of herbs.
He remembered crying—just silently crying—because it tasted like something he’d forgotten he was allowed to have.
Comfort.
Peace.
Care.
“Is there a cure?” he asked hoarsely.
“There’s no pill that can undo how the mind has trained your body to reject food. But therapy, nutritional support, and slowly reintroducing meals in controlled, emotionally supportive environments can help. But it's a long path.”
The doctor hesitated, then added gently, “Your career likely doesn’t allow the kind of consistent support or pace your recovery might need. But if you keep eating meals that feel safe—if that chef is willing to help… then yes, you can begin to heal.”
Izuku sat still for a long time.
Then smiled softly—worn, but real.
“Thank you.”
As he stood, gathering the folder and his bag, he didn’t even realize a tear had slipped down his cheek.
The air felt less heavy now.
He didn’t feel cured. Not even hopeful in a grand, sweeping way.
But for the first time, he knew what was happening to him.
He had a name for it.
And maybe… just maybe…
Katsuki’s food wasn’t magic after all.
It was care.
And his body was finally listening.
Izuku walked down the street slowly.
He didn’t call anyone.
He didn’t run to Umi to Hi.
He just whispered to himself,
“So this is what healing might look like… not loud. Just… possible.”
Chapter 14: Portion of Hope
Chapter Text
He sat on the cold floor of his kitchen, a half-finished bowl of congee in front of him. The rice was overcooked, the eggs rubbery. He had tried to remember what Katsuki used to add—something soft, fragrant—but his mind was hazy. His stomach rejected the food after three spoonfuls, violently, without hesitation.
He didn’t even have the strength to cry this time.
Just silence. A tight throat. A dull ache in his chest.
His head pressed against the cupboard behind him, breathing shallow.
"Kacchan."
The name lingered in his mind, soft and fragile.
Like a memory. Like a lifeline.
He turned to his phone lying face-down on the tiles. Slowly, carefully, he reached for it. His fingers hovered above the screen before he typed out a message. Simple. Honest. A little desperate.
Kacchan... can you do me a favor?
Can you offer to my agency to be cook for idol’s meals?
I can’t come to your restaurant… but I hope to eat meals that isn’t restricted.
I’m dying to eat your meals.
He stared at the message.
His thumb hovered over "Send."
Would Katsuki laugh? Ask questions? Say it's too much?
He didn’t expect a reply right away.
He didn’t expect anything at all.
But within minutes—a single message came in.
ok.
No follow-up.
No questions.
No teasing.
Izuku read it five times over.
His lips trembled. Not quite a smile. Not quite tears either.
He didn’t know what he expected… but that one word settled something in him.
Because in Izuku’s mind, it had been a foolish request. A simple random joke.
He was curled up on his couch now, arms around a pillow, phone still in his hand.
That “ok” wasn’t loud. Wasn’t romantic. Wasn’t even emotional. But to Izuku, it was louder than any crowd he ever sang for.
He stared at the screen, then whispered through a dry throat:
“Thank you... Kacchan.”
And for the first time in weeks, he fell asleep not with hunger in his belly—but hope in his chest.
But to Katsuki, it was a mission.
The message came through just as he was finishing his notes for a new seasonal menu. The moment Katsuki saw the name, he stopped everything.
Midoriya Izuku.
He hadn't heard that voice in two months. And now—this? A favor?
Katsuki didn’t need the full story. He didn’t ask why Izuku couldn’t eat. Didn’t even demand answers about what exactly was wrong.
Because that one line—
“I’m dying to eat your meals.”
—was enough.
He reread the message, jaw clenched, eyes sharp.
So he replied: “ok.”
Then, he opened a different tab and began drafting a proposal.
Not for an endorsement.
Not for PR.
For an official nutrition-collaborative service contract to offer tailored meal plans for entertainers within Izuku’s company.
The Bakugo name wasn’t just flash and fire—it had weight. His reputation in the culinary field reached nutritionists, dieticians, and competitive food institutes across the globe. If anyone could negotiate a partnership with the agency that guarded Izuku like a cage, it was him.
He included his credentials.
Structured proposals.
Balanced, macros-based menu options for high-performance idols. Even a special notation labeled:
Midoriya Izuku – High Alert Priority Plan A
Meals to be sent daily, to be logged, warm, fresh, and approved for both digestion and psychological comfort.
It was written clinically.
But between the lines, it screamed:
I see you. I’ll feed you.
I’ll save you—one bite at a time.
MusicPro Entertainment Headquarters – Artist Wing Hallway
Izuku wasn’t even supposed to be walking through this floor. His studio for today’s recording session was farther down, but he forgot his water bottle in the rehearsal room. Rushing past the sleek glass doors and muted walls, he turned a corner—and nearly stumbled right into someone.
A firm chest.
Familiar.
Him.
“Kac—!” Izuku choked the word back into his throat.
Bakugo Katsuki stood in front of him, sharp in his black button-down, sleeves half-rolled, eyes half-lidded with just enough irritation to look like he owned the building.
Izuku’s jaw almost dropped.
He looked… too good.
He blinked twice, fast.
Oh no.
“He’s here. He’s really here. Is he—? Is he really doing this for me? For my dumb joke of a message?”
It felt like the past 48 hours of rationalizing were suddenly pointless.
His heart pounded.
But before he could stammer out even a "hello," a staff from his team ran over.
“Midoriya-san, your studio time starts in two minutes! We need to prep your vocal warm-up now.”
Izuku looked back and forth—between the studio hall and Katsuki.
“I—wait—um…” he mumbled, but the staff was already gently guiding him toward the recording hallway.
He gave one last look behind him—
Katsuki hadn’t moved but he lifted his phone, calm as ever.
Then tilted it ever so slightly for Izuku to see. A message, bold and clear on the screen:
Bear with today’s meals. I got your back.
Comfort is coming, even inside your company.
Izuku stood frozen.
The hallway light caught his eyes, glassy and shining. His fingers gripped his phone tighter, as if he could hold the message from afar.
The staff tugged his arm. “Midoriya-san—”
“I’m coming,” he said, voice a little thick.
He turned back one more time.
Katsuki just gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod.
No smug grin. No teasing smirk.
Just presence. Confidence.
Reassurance in its rawest form.
When Izuku sat in front of the mic, headphones over his ears. The producer's voice sounded muffled behind the glass. His lyric sheet lay before him, but his eyes didn’t see it.
He was thinking about that message.
His chest filled with something warm.
And as the soft instrumental filled the room, Izuku sang his lines with something different in his voice. Something that hadn’t been there for a long time.
Peace.
The atmosphere inside the conference room was stiff, quiet, polished.
Senior producers, head of PR, top coordinators of artist care and promotion, and even the COO himself was present for this unusual meeting.
Because Bakugo Katsuki doesn’t schedule anything that isn't worth everyone's time.
Katsuki sat at the head of the table with a tablet in hand, dressed in clean black slacks and a charcoal suit shirt—rolled sleeves, of course. He wasn't one for dramatics, but the confidence he exuded carried a gravity that demanded attention.
He tapped the screen, displaying slides of professional meal plans, tailored dishes, and nutrition-compliant plating techniques.
“I’m proposing a collaborative meal service under Umi to Hi, personalized for each idol’s nutritional chart,” he explained. “Packed, delivered fresh, and prepared to meet both medical guidelines and palate satisfaction.”
One of the board members leaned forward, skeptical.
“Why now, Chef Bakugo? What’s in it for you?”
Katsuki didn’t hesitate.
“Call it returning a favor,” he said, his voice even. “When I opened my restaurant, Umi to Hi, your company lent me your top idol—Midoriya Izuku—to front my launch campaign. That one commercial alone turned three months of projected traffic into three days’ worth of sold-out service.”
The room exchanged impressed glances.
Katsuki continued, slowly.
“It’s only fair I return the favor. And I’ll do that the way I know best—through meals that support the stars you’re depending on.”
A pause followed. Then the COO chuckled, folding his hands together.
“We were just talking about how that commercial remains one of our highest-engagement spots. Izuku certainly gave your food more than just a spotlight.”
The marketing head nodded.
“And the fans love that connection. That’s real influence. Authentic.”
“Which is why,” said another, “it’s only right we thank Midoriya-san too—for helping our company become more than the best. Stronger. Fuller. Human.”
Katsuki’s lips twitched into the softest smirk.
“I’d be glad to personally thank him… with more of the meals he enjoys.”
Everyone caught the meaning. But no one questioned it.
Now, instead of the usual tray of tasteless salad and filtered water, Izuku returned to his dressing room to find a neat wooden box wrapped in eco-friendly paper.
He blinked.
A note on top read:
Approved by your agency nutritionist. Prepared by Umi to Hi kitchen.
This set includes egg custard, warm root vegetable soup, and rice with turmeric and lemon-zested chicken.
He sat on the bench, hands trembling.
The aroma was comforting.
Familiar.
His first bite didn’t make him cry, but it made him close his eyes. This was real.
He was eating inside his company.
Without fear.
Without throwing up.
Without guilt.
It tasted like freedom.
It tasted like home.
Chapter 15: Rewritten
Chapter Text
When Izuku checked his phone, still lying on his bed after another numbing shoot, he saw a single message from Katsuki:
[Kacchan]:
You’re officially allowed to eat again.
Higher-ups approved it.
Your food won’t be just food anymore. It’ll be mine. Your chart’s in my hands now.Sleep well tonight, Izuku. And eat tomorrow.
Izuku stared at the screen.
Then burst into tears.
Tears of relief.
Tears of release.
Tears for hope.
Because for the first time in so long…he didn’t feel like he was starving himself just to stay alive in a world that demands too much.
Katsuki stayed behind with the head of idol logistics, who carried a thick binder of schedules and dietary charts.
“Before we start,” Katsuki said, “I want to see Midoriya’s chart. The real one. What his manager’s been following.”
The staff hesitated. “I’m not sure if—”
“I’m not doing this blind.” His tone was calm but sharp. “If he’s your top idol, and I’m now your trusted culinary partner, I deserve to know what I’m working with. This isn’t just food anymore. This is his life.”
The room fell quiet again. Then, the staff slid the binder across the table.
Katsuki flipped through it.
Restrictive calories. Low-carb, low-fat meals. Two actual food entries per day, the rest replaced with digestive supplements and weight stabilizers.
A red warning highlight across the top:
“Subject to meal removal upon fluctuation. Zero tolerance on unauthorized intakes. Hydration regulation active.”
Katsuki clenched his jaw. He slammed the binder shut.
“This isn’t a food chart. This is a slow method of starvation.”
The staff swallowed hard. “We didn’t—his manager—”
“I’m not here to blame,” Katsuki cut in. “I’m here to rewrite this.”
The clock struck 1:10 PM, and the food for the idols arrived in pristine, silver-insulated boxes labeled carefully for each artist.
A familiar tag caught the manager’s sharp eyes—Midoriya Izuku – Meal prepared by: Umi to Hi.
The corner of her mouth twitched.
“That place again?”
She had half a mind to toss it aside and prepare Izuku’s usual salad and nutrient shake. But this time, there was something else attached—a formal delivery sheet. It wasn’t just a branded card. It was detailed. Professionally structured. Signed by Bakugo Katsuki himself.
The manager flipped through it.
-
Caloric count: ✔️
-
Vitamin and mineral chart: ✔️
-
Dietary restrictions: ✔️
-
Hydration control notes: ✔️
-
Adjustments noted under physician-recommended feedback: ✔️
She blinked slowly. So he really did his homework.
She turned to Izuku, who was sitting quietly, scrolling on his phone with earbuds in. She tapped the table once.
“Your food.”
Izuku glanced at the box, the familiar Umi to Hi logo making his heart skip. Then he looked up at her, unsure—waiting for the warning, the lecture, the check of his chart.
But instead, she simply said:
“Eat it while it’s still warm.”
Izuku blinked.
No scolding? No pill shoved into his hand?
His fingers trembled slightly as he opened the box. Inside, a steamed custard rested beside grilled fish with a tang of citrus, lightly seasoned vegetables arranged like an art piece, and miso soup with shiso.
His manager watched.
And that’s when she saw it.
For the first time in what felt like years, Midoriya Izuku looked excited to eat.
Like a child who wasn’t scared of being punished.
Like someone who actually had an appetite.
She froze.
When was the last time he smiled like that over a meal?
She stepped out quietly, head down, arms crossed with the chart still in hand.
Katsuki Bakugo was standing by the delivery cart, scanning each artist's label, making sure every dish went where it should. When he heard the door open, he turned, catching the flicker of emotion on her face.
“Manager-san.”
She paused, tried to collect herself, then crossed her arms tighter.
“You really went through every line of his dietary chart.”
Katsuki handed a box to another assistant, then walked beside her as she hovered by the door.
“Of course I did. I’m not about to half-ass this just ‘cause I’m fond of the guy.”
She gave him a skeptical look.
“Fond, huh? All this because of a commercial contract?”
Katsuki smirked and shrugged.
“You could say that.”
She looked away, biting back the strange mix of irritation and guilt swirling in her chest.
“You know… I’ve managed him since he was sixteen. I saw the comments. Every time he gained two pounds, they questioned his will to be an idol. Called him fake. Lazy. He almost quit once because of that. I promised him I'd help protect what makes him shine.”
Her voice faltered slightly.
“I know I’m strict. I know he fears me when food’s involved. But I did what I had to. I thought… if he keeps the form, they’ll keep praising him. And if they praise him, maybe he’ll feel loved.”
Katsuki stayed quiet. Then gently handed her a different box—one not labeled for Izuku.
“Meal for the manager,” he said. “You work hard, too.”
She blinked in surprise, caught off-guard. But before she could comment, Katsuki leaned closer.
“I get it. You’re just trying to protect your artist the best way you know how.”
He met her eyes, serious now.
“But I’m protecting the same person. Just… the version of him who’s starving while smiling.”
That hit her hard. Hard enough to make her look down again.
He stepped back.
“You saw him, didn’t you? Just now. That look on his face. Like he forgot what it felt like to eat without fear.”
The manager sighed, soft.
“I did.”
She chuckled—bitterly, almost ashamed.
“It’s kinda offensive, honestly. Years of planning and portioning… and you make him smile in two meals.”
Katsuki chuckled too. “What can I say? I’m a damn good cook.”
They shared a small, understanding silence.
Then Katsuki added, smirking slightly:
“I don’t wanna lose him in the crowd, y’know. Just ‘cause he’s got malnutrition. Wouldn’t look good on your resume either, right?”
She laughed despite herself. It was the first time she did in weeks.
“Cocky and clever. You really are dangerous.”
He gave her a small wave as he turned back toward the kitchen to prepare the next batch.
“And you’re finally feeding him right. We’ll call it progress.”
Summer Pulse Concert – Backstage Exit Tunnel
The stadium was roaring—lights flaring, chants echoing, camera flashes like fireworks as Midoriya Izuku stepped off the stage, drenched in sweat, breath heaving… but glowing.
His performance was electric. Fluid. Powerful. His eyes sparkled with something different now—vitality.
He was met with a flood of staff: stylists with towels, his manager shouting schedules, earpiece assistants giving countdowns to the next set. Izuku bowed in thanks, waving politely to the monitors, but his gaze was searching.
And then—he saw him.
Standing just outside the press zone, far enough not to cause attention, but near enough that Izuku couldn’t miss him—Bakugo Katsuki.
Wearing plain black, his cap slightly tilted down, a cooling bottle of electrolyte water and lemon drink in each hand.
Izuku’s eyes widened like a boy seeing fireworks.
He rushed forward before the staff could stop him, grinning. No cameras now. No pretending. No manager blocking the moment.
“Kacchan!”
He almost bounced to him, sweat flying off his brow as he grabbed the drink. The bottle was ice-cold, condensation running down his fingers like the cooling relief he never expected.
“You came,” Izuku breathed out.
Katsuki didn’t even get to answer before Izuku—instinctively—threw his arms around him in a quick, tight hug.
It was fast. Breathless. But it was everything.
Katsuki barely managed to grunt out a teasing, “Oi—sweaty nerd,” before a stylist’s voice echoed down the tunnel.
“Midoriya-san! Dress change in two minutes!”
Izuku gasped.
“Shoot—!” He pulled back, holding the drink close to his chest like a treasure, then looked up at Katsuki one more time.
“Wait for me?”
“I'm watching you,” Katsuki replied.
Izuku nodded, running off with a glance behind—smiling so wide it hurt.
Minutes later, Katsuki’s phone vibrated.
Izuku 🟢: “I’ll visit Umi to Hi tonight after the show. Bringing my staff too! I told them we need a proper celebration feast! 😄”
Katsuki stared at the screen and just chuckled, wagging his head with a crooked grin.
“Bringing your entourage now, huh?” he muttered to himself. “Looks like I’m cooking for the whole production team… again.”
He called to his delivery crew and kitchen assistant, alerting them on flipping open the restaurant prep list on his tablet in an hour.
“Kaminari, we’re going full throttle tonight.”
“Why, boss?”
“The star's coming,” Katsuki replied, scrolling on his list of ingredients, “And this time, he's bringing the whole damn galaxy with him.”
Chapter 16: Emberlight
Chapter Text
The big, modern-but-earthy restaurant glowed under amber lights, the long wooden tables decked with soft lanterns and ceramic plates that weren’t just for display. The hum of laughter filled the air, trailing behind concert staff, dancers, stylists, and a few fellow idols from supporting acts who accepted Izuku’s casual invite.
But the true light of the party? Midoriya Izuku.
Dressed in cozy post-show clothes—just a sweater, cap, and flushed cheeks—he lit up the space with his laughter. His eyes twinkled as he tapped his chopsticks on his bowl and bragged:
“You guys think I’m the star? Wait ‘til you eat Katsuki’s food. This guy’s a monster. An actual food genius.”
Gasps of disbelief rippled around the table. Some of the junior dancers blinked at him.
“Midoriya-san… you’re actually bragging about someone?”
“Wait, the Bakugo-san from the commercial?”
“He’s your friend?”
Izuku chuckled and nodded toward the counter.
There, behind the kitchen half-wall, Katsuki Bakugo stood quietly—apron tied at his back, sleeves pushed up, focused only on one plate.
That plate was for Izuku.
Others watched as Umi to Hi’s other staff—Kaminari, Riko, a chef named Shin—buzzed around plating group meals and starters, following Katsuki’s soft instructions.
But for Izuku’s food? Katsuki did everything himself.
Each ingredient touched by his hand. Every movement, every garnish, a silent devotion.
One of the dancers whispered:
“Is this… normal?”
“For Bakugo-san to personally cook for him?”
Kaminari smirked as he passed by with skewers.
“For Midoriya? Yeah. That’s normal.”
More murmurs followed. Some thought it was a publicity stunt. Others quietly wondered if there was something between them.
But then Katsuki brought Izuku’s plate out himself—steamed egg custard with shiso, lightly roasted daikon, miso grilled chicken over brown rice with roasted yuzu. Izuku’s eyes widened like it was Christmas.
“No way! This one again? My favorite!”
Katsuki shrugged, setting it down.
“You earned it. Now eat.”
Izuku pouted playfully.
“You make it sound like I’m a stray cat.”
“A damn picky one,” Katsuki muttered, walking away.
But Izuku just grinned and dug in.
Meanwhike, the others watched as Izuku ate without hesitation. No guarded smiles. No slow, reluctant bites like at rehearsals.
“I’ve never seen him eat like that,” someone whispered.
“He doesn’t even touch rice when we’re filming.”
Another stylist blinked in disbelief.
“I always thought he was just naturally like that. Not a foodie.”
Jirou, sitting nearby with her arms crossed, gave a knowing smirk but said nothing.
Uraraka leaned toward her.
“You knew?”
“I suspected. Let’s just say… there’s only one place I’ve seen him actually clean his plate.”
They both looked to the front, where Katsuki brought Izuku a small dish of warm custard with honey. Not for show. Not for dessert. Just because Izuku once mentioned it comforted him.
Izuku beamed and said softly:
“You remembered again.”
Katsuki gave a tiny scoff.
“’Course I did. You only praised that damn thing like twelve times.”
And as the night wound down, and staff began to thank the restaurant crew, a few of them noted that Midoriya stayed. Still at the corner booth. Still eating—not out of pressure or habit, but genuine enjoyment.
No one brought up his famously small appetite.
No one noticed he had eaten three full servings.
They just thought: Wow… he must really like this place.
And behind the kitchen wall, Katsuki watched in silence.
He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t showing off.
He just watched him.
The bright star in his restaurant. The only customer he personally cooks for. The only person whose empty bowl made his heart feel full.
The last of the guests had left. Empty bowls were stacked neatly on the edge of the table, the lanterns had dimmed just a little, and the buzz of the party simmered into a cozy quiet.
Izuku leaned back against the booth, grinning like a kid caught with a second slice of cake.
His manager stood at the entrance, arms crossed, watching him sip his ginger-infused tea with the kind of contentment she rarely saw on his face.
“Can I stay a little longer?” Izuku asked softly, his voice hopeful but measured. “Kacchan already knows my unit. He can walk me home.”
He glanced toward Katsuki, who was wiping down the counter with lazy ease, sleeves still rolled, apron still snug around his waist. Without even looking up, Katsuki caught her gaze and gave a single nod.
Confident.
Capable.
No words needed.
Izuku’s manager sighed—part exasperation, part surrender.
“Just this once,” she said, eyes narrowing at him. “I don’t even want to know how many times you’ve snuck around to come here or how much time you spend with this man… but since I’m too tired to argue and you actually look genuinely happy to stay—”
She sighed again, softening.
“I’ll give you that.”
Izuku clasped his hands together in mock celebration, beaming like a child granted extra playtime.
“Yes! Thank you, thank you! Kacchan’s charm is really working on you, huh?”
His manager let out a laugh, half-amused, half-defeated. She looked toward Katsuki again, who arched a brow at the exchange but didn’t say anything.
“Just take care of him, Mr. Bakugo.”
“I always do,” Katsuki answered simply, voice low but sure.
His manager blinked—unsure if it was a joke or something heavier—but nodded, eyes softening before she finally left, muttering something about going home to actual adults who don’t sneak meals like teenagers.
As the door closed behind her, Izuku exhaled a long breath. He let himself fall against the cushion with a sleepy smile.
“She never lets me off that easily.”
Katsuki chuckled as he walked over, towel still in hand.
“Told you. I’m irresistible.”
“Full of yourself again,” Izuku mumbled behind his tea, hiding the blush that came uninvited.
Katsuki sat across from him with a grunt, stretching his arms back. For a moment, they both just sat there in silence, letting the hum of the fridge and the scent of roasted broth fill the air.
“You really staying long?” Katsuki asked eventually.
Izuku looked around the dimmed restaurant. His eyes lingered on the kids’ drawings still pinned near the counter, the spot where he always sat, and the kitchen he never dared enter but somehow felt like home.
“Just a little,” he whispered. “Long enough to feel… normal again.”
Katsuki didn't argue. He let him stay and finished the dishes while taking a glimpse at calm Izuku as he stayed at the corner.
When the dishes were long cleared. He gave a single mug of tea to Izuku. Now, it still steamed between them on the table as Izuku leaned his cheek into his palm, eyes lazy from warmth, full stomach, and peace. The restaurant had gone quiet, the lights soft and mellow — just the way nights feel when you don’t want them to end.
“What if,” Izuku began, his voice low and playful, “I wasn’t an idol, huh?”
Katsuki glanced up from where he was wiping his hands on a towel, then leaned an elbow against the edge of the booth.
“You’d be louder,” he muttered. “You already talk a lot. Probably never shut up if you had no manager breathing down your neck.”
Izuku giggled and shoved him lightly with his foot under the table.
“You’re mean.”
“Realistic.”
“Okay, your turn,” Izuku said, sitting up with a spark in his eyes. “What if you weren’t a chef?”
Katsuki snorted.
“Impossible.”
Izuku tilted his head.
“C’mon. Pick something. What if you had to be something else?”
Katsuki pretended to think, tapping the table with one finger.
“Dunno. Something quiet. Maybe a woodworker. Or farmer. Or...” He shrugged. “Whatever lets me build something with my hands. Feed people. Not talk too much.”
Izuku smiled, small and genuine.
“I think you’d be good at that,” he said. “You’re… warm in your own way.”
That made Katsuki pause, just slightly. His eyes flicked toward Izuku—calm, unreadable—but didn’t look away.
Izuku felt that gaze like a hand pressed to his chest.
And then the air shifted — neither awkward nor loud. Just heavy with something. The kind of silence that makes your heartbeat sound louder. That stretches between two people who are starting to notice.
They looked at each other — really looked — eyes locked in a question neither had the words to ask.
Katsuki’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened.
Izuku blinked, felt his face heat up like someone had turned on a spotlight inside his skull. His heart thudded embarrassingly fast.
“Ah—! Wait, no—” He grabbed his hoodie sleeve and yanked it up over half his face. “Why’re you looking at me like that…? My face’s all red now.”
Katsuki raised a brow, amused.
“You’re weird.”
Izuku peeked over his sleeve, eyes wide and pouty.
“You’re cool, Kacchan,” he mumbled behind the fabric, voice muffled. “Like… too cool tonight. Like always. It’s not fair.”
There was a beat of silence before Katsuki leaned back in his seat, a quiet grin tugging at his lips. Not smug. Not teasing. Just… warm.
“Then it’s working,” he muttered, stretching his arms. “Good. You should feel lucky.”
Izuku laughed, still blushing as he dropped his hoodie sleeve and played with the rim of his mug.
He didn’t know what this was becoming — not exactly. But right here, across from the man whose meals made him feel human again, something in his chest whispered:
What if this is where I get better? What if this is what it’s like to be safe?
And for the first time in a long time, Izuku didn’t feel like running from it.
Chapter 17: Fading Bite
Chapter Text
It was early morning when Izuku arrived at the new set — the old school campus-turned-drama-studio already buzzing with production crews, stylists, and actors. The fresh breeze carried the scent of dew and concrete and coffee in paper cups. The usual hum of schedules and clipboards, someone yelling for lighting adjustments, and morning greetings from familiar co-actors filled the air.
Izuku stood just outside the trailer, fingers tightening around the thick binder of his script, already marked and highlighted with careful notes. His heart wasn’t racing from the scenes today — he had prepared lines with passion, sat through long blocking hours, and was determined to take on this lead role in the school-themed family drama.
But there was one thing that made his throat dry again.
The food scenes.
It wasn’t just one or two shots either — the script was littered with them: a breakfast with "his family," a lunch scene where his character shares a bento, a dinner where emotions run high across warm meals.
Food.
Izuku swallowed tightly.
He flipped through the pages again, as if hoping it would change.
He couldn’t afford to ruin these shoots. He knew the way directors got when they had to do second or third takes of eating scenes. He couldn’t fake every bite — he could barely hold down one. The anxiety started curling in his gut again, familiar and unwelcome.
He was about to excuse himself to the restroom when he heard a light knock on the trailer door behind him. One of the assistants peeked out, holding a clipboard.
“Midoriya-san? You’re called for set orientation in ten. Also, they wanted to ask if you have any dietary restrictions for the meal scenes. They said the food props are being provided by Umi to Hi, so they can adjust anything for your comfort.”
Izuku froze.
“Umi to… Hi?”
The assistant nodded casually, flipping through her clipboard. “Yeah. We were all surprised too. Apparently, the production team partnered with their owner directly. Said it was easier to work with someone already familiar with several artists’ dietary plans and… you know, the whole aesthetic.”
Izuku felt the breath return to his lungs. And this time, it didn’t hurt.
He mumbled a soft “thank you,” before quickly stepping aside and fumbling for his phone. His fingers moved almost too fast as he pulled up his messages.
Izuku:
Is it true you’re the one in charge of our drama food props!? 😳 Tell me it’s true. Please??
It only took seconds.
Kacchan 🧂:
You mean this?
[1 image attached: A photo of Katsuki standing in his kitchen, holding the official shoot meal plan in one hand and a smug, smug smirk on his face.]Izuku:
OH THANK GOD.
Then another.
Izuku:
You’re really saving my whole acting career, Kacchan.
I was about to faint reading how much food was in this script.
Now I feel like I can do this. I’ll make sure to impress you, chef-nim 💪
And just like that, the storm inside him cleared.
For the first time since accepting the project, Izuku stepped onto set with his head high — not burdened by dread, but lifted by the simple truth that his comfort, his needs, were being seen. Protected, even, by someone who knew what it meant to eat like it was survival.
As cameras rolled and scenes came alive, Izuku slipped easily into character — delivering lines with earnestness, walking down sunlit halls with his on-screen classmates, even laughing on cue.
When it came time for the first dining scene — a lunch table surrounded by his “school friends” — he sat with chopsticks in hand, plate in front of him. He blinked.
There it was: a warm meal. Rolled egg, ginger-seasoned grilled fish, lightly glazed veggies, and a miso soup with ingredients familiar and calming. It smelled exactly like comfort. Like home.
It was unmistakably Katsuki’s.
His chest tightened — this time not from fear, but from something else entirely. A soft ache of relief.
He took a bite.
And nothing hurt.
He chewed.
And smiled.
“Cut! Good take!”
The director clapped.
Izuku’s smile widened just slightly as he mouthed a quiet thank you, not to the crew — but to the man behind the scenes who cooked that bite with intention and care.
Later that day, when his co-star asked him if the food was really that good or he was just good at acting, Izuku leaned in and whispered:
“It’s from Umi to Hi. That chef? He’s magic.”
And as the crew prepped for another scene, Izuku texted Katsuki one last thing for the day:
Izuku:
I didn’t throw up today. Not once.
Can you believe that? Thank you.
I’ll make this drama shine. For both of us. 🌟
Katsuki had just finished plating the final batch of meals for the next day’s shoot. His staff had gone home, and the hum of the refrigerators echoed quietly through the empty restaurant kitchen. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed faintly as he pulled off his gloves and wiped the sweat off his neck with a towel.
Then his phone buzzed on the prep table.
He picked it up with the usual instinctive motion, expecting maybe a schedule ping or a late-night ingredient update from a supplier.
But it wasn’t.
It was from Izuku.
I didn’t throw up today. Not once.
Can you believe that? Thank you.
I’ll make this drama shine. For both of us. 🌟
Katsuki’s brows furrowed slowly as his thumb hovered over the screen. The message was clearly filled with gratitude, pride, even a hopeful shine — but all Katsuki could focus on was one part.
"I didn’t throw up today."
The words echoed, lingered in a hollow part of his chest. Not out of disbelief. But out of realization.
He leaned back against the prep counter, staring at the message. Confused. Staring at it like it would morph into something else, something easier to understand.
Throw up? Why the hell would he throw up?
Katsuki wasn’t a stranger to idols having weird diets or overexerting themselves. He’d heard whispers, seen those silent cracks in some of his celebrity customers. But Izuku?
The same Izuku who hummed happily over steamed custard like it was the best thing in the world?
The one who once sat in this very restaurant, laughing with ice cream on his cheek beside five stray kids like life was simple?
That Izuku… was vomiting?
Katsuki clicked his tongue, pocketed the phone, and made a decision. He wiped his hands, grabbed his keys, and headed toward the dressing area behind the restaurant where his staff kept their spare things. He knew who he needed to ask.
It was nearly midnight when Katsuki caught up with Izuku’s manager, standing outside a studio exit door with a clipboard in one hand and a smoothie in the other.
“Oi,” he called, without much warning.
The woman blinked and turned.
“Bakugo-san?”
“Can I ask you something?” Katsuki didn’t waste time. “Has Midoriya been… throwing up his food before?”
The question came out blunt — like most of his words — but his eyes carried something else.
Concern.
Weight.
The manager blinked at him.
“Hmm?” She lowered her smoothie. “Throwing up?”
“Yeah. He messaged me earlier. Said something like ‘I didn’t throw up today.’ Sounded like he was relieved.”
“Oh…” she said, thinking for a moment before casually shrugging. “That might be when he’s exhausted or overworked. Izuku has days when he doesn’t eat well. But that’s normal for someone with his schedule.”
Normal?
Katsuki's jaw clenched slightly.
“I mean,” she added with a short breath, “there are days he just isn’t in the mood to eat. We give him some light pills, digestion aids… You know, what most of our idols take to maintain performance. His system’s sensitive, that’s all. But it’s nothing serious, I think.”
I think.
That was the part Katsuki caught.
She didn’t know. Not really.
And Izuku wasn’t telling her.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“And nobody ever thought maybe there’s something else goin’ on?”
The manager looked at him then — not sharply, not offended — but with a soft, tired confusion.
“He doesn’t complain. And frankly, he shines better than ever lately. Whatever’s helping him, it’s working. Especially since you started bringing food. So I stopped questioning it.”
So I stopped questioning it.
Katsuki nodded once, stepping back.
“Alright. Thanks.”
She watched him go, puzzled.
Back at Umi to Hi, Katsuki sat in the empty dining area, leaning forward on the counter with a notepad in front of him. His phone beside him glowed with past messages from Izuku.
He thought about all the moments he’d caught strange glimpses of Izuku in the past:
-
The way he once looked pale even when the lights were low.
-
That time during their commercial shoot when Izuku downed a pill just minutes after eating a bite.
-
The empty glint in his eyes when he mentioned craving steamed egg custard like it was forbidden.
And the manager’s careless response? That was what unsettled him more.
He flipped open his notes and began writing things down — not just ingredients or new recipes. He jotted reminders:
-
“Avoid over-seasoned dishes for stress days.”
-
“Include light ginger in broths — settles his stomach.”
-
“Offer water in between warm servings, not after.”
-
“Check if sugar affects him — modify desserts.”
Because this wasn’t just about cooking anymore.
Not for him.
Izuku had trusted him with a truth no one else knew.
And Katsuki Bakugo never lets someone down after they trust him.
Chapter 18: Tastes Like Absence
Chapter Text
The set was warm with lights and bustling with the energy of a wrap-up shoot.
Izuku Midoriya was dressed neatly in his school uniform costume, seated at a carefully staged dining table with his “drama family.” Around him were co-actors playing siblings, a mother, a father — all ready to shoot the final meal scene of the day. Plates were placed gently in front of them by the crew, and the director gave the countdown.
He looked down.
It was Kacchan’s food.
He knew that smell. That careful balance of savory warmth, gentle herbs, a tender steam rising from the rice like a soft invitation. He even smiled at the first whiff, feeling more excited than anxious for once.
"Let’s make this perfect," he whispered to himself.
One bite. Soft meat, easy on the palate.
Two. A bit of sweetness from the miso glaze.
Three. A sip of soup. Warm. Familiar. Comforting.
Four. His chopsticks hesitated mid-air.
And then—
A twist.
A sudden, deep churn in his stomach.
His hands trembled. A cold rush swept from his neck to his fingers. His throat tightened as nausea crept up, uninvited and cruel.
He smiled stiffly, acting, pretending it was part of the scene. But then—
He stood up. Fast. Too fast.
Eyes wide, pale, he covered his mouth and nearly tripped backward over the chair as he rushed off camera. Everyone froze.
“Izuku—!”
“Cut—cut!”
“Someone follow him!”
He barely made it past the set walls before dropping to his knees and vomiting violently behind the curtain divider.
Footsteps scurried.
His manager was the first to reach him. “Izuku—! Breathe! Here, water—”
He weakly took the bottle but couldn’t even drink it before leaning again and retching until he had nothing left. Cold sweat covered his forehead. He was shaking.
“Who… who made the food?” he whispered hoarsely, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
The manager, frantic but trying to stay composed, looked to one of the staff members as medics approached.
“It was from Umi to Hi, same as always,” someone answered.
Izuku blinked.
“Was it… Kacchan? Was it really him who cooked today…?” His voice was strained. His hands gripped the grass where he knelt. “I didn’t— It didn’t taste like him. I—I can tell.”
He tried to sit up, but the dizziness overwhelmed him again. His body trembled uncontrollably, and his lips were trembling with both panic and shame.
The medical staff helped him into a wheelchair. He didn’t resist.
He was too exhausted to protest now.
“Check his food!” the director shouted in the background. “Was it expired? Is he allergic to anything?”
The on-set medic and the food coordinator examined the remaining plate.
“No signs of food poisoning,” one of them confirmed. “It’s clean. Everything matches his meal chart.”
But Izuku’s eyes were hazy, lost in some storm no one else could see. A hundred memories running through him.
This food was wrong.
It wasn’t his.
Even if it was from Umi to Hi, it wasn’t cooked by Katsuki.
And now he was paying the price for believing his body would accept it just because the tag said so.
They brought him to a private room on the upper floor of the studio.
Dim lighting, soft bedding. He curled up on one side, refusing to sleep despite the exhaustion pulling on every nerve. His manager sat beside him, holding a cold pack to his forehead.
“You should rest,” she said gently.
“I want to call him…” Izuku mumbled under his breath.
“Hm?”
He shook his head weakly. “Nothing.”
But when she left the room for a call, Izuku reached for his phone under the blanket. His fingers trembled more from shame than weakness.
He typed, slowly.
Izuku:
Kacchan…Was it really you who cooked today’s shoot meal?
I threw up again.
I’m sorry. It wasn’t you, right? I knew it…I miss your food.
I miss feeling normal.
He didn’t send it right away.
He stared at it for a while, afraid of his own words. Afraid of sounding like he was blaming him.
But the pain in his chest was real.
So was the clarity: his body knew who cooked for him.
And it only ever trusted Bakugo Katsuki.
Inside the quiet corner of Umi to Hi, Katsuki Bakugo stirred awake on the restaurant’s staff cot, sweat clinging to his temples. His body felt like lead. His muscles screamed from the nonstop work—weeks of managing orders, prepping idol meals, balancing quality and nutrition, and handling late-night tasks all for a company that never once gave him a proper break.
“Don’t stand up, Bakugo-san!”
Kenji was the first to block him.
“You passed out last night!” Hina added, tugging on his sleeve.
“Please,” Yuu whined. “We already asked the kitchen staff to handle the shoot meals for today. Just rest, you promised us pancakes when you get better!”
But Katsuki barely heard them. His phone buzzed on the side table again.
It was from Izuku.
Kacchan…
Was it really you who cooked today’s shoot meal?
I threw up again.
I’m sorry. It wasn’t you, right? I knew it…I miss your food.
I miss feeling normal.
Katsuki’s breath hitched. His heart dropped somewhere between rage and heartbreak. He sat up slowly, brushing off Yuu’s hand gently.
He stood.
“I’m going,” he muttered, grabbing his hoodie and ignoring the splitting headache behind his eyes.
“No!” Kenji yelled. “You’re still sick—”
“I need to see him,” Katsuki growled, quietly but firmly. “I need to fix this.”
Hina, small and understanding, tugged on his sleeve again.
“Is he hurt?”
Katsuki didn’t answer. He just crouched slightly and patted Hina’s head.
“He’s starving. That’s worse.”
The moment Katsuki reached for the front door, Kaminari—still in his apron from morning prep—burst in holding up his phone.
“Dude… you need to see this.”
Katsuki took it.
And there it was.
#MidoriyaIzuku
#ShootingCollapse
#NotFoodPoisoning
Headlines flooded every corner of the screen.
Midoriya Izuku throws up on set during shoot—Was it overwork or something more?
Fans spot him throwing up in old blurred photos outside hotels and convenience stores—are they linked?
Staff confirms food was not poisoned, questioning “stress and other unknown causes.”
Katsuki’s grip tightened on the phone. He scrolled further.
A blurry, pixelated photo of a man hunched over behind a convenience store in a hoodie. Another behind a van. One leaning over a sink. His face hidden—but to Katsuki, it wasn’t.
He knew that profile.
He knew that figure.
He knew it was Izuku.
“...What the hell,” he whispered. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”
Behind him, the kids had gone quiet.
“What’s wrong with the nice guy?” Sora asked from the hallway, voice trembling.
Katsuki turned, phone still in hand.
“He’s not eating right,” he muttered. “He hasn’t been for a long time.”
Katsuki walked back toward the table, sitting down heavily, still clutching his phone. His head was spinning—not from fatigue this time, but fury.
He remembered every order Izuku made late at night.
Every hesitated bite during their first shoots.
Every “thank you” that sounded like it came from a man hanging on by a thread.
The damn ginger tablets. The digestive pills. The look of guilt on his face every time he finished a meal.
He thought it was anxiety. Maybe pressure.
But this—this was beyond it.
This was sickness.
And Katsuki, despite standing right next to him for months, missed it.
“I’ve been feeding him comfort,” Katsuki whispered to himself, “but I didn’t know I was his only relief.”
Now, the media had noticed. The company was cornered. The public was speculating.
But what haunted Katsuki wasn’t what they thought they knew. It was the part they never saw.
The real question wasn’t "What’s wrong with Midoriya Izuku?"
It was—
Why didn’t anyone ask what’s been hurting him this long?
The room was sterile. Too cold for comfort. Too white to calm the nerves.
Izuku sat curled on the couch, his hoodie sleeves pulled over his trembling hands. His manager stood in front of him, arms crossed, her tone unusually gentle but her eyes filled with worry.
“Izuku,” she said softly, “I need you to be honest with me.”
He didn’t respond.
“Are you the person in those photos online? The one they’ve been linking you to… throwing up in alleys, in random backdoors after events?”
Izuku stiffened.
“You can tell me if it’s stress, or food poisoning, or overwork—but I need to know what’s really happening.”
He opened his mouth, struggling to form words, only to clamp it shut again.
“I—It’s not what they think,” he finally mumbled. “I’m just not feeling well today. That’s all. I... I’m okay.”
She looked at him for a long time.
“Izuku—”
Just then, a buzz echoed from the intercom panel.
The receptionist’s voice filtered in:
“Umi to Hi delivery. For Midoriya Izuku.”
Izuku’s eyes shot wide. He stood up immediately.
His manager turned toward the screen. There, on the small panel, was Bakugo Katsuki—hands in his pockets, hoodie up, the streetlights outside casting a soft glow behind him like some surreal scene out of a movie.
As Katsuki entered the room with slow steps. He didn’t look at either of them for more than a second.
He simply walked to the center table, placed a medium-sized plastic container down with his calloused hands, then turned to Izuku.
His voice was even. Low.
“Eat.”
That was it.
Izuku’s manager blinked.
“Excuse me? What do you think you're—”
“Not talking to you,” Katsuki cut her off, without looking. His voice wasn't rude—but it was sharp enough to slice the air between them.
Izuku’s hands trembled as he pulled the plastic closer and unlatched the lid. The scent hit him instantly.
Softly fragrant.
Familiar.
Warm.
Inside was steamed egg custard, laced with thin shreds of chicken and a hint of shiso—the same comfort dish from their first shoot together.
He looked up.
“Did you… cook this?”
Katsuki’s eyes finally met his.
“Yes.”
Izuku bit his lower lip to stop it from trembling. Then, he scooped a small bite with the wooden spoon resting inside the lid.
It melted into his tongue like silk. Gentle. Light.
He took another bite. And another.
Then—
His tears fell.
Quietly.
No sobbing.
Just soft, warm tears rolling down his face while his mouth worked slowly to eat. He didn’t try to stop them. He just pressed a palm against his cheek and whispered, “Thank you…”
The manager said nothing.
She stood frozen, watching him cry, spoon in hand, and yet, for the first time in weeks—Izuku wasn’t retching. He wasn’t forcing himself.
He was eating.
Katsuki sat across from him now, elbows on his knees, watching.
He waited until Izuku was halfway through the meal.
Then, softly—
“Are you sick?”
Izuku stopped chewing.
His shoulders froze.
He stared at the bowl in front of him, then slowly lifted his head to meet Katsuki’s gaze.
Their eyes locked.
And in that moment, Izuku couldn’t lie.
The tears that had dried suddenly surged again. He lowered his head and brought both palms to cover his face, biting back his sobs.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
That’s all he said.
No explanation.
No long confession.
Just that simple, broken apology.
But that alone answered everything.
Even his manager staggered a step back. Her hand came to her lips as the realization hit her like a truck.
He’s been sick all this time. And they missed it.
She looked back at the photos she once dismissed.
The way he always “wasn’t in the mood.”
The pills.
The faked smiles.
The perfectly followed charts.
Everything crashed together in her mind, She sat down heavily beside him.
Izuku kept whispering, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— I tried to follow— I just wanted to do good— I didn't want to make you all worry—”
Katsuki reached across the table and gently took the spoon from Izuku’s shaking hand.
With calm care, he scooped a portion and raised it toward him.
“Then eat,” Katsuki said, his voice gentler than anyone had ever heard him.
“You don’t have to explain. Just eat. I’ll take care of it.”
Chapter 19: Fed and Falling
Chapter Text
The hallway outside Izuku’s room was quiet — the only sound came from the subtle hum of the air conditioning unit and the occasional soft rustle of tree branches from the open balcony nearby.
Through the glass of the half-open door, Midoriya Izuku lay asleep on his bed.
For the first time in weeks, his breathing was even, his brows unknitted. No cold sweat soaked his pillow. His arms were folded over a warm compress Katsuki had given him earlier, and the now-empty food container was on the bedside table.
Standing just outside, side by side, were his manager and Bakugo Katsuki — both quiet, but for very different reasons.
The manager was the first to speak.
“How did you know?”
Katsuki glanced her way.
“Know what?”
“That he was sick.”
She crossed her arms, her voice low now — not confrontational, just… tired and searching.
“None of us saw it. We didn’t suspect it was this serious. Izuku showed us the diagnosis earlier after eating. Something about psychological dietary trauma or whatever. The doctor said his body responds only to familiar, trusted cooking.”
Katsuki didn’t speak for a moment.
His eyes were still fixed on the sleeping figure on the bed. The same Midoriya Izuku who once snuck out at 4 AM to eat steamed custard like it was his first meal in days.
Katsuki slowly exhaled.
“I didn’t know exactly. Not at first.”
He stepped closer to the glass door, leaning his shoulder softly against the frame.
“But I’ve cooked for enough people to know when someone eats out of relief instead of just hunger.”
The manager looked down.
“I saw it during the commercial shoot,” Katsuki continued. “He looked like he wanted to cry. And he smiled so hard like he was scared it’d disappear. That’s not how people eat unless food means something else to them.”
He looked at her again, not accusing — just firm. Honest.
“I’ll take responsibility for his meals from now on. I already discussed it with your higher-ups. Izuku’s system has already adjusted to my food. Doesn’t matter if your kitchen staff copies my recipe or if they follow his food chart word for word.”
He paused.
“It won’t matter. He’ll still vomit it.”
The manager didn’t argue. She had no room to.
After everything, she could only nod.
“I… didn’t think it would turn out like this,” she whispered. “We thought we were helping. I was just trying to maintain his form. His status. His image. But…”
She looked at Izuku, asleep with the smallest, peaceful smile on his lips.
“…it’s different when he’s around you.”
She exhaled with a half-laugh. “He lights up. I thought it was just about food. But I guess it’s not.”
Katsuki shook his head with a soft scoff.
“It’s still food. Just not the kind you measure by calories or weight.”
They stood in silence again for a while.
Then the manager asked, softly, “Why did you apologize earlier? On set?”
Katsuki turned toward her fully now.
After recovering, Katsuki made it a point to personally apologize to Izuku’s set crew and even to his agency. He felt deeply responsible for what had happened and couldn't afford to give them any reason to terminate his contract—especially not when it came to preparing meals for Izuku.
“Because I wasn’t there,” he admitted. “I always cooked his meals personally. But that day I got sick. Overworked myself.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tensing at the memory.
“I trusted someone else to make it with the same instructions. But Izuku’s body knew the difference.”
The manager’s lips thinned. She looked away, her guilt finally catching up with her.
“I guess… it makes sense now,” she murmured. “Why he fought so hard to come here before. Why he used to sneak out even when I gave him warnings. It’s not just your food. It’s the way you treat him.”
Katsuki didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
The stillness of the moment said enough.
Before they parted, Katsuki glanced into the room once more.
Izuku shifted in his sleep, curling slightly to one side, his lips twitching faintly — like he was dreaming of something peaceful.
Or maybe… someone.
“I won’t let him starve again,” Katsuki said finally. “Even if I have to cook him every damn meal until he’s old and gray.”
The manager let out a tired laugh.
“That sounds about right for someone like you.”
Katsuki didn’t laugh.
But he smiled.
Just a little.
Because the star everyone loved was finally resting like he deserved. And Katsuki intended to keep it that way — one meal at a time.
The morning light slipped through the curtains in soft slants, casting a sleepy golden hue over Izuku’s apartment. The TV murmured in the background, a news anchor’s voice calmly addressing the media storm that had swirled around Midoriya Izuku the past few days. Most of it speculation, some of it concerning—but none of it mattered to Izuku in this moment.
Not when he was here again.
Katsuki stood in front of the small stove in Izuku’s open-concept kitchen, sleeves rolled up, towel slung over one shoulder, working efficiently like he owned the place. Maybe, in a way, he did now. Because ever since last night, this little unit hadn’t felt like a hiding place anymore.
It felt like safety.
Izuku sat on the dining chair, legs pulled up, chin resting on his knees as he watched the man move around his kitchen like he’d been doing it forever.
“You’re really serious, huh?” Izuku asked, voice quiet.
Katsuki glanced back.
“About what?”
“You came back again this morning. I thought it was a one-time rescue.”
Katsuki raised a brow, turning to set a bowl of hot rice and soup in front of him.
“I checked your fridge last night.”
Izuku winced.
“I should apologize for that.”
“You should,” Katsuki deadpanned. “It was a damn apocalypse in there. Instant food, six types of bottled water, and pills. That’s not a kitchen, it’s a pharmacy waiting room.”
Izuku smiled sheepishly.
“I’m… picky. I’m sorry if I’ve been a burden.”
Katsuki didn’t say anything to that right away.
He moved back to the counter, added the final dish — soft tamagoyaki — and brought it over. Then he turned, wiped his hands, and leaned back on the counter.
“I signed up officially,” he said. “I’m your chef now. Personal. Every meal.”
Izuku blinked up at him.
“Wait. What about Umi to Hi?”
“I’ll still run it. Kaminari’s stepping up as head. He’s been itching to prove himself. I’ve been meaning to train him more seriously anyway.”
“You’re… giving up that much to cook for me?” Izuku asked, eyes wide with disbelief.
“I’m not giving up anything,” Katsuki replied simply. “I’m making a trade. I get to make sure you don’t starve or collapse again. That’s worth it.”
Izuku smiled. It was soft and touched with something sad.
“You really do say things like it’s so simple.”
Katsuki turned back to the table, reached over, and gently nudged a bowl closer to him.
Izuku reached for his spoon and muttered, more to himself than to Katsuki,
“You’re going to make me fall in love if you keep feeding me like this. I would not be surprise if you'd also sign up to be my lover.”
He didn’t think Katsuki heard it.
But Katsuki did.
As Izuku took a bite, lips curving into a smile at the taste, he blinked when Katsuki sat down beside him — casual, confident, like he belonged there. Because he did.
Then, Katsuki looked at him, deadpan serious.
“You said it,” he said.
Izuku paused, spoon mid-air.
“What?”
“If I’d sign up to be your lover too.”
Izuku blinked. He had definitely meant that as a joke.
Katsuki leaned forward just a little.
“Should I?”
The spoon slipped from Izuku’s fingers and hit the bowl with a soft clink. His face turned a color that rivaled the sunset.
“You—Kacchan!! Don’t say things like that so easily!!”
“Why not?” Katsuki shrugged, nonchalant as he reached over, picked up the spoon, scooped a bit of rice and egg, and held it toward him. “If I’m already feeding you three meals a day, might as well come with the full package.”
Izuku stared at the spoon, then at Katsuki, mortified and glowing red.
But he opened his mouth and ate it anyway.
His cheeks puffed as he chewed and then quickly covered his face with both hands.
“You’re too much.”
Katsuki chuckled, standing up again, heading toward the sink to start cleaning the dishes he’d used.
“Finish your food before it gets cold.”
Izuku peeked at him from between his fingers, pouting and still blushing like mad.
And even though he couldn’t say it aloud yet, in that tiny kitchen, with warm rice in his belly and Katsuki Bakugo moving around like he belonged there — Izuku thought,
"I'm glad I met you."
Chapter 20: Planning the Good
Chapter Text
The sterile, polished surface of the agency meeting room glinted under the ceiling lights as Izuku sat straight, fingers clasped tightly on his lap. His manager sat beside him, flipping through the medical documents that now officially named his condition.
Across from them, the executives nodded with solemn expressions, most of them avoiding direct eye contact, likely out of guilt or maybe discomfort. They hadn’t known.
Not truly.
They thought it was picky eating. A spoiled idol quirk. Not a psychosomatic reaction that had taken root in his body like a curse.
But now they did.
And they were trying.
“Midoriya-san,” one of the board directors finally said, “we would like to officially grant you a full month of rest starting today. We’ve already assigned publicists to handle the press. We’ll revise the statement to focus on health recovery due to overwork. The company will take responsibility for the misunderstanding on set.”
Izuku’s lips parted in surprise. He didn’t know what kind of reaction he expected—maybe denial, more control, or a lighter punishment masked as concern—but not this.
“You mean… I can stop for now?”
The director smiled.
“We want you to return. And for that, you need to heal.”
Next to him, his manager released a slow breath. For the first time in a long while, she looked less like a tightrope walker and more like someone standing on solid ground.
“You did well, Izuku,” she said, reaching to squeeze his shoulder. “You were honest. I’m proud of you.”
Izuku smiled, heart suddenly light.
As the meeting wrapped up, and everyone stood to exchange parting bows, his manager suddenly clapped her hands together as if just remembering something important.
“Ah, before we go,” she said, turning to the room, then to Izuku directly, “we need to plan your rest month accordingly. You can’t live off convenience store food, takeout, or forget to eat just because I’m not breathing down your neck every day.”
Izuku blinked.
“W-What do you mean?”
“You’ll need someone to monitor your meals and help keep your rest actually restful.”
She turned and pointed at someone standing by the doorway, arms crossed, looking like he was dragged there on cue.
Katsuki.
Still wearing his apron, his name tag slightly askew, looking completely unamused but obviously already in on this conversation.
The manager didn’t even hesitate. She walked right up, grabbed Katsuki by the wrist, and shoved him gently toward Izuku like she was presenting a new brand deal.
“Better bring your personal chef with you everywhere.”
Izuku’s eyes widened.
“Wait—what?!”
Katsuki raised a brow.
“Surprised?”
“I didn’t know this was an agency plan!”
“You asked for this,” the manager cut in with a grin. “Indirectly, but still. And if I see any food wrapper or pill bottle in your place that’s not approved by Bakugo-san, I swear—”
“I get it! I get it!” Izuku laughed, throwing up his hands in surrender. “I’ll behave.”
Katsuki just smirked.
“Better get used to seeing my face more often, Deku.”
Izuku flushed.
“Don’t say it like that in front of everyone!”
One of the execs cleared their throat, amused.
“Should we add a cooking segment in the next commercial once Midoriya returns?”
“Don’t give them ideas, especially him,” Izuku muttered.
But beneath the embarrassment, there was something that grounded him — this feeling of security. For the first time in a long time, his next steps didn’t feel like walking toward another performance.
They felt like steps toward healing.
And so, when the meeting room cleared and Katsuki followed him back down the hallway, Izuku looked up at him with a tired smile.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me for a month.”
Katsuki smirked. “I was already planning to stay longer.”
The familiar bell above the wooden door chimed softly as Katsuki and Izuku stepped into Umi to Hi.
Even though Izuku had sunglasses on and a cap pulled low over his curls, the moment he walked through that entrance, the staff—seasoned and sharp—immediately straightened their backs and bowed in respect. Not just to the walking storm of their head chef, Bakugo Katsuki, but to the slightly awkward yet glowing figure beside him.
“Welcome back, Boss!”
“Kaminari-san’s in the back prepping for the lunch service!”
“Good morning, Midoriya-san!”
Izuku blinked in surprise.
“How…?”
One staff member smiled kindly.
“No one else wears an oversized hoodie like that while sticking so close to our boss.”
Izuku chuckled nervously.
“Guess I’m easy to read.”
They made their way past the busy main kitchen, where Kaminari—hair tied back, apron splattered with sauce, and a concentration crease between his brows—was darting from counter to counter. He looked like a slightly more chaotic version of Katsuki, and when he noticed them, he yelled without turning:
“Yo, boss! I haven’t burned anything today—yet! Wait, wait, wait, is that Midoriya Izuku under that hat?! You came without a camera crew this time!”
Izuku laughed as he waved.
“Hi, Kaminari! You’re doing great!”
“Damn right I am! But don’t stay long in here—I’m in the zone!”
Katsuki rolled his eyes and muttered, “You’re always in a danger zone.”
They bypassed the kitchen and entered the quiet back hallway that led to the staff quarters and the private room where Katsuki allowed the kids to rest at night. It was a cozy, multi-use space transformed into a safe haven with folded futons, a few posters on the wall, donated books, and tiny signs of childish ownership everywhere—half-done drawings, stacks of homework, and a basket of laundry one of the staff probably helped with that morning.
Izuku sat on the edge of the low table and let out a deep sigh. He looked around the warm-lit room.
“They’re in school right now,” Katsuki said as he placed Izuku’s things down. “You can stay here and rest while it’s quiet.”
Izuku nodded.
“Thank you… really. I’m officially on vacation now.”
Katsuki grunted in acknowledgment and left without another word, leaving the door cracked open.
Moments later, he returned with a tray—steamed egg custard infused with shiso, grilled miso-glazed fish, delicate rice, and a side of pickled vegetables. Comfort food.
His food.
Izuku’s stomach growled as soon as he smelled it.
“Oh my god—Kacchan,” he said breathlessly, grabbing the chopsticks.
“Eat slowly, or I’ll take it away,” Katsuki warned with a small smirk, setting a mug of warm tea beside him.
Izuku pouted but obeyed.
Every bite was a miracle. Like the first meal on a rainy day after hours of running. Like warmth in the cold.
Halfway through, he sighed in satisfaction, cheeks faintly flushed.
“I wouldn’t even mind coming back here every day if it means I get to eat your food. Even if I’m on vacation—I’ll walk all the way here.”
Katsuki leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“You won’t need to.”
Izuku tilted his head.
“Huh?”
“I’m coming to your place,” Katsuki said matter-of-factly. “Your manager told me to check your pantry. Said it was a disaster.”
Izuku’s eyes widened.
“You don’t need to! I can change it if you tell me what to get—”
“That’s the problem,” Katsuki cut in, raising a brow. “You don’t even know what the basics are. You think ginger tea and five brands of vitamin water are ‘food groups.’ So, no. I’ll handle it.”
Izuku pouted as he stabbed a piece of tofu.
“You’re spoiling me…”
He glanced up, eyes gleaming with playful mischief.
“Do you really plan to make me fall in love with you?”
Katsuki didn’t even blink.
“Yes. To strengthen the contract as your lover too.”
Clatter.
Izuku dropped his chopsticks and sputtered.
“That was a joke!”
“Jokes aren’t in my vocabulary,” Katsuki replied coolly, already kneeling beside the table.
He picked up the fallen chopsticks, wiped them clean, and scooped a bite for Izuku without skipping a beat. “Now, listen to your lover and eat properly.”
Izuku, face red like a tomato, covered his burning cheeks with both hands.
“W-Why are you like this, Kacchan?!”
Katsuki grinned.
“Like what?”
“Like this—!” he whined, voice muffled behind his palms.
But he opened his mouth and let Katsuki feed him anyway.
“Because,” Katsuki said after a moment, brushing a dab of sauce from the corner of Izuku’s mouth with his thumb, “you looked like you were dying. Now, you look alive. So yeah—I’ll be like this.”
Izuku stared at him, stunned. His heart thudded like he was seventeen again, hopelessly crushing on the strongest person he knew. But now… it wasn’t about strength. It was about safety. About finally eating without fear. About waking up and not feeling dread.
He swallowed the food. “...I’m glad it’s you.”
Katsuki didn’t say anything. He just smiled and leaned back as Izuku continued to eat.
Outside, the kitchen roared on with lunch orders, but here, in the back room of Umi to Hi, the world was quiet.
It had been six days since Izuku’s vacation started, and once again, he found himself at Umi to Hi—waiting patiently like always. Katsuki was busy in the kitchen, still cooking for the restaurant’s usual crowd, but he never forgot to prepare Izuku’s meal first.
Izuku stood in front of the large bulletin board in the staff room at Umi to Hi, a pen in hand, brows slightly furrowed in concentration. Katsuki was in the kitchen prepping ingredients for a new seasonal menu, and the kids were still in school for another hour. The room was warm with sunlight and smelled faintly of katsudon and miso, the kind of quiet that lets thoughts linger longer than they should.
He tapped the pen against his lips.
A vacation, huh?
For the first time in years, he wasn’t being told where to go, what to eat, what to sing, or how many calories he had left for the day. No cameras. No spotlight. No schedules breathing down his neck. Just one full month of freedom—and somehow, he knew exactly who he wanted to spend it with.
The kids.
And…
Kacchan.
He hesitated at the name in his head.
“Lover,” Katsuki had said so casually the other day. Like it was normal to say that while feeding someone grilled sweetfish in a backroom. Like it was normal to wipe sauce off someone’s lips and make their heart nearly leap out of their chest.
Izuku had tried to laugh it off.
A joke, of course.
Just another one of Katsuki’s dry, smug one-liners meant to tease him. It had to be. But the way Katsuki acted wasn’t a joke.
The way he came to his unit without asking, stocked his fridge, cooked his meals, kept track of his intake better than his own manager, and fed him—actually fed him—when his hands trembled too much from hunger or anxiety... that wasn’t something you just did for a friend.
But assuming it meant something more?
“That’s dangerous,” Izuku whispered under his breath.
If he assumed this was real and it wasn’t—he’d cry.
He knew he would.
He’d break in ways he couldn’t afford to.
So, he tucked the thought away and focused on the kids instead.
With a grin forming, Izuku started scribbling a rough list on the board:
-
A cabin house rental (safe and private)
-
Baking day with Katsuki and the kids
-
Stargazing
- Rent a yacht
-
A day where the kids can cook for them
-
Bonfire night with stories and marshmallows
-
No phones. No scripts. No press. Just us.
He couldn’t stop smiling as the list grew.
Maybe… maybe this could be the kind of memory he’d keep forever. Not just a "celebrity rest break,” but something real. A vacation not to forget what hurt him—but to remember who helped him heal.
Just then, Katsuki walked in holding a tray of shaved ice topped with syrup and fresh fruit.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, setting the tray down beside Izuku.
Izuku straightened.
“I’m planning something.”
Katsuki raised a brow.
“Planning to eat all this and pretend you didn’t?”
Izuku laughed.
“No! A vacation… with the kids. A surprise, maybe. Since they don’t get much chance to go anywhere far.”
Katsuki’s eyes flicked to the board.
“Tch. You think they’d like stargazing more than wrecking a water balloon war?”
“I’m writing that next!” Izuku argued playfully, scribbling it down.
Katsuki chuckled and sat beside him, sliding one of the shaved ice bowls in front of him.
“You’re spoiling them.”
“You spoil me more.”
The moment he said it, Izuku froze. Their eyes met.
A beat of silence passed.
Izuku quickly looked away, cheeks flushing pink. He took a too-large spoonful of ice and nearly brain-froze himself to change the subject.
Katsuki, of course, said nothing. But he was smirking.
Izuku could feel it without even looking.
“Don’t say anything dumb,” he warned, pointing his spoon at him.
“What? Like call you my lover again?” Katsuki drawled lazily, popping a piece of mochi into his mouth.
Izuku wailed, flailing as he covered his face.
“Kacchan!! I told you I was joking!”
“Too late. I signed the contract in my heart already.”
“THAT’S NOT A REAL CONTRACT!”
Katsuki just shrugged.
“You planned a romantic cabin trip with me and some orphans. Sounds pretty official to me.”
Izuku whimpered.
“I hate you.”
“You like me.”
“I WILL eat your shaved ice now!”
“Good. I made it for you.”
They both paused.
Izuku’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. His heart, once again, slammed into his ribs like a warning.
And still—he took the bite. Let the cold sweetness numb his mouth even while his heart stayed too warm.
He wouldn’t say it out loud.
Not yet.
Not until he knew for sure. But he let himself feel it. At least here, with the kids, and with Kacchan who pretended jokes were real and made real things feel like dreams.
Izuku looked out the window. The sky was wide and blue and full of the kind of light that promised something soft and good would come.
“I want this vacation to be worth keeping,” he whispered.
Katsuki leaned back and said, “Then I’ll make every meal worth remembering too.”
And somehow… Izuku believed him.
Chapter 21: Something Like Love
Chapter Text
The countryside air was fresh and crisp, carrying the scent of pine trees, earth, and something faintly sweet from the bakery nearby. A soft breeze rolled through the wooden beams of the cabin house Izuku rented, causing the chimes by the entrance to sing a soft, happy tune.
“Whoa!!”
Kenji was the first to race through the front door, his backpack half-open and shoes kicked off without warning.
“THIS PLACE IS HUGE!”
Sora followed right after, dragging Hina who was too busy marveling at the hanging lanterns on the porch. Yuu and Aki came in next, eyes wide and shimmering with joy.
Izuku, who had just set down his luggage by the entrance, laughed softly as the kids ran around. He crouched by the doorway, waving them toward the main hallway.
“Hey, careful with the stairs, okay? I know you're excited but you only just got here!” he called, gently.
“But, Midoriya-san!!” Yuu shouted from the hallway, “It’s like a dream! There’s even a big garden outside!”
“Is that a fireplace?!” Kenji gasped.
“You got a piano??” Hina squeaked.
Izuku smiled warmly.
“You guys can explore all you want after we settle in. I’ve got something to show you first!”
The kids gathered again, following Izuku like little ducklings. He guided them to the room on the second floor, where he’d arranged something special just for them.
As soon as he opened the door, their faces lit up.
One large room, with soft lighting and warm beige tones. A set of wide shared beds filled the back wall like a cloud of comfort—pillows stacked high, stuffed toys peeking from the corners, and fuzzy blankets neatly folded on top.
Sora gasped.
“We get to sleep together?!”
“Yup.” Izuku smiled, standing at the doorway with a hand on his hip. “I asked for custom bedding. I thought it would be more fun—and safe—if you were all in one big cozy room.”
Kenji jumped on the bed immediately, arms wide open.
“BEST. VACATION. EVER!!”
Yuu tackled him, laughing, “I feel like royalty!”
The room echoed with giggles and tiny shouts of joy. Even Hina, usually so quiet, had a sparkle in their eyes as they clutched one of the pillows.
“Thank you, Izuku-san!!”
“Yeah, thank you so much!!”
“This is the best!!”
The thanks came in waves—so much that Izuku laughed, ruffling Kenji’s hair and giving Yuu a playful bump on the shoulder.
“It’s nothing, really. I just wanted you all to feel safe and happy.”
Hina pulled on his sleeve.
“Will you sing for us again tonight? Like before?”
Izuku’s gaze softened.
“Anytime you want.”
From behind them, Katsuki leaned against the doorframe, watching the moment unfold with quiet fondness. He didn’t say anything, not yet. Not while Izuku’s eyes shined like that—not while the kids looked at him like he was their whole sky.
Later, as the kids continued exploring the backyard and game room, Izuku made his way to the guest room—his and Katsuki’s shared room.
It was modest. Two separate beds, two simple cabinets, a writing desk, and a window facing the back garden. The scent of clean linen hung in the air.
Izuku stepped inside and let out a soft sigh.
“Finally…”
He walked over to one of the beds and began unpacking into the cabinet beside it. He was halfway through arranging his neatly folded shirts when Katsuki strolled in behind him, slinging his duffle bag onto the other bed.
“Separate beds, huh?” Katsuki teased, nudging Izuku with his shoulder. “And yet, same room. You’re really bad at this whole ‘denial’ thing.”
Izuku rolled his eyes without turning.
“It’s practical. There’s only two bedrooms and the kids got the big one.”
“Sure, sure. Very lover-like of you,” Katsuki snorted, already unpacking his shirts with one hand while unzipping a side pocket with the other.
Izuku’s cheeks tingled, but he refused to rise to the bait.
“You really love saying that, don’t you?”
Katsuki glanced at him with a smirk.
“Jokes aren’t in my vocabulary, remember?”
Izuku huffed and turned away before Katsuki could catch the red blooming in his cheeks. He shoved his socks a little too fast into the drawer and muttered,
“Focus on unpacking, Chef Boyfriend.”
Katsuki just laughed behind him.
Moments later, the door slammed open and the kids tumbled inside.
“Woah! So this is where you two sleep!”
“You got matching cabinets!”
“Look, Sora! There’s even a mini table for midnight snacks!”
“Don’t even think about it,” Katsuki warned without looking up.
The kids giggled but didn’t listen. They jumped on Katsuki’s bed, causing a pillow to fly across the room.
Izuku caught it, laughing.
“Alright, alright! Let’s go get ready. It’s almost time for dinner!”
“Are you cooking again, Bakugo-san?” Aki asked, eyes sparkling.
“Of course,” Katsuki said, heading for the door. “It’s not a real vacation without food that ruins your taste for any other restaurant.”
The kids cheered again.
Izuku followed last, pausing at the door to take it all in.
Katsuki’s presence.
The kids’ joy.
The warm scent of whatever stew was bubbling in the kitchen downstairs. He exhaled slowly, the weight in his chest feeling lighter for the first time in a while.
Maybe it was okay to stay like this for a little while longer. Maybe it was okay to enjoy what felt like love, even if he wasn’t sure yet.
Because this vacation?
This was his to keep.
The soft hum of nighttime settled over the vacation house like a warm blanket. Crickets outside sang their lullabies, mingling with the last flickers of fireflies dancing in the dark garden. In the shared bedroom, the kids were now huddled under one comforter, faces bright with anticipation and the sleepy joy only children on a real holiday can know.
Izuku stood by the edge of the bed, brushing a few stray locks from Aki’s forehead. The others, already snug under the covers, looked up at him with expectant eyes.
“Ready for that song I promised?” Izuku asked gently.
The little heads nodded all at once, eyes wide, as if seeing a star in human form prepare to sing just for them.
Izuku sat on the edge of the bed and started softly, no microphone, no auto-tune, no lights—just his voice, raw and calming.
A song that felt like home.
The melody laced with memories and dreams, familiar but fresh, like waking up to a warm morning after a long, cold season.
The children slowly fell quiet, letting his voice wash over them like waves over the shore. Hina was the first to close her eyes. Then Yuu, curled into a ball. Kenji clutched his pillow tighter. Aki and Sora both leaned closer toward Izuku, but their breathing soon softened into sleep.
Izuku sang the last note quietly, then sat still for a moment—just watching the peace that filled the room like mist. He carefully stood up and tucked the covers in better.
Just as he turned to leave, tiny arms wrapped around him.
“Thank you,” Kenji murmured sleepily. “You’re like an angel.”
“Yeah…” Sora whispered. “A singing angel…”
The others, barely awake, chimed soft thanks as well. Izuku hugged them back gently, overwhelmed by how freely they gave love and comfort, how it reflected so much of what he secretly longed for.
He whispered, “Good night, everyone. Sweet dreams.”
He stepped out quietly, closing the door behind him.
Meanwhile, in the hallway, a warm scent met him—honey and lemon, with a hint of ginger.
“Izuku,” Katsuki’s voice called softly from the kitchen.
Izuku blinked and padded toward it. He found Katsuki standing in front of the counter, sleeves rolled, hair still slightly damp from the shower. He held out a cup with a crooked grin.
“For you.”
Izuku smiled and took it.
“Smells amazing.”
“It better. Took me five minutes to get the right mix.” Katsuki passed him the cup, then grabbed one for himself and walked around the counter to sit beside him at the tall stools.
Izuku sat too, the warm drink comforting in his palms. The kitchen was quiet save for the hum of the fridge and the light clink of their cups.
Katsuki took a sip before muttering, “The kids are right. You do look like an angel when you sing.”
Izuku chuckled, turning red.
“Don’t start calling me that too. I won’t survive it.”
They both laughed softly. Then came the comfortable lull.
“I’m glad they’re having fun,” Izuku finally said, tracing the rim of his cup. “Thank you again for always… giving time for things like this. Even when I don’t give you much warning.”
Katsuki leaned back a little, his smile lazy.
“I complain in my head.”
Izuku pouted and bumped him lightly with his shoulder.
“I knew it. I’m such a bother, huh?”
“Terrible,” Katsuki said with a smirk, reaching out to pinch Izuku’s nose gently. “You seduced me with that voice. And now with all the compliments you keep throwing at my cooking? I’m hopeless.”
Izuku swatted his hand away, flustered.
“You’re impossible…”
“I’m just telling the truth.”
Izuku rolled his eyes, trying to keep the flutter in his chest at bay.
“I really thought you were doing all this because you like the idea of being my fake lover.”
Katsuki turned toward him slowly. His voice dropped—quiet but certain.
“That’s part of it.”
Izuku froze.
There it was again. That line he didn’t know how to cross. That truth dressed like a joke—but Katsuki never joked about this.
“Stop saying things like that,” Izuku whispered, unable to look at him. “It’s… hard.”
Katsuki didn’t move for a second. Then, gently, he reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Izuku’s ear. The movement was soft, like sealing something unspoken.
“Izuku,” he said, voice low and steady, “I’m not joking.”
Izuku finally met his eyes—and they stayed there, suspended in the quiet. There was no music, no script, no audience. Just them. Two people who’d walked too far from their past to call this a coincidence.
Katsuki leaned forward, eyes asking.
Izuku bit his lip, then closed his eyes.
And that was enough.
Their lips met—light, trembling at first. Katsuki kissed him like a secret he’d held too long. Izuku responded like he’d waited his whole life to be told it was okay to feel this way.
It wasn’t heated. It was patient.
When they pulled back, they both stared at each other—quiet, wide-eyed.
Izuku whispered, “Why are you like this, Kacchan?”
Katsuki only smiled.
“Because I want you to keep looking at me like that.”
He stood up slowly, taking both cups with him to clean up.
“Now finish your drink before it gets cold. Then rest. Vacation starts early tomorrow.”
Izuku, red as a tomato, leaned on the counter, watching him. His heart felt like it was singing again—no script, no pretending.
Just Katsuki. And this moment.
And maybe, just maybe, something real.
Chapter 22: Quiet Bloom
Chapter Text
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
The air carried only the distant hum of the garden’s insects and the occasional sleepy creak of the old wooden walls. Everyone had long since fallen asleep, including the kids in the next room—tired out from the day’s laughter, singing, and settling in.
But Izuku couldn’t sleep.
He lay on his side, hugging a pillow close to his chest, eyes wide open as they stared at the wall. His thoughts ran wild, rewinding again and again to that kiss. The way Katsuki looked at him before leaning in. The way his lips felt—soft, firm, deliberate. The heat that bloomed in his chest. And worse, the ache that lingered in its wake.
His cheeks burned. He pulled the pillow over his face to muffle the tiny, squeaky noise he made.
Why are you like this, Kacchan?!
He kicked his foot under the blanket like a frustrated child.
Then paused.
He dared to peek over his pillow, turning his head just slightly—only to find Katsuki already asleep, turned on his side, facing him from the next bed.
Izuku held his breath.
He shouldn’t look. He really shouldn’t.
But he did.
The dim light from the moon outside spilled through the curtain, casting a faint glow across Katsuki’s sleeping face. His expression was peaceful. That same strong jaw. That furrowless brow. He looked almost soft like this. Almost... kissable again.
Izuku unconsciously brought his fingers to his lips.
As if trying to understand what the kiss meant—what they meant. A kiss wasn’t supposed to linger this much, right?
He didn’t know how long he stared, but when he finally blinked and shifted, he gasped.
Katsuki was no longer asleep.
He was wide awake, eyes open—and staring right back at him.
Their gazes locked in the quiet, and Izuku immediately yanked the pillow back to his face.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he muttered behind it.
Katsuki blinked slowly, his voice low and gravelly from sleep.
“Can’t sleep?”
Izuku lowered the pillow just enough to breathe.
“I could... if my thoughts weren’t trying to kill me.”
Katsuki raised an eyebrow.
“Thoughts?”
Izuku didn’t answer.
That was already too much of a hint. But Katsuki sat up a little, leaning on his elbow as realization slowly crept in. He smirked.
“Oh,” he said knowingly. “It’s the kiss.”
Izuku groaned, dragging the pillow over his face again.
“Don’t say it like that.”
Katsuki leaned back on his bed, one arm behind his head as he looked up at the ceiling now.
“If we’re gonna talk about it, let’s get something straight,” he said. “I don’t agree with that ‘fake lover’ crap.”
Izuku peeked again. His heart thudded loudly in his chest.
“I never agreed it was fake,” Katsuki continued, his tone calm, but certain. “If we’re doing this, we do it right. I don’t joke about stuff like that.”
Izuku’s breath caught. “But why?” he whispered. “Why are you so determined with this… this joke?”
Katsuki turned his head again, looking at him.
“I’m a man,” Izuku added, voice quieter now. “A demanding one. I take advantage of your kindness, I sneak around for your meals, I barely give you anything back. You’re—” he hesitated, swallowing— “you’re a great man. You could shine brighter, Kacchan. Why not just… ignore me? Or reject me?”
The silence hung thick between them. Katsuki stared for a long time before pushing the blanket off and sitting up fully.
Then, without a word, he said:
“Sing for me.”
Izuku blinked.
“Huh?”
“Right now. Just a little.”
Izuku hesitated. But then he sat up too, brushing his bangs away from his face. He cleared his throat, then softly, uncertainly, began to hum.
Then sing.
It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t meant for performance.
It was raw. Gentle. Vulnerable.
Just for Katsuki.
When the final note fell into silence, Katsuki didn’t speak right away. He stood slowly and walked toward Izuku’s bed, standing beside it. Izuku looked up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.
“That’s the reason,” Katsuki finally said, voice low.
“That voice,” he continued, “saves me too.”
Izuku’s eyes widened.
“I don’t have deep scars. I don’t have a tragic past. But even in this stupid, busy, loud world... you’re like peace. That voice of yours feels like it’s pulling me toward a better life. I’m obsessed with it. With you.”
Izuku didn’t know what to say. His lips parted but no sound came out.
“And what’s wrong with you being a man?” Katsuki added. “I’m one too. You never complained about that.”
Izuku’s head dropped slightly.
“I worry more about you. Because you’re an idol. Because people expect things from you. Things they shouldn’t. Am I even allowed to say you’re my lover?” Katsuki’s voice broke just slightly on the last word.
Izuku looked up. He reached for Katsuki’s hand, tugging it gently until Katsuki sat beside him.
Then he whispered, “You’re allowed. I want you to say it again someday. Maybe… when I’m ready to say it back without all this fear.”
Katsuki nodded, squeezing his hand. “I’ll wait.”
Izuku smiled through the mist in his eyes. “You always feed me so well… maybe I’ll grow enough courage too.”
Katsuki grinned. “I’ll make it five meals a day then.”
They both laughed softly, heads leaning together, just letting the quiet hold them.
And maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t about the kiss anymore.
It was about the meaning behind it.
The promise in it.
The beginning.
The next morning
Sunlight spilled lazily into the cozy seaside villa.
The smell of breakfast drifted through the air — eggs sizzling, toasted bread browning, butter melting, and hints of fresh fruit and warm rice blending into a comforting perfume. Katsuki, dressed in a loose shirt and joggers, moved expertly in the kitchen while Izuku helped pour drinks and set out utensils, though his coordination was... less than graceful, mostly from nerves.
The kids were already buzzing around the table, still in mismatched pajamas and bed hair, chattering like birds on sugar.
“This feels like a family vacation!” Kenji said, plopping into his seat with a wide grin.
“Yeah!” Sora added, clutching a fork and pointing at Izuku and Katsuki. “If they get married, we’re like their kids, right?”
Izuku turned, almost dropped a cup, and froze in place. “H-Huh?!”
“I call eldest daughter!” Aki shouted, raising her hand before anyone else could.
“No way! I’m older than you!” Kenji protested.
“So you’d be the big brother,” Katsuki chimed in, stepping in with a tray of food. “And that means you’ll be the first one learning my recipes.”
“For real?!” Kenji beamed. “So I’ll cook for everyone?”
Katsuki placed the tray down, ruffling Kenji's hair.
“Exactly. You’ll have to learn fast so your soon-to-be mom doesn’t starve when I’m not around.”
It was like time stopped.
Izuku blinked.
The kids gasped in unison.
“Mom?!” they chorused, all turning toward him.
Izuku’s face turned crimson.
“Kacchan!” he cried, dropping the serving spoon and burying his face into his hands. “Stop saying things like that!”
The kids erupted in laughter, clapping and bouncing in their seats.
“Kacchan called him Mom!! So he’s our Mama Izuku now!”
“Mama Izuku, Mama Izuku!” Yuu sang.
Izuku peeked through his fingers, looking helpless.
“You little gremlins—!! I’m going to explode from embarrassment!”
Katsuki, thoroughly enjoying the show, walked over and slipped an arm around Izuku’s waist. Without hesitation, he kissed the top of his head.
“Ride the kids’ fantasy for now,” he murmured with a grin. “We’ll make it official soon.”
Izuku froze.
Then shoved at his chest with a half-hearted whine.
“Kacchan!!”
But the kids only laughed harder, chanting, “Mama Izuku! Papa Kacchan!”
Flustered, red-faced, and overwhelmed, Izuku gave up and flopped into his seat.
“I regret inviting you all,” he mumbled.
Sora patted his hand.
“Don’t say that, Mama. You’re the best.”
Katsuki nearly choked on his coffee from laughter.
Once the teasing finally simmered down, breakfast began. Katsuki served up hearty plates, adjusting the portions for each child like a seasoned parent. Izuku, cheeks still warm, found himself stealing glances — at the kids, at Katsuki, at the table full of warmth and noise and mess.
He realized something.
This wasn’t a fantasy.
It already felt like family.
And for once, the idea didn’t scare him.
It gave him peace.
The sky was a pristine blue, the ocean gentle and glimmering beneath the morning sun. The soft breeze carried the scent of salt and sunscreen, and the sound of laughter echoed through the private stretch of beach reserved just for them.
Katsuki stood near the shoreline, arms crossed, his eyes alert like a hawk. The kids were in the water — not too deep — just enough for them to splash and scream with joy. But every time a wave hit, Katsuki instinctively stepped forward, prepared to dive if even one of them stumbled too far.
“You’re too stiff,” Izuku laughed, walking up beside him with his pant legs rolled up and his toes sinking into the warm sand.
“They’re reckless,” Katsuki muttered, eyes narrowing as Kenji tried to ride a floating ring like a surfboard. “And that one has zero fear.”
Izuku chuckled, gently elbowing him. “That’s what makes it fun.”
“‘Fun’ means they come back in one piece.”
“Papa Kacchan, help us!” Sora called from the water. “Yuu won’t let go of the floaty!”
Katsuki sighed, “Tch,” and rolled up his joggers. “I’m not about to get pulled into that mess,” he muttered, stepping in anyway.
Izuku watched him join the chaos, helping the kids settle their argument over the floating donut. He crouched to splash Kenji for stealing it first, and soon, all of them were spraying each other and laughing.
Izuku walked further down, smiling to himself, and began collecting shells along the wet sand. They were different shapes — curved, smooth, rough — and he studied each like a treasure. The sun hit his damp hair just right, and Katsuki caught himself staring while holding a giggling Mei in his arms.
After a while, Izuku called out, “Shell hunting time!”
The kids sprinted to him like ducklings. Katsuki followed behind, shaking his head fondly. “Don’t stray too far. You might bring home a crab again.”
“It was one time!” Sora defended.
They all crouched down together. Little fingers picked at the sand while Izuku compared shells with them. “Look at this spiral one! It’s like a cinnamon roll.”
“Let’s make a collection!” Hina chirped.
Katsuki watched them all, then bent down, brushing sand off a particularly glossy pink shell. He handed it to Izuku without saying a word. Izuku’s fingers brushed his, and he blinked, looking up.
“For your collection,” Katsuki said, voice low.
Izuku smiled, cheeks pinker than the shell.
“Thanks… Kacchan.”
The beach volleyball came after — an improvised court made with driftwood poles and string. Five of the kids played on a team together, Katsuki and Izuku taking turns to play on the opposing side. Izuku kept tripping in the sand, while Katsuki somehow dove like an Olympian and still made it look like he wasn’t trying.
“Papa Kacchan’s cheating!” Kenji whined, mid-jump.
“Train harder,” Katsuki replied flatly, smirking as he tossed the ball over his shoulder.
“Don’t bully the kids,” Izuku scolded, panting and trying to get sand out of his shirt.
“They started it,” Katsuki muttered.
By the time the game ended (the kids barely winning thanks to Hina’s accidental but effective spike), everyone collapsed in the sand, sun-warmed and laughing.
Izuku laid back, the kids piled around him like puppies, holding up their shell trophies. Katsuki stood nearby with a towel draped over his shoulder, watching all of them — especially Izuku — like he was memorizing the moment.
He caught Izuku's gaze again.
Izuku smiled at him. So soft. So full.
Katsuki looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Lunch’s in an hour.”
“Don’t forget dessert,” Aki reminded.
“Noted,” he replied, hiding the small smile tugging at his lips.
Izuku touched the pink shell in his hand again.
This day felt like the kind you’d frame in a snow globe. Quietly magical.
A piece of peace in the middle of their tangled, complicated world.
Chapter 23: Silver Steam
Chapter Text
The sun had mellowed into a warm gold, and a gentle breeze rustled through the nearby trees that lined their private picnic spot just off the beach. A large mat was laid out beneath a shade tent Katsuki had prepared earlier, stocked with food containers, cold drinks, and cushions for lounging.
Katsuki, sleeves rolled up and hair still a little tousled from the volleyball match, plated the last of the grilled food while Izuku helped the kids unpack the rest — including the "surprise dishes" Sora and Kenji insisted on preparing with Katsuki earlier that morning.
"Okay, okay, okay! This one's mine!" Sora shouted, holding up a small bento box proudly.
Kenji stepped up beside her, arms crossed smugly. “But mine’s better. Papa helped with mine more.”
“Hey, hey!” Izuku chuckled as he adjusted the mat. “No fighting! This is a celebration picnic.”
“But Mama has to choose!” Kenji said, puffing his cheeks.
“M-Me?” Izuku stuttered, his face already going pink.
Katsuki, lounging behind the cooler with a bottle of water in hand, only raised an eyebrow.
“Well? They’ve been practicing, might as well give ‘em feedback.”
Izuku hesitantly looked at the two containers.
“Whose is which?”
“Try them both first!” Sora insisted. “Guess which is whose!”
Izuku laughed nervously and took the first bite.
He paused.
It was… good.
Really good.
The seasoning reminded him of something Katsuki would do — but lighter. The texture was slightly uneven, maybe overcooked in parts, but there was a lot of heart in it.
Then he took the second bite from the other box.
And paused again.
It was on his tongue — the food, the flavor — but what caught him off guard was what didn’t come: the usual clench in his stomach, the nauseating tightness that would creep up his throat. None of it came.
Across from him, Katsuki had stopped mid-sip of his water. His sharp eyes zeroed in, waiting. Izuku noticed, and their eyes locked for a beat too long.
Then, Izuku swallowed. Gently.
He looked up at the kids and asked softly, “Did you two really make this?”
Sora and Kenji exchanged glances, then both nodded vigorously.
“We did!”
“Yuu helped a little too!” Aki chimed in. “And we all watched Papa Kacchan’s instructions!”
Izuku looked down at the food, then back at Katsuki, blinking rapidly.
Katsuki mouthed quietly across the mat, “Are you okay?”
Izuku gave a subtle nod and turned back to the kids, putting on his brightest smile. “It’s good,” he said warmly. “Like… really good. I’m so proud of you. I can't even tell the difference between your food and Kacchan's.”
The kids beamed. Yuu even clapped. Kenji held up his arms like he’d just won a competition.
After everyone ate and some kids began lying on the mat, sleepily munching on fruit slices, Katsuki motioned to Izuku with a tilt of his head. They stepped away, behind a row of palms near the cooler where the sounds of the ocean muffled everything else.
“Come on,” Katsuki said in a low voice. “You can throw up now. I’ll cover you.”
But Izuku shook his head.
“I’m not joking. I… don’t feel like throwing up.”
Katsuki blinked, unsure if he heard right.
“I’m serious,” Izuku said softly, voice trembling. “My stomach’s fine. It felt safe. I don’t— I don’t know why. It’s not just your food anymore. Their food felt… okay.”
His throat tightened, and his eyes burned as he wiped them with the heel of his hand.
“Kacchan… what does this mean? Am I… actually getting better?”
Katsuki reached forward and pulled him into a firm hug, arms anchoring him in place.
“It means you’re healing,” he whispered. “You’re safe now. Your body’s learning that.”
Izuku buried his face into Katsuki’s shoulder, his voice muffled but clear.
“I was so scared I’d be like this forever. Like I could only live through pills and throwing up behind stage lights.”
Katsuki gently rubbed his back. “You’re not alone anymore, Izuku.”
Then, after a pause, Katsuki murmured near his ear, “I’ll keep training the kids. If anything happens, they’ll make food for you too. You’ll be okay even if I’m not around.”
Izuku pulled back just enough to frown.
“Don’t say that.”
“Just being practical.”
“Well, don’t.” Izuku pouted, watery eyes stern. “You’re not allowed to go anywhere.”
He pressed his forehead against Katsuki’s chest.
“You’re still the best for me,” Izuku whispered.
Katsuki exhaled a laugh, soft and warm, and wrapped him even tighter.
“Good. I’m staying. So deal with it.”
From the distance, the kids called out.
“Mamaaaaa, Papa! We’re starting the shell competition!”
Izuku groaned with a little laugh.
“They’re never letting go of that title.”
“I’m not either,” Katsuki whispered again, kissing the side of his hair.
Izuku’s blush burned anew, but his heart was at peace.
The picnic, the food, the kids… it was real.
And slowly, so was he again.
The night wrapped the world in velvet stillness, pierced only by the sound of waves lapping the shore and the crackle of a bonfire Katsuki had built with the help of the kids. Sparks danced into the sky, chasing the stars. The smell of roasted marshmallows, smoke, and saltwater clung to their skin and clothes like warmth woven into their vacation.
Izuku sat with the kids first, arms wrapped around the smallest of the group, humming a soft tune as they all munched on sweet snacks. Hina leaned against him sleepily, and Kenji sat by Katsuki, poking at the fire with a safe stick as if chasing ghosts from the flames.
“Will we do this again?” Yuu asked drowsily.
Izuku smiled, brushing her hair aside.
“If Papa Kacchan’s restaurant stays open, and I survive my agency after vacation… then yes. As many times as you want.”
The kids giggled at his words, but one by one, their laughter faded into yawns. It was Aki who stood first and said, “I think Mama needs rest too,” before tugging Kenji’s hand to follow her back toward the rooms.
Katsuki stood and helped gather the sleepy little crew, walking them with Izuku back to the lodge where their shared room awaited. After goodnight hugs and sleepy thank-yous, the two men returned to the glowing fire, now lowered to soft orange coals.
Izuku plopped down first, arms around his knees. He sighed contentedly, looking out at the dark ocean just beyond the flickering flames.
Katsuki tossed another log in to keep the warmth going and sat beside him, close but not pressing. The kind of distance where shared silence meant more than a hundred words.
“Stars are clearer out here,” Izuku murmured, head tilted back.
Katsuki followed his gaze. “Less lights to blur the sky.”
A pause.
Then Izuku asked, voice almost trembling with vulnerability, “Kacchan… what if we break up someday?”
Katsuki’s reply was sharp, immediate. “Then you’ll never see me again.”
Izuku turned to look at him, startled by how serious he sounded.
“What if I come find you?” he tested.
“I’ll spray you with pepper spray, throw some salt, and kick you out,” Katsuki deadpanned, eyes locked on the fire. “You're not allowed to break up with me in the first place.”
Izuku blinked — then burst into laughter. He fell sideways into Katsuki’s shoulder, eyes watering from both the humor and the emotion tangled inside him.
“You’re impossible.”
Katsuki tilted his head to rest against Izuku’s hair.
“You’re the one who keeps acting like this thing between us is a joke.”
“I was scared,” Izuku whispered. “Still kind of am.”
“I know,” Katsuki replied. “That’s why I’m staying close.”
Silence settled again, warmer this time. The fire crackled, and distant waves provided rhythm to the quiet.
Then Izuku spoke again, almost shyly, “Hey… if we actually stay together—what kind of dates would you want to do?”
Katsuki looked up at the sky. “Mm. Grocery dates.”
Izuku raised an eyebrow.
“Like, real ones. Not your instant-noodle-haul. Actual groceries. Then we cook together. And beach walks. Movie nights. Camping, maybe.”
“That’s very domestic of you,” Izuku teased.
“You asked.”
Izuku’s smile softened, but soon faded into concern.
“But… I can’t eat outside food. What if it’s exhausting for you? Always cooking just for me.”
Katsuki turned to him, firm and calm.
“I’m already training the kids. Their food’s getting better. You handled it, didn’t you?”
Izuku nodded.
“So,” Katsuki continued, “we take it slow. And I’ll keep teaching them. Hell, I’ll teach you too if I have to. You’ll feel safe one day even with your own cooking.”
Izuku let out a shaky breath.
“You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” Katsuki said. “But you’re worth it.”
They looked at each other, firelight flickering across their faces.
And then, slowly, Katsuki leaned in. No rush. No pressure.
Just that same unwavering presence he’s always offered.
Izuku’s heart thudded against his ribs, but he didn’t move away. This time, when their lips met, it wasn’t surprise or heat—it was something tender.
Something real.
He sighed into it. Let it settle into his bones.
And when they pulled back, Izuku whispered with a smile, “That wasn’t a joke, right?”
Katsuki brushed a thumb across his cheek. “No, Izuku. It never was.”
The sun had just begun its climb, casting streaks of golden light across the calm ocean when Katsuki caught sight of the rental yacht parked elegantly near the dock. It was sleek, white, and definitely not the kind of boat you casually hop on for a budget getaway.
Katsuki squinted.
“You… really rented that?”
Izuku, in his breezy linen shirt and shorts, tilted his head with a proud little grin.
“Yup. For 24 hours. It even has two sleeping cabins, a small kitchen, and an observation deck.”
Katsuki crossed his arms, clearly impressed but also obviously Katsuki about it.
“How much did you drop for this?”
Izuku leaned closer, dramatically whispering, “Relax. This doesn’t even touch the surface of my TF.”
Katsuki raised a brow.
“TF?”
“My talent fee, Kacchan,” Izuku chuckled.
Katsuki scowled playfully.
“Just how famous are you now to drop yacht money like you’re buying canned coffee?”
Izuku laughed, loud and free, his hands on his hips.
“Famous enough to make the best chef fall in love with me, I think?”
That shut Katsuki up—but not in the way Izuku expected. Katsuki just let out a slow, low chuckle and ruffled Izuku’s already windswept curls.
“You’re getting bolder with these jokes.”
“They’re only jokes if you don’t want them to be real, right?” Izuku shot back, grinning as he skipped ahead toward the gangplank.
Katsuki rolled his eyes but followed, heart hammering quietly behind his chest.
The yacht’s interior was clean and elegant, trimmed in pale blues and whites. The kids had already beaten them to the deck, wide-eyed and shouting out excited observations.
“Look! Dolphins!” Yuu shrieked, pointing toward the sea.
“I saw one too!” Kenji chimed in, dragging Hina and Aki toward the rail.
“I wanna sleep on the top deck tonight!” Sora declared.
Izuku leaned on the edge, laughing at the chaos.
“I hope you all have sea legs.”
“We’re pirates now!” Kenji shouted, and soon the whole deck was full of their imaginary sea journey cries.
Katsuki made his rounds checking safety features, ensuring kids had life vests nearby and the railings were locked properly. When he circled back to Izuku, he pulled him aside just enough for their shoulders to touch.
“You really planned all this?” he asked, softer now.
Izuku nodded.
“I just… wanted to give them something unforgettable. Us too.”
Katsuki looked over to the ocean, then back to him.
“You didn’t have to spend this much.”
Izuku smiled.
“I know. But I wanted to. You gave me comfort and healing with your food. Let me give back in my own way.”
Katsuki stared for a second too long, like he wanted to say more but knew it would wreck them both with feeling.
“Fine,” he muttered. “But I’m cooking every meal on this boat.”
Izuku beamed. “I already assumed that. I packed special ingredients from Umi to Hi’s pantry.”
Katsuki groaned, “I was wondering why stuff was missing.”
Izuku winked.
“Just preparing to be your assistant chef slash lover slash taste tester slash vacation funder.”
The rest of the morning passed in golden joy. They anchored in the middle of the sea where the kids played fishing games, hunted for coral shapes from above, and Katsuki even gave them quick lessons on how to pan-sear fish on the yacht’s mini stove.
Izuku leaned against the railing, wind brushing his hair gently as he watched Katsuki lift Kenji so he could stir their lunch pot.
Aki leaned next to him.
“Mama Izuku?”
“Hm?”
“You’re really happy, aren’t you?”
Izuku looked down at her — surprised, and moved.
He smiled. “Yeah. I am.”
Aki grinned. “Me too.”
Chapter 24: Fairies and a Prince
Chapter Text
The sun began to rise slowly, casting golden streaks of light across the quiet yacht. The waves were calm, lazily rocking the vessel like a cradle. The scent of the sea mixed with something better—something warm, savory, and made with love—drifting out from the small kitchen tucked in the lower deck.
Izuku stood on his toes, reaching for the cabinet while Katsuki stood behind him, one hand lazily wrapped around his waist, the other stirring a pan of eggs.
“Did you really just trap me here just so I can’t escape while you flirt?” Izuku teased, peeking over his shoulder.
Katsuki leaned closer, whispering near his ear, “Is it working?”
Izuku’s cheeks turned pink.
“Unfortunately… yes.”
“You’re too easy,” Katsuki chuckled, flipping the eggs with practiced ease. “One hug and your knees give out.”
“My knees are perfectly fine!” Izuku huffed, trying to hide his smile.
“Mmhm. That’s why you leaned on the counter for support last night, huh?”
Izuku elbowed him gently, earning a soft laugh. Before he could retort, two small bundles of sleepiness came padding into the kitchen.
“Aki! Yuu!” Izuku gasped, seeing their bedheads and sleepy eyes.
The two kids walked straight toward them like zombies to warmth, arms open.
“Morning hug…” Yuu mumbled.
Aki followed, arms up. “Morning cuddle first…”
Izuku bent down and scooped them into his arms without hesitation, the apron around his waist tangling a little as he balanced both kids against him.
“Good morning, babies,” he said, smiling warmly as the kids clung to him.
Katsuki ruffled their hair.
“You smell like drool and dreams. Perfect timing—food’s almost ready.”
Meanwhile, Kenji and Sora came sprinting in next, not for hugs, but for curiosity.
“I smell garlic,” Kenji declared, jumping to grab the counter.
Sora squinted. “No way. That’s ginger! Isn’t it, Papa Kacchan?”
“Get off the counter,” Katsuki said calmly, not even turning his head.
“Let us taste it then!” Kenji pouted.
“Five minutes.”
“That’s like five years!”
Izuku laughed.
“You two will be the reason we need a bigger kitchen one day.”
Behind them, Hina walked in quietly, rubbing her eyes, and gracefully sat at the dining table. She folded her hands in her lap, sitting straight like a little princess.
“Good morning, Hina,” Izuku greeted with a soft smile.
“Good morning, Mama,” she said politely, swinging her feet. “I’ll wait until everyone is done with hugs.”
Izuku’s heart swelled. Katsuki glanced at her and then back at Izuku, murmuring, “She’s basically you, you know.”
“Except well-behaved,” Izuku whispered.
Katsuki grinned.
“Don’t act like you weren’t a menace before coffee.”
They both chuckled, exchanging one of those quick, loaded glances that said “I love this” without needing the words.
Aki, still half-asleep in Izuku’s arms, mumbled, “Are we going to the sea again?”
“Right after breakfast ,” Katsuki confirmed, finally plating the food.
“Then I’m going to eat a lot and swim,” Yuu added, tightening his hug.
“I better cook a lot then,” Katsuki replied, leaning over to press a kiss to Izuku’s temple. “Now get those monsters to the table.”
Izuku beamed, the kitchen suddenly feeling like home in a way he never imagined.
Breakfast with his ‘lover,’ their kids, and sunlight pouring into a day full of laughter. It was more than a vacation.
It was a dream worth keeping forever.
The sun had begun to mellow into a soft golden glaze, the sky painted with brushstrokes of cotton clouds and salt-kissed blue. The yacht floated calmly, the light rocking soothing after an eventful morning of sea games and laughter. Lunch had been served and cleared, and now a comfortable stillness settled on the deck.
Izuku sat cross-legged on a sun-warmed rug at the center of the picnic area, surrounded by the children. His sleeves were rolled up, a lazy smile playing on his lips as he watched Sora stack empty cups into a shaky tower. Kenji was resting on a folded towel, his head leaning on Izuku’s thigh while Aki braided strands of his hair with colorful thread she found in the craft box they brought.
Katsuki was nearby, slicing fruit with casual precision, occasionally flicking his gaze toward the quiet group. His expression softened each time he caught Izuku laughing with the kids—like nothing could touch them out here.
Aki was the first to break the lazy quiet with a simple, naive question.
“But there’s no need to worry now, right?” he asked innocently, popping a slice of mango into his mouth.
Izuku tilted his head, curious. “About what, Aki?”
Aki grinned, a bit of juice smearing his cheek.
“About you feeling sick. You have Papa Kacchan now.”
Kenji perked up from his lounging position.
“And us! Mama, if you and Papa Kacchan ever fight—don’t worry. We’ll cook for you!”
“Yeah,” Aki added proudly, still tugging on a stubborn knot in Izuku’s hair. “We’ll be the peacekeepers and chefs.”
Izuku couldn’t help but laugh, his hand covering his mouth as tears prickled behind his eyes—but this time, they were warm and light.
Katsuki looked up from the cutting board, eyes crinkling.
“Oi,” he said gruffly, standing and walking over. He bent down and pinched Kenji and Sora’s cheeks gently. “I’m not gonna fight with your mama.”
Kenji giggled.
“You promise?”
Katsuki nodded, still kneeling beside them.
“I promise. Never.”
The kids beamed, proud of their ‘family pact.’
Izuku watched them, his heart almost too full. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before speaking, his voice softer now, touched with gratitude.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “All of you.”
The kids looked at him, puzzled.
“It’s not just Kacchan,” Izuku continued, reaching out to brush Yuu's bangs from his eyes. “It’s all of you. You’ve all become a part of my healing.”
He looked at the ocean for a moment, its horizon stretching wide like the possibilities of tomorrow.
“I used to think healing only comes from resting, or from pills, or hiding until the pain stops,” he said quietly. “But when I met you… I realized healing could look like laughter from a tiny boat, or mango juice on a kid’s face. It can be the soft voice of someone saying, ‘It’s okay to eat now.’”
The kids listened, more attentive than ever.
Izuku chuckled.
“When I first met you, remember? That alley, when I was just wandering and gave you some food?”
Kenji nodded. “You looked like a floating fairy.”
“I felt like a ghost,” Izuku admitted. “But you smiled. And then the second time—when you all gave me that napkin, and shared your own food... I tasted something magical. That’s when I met the prince of this fairy tale—Kacchan and his food.”
Katsuki huffed behind him, clearly trying not to look moved.
“You were the fairies,” Izuku said with a soft smile to the kids. “And Kacchan, the prince I didn’t expect to find. I guess this whole life of mine… this dream I thought was out of reach, started with you.”
A hush settled. Then, Sora wiped her eyes. “We’re real fairies now?”
“The strongest ones I’ve ever met,” Izuku whispered.
Katsuki finally stepped beside Izuku, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing it.
“If this is a fairy tale,” he murmured, “then it’s the one where the prince learns how to stay by his beloved’s side forever.”
Izuku smiled up at him, tears gleaming, and leaned into the touch.
The kids clapped and declared, “Best story ever!”
And beneath the warm kiss of the sea breeze, wrapped in the golden glow of a fading sun, they all stayed there—together, safe, loved. A fantasy turned reality. A family in the making.
The yacht drifted gently along the moonlit sea, the soft hum of water lapping against the hull mixing with bursts of laughter from the kids. Down below the deck, floating lights danced in the dark ocean—a parade of glowing jellyfish and tiny marine bioluminescence creating a dreamlike trail that shimmered beneath them.
The kids pressed their faces to the glass rail, gasping with every flicker of sea-light that passed.
“Look! It’s like stars under the water!” Aki shouted.
“It’s fairy lights from the sea!” Sora added, clapping with wonder in her eyes.
Izuku stood by the upper deck, arms resting on the railing as he watched the children marvel at the lights below. A soft breeze tousled his hair. The night was gentle, the kind that made everything feel distant and safe. He smiled softly, heart full just watching them live freely.
Warmth suddenly pressed into his back, strong arms wrapping around his waist. Katsuki leaned in, tucking his chin over Izuku’s shoulder as he buried his nose against the side of his neck.
“You’re warm,” Katsuki mumbled.
Izuku chuckled.
“You're clingy lately.”
“Is that a complaint?”
“More like… an observation.”
Katsuki's smirk was audible in his voice.
“Well, you seemed pretty comfortable with me hugging you now.”
Izuku rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the grin tugging at his lips.
“I got used to it. Still surprised sometimes.”
Katsuki’s hold tightened slightly, his breath brushing against Izuku’s ear.
“We already started with a kiss,” he said lowly, “why bother not taking advantage of your body now?”
Izuku blinked, then laughed, turning red in the face.
“You—! That sounds dangerous, you menace!”
Katsuki chuckled.
“It’s not. You heard the kids. We already have children now.”
Izuku’s eyes widened.
“We’ve been official for, what? Four days?”
“Exactly. We’re practically a married couple. Being close isn’t dangerous at all,” Katsuki teased, brushing his nose against Izuku’s cheek.
Izuku turned around in his arms, sliding his hands up to Katsuki’s jaw, holding his face gently.
“How bold of this man,” he muttered, squishing Katsuki’s cheeks a little. “Just randomly pulling wit like that on me.”
“I’m being honest,” Katsuki replied with a grin. “But you always think I’m joking.”
Izuku raised a brow. “That’s because your honesty comes out of nowhere. Like… boom! Surprise love attack.”
Katsuki snorted.
“What do you expect? We met out of nowhere too. Fairies and a Prince, right?”
That made them both laugh, their foreheads pressing together.
From below, the kids cheered again at a particularly bright glow swimming past the boat, but Katsuki and Izuku had already fallen into their own quiet rhythm. The moment thickened with softness, with warmth.
Their eyes locked.
Then, slowly, they leaned in again, lips brushing.
A kiss.
Then another—deeper this time, slower, fuller—anchoring them in the safety of each other while the sea danced with light beneath them and stars above witnessed the love blooming in plain sight.
Chapter 25: Recipe of Me
Chapter Text
The city buzzed like usual, but for Midoriya Izuku, today felt heavier — and more hopeful — than any other in recent months. Wrapped in a plain hoodie, a face mask, and sunglasses, he entered the discreet side entrance of the private clinic where he had been quietly consulting with his physician.
It had been weeks since his last visit — weeks filled with change. From collapsing during a shoot, to finally taking time off, to spending days by the sea with Katsuki and the kids — something shifted in him.
He felt warmer.
Braver.
Full.
Not just in the stomach, but in his heart too.
Now, sitting in the consultation room, he waited patiently, legs jittery under the desk, a notebook in hand filled with doodles and notes from the kids. He smiled at one — a stick figure of him eating with a big heart above his head labeled “MAMA.”
The door opened.
Dr. Morita, his physician, stepped in with a smile behind her glasses. “Izuku-san,” she greeted warmly, “It’s been a while. You look... brighter.”
“I feel better,” Izuku admitted, sitting straighter. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Let’s hear it,” she encouraged, pulling out her pen and sitting across from him.
Izuku held the strap of his bag a little tighter. “During my vacation... I stayed at a beach house with my… friend and the kids he takes care of. I ended up eating food that the kids cooked.”
“The kids?” Dr. Morita blinked.
“Well—Kacchan, I mean, my friend—he trained them. So I didn’t even believe it wasn’t his cooking at first.” He laughed nervously. “But the strange part is… I didn’t get sick. Not even a little.”
Dr. Morita’s brows rose, impressed.
“That’s a significant development.”
“I still get scared,” Izuku admitted. “I think I still can’t eat just anywhere. But it felt different. Like my body recognized it was safe. And I didn’t have to force it down. I just… ate.”
The doctor scribbled on her pad for a moment before looking up.
“That’s a very good sign, Izuku-san. It means your body is slowly rewiring its emotional response to food.”
Izuku tilted his head.
“You have a psychosomatic response — likely psychogenic vomiting or something closely related to Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder. Food becomes safe only when it’s deeply linked to comfort or familiarity. When someone you trust cooks, it disarms the stress. The fact that you tolerated food made by people other than Bakugo-san, even if they’re close to him, suggests your body is building tolerance — associating safety with a broader circle now.”
Izuku listened, wide-eyed, absorbing every word.
“But,” she continued gently, “This doesn’t mean you should throw yourself into a buffet just yet. It’s not about being ‘cured’ — it’s about healing.”
He nodded slowly.
“If you want to try eating food outside your comfort zone, my suggestion is this: do it gradually. Never alone. Have someone you trust with you — not just for emotional support, but to remind your brain: you’re safe.”
Izuku stared down at his hands.
“I think I want to try.”
“I believe you can.”
A small silence settled, hopeful and calm. Then Izuku pulled out his phone.
“Do you need to make a call?” she asked, smiling knowingly.
He blushed. “Yeah. He… he always tells me to let him help.”
As he went outside the clinic, with the sun dipping toward late afternoon, Izuku finally hit the call button under Kacchan 💬🔥. The phone rang once.
“Yo.”
“Kacchan?” Izuku said softly. “Are you free right now?”
“I’m prepping some pre-orders, but if you need me, I’ll make it work,” Katsuki replied, instantly alert. “You okay?”
Izuku inhaled, chest tight but steady.
“Can you… meet me somewhere?”
“Of course. Where?”
Izuku looked around. The street was filled with cafes and small family diners — places that once felt terrifying to him. Now, he thought of choosing one. Slowly. Carefully.
“Somewhere with a simple menu. A quiet place. I’ll wait at the bookstore near your restaurant so we can walk there together.”
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
“…Thank you, Kacchan.”
He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
His heart raced. But this time, it wasn’t just fear. It was something else too — courage.
Katsuki wiped his hands on a towel, hung his apron, and walked out the back of Umi to Hi with his phone in his hand and a quiet storm brewing in his chest.
He wasn’t annoyed. Not really.
He was… uneasy.
Ever since Izuku called him earlier, asking to meet and try something new, he felt an emotion unfamiliar in his chest. Something between concern and jealousy.
When he reached the bookstore, he saw Izuku instantly—hood up, glasses on, hands fidgeting in his sleeves like he was back to being a nervous first-year student again.
Katsuki smirked and approached him casually.
“You sure about this?” he asked, not mocking—just careful.
Izuku turned to him and offered a tiny smile.
“I have you, right?”
Katsuki snorted.
“Always.”
They walked to a small, family-run diner Katsuki personally knew to be clean, quiet, and gentle with service. He picked it for Izuku. The owner even promised a private table tucked near the back. It was almost empty when they arrived—perfect.
Izuku held the menu with both hands like it might fly away.
“Order whatever looks okay,” Katsuki said, tone low, patient. “But don’t rush. Even just sitting here is already a win.”
Izuku chuckled nervously.
“You’re getting good at this therapist voice, Kacchan.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He rolled his eyes and grabbed his water.
When the food came—just a simple miso soup, grilled salmon, and a small rice bowl—Izuku froze.
Katsuki didn’t pressure. Just watched.
Izuku picked up his spoon. One small sip of soup.
He waited.
Nothing.
Then a bite of salmon. He chewed slowly. Blinked.
Another bite. Still okay.
Katsuki didn’t miss the slight tremble in Izuku’s shoulders—equal parts fear and disbelief. But he kept eating. Slowly, but surely.
That’s when Katsuki, still leaning on the table with one elbow, quietly muttered:
“It’s kind of bothering me.”
Izuku stopped mid-chew, eyes widening.
“What?”
Katsuki tilted his head, resting his chin on his palm.
“Watching you learn to eat food made by someone else… right in front of the guy who made you eat again.”
Izuku blinked.
“Kacchan…”
Katsuki didn’t look mad. Just honest.
“Feels like I’m being replaced.”
Izuku gently put his chopsticks down.
“You’re not.”
Katsuki lifted a brow, unmoved.
Izuku huffed softly, cheeks puffing.
“You’re the reason I even thought of trying this. You are the start of this. If I can eat now, it’s because you fed me. Not just my body—but everything else too.”
There was a pause.
“I didn’t bring you here to show you I can replace you,” Izuku added, softer now. “I brought you here… because I can only try this if you’re next to me. I trust you that much.”
Katsuki let out a quiet sigh through his nose, hiding a tiny smirk. He looked away for a second—embarrassed by how deeply those words affected him.
“Alright,” he muttered, “I’ll allow it.”
Izuku giggled. “Thanks for the permission.”
They finished the meal slowly, with Izuku making it halfway before setting down his utensils.
Katsuki didn’t push. Just reached over, tugged Izuku’s tray closer to himself, and finished it without a word.
Izuku watched him in awe.
“You really did that.”
“You’re not wasting something you tried for,” Katsuki shrugged. “And I told you—I’m sticking around.”
When they stood to leave, Izuku slipped his arm into Katsuki’s without warning.
Not for disguise. Not to cling.
But simply because he wanted to.
Katsuki squeezed back, no words needed.
And somewhere inside, the jealousy ebbed. Not because the food was okay—but because Izuku still turned to him first.
Time moved differently during Izuku’s month-long vacation.
It wasn’t filled with long flights or luxury hotels. There were no press releases or camera flashes. Just moments—quiet, warm, unhurried moments that felt like the realest he had ever lived since becoming Japan’s top idol.
Some days started with Katsuki’s grumpy “good morning” over sizzling eggs, the kids clumsily setting the table with mismatched cups and utensils. Others began with a surprise visit from Sora or Kenji dragging Izuku by the hand, begging him to try the new sandwich they prepared with Kacchan’s guidance.
Some mornings, he cried after a meal—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming comfort of eating without fear.
They explored too—small local eateries Katsuki trusted, food stalls run by kind old women, or seaside diners with a private booth. Sometimes Katsuki cooked outside for them—grilling on the beach or preparing lunch during a forest hike with the kids.
Izuku kept a small food journal. Not to track calories or weight, but feelings.
🌿 “Day 7: Ate apple pie Sora made. No fear. No pain. Kacchan says I smiled like a real kid.”
🐟 “Day 12: Tried ramen outside. First three bites felt tight in my throat. Kacchan’s hand on my back helped. I didn’t vomit.”
🍲 “Day 20: Missed lunch. Felt dizzy. Kacchan made rice porridge and sat next to me until I ate it all.”
By the time the final week arrived, Izuku could eat more freely—still with caution, but no longer trapped in anxiety.
Every night, no matter where they spent the day, Izuku ended with Katsuki’s cooking. It became a ritual. A finish line. A reminder:
You are safe. You are fed. You are loved.
The city buzzed around Izuku as he stepped out of the cab, hoodie drawn up despite the summer warmth. His heart beat faster the moment he stood in front of the agency building again.
Not because he feared coming back.
But because he was ready.
He signed back in with the guards, his name still listed under "Active Talent" in golden letters beside the elevator.
When he stepped into the main office, several staff paused in surprise. Even his manager stood frozen for a moment before her lips curled into a slow, proud smile.
“You look… good,” she said softly, like she couldn’t believe her own words.
Izuku bowed gently.
“Thank you for giving me time.”
The meeting went smoother than expected. His latest diagnosis—officially signed by his doctor—explained his condition, the progress, and the psychological connection behind it. His manager had already started shifting his diet plans based on Katsuki’s notes and recommendations.
“We’ll follow your new system,” his nutritionist said. “As long as Bakugo-san remains your meal provider, we’ll honor that fully.”
Katsuki was even listed under the internal database now as a registered private chef for health and psychological maintenance. His background—culinary awards, clean certifications, and the commercial that made Umi to Hi viral—made him nearly untouchable in the negotiation room.
“Still,” the manager added, “are you sure you want to accept new projects already?”
Izuku nodded, firm and unwavering.
“Yes. I’m releasing a single for my comeback. I want it to be about healing. And food. And love.”
Everyone in the room smiled. Some even chuckled at how openly honest he was now.
He signed his new contract that afternoon. His schedule would begin gently—a few appearances, then slowly ramping up to his comeback album, titled:
🌟 “Recipe of Me”
A blend of ballads and soft pop, every track hinted at hunger—not just for food, but for warmth, trust, and home.
That night, Katsuki was chopping scallions when he heard the front door of Izuku's unit open.
Izuku kicked his shoes off, humming.
“I’m back.”
“Yeah?” Katsuki called out from the kitchen. “How’d it go?”
Izuku came in, hugging him from behind.
“I signed. I’m doing it, Kacchan. But you’re still cooking, every day. No negotiations.”
Katsuki rolled his eyes and scoffed.
“Tch. Don’t boss around your chef.”
Izuku leaned in.
“What if I call you my lover instead?”
Katsuki’s ears turned red.
“…Shut up and wash the rice.”
They both laughed.
That night, they sat around the table with the kids whose Izuku decided to ask to sleepover in his unit too.
Kenji showed off a new bento idea. Hina and Yuu quietly placed seaweed in the shape of Izuku’s initials on his rice. Sora joked that Katsuki might lose his chef crown soon.
Izuku looked around at the table, eyes soft, heart full.
He wasn’t just preparing for a comeback.
He was coming home to himself—one bite at a time.
Izuku stood quietly at the edge of the set, adjusting his cardigan sleeves as the stylists added finishing touches. This wasn’t just another shoot.
This was his comeback.
And more importantly—it was the first time he would be filmed eating… by choice.
The director gave a cue, and cameras rolled.
The first scene?
A soft-focus shot of Izuku sitting on a bench by the seaside, a scoop of pistachio ice cream melting down his fingers as he tried to lick it clean, giggling like a child.
The kids, dressed simply but neatly, joined in from both sides. Kenji handed him a tissue while Aki tried to lick her own ice cream before it dripped. Yuu tripped a little and almost dropped hers, but Izuku caught it just in time, smiling brightly.
The scene felt real. So real that people nearby who weren’t part of the shoot started watching with soft eyes, murmuring things like:
“He looks different now. Happier.”
“Is that… Midoriya Izuku? He’s really glowing.”
“And are those… kids? They look so comfortable with him.”
The next scene shifted to a food festival setting. Izuku walked hand-in-hand with Sora and Hina, exploring different stalls. One sold grilled corn, another warm rice balls wrapped in seaweed. Yuu pointed to a spicy skewer Izuku hesitated to try, but after a wink from Katsuki—who stood silently off-camera—he took a bite.
It wasn’t acting when his eyes widened with delight. It was genuine. And the camera caught every flicker of emotion.
2 hours later...
📸 A picture started to trend on Twitter (now X):
[PHOTO: Midoriya Izuku laughing with ice cream on his nose while hugging two children]
“IS THIS THE SAME IZUKU WE SAW SIX MONTHS AGO?? He looks so healthy! The glow-up is real. I’m crying. #MidoriyaIzuku #ComebackKing”
📸 Another shot followed:
[PHOTO: Izuku holding a steaming takoyaki ball, eyes soft with wonder]
“He’s… eating. Like actually eating. Do you know how much that means to fans who saw him struggle? 🥹❤️ #IzukuEatsAgain #FoodIsHealing”
🍛 Then, a tweet went viral:
“Word is, the food consultant for this shoot is none other than Bakugo Katsuki, the man behind ‘Umi to Hi.’ The same chef whose meals helped Izuku recover. CHEF BOYFRIEND AGENDA, ANYONE?? #BakugoKatsuki #UmiToHi #HealingByFlavor”
Even in tabloids:
📰 “Fans Applaud Midoriya Izuku’s Comeback MV for Showing Real Recovery and Joy”
📰 “Ice Cream, Street Food, and Smiles: Midoriya’s Healing Journey Debuts On-Screen”
📰 “Behind Every Bright Star is a Steady Flame: Meet Bakugo Katsuki, Chef Healing an Idol’s Soul”
Comment sections were filled with warmth, awe, and some tears.
💬 “He doesn’t look like he’s surviving anymore. He looks like he’s living.”
💬 “He used to be so skinny I was scared for him. Now he looks… just right. Healthy. Calm.”
💬 “I want to eat at Umi to Hi so bad now. Not just for the food, but because it’s where Izuku smiles.”
💬 “Bakugo-san, if you ever open cooking classes, please TAKE MY MONEY.”
💬 “Give those kids a contract, they were adorable!!!”
The sun had dipped lower, casting soft gold against the sand. The kids were tired but still giggling about the day.
Izuku sat on a bench behind the tents, unwrapping a bento Katsuki had prepared, lovingly labeled:
“For the real star. You earned dessert too.”
When Katsuki approached, Izuku looked up and beamed.
“Did you see the tweets?”
“Yeah.” Katsuki smirked. “You’re trending again. Guess that means I’ll need to stock the restaurant with extra ice cream now.”
Izuku nudged him.
“People also said you’re trending. Umi to Hi is fully booked until next month.”
Katsuki shrugged, bashful in his own way.
“Let ‘em come. But I only serve the good stuff to you.”
The kids peeked from behind the tent, giggling as they watched Izuku blush. Kenji whispered too loud, “Mama’s red again!”
Izuku turned crimson.
That night, a short official teaser dropped on Midoriya’s official fan account:
🎬 A montage of seaside laughter, shared food, melting ice cream, and a final voiceover from Izuku:
“For a while, I thought eating was something I had to fight through. But now I realize…
Food isn’t the enemy. It’s a love letter. A hand held out when you’re drowning.
And if you’re lucky, it tastes like home.”‘Recipe of Me’ — COMING SOON.
Chapter 26: Tender Surprise
Chapter Text
Later, while Katsuki was plating a sample dish for the lunch special, he noticed his phone screen light up with a message from Izuku.
“Wanna have lunch with me? There’s a place I wanted to try again… maybe you can watch me not vomit this time 😁”
Katsuki raised an eyebrow.
“You calling that a tempting offer?” he muttered to himself, but he was already taking off his apron.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he told Kaminari who was on prep duty. “Izuku wants to eat somewhere. Watch the kids.”
Kaminari just gave him a suspiciously wide grin. “Sure thing, Boss. Enjoy~”
Izuku waited outside the quaint seaside cafe, a scarf tugged high around his chin and shades perched over his face. When Katsuki arrived, Izuku waved like a kid at recess.
“You look like you’re about to spy on someone,” Katsuki muttered as he pulled the chair opposite him.
Izuku grinned.
“I am. Watching if I can survive food outside… with my favorite human as backup.”
The meal was quiet but sweet. Izuku took small bites, more comfortable now than ever before. Katsuki didn’t hover but watched out of the corner of his eye. No signs of discomfort.
By the time dessert arrived, Izuku reached out and nudged Katsuki’s arm. “You seriously didn’t check the date today?”
Katsuki frowned slightly.
“Why would I?”
Izuku leaned back in his chair, sipping his iced tea like he held the world’s biggest secret.
“Hmm. No reason. I just wanted to steal you today. That’s all.”
Katsuki didn’t push further. He looked at Izuku’s slightly flushed face and assumed he was just being affectionate again—and he wasn’t complaining.
After lunch, they walked around the coastal path nearby. Izuku took random selfies of them with the sea behind. At one point, he leaned his head on Katsuki’s shoulder as they looked out at the waves.
“Thanks for spending time with me,” Izuku whispered.
Katsuki looked at him.
“You’re acting weird.”
Izuku blinked innocently.
“How?”
Katsuki’s lips twitched.
“You’re… all soft and clingy today.”
“I am soft and clingy most days,” Izuku countered.
“…Okay, fair.”
When the sun started lowering, Izuku glanced at the time. Almost 6:30 PM.
“Alright,” he said, “Time to go back. I think the kids might stage a protest if I don’t return you soon.”
Katsuki narrowed his eyes but followed him without argument.
They returned to Umi to Hi quietly through the back door. The dining area was strangely dark—until they stepped inside and—
“SURPRISE!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PAPA KACCHAN!!!”
The lights burst on.
Streamers were pulled.
The kids ran up with handmade paper crowns, hugging Katsuki while yelling in sync.
Katsuki froze, completely caught off guard.
Izuku was behind him, smiling sheepishly.
“You really forgot?”
Sora placed the crown on his head.
“You did make our birthdays the best, so we wanted to give you one too!”
Kenji added, “Plus, you should have one day where you don’t cook! Just eat and rest, okay?”
The restaurant’s staff emerged with a specially made cake—fruit and light cream, Katsuki’s favorite. The kids had helped decorate it with chocolate letters spelling out:
“THANK YOU FOR FEEDING OUR HEARTS, PAPA!”
Katsuki’s throat tightened. He cleared it awkwardly.
“You little punks…”
But his voice cracked at the end.
Izuku stepped beside him.
“Happy Birthday, Kacchan.”
Then gently, he leaned in and kissed Katsuki on the cheek.
The room burst into applause and teasing whistles.
Later, after dinner and laughter, after gifts and paper crowns, Katsuki sat beside Izuku on the back patio of the restaurant where they could hear the kids and staff still enjoying the party.
“…Kids really planned all these?”
“I stole you for the day, didn’t I? I gave them time to make it possible since they told me they wanted to surpise you.”
Katsuki turned to him.
“That was… good.”
Izuku leaned against him.
“You deserve more days like this. Days where you’re not feeding everyone else, but being loved for everything you’ve done.”
Katsuki exhaled.
“Yeah. But I guess I can settle for being kidnapped by my favorite idiot.”
Izuku laughed.
“Then I’ll keep doing it every year.”
“Damn right you will.”
Their fingers intertwined under the table.
And the stars above glittered, like candles lit just for him.
The restaurant was finally quiet, emptied of clinking plates and laughter. The lights were dimmed low, and the birthday banner still fluttered slightly from the ceiling as the last breeze of motion left by the kids earlier vanished into the walls. The celebration had gone far better than Katsuki expected — if he had expected it at all. Everyone had already gone home, and the kids were tucked into the guest room with full stomachs and hushed giggles, trying to whisper plans for a “next surprise” before falling asleep.
Now it was just the two of them.
Izuku sat on the couch with Katsuki, their knees barely brushing. The gentle scent of grilled meat and sweet frosting still lingered in the air, mixing with Katsuki’s usual faint spice and smoke. The birthday gift box rested between them, unwrapped — a handmade leather roll for cooking knives, stitched neatly with Katsuki’s initials. It wasn’t flashy, but it was personal, and Katsuki had stared at it for a long moment before quietly saying, “Thank you.”
But Izuku hadn’t said anything back then.
Not until now.
He looked up at Katsuki, voice soft, unsure, but filled with sincerity.
“Thank you… for bringing changes into my life.”
Katsuki blinked, eyes narrowing slightly, confused.
“What?”
Izuku let out a small, breathy chuckle, shaking his head.
“I mean it. I… I used to get anxious just by looking at food. I’d flinch if anyone asked me to try something new. I kept saying I wasn’t hungry or that I’d eat later because even if I was starving, the thought made me panic. But now…”
He turned, eyes locking with Katsuki’s, full of something tender and raw.
“Now I can eat. Not just your food—though that always makes it easier—but even other dishes. As long as you’re beside me. I still get nervous sometimes, but I see you watching over me, not judging. And when I can’t finish, you just eat the rest without saying anything. That helps me more than you know.”
Katsuki said nothing, only listening intently, as if he didn’t want to miss a single word.
Izuku’s fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. “We’ve only been lovers for a few months, but… I can already tell. You’re going to be someone who spoils me so much. Not with things, but with care, with patience. It scares me sometimes, how easy it is to imagine a future with you. I just… I really hope you don’t get tired of me.”
Katsuki finally moved, his voice a low, warm rumble.
“Things are fast, yeah. I’ve been thinkin’ that too. But,” he paused, eyes steady and honest, “it doesn’t feel rushed. It feels like… the right speed for us. Enough for me to know that I want to take care of you. Not just now. Until the end.”
Izuku’s lips trembled slightly, a soft inhale shaking through him.
“I won’t give you any cheesy-ass promises like ‘I’ll always be there,’” Katsuki added, a lopsided smirk forming, but his gaze softened just as quickly. “We’ve both got dreams. We’ve got lives we still need to build. But I’ll do my best—really—to be present during the moments that matter. And I hope you’ll do the same. Be there, I mean. With me.”
Izuku’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. He nodded once, then again, and then all at once, he threw himself into Katsuki’s arms.
“I really like you, Kacchan,” he whispered, voice choked but full of conviction.
Katsuki held him tightly, arms strong and secure around Izuku’s smaller frame. He pressed a kiss to his temple, lingering there, then nuzzled into his shoulder with a content sigh.
“I like you too,” he murmured against his skin, as if it were a vow only the night needed to witness.
For a while, they didn’t move. The world outside spun as usual, but in that little pocket of warmth and quiet, they had everything they needed — the calm after chaos, the peace of knowing someone chose you, still chooses you, even when life had made it hard to be chosen before.
And just like that, Katsuki’s birthday ended — not with loud cheers or candles, but with a shared promise, silent but strong:
They were beginning something good. Something real.
Chapter 27: Brighter Days
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
For their first anniversary, the night was soft with city lights gleaming like a celebration of their quiet, beautiful love. The kids had spent the day with their trusted nanny and a few close friends of Izuku’s, allowing the two of them time alone, just for themselves. They had dinner in a cozy private restaurant Katsuki had cooked in once as a guest chef—nostalgic and warm, just like their beginnings.
Izuku had prepared a small gift, something heartfelt: a scrapbook he made, filled with memories of their year together—screenshots of tweets, pictures of ice cream dates with the kids, their first public event where Katsuki waited backstage with water for him, their first low-key trip outside the city, and even the blurry selfie they took when all five kids first called them "Papa Kacchan" and "Mama Izuku" at the same time. Each page had captions written in Izuku’s neat handwriting, some scribbled during nights he couldn’t sleep, others written right after the moments happened.
When Katsuki flipped to the last page, a letter was tucked in it—Izuku’s own words saying:
“I never imagined loving someone could be this safe. This soft. You’re not the fairytale prince in books, but you’re the warmest home I’ve ever known. My own prince in life.”
After dinner, they drove back to Izuku’s condo, the kids already asleep upstairs. They stayed out in the small balcony where fairy lights twinkled above, the skyline sprawling before them.
That’s when Izuku turned to Katsuki, holding his mug close to his chest and said with a nervous laugh, “I was thinking… maybe you and the kids can move in here? You’re already here every day. I mean, this place—this life—isn’t full without you anymore.”
Katsuki was quiet for a second, staring at Izuku like he was both surprised and painfully in love. He chuckled, set his mug down, and gently took Izuku’s hand.
“I was gonna tell you the same thing,” he said, then corrected himself. “But… not that.”
Izuku tilted his head, confused.
“What do you mean?”
Katsuki took a breath.
“I don’t wanna just move in here. You deserve better than a crowded condo. We deserve better. I want us to build something. A house—not just for you and me, but for all the kids. A place where Kenji can chase bugs in the yard and Hina can have her own music room. Yuu and Aki will have their own study space. Sora can finally stop turning the living room into a jungle gym.”
Izuku blinked, not expecting the depth of what Katsuki was saying.
“I’m entering the European chef competition again,” Katsuki continued, eyes firm and voice sure. “And I’m going to win. I’ll earn the title back, get better opportunities, and save enough for that house. Then I’m going to propose to you. And after that…” he paused, tightening his hold on Izuku’s hand, “…we’ll finalize adoption for all five kids. I want us to be their legal guardians. Their real parents. Our family. That’s my plan.”
Izuku's eyes welled up with tears, lips trembling.
“You’re not just dreaming?”
“I’m not,” Katsuki said. “But I want your side on it. I want this to be our decision. If that’s not what you want—”
“I do,” Izuku said too quickly, laughing as his tears spilled. “I do want it. I want it so much it hurts. I thought I was asking for too much just by wanting you to move in, but Kacchan, you—” He sniffled and stepped closer, burying his face into Katsuki’s chest. “You always give me more than I expect. More than I think I deserve.”
Katsuki rested his chin on Izuku’s head, wrapping his arms around him tightly.
“You deserve all of it. I’m not promising some perfect life, but I’m telling you, 'zuku… I’ll fight for this. For you. For them. I won’t back down.”
They stood there for a while, holding each other under the soft buzz of the balcony lights, the distant city humming below. Inside, on the fridge, were crayon drawings from the kids—stick figures of their growing family. And somewhere in the back of Izuku’s mind, he thought:
This… this is what happiness really feels like. And it’s only just beginning.
Ever since Izuku’s return to the entertainment scene, his light had never shone brighter.
His name, once just associated with viral clips and trending hashtags born from spontaneous stage moments, was now engraved in solid gold across television screens, streaming platforms, and billboards. It wasn't just his voice anymore—it was his charm, his sincerity, and the quiet resilience he carried in his eyes that pulled people in.
He had started appearing in more variety shows, guesting on light-hearted cooking battles, game segments, even late-night interviews. And on each show, there was a small, tender gesture that the audience learned to associate with him—how he would gently hold his hands out whenever someone offered him food. A soft, almost shy habit that became his trademark. What people didn’t know was that it stemmed from a long journey of healing.
Food, once a trigger for shame and anxiety, had become a bridge to connection. Not only did he no longer flinch at meals, he’d learned to enjoy them—even outside of Katsuki’s kitchen. Although nothing quite compared to Kacchan’s cooking, he’d learned to accept that eating was not a punishment, and that people could be kind about it. Guests, co-hosts, even staff members now asked first before offering him anything, an unspoken respect woven into his presence.
The same world that had once unknowingly cornered him with standards and expectations now protected him in subtle ways.
But perhaps what made him most proud was the upcoming release of his newest album. The first project where he contributed two original songs—songs he wrote from his own experience, carved from real emotions.
The first one was a gentle lullaby-like melody, one he used to hum to the kids back when they first met. It was about belonging, about hope found in small, warm places.
The second one…was the one he sang to Katsuki the day they confessed. A soft, aching ballad about learning how to love again even when you thought your heart had no more space to give.
Back then, the song had been tentative. A quiet reaching out. But now, with the love he nurtured daily with Katsuki, and the joy of bonding with the kids like a real family, those lyrics pulsed with something deeper. Cherished memories layered each word. Each note had weight. And the fans who got early teasers from behind-the-scenes clips already sensed the sincerity pouring through.
The day of the fast talk interview came, and Izuku—hair styled in a soft sweep, a casual suit that flattered his slender figure—sat comfortably on the plush seat under the studio lights. The set was lively, the host known for being witty but respectful, and the crowd was already buzzing with energy.
The segment started light.
“Tea or coffee?”
“Coffee—but only if it’s from this small café Kats—I mean, a café near my house!” He laughed at his own near slip.
“Beach or mountains?”
“Mountains! They feel more…peaceful. Quiet.”
“Dogs or cats?”
“Both. But I think I’d end up being the one followed around by dogs.” Laughter echoed.
And then came the turning point.
“Girlfriend or boyfriend?”
Izuku blinked. His smile froze for a heartbeat. The crowd hushed slightly, sensing the pause.
He looked to the side, lips parting like he might ask the question to himself again.
Girlfriend or boyfriend?
In that split second, his mind flicked to Katsuki’s hands over his own as he guided him to slice vegetables without trembling. To the warm plate set down before him every morning. To the strong arms hugging him from behind when his nightmares still crept in. To that low, raspy “I like you too,” murmured against his shoulder.
He smiled—genuinely this time.
“…Boyfriend.”
The crowd exploded. A cheer so loud it echoed like thunder in the studio.
Izuku blinked in surprise again. He hadn’t even said he had a lover. But the cheer that followed was so full of joy it rattled his heart.
The rest of the interview moved forward, but his mind was stuck on that reaction. When the segment ended, and they cut to commercial, the host leaned toward him with a chuckle.
“You’re probably wondering why everyone cheered so loud,” the host said kindly. “You didn’t confirm anything, true—but the timing was... perfect.”
Izuku tilted his head.
“There’s this… trending couple rumor going around,” the host added, smiling. “It’s been gaining traction. You and the chef of Umi to Hi.”
Izuku’s eyes widened.
“People have been pushing it. At first it was the clip of you two from the benefit dinner—then someone noticed you’d been seen around the same farmer’s market, then a few staff at some food shows started sharing how you’d always react differently when someone mentioned that restaurant.”
Izuku covered his face.
“Oh my god.”
The host laughed warmly.
“Don’t worry, it’s mostly love. People root for you. They admire you for your journey and your honesty—and when you answered ‘boyfriend’ just now, I think most of them took it as… hope. That maybe someone like you, who’s gone through a lot, can be happy and loved the way you deserve.”
Izuku stayed quiet for a moment, breath catching.
“I’d root for you too,” the host added gently. “If you find someone you’ll love, someone who loves you back—you’ll have a lot of people cheering you on.”
And that moment, though brief, was a kind of confirmation Izuku hadn’t expected. The world wasn’t pushing him back into a box. They were lifting him up.
Later that night, when he got home—his phone buzzing with thousands of retweets and messages—he curled up on the couch, Katsuki drying his hands after prepping the kids' late-night snack.
“You good?” Katsuki asked.
Izuku just grinned, eyes a little wet. “Yeah. I think… I might’ve told the world I like guys.”
Katsuki raised a brow.
“Might’ve?”
Izuku laughed and got up, hugging him tightly.
“And I think they… like it.”
Katsuki just hummed, kissing the side of his head.
“Good. 'Cause I’m not letting you go now. Better let them know early.”
Izuku giggled against his chest.
The world had seen the shift. But the most important shift of all, was the one that happened quietly—in his heart, in his healing, and in the love he now let himself receive fully.
Notes:
Hi everyone! I just wanted to let you know that this chapter officially marks the end of Season 1. Thank you so much for being here—from the very beginning, through all the quiet moments, the shared meals, the healing, the laughter, and the love. It means the world to me that you've come along for this journey.
Starting with the next chapter, we'll be heading into Season 2, which will focus more on Katsuki—his thoughts, his heart, and the deeper steps their relationship begins to take. There’s so much more to explore between them, and I’m really excited to share what comes next.
Thank you again for reading, supporting, and staying with this story. I’m so glad you’re here, and I can’t wait to bring you into the next stage of their journey. See you in Season 2!
Chapter 28: Season 2
Summary:
Katsuki returns to Europe’s high-stakes culinary world. Chasing not fame, but the future he dreams of building with Izuku and the kids. But as the pressure rises, so do the costs. This season unravels deeper conflicts, harder choices, and the quiet cracks forming beneath the surface of their love.
When every decision carries weight—love or ambition, truth or silence—how long can they hold onto each other in a world that demands everything?
And if betrayal strikes… whose life will it destroy?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Katsuki stood in the middle of his kitchen, sleeves rolled up and apron tied tightly, staring at the whiteboard wall in front of him. It was filled with dish names, sketches of plating ideas, arrows, notes, and even some smudged doodles made by Sora and Aki during one of their nightly visits. This was where it would all begin — his journey back to Europe, this time not just to compete, but to win for something.
For Izuku. For their five kids.
For the house they dreamed of sharing.
For the life they were building from love, healing, and perfectly cooked rice.
The European Chef Competition was coming in less than two weeks, and Katsuki’s mind was already split between technical precision and sentimental inspiration. He had to prepare menus that told stories — not just of his skill, but of his soul. Every sauce, every slice, every garnish had to represent his journey from a solitary chef to a man with five children calling him papa and one green-haired idol calling him love.
Meanwhile, Izuku stood in Katsuki’s bedroom, carefully folding a set of neatly pressed chef coats and placing them into Katsuki’s luggage. Every button was polished, every crease clean. He smiled to himself, letting his fingers run across the collar of the jacket. It smelled faintly like Katsuki — a warm scent of cedarwood and spice. Even if he wouldn’t admit it aloud, he found comfort in packing the bags himself, pretending for a little while that this was just another shared routine of a married couple.
They weren’t married yet.
But this… this felt like it.
Izuku’s career was now hitting an undeniable high. With his growing popularity in acting, variety shows, and his recently released album, people were seeing more of him.
The real him.
The boy who once couldn't eat in public was now receiving love not just for his beauty, but for his courage — for showing scars and smiles side by side. But with that came time demands, public scrutiny, and limitations. Taking the five kids into his unit wasn’t possible right now — not when he had shoots running late into the night and events booked weeks in advance.
That’s why he and Katsuki had sat down and talked, with the kids bouncing around them on the couch, and agreed: the children would stay in the small, cozy apartment above Umi to Hi. It was the kids’ second home by now. The staff adored them.
They were already family.
Katsuki’s unit was filled with the low hum of the television, the clatter of ice cream bowls, and the echo of giggles. Izuku was nestled on the couch, his legs folded, Sora asleep on his lap while Kenji sat next to him, trying to finish a puzzle with Aki. Yuu and Hina were by the window, doodling with finger paints on a sheet of clear plastic taped up like a mini canvas.
Katsuki came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel.
“Dessert’s ready.”
“Wasn’t the ice cream dessert?” Izuku teased, grinning up at him.
“Shut up,” Katsuki smirked, setting down small bowls of handmade pudding with caramel drizzle. “This is papa’s dessert. The other one was uncle Denki’s bribe to make y’all behave.”
Yuu raised a sticky hand.
“Do we get two desserts ‘cause Papa Kacchan is leaving?”
“Exactly,” Katsuki said, dropping a kiss on his head.
The kids took their bowls to the couch while Katsuki sat beside Izuku, his arm naturally slipping around his waist. The children’s chatter blended with the warmth of the room — talk of airplanes, what souvenirs Katsuki would bring back, and dreams of big houses with gardens and swings.
“Can you bring us a medal?” Kenji asked eagerly.
“No, a trophy!” Aki shouted.
“A chef hat!” Hina grinned, waving her spoon.
“Maybe I’ll bring the judge home to babysit you all,” Katsuki deadpanned.
“Noooo!” they all yelled.
Izuku laughed, tilting his head onto Katsuki’s shoulder.
“For me… just come home. That’s enough.”
Katsuki turned his head, his nose brushing against Izuku’s curls.
“I’ll come back. Not just for a visit. For good.”
They didn’t speak of rings or ceremonies that night. But the words exchanged — the silent ones, through glances, through the casual way Katsuki brushed pudding off Izuku’s lip, through the way Izuku fixed the loose collar of Katsuki’s shirt — all said something deeper.
They were moving forward.
Together.
After the kids had fallen asleep, sprawled out in sleeping bags and pillows all over the floor, Izuku and Katsuki stood by the kitchen island sipping tea.
“You’ve really thought it all out, haven’t you?” Izuku asked softly, watching the steam swirl from his cup.
Katsuki nodded.
“I’ll win this. Not for pride this time. But to prove I can build that life I want with you — with all of you.”
Izuku stared at him for a moment, then reached out and touched his chest, right over his heart.
“We’re already halfway there. Just don’t lose yourself trying to prove anything. You’ve already proven enough.”
Katsuki stepped closer and kissed his forehead.
“I’m doing this so I can give you something real. Not just a borrowed home. Ours.”
Their fingers laced, resting on the counter.
And around them, five tiny hearts dreamt soundly of gardens and medals, of chef hats and swings, and of a place where all the laughter and love they felt in that tiny apartment could grow into something even bigger.
Home was no longer a wish.
It was slowly becoming a promise.
The silence of the kitchen was only broken by the subtle simmering of broth and the rhythmic scratch of a pencil over paper. Katsuki stood at the stainless-steel counter, apron stained, face slightly flushed from the heat. His brow furrowed in concentration as he jotted notes beside a barely touched plate of his own creation.
Dozens of sketches, ingredient breakdowns, and test recipes were spread across the table in a chaotic system only Katsuki seemed to understand. The soft ticking of the clock marked the hour past midnight.
His fingers paused on the pen, eyes narrowing as he tasted a spoonful of the delicate cream sauce he was tweaking. He clicked his tongue, dissatisfied, then quickly scribbled in the margins:
“Add slight acidity—maybe yuzu or white balsamic. Needs bite.”
The European Chef Competition was looming.
Three days away.
His flight already secured.
His luggage prepped, thanks to Izuku, who was juggling a thousand things at once in his idol career and still managing to help him pack socks and spatulas. Kaminari had the restaurant under control, and the kids would stay under the care of trusted staff while he was away. All logistics were settled. All but the one thing he couldn’t control: the gnawing sense of separation.
He sighed. The faint ache of worry was buried under the layers of pride and nervous ambition—but it was there.
He reached for his gloves again, about to resume another plating when—
creeeeak
The door to the hallway opened gently, followed by the quiet shuffle of little feet on tiled floors.
Katsuki turned around quickly, eyes alert.
“Hina?” he called softly.
The little girl stood there in her oversized pajamas, her long hair tousled from sleep, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. A soft pout formed on her lips.
“Papa ‘ki…” she whispered, barely audible. “Can I… can I have a hug?”
Katsuki's face immediately softened, tension melting away from his shoulders.
He stripped off his gloves, then tugged down the kitchen mask from his face. Without missing a beat, he strode to the sink and quickly washed his hands, careful to remove any trace of oils or spice from his skin. He wiped them dry before crouching and opening his arms.
“C’mere, sweetheart,” he murmured.
Hina stepped into his embrace and he lifted her up effortlessly, settling her small frame against his shoulder. Her tiny arms wrapped around his neck as she yawned into his shoulder.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked as he started to sway gently in place, the way she liked when she was tired.
She shook her head slowly, “No… wanted a hug. You weren’t in bed.”
“I was testing some recipes.” He kissed her temple. “You wanna drink some milk?”
She nodded against his neck.
He carried her one-armed to the kitchen island, setting her gently on the counter as he poured warm milk into a small ceramic cup, sliding it into her little hands. She sipped quietly, legs swinging. Her eyes were half-lidded, but he could tell she had more to say. So he sat on the stool across from her, watching her intently.
“Papa,” she said quietly, after a few sips of her milk, “can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you think people forget things when they get big?”
He paused.
“Forget what?”
“People. Places. Feelings.”
Katsuki leaned against the counter, arms crossed, gaze heavy on her small figure.
“Sometimes. But not always.”
After that, there was a long silence before Katsuki speak again.
“Hina,” he said after a moment. “Do you remember… how you met Kenji and the others?”
She blinked up at him.
“You were four, right? When they found you?”
She nodded, sniffing the milk and wrapping her hands tighter around the cup for warmth. Her voice was quiet but steady.
“I… I remember,” she said. “I was… I was with Mama and Papa. Papa was always lying down. Mama always crying. They never played with me much after Papa got sick.”
Katsuki listened closely, brows furrowed gently. He didn’t press, just let her speak in her rhythm.
“On my birthday,” she continued, “they said we’d go to an amusement park. I was so happy. I had my favorite dress on. I remember Papa tried to smile for me that morning.”
Her voice trembled, but she held the cup tight, warming her fingers with it.
“But… we didn’t go to the park. We drove for a long time. Mama was crying the whole ride. Then… they stopped the car in the middle of a road. Gave me an umbrella.”
Katsuki’s heart clenched, but he remained quiet.
“Mama kissed my forehead and said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Then she told me to stay there. She got back in the car. I waited. I waited forever...”
She looked up at him. “… but they didn’t come back.”
Katsuki leaned forward and gently reached out to fix her bangs away from her face.
“I got really scared that night,” she said. “The road got dark and cars passed, but no one stopped. Then there were scary people. Loud. Some tried to take my umbrella. But I ran. I found an alley.”
She smiled faintly, “That’s where I met Kenji. He had a bruise on his cheek, but he looked like a hero.”
Katsuki huffed a soft laugh.
“Sounds like him.”
“Kenji and Sora gave me bread and told me I could stay with them. They said they already had two other ‘siblings’—Aki and Yuu. They called me the baby.”
Katsuki swallowed the knot in his throat.
“That was two years ago.”
She nodded.
“They gave me food and a cardboard box to sleep in. I was really scared, but Kenji said I was part of their team now. They kept me safe. Even when it rained. Even when we were hungry. Kenji said we had to stick together because nobody else would look for us.”
Katsuki ran a hand down his face. His eyes fell to her small frame again. The memories she had were too heavy for someone her size.
Too cruel.
And yet she smiled, sipped her milk like any child, and now called him Papa ‘ki like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“How about now?” he asked her softly. “Do you feel safe now?”
She set down her cup, nodding.
“With you and Mama ‘zu… and the others. It feels like home.”
Katsuki exhaled slowly, chest heavy with affection.
“Good. You deserve to feel that every day.”
He reached forward, lifting her back into his arms.
“You know,” he murmured as he walked toward the guest bedroom, “You’re one of the bravest kids I know.”
She nuzzled her head against his chest, breathing slow. “You’re brave too, Papa ‘ki… even if you get scary when you cook.”
He chuckled, tucking her in as he laid her down under her blanket.
“That’s because cooking is serious business.”
She giggled quietly, already drifting into sleep.
As he stood beside her bed, Katsuki watched her breathing even out. He reached down, gently brushing his hand over her hair.
His heart ached—not just from sorrow, but from awe.
From love.
These kids were dealt a terrible hand and still chose kindness, still chose each other. And somehow, they chose him and Izuku too.
“I’m gonna win that medal, Hina. I’ll build us a house with a big kitchen, a garden for you and Aki, room for Yuu’s books and Sora’s collections. Kenji can finally have a proper bunk bed. And I’ll marry your Papa Izuku. Just wait a little longer, okay?”
He turned off the lights, but not before casting one more glance at the tiny body under the covers.
“We’re not broken anymore. We’re just starting.”
He stood for a while longer in the room lit only by the hallway light, then turned back to the kitchen. The recipe notes still scattered across the table now seemed distant, unimportant.
He wasn’t just cooking to win.
He was cooking to prove that people like him, like them, could build something beautiful even from ruins.
Three nights before his flight.
He’d make every minute count.
Notes:
✨ Season 2 begins now! ✨
Thank you for being with me through Season 1. From here on, we’re diving deeper—into Katsuki’s world, into their growing love, and into the next chapter of their journey together. Let’s begin.
Chapter 29: The Birthday
Chapter Text
The sun filtered gently through the windows of Umi to Hi’s humble indoor dining space, warmth bouncing off the glass and spilling golden light onto the polished wood tables.
It was Hina’s 6th and Izuku's 25th birthday—a day Katsuki had circled on his calendar weeks ago, a soft reminder that even with a looming flight to Europe just one night away, today belonged to her and Izuku.
The restaurant was closed for the day, signs flipped, and chairs rearranged to give room for a low table at the center, decorated with hand-cut paper streamers and doodled signs reading “HAPPY BIRTHDAY HINA!” written in colorful markers by the very kids who made up her found family.
Kenji and Sora, had taken the lead in hanging up decorations. Sora, with his untied shoelaces and messily slicked hair, kept climbing chairs to tape strings across the walls while Kenji scolded him about falling.
“You’ll break your neck before Hina cuts the cake!” Kenji snapped.
Sora just laughed.
“Then I’ll haunt the cake and make it float.”
Aki, ever the careful one, was folding paper cranes and lining them on the table next to the presents, while Yuu, was testing out the cheap toy noisemakers they had found at the corner store.
Katsuki watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his apron. A thin layer of flour dusted his shirt, and the smell of freshly baked sponge cake lingered in the air. The kitchen was already a mess from him prepping Hina’s favorite strawberry shortcake—layers tall and generous with cream and fresh fruit. He could hear their laughter echoing like music in his chest, and for a moment, he forgot all about the flight and the itinerary waiting in his email inbox.
Then Hina emerged, dressed in a soft yellow dress Izuku had gifted her the previous month, paired with pink socks mismatched intentionally. Her dark hair was clipped up with a sparkling bunny barrette—another gift from her mama. She blinked sleepily, rubbing at one eye, having woken up late after an afternoon nap.
When she saw the setup, she gasped and turned to Katsuki with wide, round eyes.
“You didn’t forget,” she whispered.
Katsuki raised a brow.
“Tch. Who the hell do you think I am?”
She giggled and ran over, hugging his leg.
The celebration began in bursts of noise and color. They played paper-cup stacking games first. Yuu turned out to be the surprise champion, grinning smugly each time his little tower stood higher than Kenji’s. Aki organized a simple scavenger hunt around the dining area with tiny candies as prizes.
At one point, Kenji got on all fours with Hina on his back while Sora chased them around like a dragon. Katsuki nearly choked on his coffee laughing, only to cover his mouth quickly and mumble, “Idiots.”
Music played softly from the old speakers in the corner—cheerful acoustic guitar and children's tunes. Hina hummed along as she handed paper medals she had made to her friends. "Best big brother Kenji," "Funniest dragon Sora," "Quiet hero Aki," and "Best yeller Yuu," she giggled as she gave them out.
Katsuki looked down at the ribbon she handed him last: “Master Baker and Hugger.”
He didn’t say anything, just rubbed the top of her head gently, eyes soft.
When the cake was finally brought out, the room grew quiet. The kids crowded around the table as Katsuki placed the cake carefully at the center, fresh strawberries glistening like jewels. He reached for the lighter.
But Hina quickly tugged his apron, her voice quiet but sure.
“No candles yet.”
Katsuki blinked down.
“Why?”
She stood on tiptoes, hands clasped in front of her chest.
“Mama said he’ll come tonight. I want to wait for him.”
Her eyes shimmered—not with sadness, but with a kind of certainty that made Katsuki’s throat tight.
She still believed.
Despite the flashing cameras, the missed dinners, the tightly scheduled idol world that claimed Izuku’s time most of the day, she still believed he would come for her.
Katsuki nodded, clearing his throat.
“Then we wait.”
The kids didn’t mind. They gathered around and sang her the birthday song anyway—off-key, too loud, but with so much laughter that Hina clapped at the end, cheeks flushed with joy.
They dug into the cake next, even without candles, and Katsuki served them all generous slices. Aki was neat and careful. Yuu shoved whipped cream into his mouth with both hands. Kenji gave Sora a piece with extra strawberries just because he looked tired. Hina sat on Katsuki’s lap to eat hers, occasionally feeding him small bites with a proud grin.
Games followed.
Musical chairs with the kids dragging the chairs way too far apart. Then some simple charades where Hina acted like a cat, a ghost, and a butterfly—all very serious with exaggerated motions and giggles when Katsuki guessed wrong on purpose.
As the sun set and golden light bathed the room, Hina leaned into Katsuki’s chest, yawning.
“Do you think Mama will come before the stars?” she asked softly.
Katsuki brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Yeah. Let's hoe he will.”
And in his chest, he hoped Izuku wouldn’t be too late—for Hina’s sake, and for his own peace of mind, before the flight that might change everything. But for now, he was here. For now, this was the world: strawberry-smeared cheeks, kids laughing, and Hina’s warm little hand holding onto his sleeve like she always had.
The lights from the ceiling bathed the entire venue in a dreamy glow, illuminating the towering cakes from sponsors lined like sculptures on one side of the stage. Balloons floated above the sea of excited fans wearing headbands and shirts with sparkling prints that read “Forever with IZUKU!”, some even holding cutouts of his best character roles. Camera shutters clicked nonstop, fans cheered his name, and the scent of fresh flowers, cake icing, and stage makeup mixed in the air.
Izuku Midoriya stood behind the curtains, dressed in a white silk button-up tucked into loose cream trousers, green hues accenting his outfit in honor of his name. He wore a soft smile as he held his mic, bowing lightly as the host began wrapping up the sponsor acknowledgments. His cheeks still bore the faint blush of embarrassment from the last sponsor who gave him a body-sized pillow of his own character likeness.
But beneath his usual polite demeanor was someone glancing at the time on his phone for the sixth time in ten minutes.
8:02 p.m.
Hina’s birthday party should be wrapping up by now. The thought squeezed his chest. He should have been there — with the kids, with Katsuki — watching her blow the candles he knew she refused to light until he arrived. She always waited for him. Always.
He turned his head to look at Manager Aida, who had been overseeing the tight schedule from the corner of the stage. She looked a little too chipper for someone who should’ve known how badly he wanted to get out of there. Izuku walked toward her casually but with tight shoulders.
“Manager Aida,” he whispered as calmly as he could. “The surprises are done, right? You said I could close the event with my message?”
“Almost,” she beamed. “Just one more segment, Izuku-kun. A special performance by some of your old classmates!”
His stomach dropped.
“Wait. What?” he said slowly, carefully.
“Jirou-san, Kirishima-san, Mina-san and Uraraka-san! They’ll perform a medley of your favorite songs! We planned it two weeks ago, didn’t I mention it?” Aida smiled as if it were the sweetest thing in the world.
Izuku paled.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Really? Oh… well, surprise!” she chirped.
And that was when he saw her.
Ochako Uraraka, in a glittery lavender dress, was peeking from the side of the dressing room, a wireless mic in hand and hair curled to perfection. She even gave him a cheerful wave before disappearing behind a lighting scaffold again.
Izuku froze. His eye twitched.
With one swift movement, he pulled out his phone and opened the group chat labeled:
Trouble Squad: Don’t Let Izuku Catch You
Izuku:
🟢 “If you three step on that stage—if you breathe near a mic—I swear on All Might’s honor I will never celebrate my birthday with you again.”Izuku:
🟢 “I will block you. I will reject every party invite. I will remove your names from my emergency contacts and tell my future children you’re mythical creatures who betrayed their papa on his 25th birthday.”Izuku:
🟢 “Ochako I SEE YOU. GET BACK IN THE DRESSING ROOM.”Mina:
🟣 “But it’s your favorite playlist 🥺”
🟣 “We even practiced choreo with Jirou as the lead 💃”Jirou:
🎸 “He’s really serious this time. Abort. ABORT.”Kirishima:
🔴 “Wait he’s texting while glaring at us. This is like during finals when he threatened to change dorm Wi-Fi passwords—”Ochako:
🟤 “Too late. I’m on stage. 😊”
And indeed, the MC's voice boomed across the hall:
“Now, everyone, a birthday surprise performance from none other than Midoriya Izuku’s longtime friends and fellow heroes!”
The lights dimmed. Izuku audibly groaned.
“Happy birthday, Izuku!” Mina sang into the mic, skipping onto stage like she owned the place.
Jirou strummed her guitar as Kirishima took center with a mic, bursting into the intro of “My Hero” by Stereo Dive Foundation — Izuku’s long-time favorite. The fans exploded in cheers, thrilled by the crossover event of the century.
Meanwhile, Izuku stood frozen behind the curtains, face in hands.
“I’m going to kill them. I’m going to kill all of them,” he mumbled. “How did they even learn the choreography? Why is Kirishima dancing? His knee was sprained last week—!”
The fan chants drowned his inner meltdown. The spotlight hit Ochako in perfect timing as she did a high note with one hand raised dramatically. She winked at him mid-song.
He held back a scream.
“I said I wanted to be home by 8! Eight! Not—” he pointed at his phone. “It’s 8:17! Hina’s probably curled up on Katsuki’s lap waiting for me!”
He texted again.
Izuku:
🟢 “I HOPE NONE OF YOU HAVE PLANS FOR YOUR NEXT BIRTHDAYS. Because I’m making sure you’ll all be locked in a karaoke booth alone with 15 Izuku standees staring at you while I play sad classical music on loop.”Ochako:
🟤 “You mean… your Kacchan won’t rescue us?” 😚Jirou:
🎸 “Why did she just trigger him even more—”Kirishima:
🔴 “Midoriya just left the backstage. Oh no he’s really leaving. I REPEAT HE’S WALKING OUT—”
Despite the chaos, the fans were delighted, taking photos and videos of the lively performance, utterly unaware that the birthday boy was somewhere outside the venue, texting frantically and silently plotting revenge.
Izuku, now hiding near the staff entrance, sighed and opened a new message for Katsuki.
Izuku:
🟢 “Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be there even if it’s late. I’ll make up for everything. Kiss Hina for me.”
And as he hit send, the sounds of Kirishima’s chorus verse echoed behind him.
It was shaping up to be a birthday no one would forget. Whether that was a good thing or not… was still up for debate.
The fairy lights twinkled above them like soft stars caught in a spell, casting a warm glow over the restaurant that now echoed only with the quietest breaths and the faint hum of the city outside. It was 9:20 PM, and most of the day had been nothing short of chaos—laughter, games, sugar rushes, bouncing balloons, and sparkly glitter trailing in every room. But now, the calm had arrived.
Katsuki Bakugo sat quietly in the center of the wide, cushioned mat laid across the main area of the restaurant. The fairy-themed photobooth that the Umi to Hi staff lovingly set up still glimmered behind him, its pastel pink and lavender drapes rippling slightly with the air conditioning.
On his lap, nestled like the precious gem she was, lay Hina—her small frame curled against his thigh, still clutching a stuffed rabbit one of the staff had given her. Her tiny tiara slipped a little from her hair, her glittery dress that she wore after games, now wrinkled and her cheeks flushed from the excitement of the day. She had asked for him to sit down with her when she was opening her gifts earlier. Then, halfway through peeling open a box of new crayons from Yuu, she had leaned on him and fallen fast asleep.
Around them, the other kids had gradually settled. Kenji had dozed off with his face still in a bowl of leftover popcorn. Aki lay sprawled across a pillow fortress he and Sora had made, while Sora, ever the big brother figure, had his arm flung protectively over little Yuu's back. Yuu had curled near Hina’s feet, mumbling something in his sleep about "the cake being too pretty to eat."
It was a rare sight—to see all of them in such a peaceful state.
The restaurant staff had already cleaned up everything. Kaminari had lingered last, quietly checking if Katsuki needed help or wanted company, but Katsuki had simply nodded toward the kids and muttered, “Go home. Thanks for today.” Kaminari, understanding without the need for long words, simply clapped his shoulder once before leaving them alone in the gentle quiet of what was left of the night.
For a while, Katsuki just listened.
The kids, before they drifted off, had talked for hours—about how fun today was, how the games were way better than last year, how beautiful Hina looked in her puffy fairy dress with her sparkly shoes and glitter wings. They had giggled about the magic show Aki almost messed up by guessing every trick too fast, or how Yuu got frosting on his nose, and how many cupcakes they should eat next year. Then the topic shifted, as it often did when the day slowed down and sleep crept in.
They talked about him.
How much they’ll miss him.
How they’re going to send him videos every day while he’s gone.
How they’ll help Mama Izuku make bento boxes for when he comes back.
Kenji, half-asleep, had whispered with a yawn, “We’ll support Papa Kacchan too… even if it’s hard…”
And just like that, they were all out, as if the weight of saying those things tucked them right into dreams.
Now, it was just him.
Katsuki rested his head back slightly, letting his eyes close for a moment. His hand moved to stroke Hina’s hair gently, brushing it from her forehead, careful not to wake her.
He knew she had been holding back her tears the entire day.
She didn’t want to light her birthday cake until Mama Izuku arrived. Even though she smiled for photos, even though she squealed at her gifts, even though she laughed while chasing bubbles with Yuu and Sora, Katsuki had caught that subtle glint in her eyes—a kind of hopefulness, waiting. Waiting for her other parent to walk through that door.
And yet the minutes kept ticking.
Until finally, at nearly 11 PM, the soft chime of the restaurant door rang through the space.
Katsuki didn’t jump. He just opened his eyes, looked toward the entrance, and found him—Midoriya Izuku.
Standing there with his shoulders slumped, hair a bit messy from having changed in the car, still wearing a light trace of stage makeup and shimmer. In his arms was a large, glittery pink box, carefully wrapped. And on his face?
Exhaustion.
Guilt.
Longing.
“I’m sorry,” Izuku murmured as he walked slowly toward them, his eyes scanning the mats until he saw the sleeping children—and Hina, still curled up against Katsuki’s lap. His expression softened, eyes starting to glisten as he approached them carefully, quietly, as if afraid his presence would shatter this sleeping haven.
Katsuki looked down at Hina, then back at Izuku. He gave a short breath through his nose and lifted his hand in a silent gesture—Come here.
Izuku didn’t hesitate.
He set the gift box gently on the side, then knelt down beside Katsuki, crawling carefully over the soft mat so as not to disturb any of the kids. When he reached him, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss against Katsuki’s lips.
“Happy birthday,” Katsuki whispered against his mouth, voice quiet and warm.
Izuku pulled back just enough to pout and sigh, “I didn’t even get to blow my own candle. Or hers. I was stuck the entire day. I—”
Katsuki stopped him with a tug, pulling him close by the back of the neck and pressing their foreheads together.
“Shut up. You’re here now.”
“But—”
“Zuku,” Katsuki whispered, letting his hand slide down to lace with Izuku’s fingers, “you came home. That’s all that matters.”
Izuku closed his eyes, nodding weakly as he finally let go of the tight coil in his chest. He sat beside Katsuki, pressing against his side, and rested his head on Katsuki’s shoulder. Katsuki wrapped his arm around him and exhaled, holding him close as the city outside moved on without them.
Between them, Hina shifted a little, her tiara clinking softly as she nuzzled closer to Katsuki’s lap.
“I’ll make it up to her,” Izuku whispered.
“We both will,” Katsuki replied, his voice steady and sure.
They sat there for a long time in silence. Surrounded by the soft snoring of kids, the warm golden glow of fairy lights, and the still scent of cake and candles that were never lit. Wrapped in peace. Wrapped in love. Wrapped in the feeling that even when the world asks too much of them—home will always be the one thing they still choose, again and again.
Chapter 30: Sweet Ache
Chapter Text
The soft fairy lights from Hina’s photo booth still flickered, casting a faint glow over the mats where their children slept, curled up peacefully around them. Hina remained nestled on Katsuki’s lap, her tiny fingers still clutching a small doll gift from earlier.
Izuku let out a soft, tired sigh as he leaned against Katsuki’s shoulder, their bodies gently pressed together amidst the quiet hum of the empty restaurant.
Katsuki shifted slightly, careful not to wake Hina, and turned his head toward Izuku.
“So… How’s the birthday boy’s day of celebration?” he asked, voice low and rough but undeniably gentle.
Izuku chuckled weakly, resting his cheek against Katsuki’s shoulder.
“Chaotic,” he murmured with a small grin. “But… sweet. It really was a good day. There were so many people. So much love. Sponsors brought cakes, fans prepared videos and letters, and some even performed songs they wrote for me. Jirou and the others performed. It was embarrassing, especially after I told them not to,” he mumbled, rubbing his forehead in mock frustration.
“You tried threatening them in the group chat, for sure.” Katsukiconfidently guessed with a small smirk.
“I did! And Ochako still walked out of the dressing room like a traitor!”
Izuku huffed.
“But the truth is… even with all of that… I was still looking for a way out the whole time. I kept asking Manager Aida if the surprise segments were over. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could end it early. But no. It kept going. More surprises. More speeches. More photos.”
Katsuki stayed quiet, listening intently, letting Izuku speak freely.
“I mean… it’s not that I didn’t like it. I did. I really did. I felt so loved.”
He paused, voice quieter now.
“But this year… I just wanted to be here. With you. And the kids. Especially with Hina. We share this day, and I missed almost all of it with her.” His voice cracked slightly, and he pulled the glittery pink gift box a little closer. “I feel awful for coming this late.”
Katsuki tilted his head and met Izuku’s eyes.
“You’re not awful,” he said firmly. “You’re human.”
Izuku blinked, surprised by how grounded Katsuki sounded.
“You’ve lived your life surrounded by people who love you publicly. You’ve got fans who’ve followed you since you were a teen. People who saved up just to see you, just to hand you a letter or cheer you on. You’ve got a management team that’s spent years building your name. You’re not responsible for suddenly flipping your life around because you wished for a private moment.”
Izuku stayed quiet, eyes lowering.
Katsuki continued, reaching out to gently tuck some of Izuku’s hair behind his ear.
“And yeah, maybe we’re your family now. Me, the kids. But we’re new to this part of your life. Your stage has been full long before we stepped into the spotlight. I know it’s not easy, but we get it. I get it.”
Izuku looked at him again, eyes glassy with unspoken emotions.
Katsuki’s gaze softened.
“You can’t neglect the people who love you. Just like I wouldn’t want you to neglect us. But don’t carry this guilt like you ruined something. You didn’t.”
“I just…” Izuku hesitated. “I just wanted to have that moment. One year where I’d wake up to your cooking and Hina’s drawings and our kids jumping on the bed. No cameras. No makeup. No rehearsed speeches.”
Katsuki let out a quiet snort. “That sounds like hell,” he teased, then softened again. “But I get it. And we’ll get there. One year, we’ll do just that. We’ll hide out in a cabin somewhere with chocolate pancakes and the kids wearing your old sweaters. Just us.”
Izuku smiled faintly, leaning in to kiss Katsuki’s cheek.
“Promise?”
“Promise,” Katsuki murmured.
Izuku adjusted himself slightly so that the gift box rested between them now.
“I didn’t even get to give her this earlier,” he said, touching the shiny pink paper gently.
“She’ll open it tomorrow morning,” Katsuki reassured. “She didn’t even cry. She waited all day, I told her you’d come. And she believed it.”
Izuku’s throat tightened.
“She really waited?”
“Every hour. Kept asking what time Mama Izuku will arrive. She made us count down,” Katsuki said with a faint smirk.
Izuku leaned over, brushing his lips against Hina’s sleeping forehead, and whispered a shaky, “Happy birthday, sweetheart…”
Katsuki wrapped his arm around Izuku’s waist, pulling him close again.
“You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
And under the soft fairy lights and moonlit windows, with the warmth of sleeping children surrounding them and the city finally quieting down beyond the restaurant doors, Izuku let his eyes close.
He was home.
Late, exhausted, a little overwhelmed—but loved.
The next morning, Izuku slowly stirred awake, the familiar warmth of strong arms wrapping around him, grounding him in comfort before the day even began. Soft kisses peppered along his jaw and neck made him squirm slightly, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he cracked one eye open.
"Happy morning, birthday boy," Katsuki murmured, voice low and raspy from sleep.
Izuku turned his head, their noses brushing as he smiled.
“You're late. It's already the next day.”
"Yeah, but we haven't done this part yet,” Katsuki said with a smirk, stealing a kiss from his lips.
Izuku chuckled and kissed him back, gently brushing Katsuki’s bangs from his face.
“Good morning. Thanks for yesterday… and this morning too.”
“Get your ass up,” Katsuki grinned, tapping Izuku's cheek. “The kids have been waiting for you. I carried all of them one by one when you passed out last night. They nearly declared war on your unconscious body when they woked up.”
Izuku’s face flushed as guilt washed over him.
“Ugh, I’m sorry. I didn't mean to sleep through. You’re seriously husband and father material, you know that?”
Katsuki rolled his eyes as he got off the bed.
“Yeah, yeah. I signed up for this chaos, remember? Not backing out.”
Left alone, Izuku took a warm bath to shake off the weight from yesterday’s exhausting fan event. When he returned to the room, a familiar set of Katsuki’s sleepwear was folded neatly on the bed. Slipping it on, the fabric felt like a hug—like he was held even in Katsuki’s absence.
Walking out, he was greeted by the sound of excited squeals and the patter of little feet. Hina dashed forward before he could say a word, launching herself into his arms.
“Mamaaaa!” she cheered, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.
Izuku caught her and spun gently, pressing kisses to her cheeks.
“Okay, our real birthday celebration starts now, right? Just us?”
“YES!” she cried, already giggling. “Me and Mama’s special day!”
Katsuki walked in with a proud look and a tray in hand.
“Don’t forget this.”
He set down a small, freshly baked bento cake, still warm. A few pastel pink and green candles stood upright on it.
“Hina chose not to blow these last night,” he said. “So she can do it with you.”
Izuku held Hina as they leaned over together. The kids counted, shouted, and cheered as mother and daughter blew out the candles in unison.
“Make a wish!” Kenji called.
“Done,” Izuku whispered, brushing Hina’s hair as she giggled into his shoulder.
Beside them, the big box containing Izuku’s birthday gift from the kids was being torn open by excited little hands. He gasped when he saw a photo album—already full—with captions like “Mama’s Big Days” and “When We First Met.” He flipped through a few pages and smiled so wide his eyes teared up.
“You guys…”
They all laughed, cheeks full of breakfast and joy as they dug into their meal. Izuku laughed freely, letting himself bask in the domestic joy—his children, Katsuki, their little world.
Katsuki sat back slightly, arms crossed, just watching them with a fond, lingering smile. The kind of smile that held love. And longing.
He didn’t mention it again.
Not yet.
But tonight was his flight.
He’d be gone by tomorrow morning.
Izuku turned to look at him mid-laugh.
Their eyes locked.
Katsuki’s smile stayed, but his eyes betrayed him—soft and a little lonely.
Izuku’s face fell.
He stood up so suddenly that Hina gasped and turned to follow him with her eyes. Izuku rushed over to Katsuki, arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying his face in the crook of his neck.
Katsuki blinked in surprise, then smiled tenderly and wrapped his arms around him too.
No words.
Just them, breathing each other in like they’d run out of time.
The children paused, watching them. Then one by one, they joined the embrace. Little arms wrapped around waists and legs. Kenjisniffled, rubbing his eyes. Hina clung to Izuku's leg and sobbed quietly. The others followed, a soft chorus of sadness rising.
Katsuki exhaled, tightening his hold as if he could keep all of them together through strength alone.
He chuckled despite the tightness in his throat.
“I was going to ask you to help calm them down, but looks like you’re the one who needs the most pampering right now.”
Izuku didn’t reply.
His sobs were silent, muffled against Katsuki’s skin.
Katsuki pressed a kiss to the top of his head and closed his eyes, letting the moment stretch—holding his family like it was the last morning he’d get to.
And for now… maybe it was.
The night air was heavy with exhaustion, but Izuku pushed through the lingering fatigue from the day’s whirlwind of events. After hurriedly changing into comfortable clothes and checking the time—9:43 p.m., he grabbed his cap and keys, heading to the underground lot where his van was parked. The staff had offered to drive Katsuki to the airport, but Izuku refused. He wanted to be the one to bring him there. It was the least he could do, especially after failing to celebrate their shared birthday with him and Hina the way he’d originally hoped.
The kids were left at home, fast asleep with their trusted nanny keeping watch. Kaminari had also volunteered to stay behind to help out and provide extra security, joking about finally being the “cool uncle babysitter” in their chaotic life.
The van engine hummed to life, and soon, Izuku was parking just outside the apartment complex where Katsuki stayed during extended visits. He didn't even need to honk; Katsuki was already coming down the stairs with a gym bag slung over his shoulder. The kids had stayed up earlier just to say goodbye, and they’d hugged Katsuki tightly with drowsy grins and quiet sniffles.
Now, Izuku opened the sliding van door for him.
Katsuki immediately leaned inside and ruffled the heads of the sleepy children before turning to place his bag inside. But the moment he climbed in, he froze.
Sitting comfortably in the middle row was none other than Manager Aida, casually scrolling through her tablet like she hadn’t just ambushed the van ride.
“The hell are you doing here?” Katsuki asked bluntly.
Before Izuku could say anything, Aida peered up with a faint smile.
“Relax, Mr. Bakugo. I’m here to escort our precious artist. Also, the personal chef for my talent just filed a leave. Apparently, he’s flying to compete in some international cooking contest. So until then, I’m going to make sure your idol doesn’t live off convenience store rice balls and protein drinks.”
Katsuki’s eye twitched, and Izuku cringed internally, already regretting not warning Katsuki. He barely managed to nudge Katsuki further inside and close the door behind him before another surprise hit them.
Because right there in the passenger seat, nonchalantly sipping an energy drink, was Izuku's manager.
Katsuki blinked, then hissed, “Why is she here?!”
She gave him a tired two-fingered salute.
“Making sure you don’t ditch your flight. You have a title to defend, champ.”
The van rolled forward with tension thick in the air, the kind that had teeth.
Trying to keep the conversation light, Aida began listing Izuku’s travel itinerary for the next week. Katsuki crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat, feigning disinterest. Izuku tried to tune in, nodding at the bullet points—press interviews, another mini fan meeting in Osaka, and a possible drama audition. But halfway through the list, Aida casually dropped a landmine:
“So, since when did you two start dating?”
Not if.
Since.
Katsuki blinked. Izuku coughed so hard he choked on his own breath.
Katsuki shot her a glare.
“The hell kind of question is that?”
“I’m not asking, I’m confirming,” Aida said smoothly, eyes still on her tablet. “I've known since the Summer Pulse Concert. Two years ago. You brought Umi To Hi, right? Homemade bento I threw.”
Katsuki raised an eyebrow.
“You threw that away?”
“I did.” Aida offered no guilt, only a shrug. “At the time, you weren’t his official chef. You were no one to him in the company’s eyes. And his nutritionist would’ve had a heart attack.”
“Izuku told me he ate some of it,” Katsuki said, suspicious.
There was a pause. Izuku bowed his head slightly and mumbled, “From the trash…”
Katsuki and Aida both turned to him.
“You what?” Katsuki asked, voice nearly a growl.
Aida blinked.
“Wait. Seriously?”
Izuku flushed and buried his face in his hands.
“It still smelled really good! And I was hungry and homesick and it had your handwriting on the wrapper and I just—I was being stupid—!”
Katsuki stared at him in stunned silence before grabbing his hand, intertwining their fingers tightly. Izuku was trembling, clearly overwhelmed by the resurfaced memory and the embarrassment of confessing it in front of their managers.
“Stop that,” Katsuki muttered. “You’re not stupid.”
Then he turned back to Aida with fire in his eyes.
“If you think this is the part where you guilt-trip him or try to make me walk away from him just so he can stay ‘uncomplicated’ in your eyes, you’re wasting your damn time,” he snapped. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m leaving now so I can build the future we want. If we break up, I’ll just come back and stalk him until he takes me back again.”
“Kacchan—!” Izuku choked out.
“I’m serious,” Katsuki continued. “You think Izuku won’t sneak out to find me again? Go ahead, try to keep him away. He’s already done it once or twice, he’ll do it again. Probably even more recklessly this time. You think you can stop him from running barefoot in the middle of the night just to see me again?”
Aida didn’t answer right away. Her expression was unreadable at first—calculating, eyes squinting faintly.
Then she chuckled.
“Damn. I really thought I’d catch you two squirming.” She set her tablet aside and looked at them with an almost fond expression.
“Congratulations. For real.”
Izuku blinked, flustered.
“Wait—what?”
“I’ve known for a long time. I just wanted to see if you’d admit it to my face,” Aida said, now leaning back comfortably. “I won’t lie, I had my concerns. But I’ve never once seen Izuku look more alive than when he talked about Umi To Hi. Or that time he made a playlist of your interviews and background music for a stage drama warmup. You’re not a distraction, Mr. Bakugo. You’re part of what grounds him.”
Katsuki’s lips twitched slightly but he held his proud glare.
Aida added with a smirk, “Don’t worry. I’ll protect him while you’re away. Not because of you. But because Izuku still has so much left to offer this world. I want him to shine even brighter. So you go win that championship, Mr. Bakugo Katsuki. Go be the best in your field.”
“I always am,” Katsuki muttered, and Izuku finally laughed, relief flooding his chest.
They didn’t speak much more after that. But Katsuki’s hand stayed on Izuku’s thigh the whole ride, thumb tracing calming circles, as if to say:
I’ll come back.
And Izuku squeezed it once, replying silently:
I’ll wait.
Chapter 31: Burned In
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Katsuki let out a long sigh as he stepped into the hotel room, the sharp elegance of French architecture barely registering in his mind with the heaviness of the day clinging to his shoulders. The long flight, the noise, the airport rush — it was a familiar rhythm he’d come to master through the years of representing Japan in prestigious culinary competitions. But this time, it felt different.
It wasn’t just about him anymore.
His bag hit the floor with a soft thud, and he walked toward the window that framed the dusky view of Lyon. The sun was still stubbornly lighting up the skyline in France — 4 PM, golden and warm. But in Japan, it was almost midnight.
He tapped into his phone, barely thinking twice, and hit the call button.
Izuku’s name was already waiting there.
It rang once. Twice.
Then a soft, breathy, “Kacchan?”
Katsuki’s lips curved upward at the sound.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice instinctively softer than usual, almost reverent. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
Izuku appeared on the screen, slightly disheveled, still in his casual practice clothes, green hair damp with sweat at the nape.
He shook his head, smiling, “No. I just got back from company practice. Everyone was still hyper even after the shows today.”
Izuku adjusted his phone and plopped himself down on the edge of his bed.
“You just got in?”
“Yeah,” Katsuki said, taking a seat by the hotel window, letting the sunset wash over him. “Room’s good. Smells expensive,” he joked. “France is still France. People still too polite or too nosy. Can’t tell.”
Izuku giggled, a hand brushing through his messy bangs.
“Did the flight go well?”
Katsuki nodded, rolling his shoulder back.
“Long, but smooth. It still pisses me off sitting for that long, but I got some sleep. Kinda. There was a brat behind me kicking my seat, so I just pretended to be asleep to avoid starting an international incident.”
Izuku laughed openly this time, tilting his head back, that sweet crinkle in his eyes showing.
“You didn’t threaten him?”
“Nah,” Katsuki scoffed, “he reminded me of Kenji. Couldn’t even get mad. Kid kept babbling about food too. I let him go.”
There was a beat of warm silence before Izuku smiled again, voice turning gentle.
“I missed you.”
Katsuki's expression softened.
“Yeah,” he said lowly, like it was something he hadn’t stopped feeling since he passed through airport security. “Missed you too.”
“You sound tired,” Izuku noted, his voice falling to a whisper as if the volume might disrupt the distance between them.
“I am,” Katsuki admitted. “But it’s not the flight. I think it’s ‘cause it’s the first time I left all of you and I’m not doing this just for myself anymore.”
Izuku looked down, as if affected by that quietly loaded sentence.
“How’s your day?” Katsuki asked, watching him through the screen.
Izuku gave a light chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was packed. Really packed. Sponsors, fans, people from the agency. I tried to sneak out three times.”
“You would,” Katsuki chuckled.
“But they always caught me,” Izuku said, feigning defeat.
“You eaten already?” Katsuki asked, tone gentler now.
“Yeah. Around eight. Had some snacks when I got home too,” Izuku replied, voice lazy and tired in a familiar way that made Katsuki want to reach through the screen and tug him close.
“You’re finally eating properly,” Katsuki said, half teasing, half proud.
“I’m trying,” Izuku grinned. “Honestly, I think I’m already healed... mostly. It still feels weird when I eat too fast or if I get too excited... but I don’t vomit anymore. That’s progress, right?”
Katsuki leaned forward.
“It’s more than progress. It’s relief. I don’t care if you eat just a bowl of soup a day — as long as it’s without pain.”
“I’ll eat more,” Izuku murmured. “Especially when you’re back and cooking again.”
Katsuki huffed a soft laugh.
“Good. I’ll make enough to feed the whole town.”
Izuku smiled, eyes growing heavy.
“You should rest, Kacchan.”
“So should you.”
They both stayed quiet for a bit, neither willing to hang up just yet.
Katsuki’s voice dropped low, like a secret.
“I’m competing here not just for the title, you know.”
Izuku opened his eyes slightly.
“I’ve been dreaming of this since I was a damn teen. Bocuse d’Or... it was always the finish line in my head. But now? It’s just the start. Because I have you. I have the kids. I have something — someone — I want to dedicate this to. That changes everything.”
Izuku’s lips parted, heart stuttering in his chest. He didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t need to.
Instead, he lifted his phone closer to his chest, and whispered, “Then win it for us.”
Katsuki smiled — slow and deep — the kind of smile he only ever wore for Izuku. “Damn right I will.”
The call lingered for another few minutes with soft yawns, drowsy exchanges of love, until Izuku finally fell asleep while still on the line.
Katsuki didn’t hang up.
He just watched, eyes soft, until the screen dimmed.
And then he whispered,
“Goodnight, love.”
The sun was glowing gently over the Umi To Hi signboard, though the restaurant remained closed for the day. Inside, the warm scent of simmering broth and pan-fried gyoza lingered faintly in the air. Kenji and Sora, proudly donning their kiddie aprons, stood beside Kaminari at the counter. The three of them were giggling over a bowl of hand-rolled soba, their fingers dusted in flour, and Kaminari pretending not to mess up even though the noodles kept sticking.
Izuku, settled on one of the cushioned seats, sat cross-legged with Hina and Aki. The table was strewn with stickers, washi tapes, printed photos, and pens. The scrapbook’s current page was dedicated to
“Papa’s last week before the big flight,” with polaroids of Katsuki hugging each of them individually, photos of meals they made together, and even one funny selfie that Hina took mid-sneeze.
Yuu was at another table, brows furrowed in concentration as he looked between the utensils and Osamu, one of the original kitchen staff who had been helping with plating techniques.
“Should the knife point to the plate or away?” Yuu asked, holding up a napkin like it was a surgical tool.
Osamu chuckled softly.
“Knife blade inwards, fork on the left. Papa Kacchan would raise a brow if the spoons weren’t spaced evenly, so let's check again—perfect angles, alright?”
Everything was peaceful—normal in their own loving, odd little way.
Until the knock came.
Izuku looked up. It was firm, deliberate. Not delivery. Not staff. Not media.
Osamu glanced at the door but didn’t move yet. Kaminari blinked up from the noodles. The kids all paused instinctively, like deer in headlights.
Izuku stood, wiping his hands with a cloth. Hina immediately pressed her body against his side, fingers clutching the hem of his shirt. She didn’t speak, just looked wide-eyed at the door as though some quiet terror bloomed in her chest.
When Izuku opened it slightly, just a crack, he was met by a pair of strangers. A man and a woman, perhaps in their late thirties. Dressed plainly, their faces looked worn—not from age but from exhaustion. The woman’s eyes instantly flicked toward Hina, who instinctively ducked behind Izuku’s hip.
“We’re so sorry for coming without notice,” the woman said quietly, hands trembling. “But… we were told our daughter might be here.”
Izuku blinked.
“I—I'm sorry, who?”
“Our daughter. Hina.” The man’s voice cracked slightly. “We don’t mean to cause trouble. It’s just that we’ve been looking for her for months. We were told she’s been sleeping in this restaurant. We’re not here to make a scene. We just want… to talk. To know if she's okay. And maybe… maybe bring her home.”
Izuku could feel Hina’s tiny hands curl tighter around his shirt. Behind him, Aki stood still as a statue. Sora and Kenji had gone silent in the kitchen. Yuu immediately rushed to Hina’s other side.
Izuku looked back and forth between the couple and the children, his heart thudding unevenly.
Before he could respond, Kaminari stepped forward. His stance was protective but polite.
“The restaurant’s closed today. And you can’t just come in here asking about a kid, especially without confirming who you are or what your intentions are. You’ll need to come back with proper documents or reach out through the child protection channels. This isn’t a shelter or a public office. This is a family-run place.”
“We’re not here to kidnap her or anything,” the woman said, now clearly emotional. “We’ve been through our own share of hell. We gave Hina up for adoption two years ago because we thought we couldn't handle it—her dad was sick and our family was falling apart. But we’ve been recovering. He’s getting treatment. We never stopped missing her. When someone told us she’s here, it felt like… fate. We’re just trying to fix what we broke.”
Izuku’s breath hitched.
His eyes drifted down to Hina, who now trembled silently. Aki moved beside her, whispering, “We can hide in the pantry. Or we can stay. But I’ll be with you.”
Kenji and Sora, overhearing that, dropped their mixing bowls and ran closer, shielding Hina instinctively. Even Yuu stepped in front slightly. Hina’s eyes watered, but she held them back like she always did—silent but fierce.
Izuku bent down to Hina’s level and cupped her cheeks gently.
“Sweetheart… do you know them?”
She nodded slowly, eyes downcast.
“They were sad all the time. I don’t want to go back to sad. I like it here. Papa Kacchan makes everything neat. Mama makes everything warm.”
Izuku swallowed the lump in his throat.
He stood up and looked back at the couple.
“I don’t know what’s happened in the past, or what your reasons are… but right now, she doesn’t feel safe. And until we have legal clarity and proper protection for her and all the kids here, I can’t let her be taken from the one place where she’s beginning to feel like she belongs.”
The man’s shoulders sagged.
“We… understand. We’re sorry.”
Kaminari held the door, watching them with guarded eyes until the couple slowly turned and walked away.
Once the door clicked shut, Izuku exhaled a heavy breath and crouched back down, his arms wrapping around Hina.
“I won’t let anyone take you away,” he murmured. “Not unless you want it, not unless it’s safe. We’ll figure this out, okay?”
Hina nodded into his chest, gripping his shirt like it was the last thing keeping her grounded.
Across the room, Kaminari locked the doors. Osamu pulled the curtains closed. Sora ran to grab the scrapbook and said, “We can put this in Mama’s office. It’s for Papa Kacchan anyway.”
The kids began moving as one again, finding safety in one another.
And Izuku, though rattled, sat in that circle of tiny arms and quiet strength, already planning the next step—to protect what was theirs.
Notes:
Please note that I am not fully knowledgeable about adoption procedures or legal processes, but I’m doing my best to portray them with care based on what I currently understand. Some parts may not reflect actual legal systems or protocols accurately. This story prioritizes emotional realism and character development, and I deeply appreciate your understanding. If you notice any significant inaccuracies, feel free to kindly let me know. Thank you for reading!
Chapter 32: Legal Ghosts
Chapter Text
The moment the couple left — not without a final, heavy glance toward the direction where Hina remained hidden — Izuku instinctively scooped the girl into his arms. Her small frame trembled against his chest, and though she tried to hold her tears in, Izuku felt the faintest drops wetting his shirt.
The other kids huddled together in silence, clearly shaken. Kaminari stood with her arms crossed, jaw tense, her usual carefree demeanor gone. Izuku slowly crouched beside the group, calming them down as Osamu distracted them by demonstrating a flower-fold napkin technique for the table.
Izuku, then, immediately stepped away into the kitchen’s storage room and pulled out his phone. His hands were trembling slightly. He pressed speed dial — his lawyer’s personal line.
It rang only twice before a calm voice answered, “Midoriya-san?”
“Hi. Sorry, I know this isn’t office hours, but—” Izuku swallowed the tension rising in his throat. “Something happened. Something serious.”
He quickly explained what had just occurred — the couple arriving, claiming Hina was their daughter, and asking to take her back. He made sure to clarify they never had any contact before this and that Hina had never mentioned them, not once in all the time she had been living with them.
“Do they have any legal grounds?” Izuku asked finally. “We’re still processing adoption for all of them — Katsuki and I — but if they’re biological parents… can they take her back? Can they overrule the adoption?”
The lawyer took a deep breath before answering, calm but professional.
“It depends on several factors, Midoriya-san. First — and I know you already told me, but this is important — are you sure there are no legal records of Hina’s original guardianship being surrendered to a government agency or adoption center?”
“No,” Izuku confirmed. “There was nothing. Katsuki and her with the other kids in a closed alley one winter night. No ID, no reports. He brought them to the local social worker the next morning and asked to be registered as foster parents while preparing for full adoption. They’ve been living with us ever since. Hina never asked to go back, never said she had parents waiting. In fact… she flinched when they arrived earlier. Like she was scared.”
“That might help your case,” the lawyer murmured. “But it’s still tricky.”
“Tricky?”
“If the parents never officially gave her up — meaning, there’s no paperwork showing they released her to the system — then legally, it could still be considered abandonment, yes. But if they now claim they left her in a safe space or under certain emergency conditions, and they’ve returned to reclaim custody, they might be granted a temporary hearing to plead their case.”
Izuku sat down heavily on a wooden crate.
“But that’s not fair.”
“It isn’t,” the lawyer agreed. “But family law is layered. What works in favor of you and Bakugo-san is what’s known as de facto custody — you have been her stable caregivers, consistently, for a prolonged period. She’s integrated into your household, your daily life, and more importantly, she has expressed a desire to stay with you. These testimonies are valid and strong.”
“But we don’t have proof. No videos, no documents showing we found her abandoned. No one was around.”
“Not every case depends on physical evidence,” the lawyer reassured him. “We can still present consistent caregiving reports, any medical checkups, school enrollment, psychological evaluations, even neighborhood testimonies. Those things help build a picture.”
Izuku’s voice turned low.
“She calls me ‘Mama.’ She calls Katsuki ‘Papa.’ That has to matter, right?”
The silence that followed from the other end was gentle.
“It does. And we’ll use that. But I’m going to need you and Bakugo-san to sit down with me soon and formally complete the final parts of the adoption petition. We’ll need to present a strong argument for permanent custody. If the couple files anything, we must be prepared to respond.”
Izuku nodded slowly, even if the lawyer couldn’t see.
“We’ll do whatever it takes. Hina is ours. Katsuki isn’t even here, but I already know what he’d say. He would never let her go back to a place that hurt her.”
Before hanging up, the lawyer added one more thing:
“Ask Hina, gently, when she’s ready, about anything she remembers. Especially anything that can support that she was abandoned or neglected. Her words, even in a private interview, can hold weight.”
Izuku ended the call and exhaled shakily. He returned to the dining area where Hina sat curled up beside Aki, who held her hand tightly. Yuu was now folding napkins beside Osamu, eyes flicking worriedly toward them every few seconds. Kenji and Sora peeked out of the kitchen door, nervous but calm under Kaminari’s soothing chatter.
He knelt beside them.
“We’re okay. No one’s going anywhere,” he said softly, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. “Mama will take care of everything. Papa Kacchan and I — we’re not letting anyone take you away from us.”
Hina looked up with wide, red-rimmed eyes, still afraid. Izuku kissed her forehead and whispered again, “You’re already home.”
And that, he promised himself, would never change — no matter who came knocking again.
The cheers of fans echoed in his ears, their joy washing over him like waves. Izuku stood on the small stage at the edge of the signing booth, smiling and nodding as flashbulbs popped and notebooks were pushed toward him. He greeted each fan with warmth, thanked them for their love, asked about their favorite songs, and joked when he could. But behind the glow of the event lights and his rehearsed smiles, Izuku Midoriya’s heart was racing in panic.
His mind wasn’t here.
It was still at the kitchen this morning — with Hina trembling behind him and that couple standing at the entrance like a ghost from someone’s forgotten past. He had barely slept the night before, waking every few hours to check on her. She had curled up beside him in bed with her face buried in his side, small and quiet in a way that unsettled him. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t cry. Just held on.
That scared Izuku more than anything.
Backstage, during the break between signings, he dropped into a chair with a sigh and immediately pulled out his phone. The screen was filled with messages — rehearsal updates, album arrangement notes, promotional obligations. He scrolled past all of it until he reached the encrypted chat thread with his lawyer and the private investigator he had hired two days ago.
Izuku: Any updates on the couple?
A moment later, a reply pinged from the P.I.
P.I.: Still confirming their employment history. What we’ve verified so far: Father has been in and out of part-time work; minor record for public disturbance last year. Mother is clean. No stable residence over the past 18 months. No medical documents submitted regarding mental health recovery — only verbal claim.
Izuku’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.
No court would accept that as stable guardianship. But it didn’t stop the fear clawing at his chest.
Because technically, Hina had never been legally put up for adoption. There were no papers to back the decision Katsuki and he made the moment they found her. Just the way she had clung to them. How she smiled again. How she called them “Mama” and “Papa.”
But was that enough?
He reached for his water but barely touched it. His lawyer’s earlier reply echoed in his mind.
“Izuku-san, if the biological parents present themselves and there is no legal declaration of neglect or abandonment backed by formal channels, the court could side with them. But — and this is important — what matters is proof of consistent care. We’ll emphasize Hina’s stability in your home, your efforts to provide, her education, safety, and emotional wellbeing. Still, I won’t sugarcoat this: this case will be hard without Katsuki here.”
That hit harder than expected.
Not because he blamed Kacchan. Never. Katsuki was doing this for Japan — for them — fulfilling his dream, competing for the title of one of the world’s best. Izuku could imagine how intense his schedule was right now with Shoto and Monoma, how focused he had to be. The last thing Katsuki needed was a call saying “Hey, our daughter might be taken away. Hope you’re still doing okay in Lyon.”
Izuku couldn’t let that happen.
So, he’d decided: he’d protect this by himself. Even if he was shaking inside.
He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. His planner was overflowing. Recording sessions. Dance rehearsals. Album teaser shoots. All stacked on top of each other like dominoes waiting to fall.
And in between every second he wasn’t working, he was pouring over reports from the P.I., cross-checking with their lawyer, calling Hina’s teacher, and gathering photographs and documents that could show just how much their little girl had bloomed since living with them.
There was no rest. No quiet moment. No certainty.
Just the whispering fear:
What if I can’t fight hard enough?
What if the judge decides blood is thicker, and I lose her?
What if I promised to protect someone again and failed?
He unlocked his phone again.
The home screen was a picture of Katsuki carrying Aki on one shoulder and Yuu holding onto his leg while Hina giggled behind them.
“I’m not going to let them take her,” Izuku whispered.
Then he wiped his eyes, grabbed his marker, and went back onstage.
Chapter 33: Restless Nights
Notes:
I’m so sorry for being super late with updates this season. Work has been really hectic, and on top of that I hit a bit of a mental block, especially after diving into all the complicated legal stuff about adoption for the story. There’s still a lot I don’t fully understand, but I’m slowly learning and figuring out how to balance it with writing.
Thank you so much for being patient with me. I’ll do my best to find a lighter way to write through it and get back to updating more regularly. Your support really means a lot, so please bear with me a little longer!
Chapter Text
Bocuse d’Or Training Kitchen – Lyon, France
The clatter of knives against cutting boards and the rhythmic hiss of pans filled the air. The team kitchen smelled of seared meat, stock bubbling down to reduction, and herbs crushed into fine powders. Every surface gleamed, every move rehearsed to perfection. Yet Katsuki’s movements—normally sharp, calculated, and relentless—carried a heaviness today.
His hands weren’t shaking, but they were slower, less precise. Not something anyone else might notice, but Shoto Todoroki and Neito Monoma had been cooking with him long enough to catch even the tiniest cracks in his rhythm.
Katsuki cursed under his breath when the garnish he plated didn’t align perfectly with the protein. He was always the first to call himself out, but this time it wasn’t just about precision—it was distraction. His phone sat face down on the stainless steel table, silent.
Deku hasn’t updated me since yesterday.
Normally, Izuku flooded him with small things:
—photos of the kids’ drawings,
—short voice notes of their laughter,
—a tired selfie after late-night rehearsals,
—or even just a text saying “eat well, don’t skip meals.”
But now? Nothing. Just silence. Katsuki kept telling himself: He’s busy. Idol work. Fan events. Studio. That’s all.
Still, the pit in his stomach wouldn’t go away.
He reached for his phone again, thumb hovering over Kaminari’s number. If he called Denki, he’d know the kids were fine. But a part of him always wanted to hear it from Izuku first. Izuku was home. Izuku was the one who made every update feel like more than information—it was comfort.
“Bakugo.”
The voice snapped him out of his spiral. Shoto stood across the counter, arms folded, mismatched eyes steady on him. “You’re distracted.”
Katsuki scowled. “I’m fine. Focus on your station.”
But Shoto didn’t move. Neither did Monoma, who had stopped his prepping mid-chop. The silence was uncomfortable, unusual for their team. Normally, Monoma would’ve had three sarcastic remarks locked and loaded by now. Instead, he leaned an elbow on the counter, actually looking concerned.
“This isn’t like you,” Monoma said finally. “You’re usually terrifying the day before finals. Now you’re… off. Do you need a break?”
Katsuki rolled his eyes. “The hell are you, my babysitters? I said I’m fine.”
But Shoto didn’t back down. “You’re not fine. And if it’s something personal, you don’t have to hide it. We’re a team.”
For a long moment, Katsuki stayed silent, knife poised over a strip of veal, jaw tight. Then, with a grunt, he set the blade down.
“…I’m seeing someone.”
Both Shoto and Monoma blinked. The kitchen noise seemed to fall away for a beat.
“You’re… what?” Monoma asked, almost dropping his knife.
Shoto raised an eyebrow. “That’s unexpected.”
Katsuki rubbed the back of his neck, irritation warring with unease. “Yeah. And normally, they blow up my phone every damn hour with updates. Since yesterday? Almost nothing. And it’s making me lose my edge.”
Still no teasing. No jokes. Just stunned silence—and then Monoma broke into a grin.
“Whoever they are,” Monoma said, “they must be a big deal if they’ve got you like this. The Bakugo Katsuki—the guy who barely tolerates people—is pacing because his lover isn’t texting back.”
Katsuki’s ears burned. “Shut the hell up.”
Shoto, for once, actually looked amused. “It suits you,” he said simply. “I don’t need to know who it is. But it’s obvious—they matter to you. A lot.”
Katsuki opened his mouth to argue, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he let out a rough sigh. “…Yeah. They do.”
The air shifted after that. What could have been awkward became lighter. Monoma slapped his shoulder, smirking. “Well, just don’t burn the veal because you’re lovesick. We need you sharp for the finals.”
Shoto added quietly, “We’ll cover you if you need a moment. We’ve got your back.”
For the first time that day, Katsuki felt his chest ease. He wasn’t about to spill every detail, but letting that much slip—just admitting there was someone—took weight off his shoulders.
He cracked a small, stubborn smile. “Tch. Don’t worry about me. I’ll pull my weight. More than you two combined.”
Monoma groaned. “There he is. Cocky as ever.”
The three of them shared a rare laugh, the tension in the kitchen breaking. Katsuki picked up his knife again, sharper, more focused. Izuku still hadn’t answered, but for now, he forced himself to breathe. To trust. To stay grounded.
He had a competition to win—and a future to build.
Katsuki stared at his phone for a long time, thumb hovering above the screen as if it weighed more than molten lead. His chest tightened with every beat, the silence of his hotel room in Lyon only making the emptiness inside him roar louder. He had been checking his messages all day, waiting for one from Izuku, something—anything—that might ground him. But there was nothing. Not a single word. Just the dull reminder that Izuku hadn’t even brought his phone.
Finally, Katsuki dragged in a sharp breath, jaw tight, and pressed the call button. The name he picked wasn’t the one he wanted most, but it was the only one that could tether him back home.
“Yo, boss!” Kaminari’s bright voice burst through the speaker after two rings, almost too cheerful. “How’s Lyon? You killing it over there?”
Katsuki didn’t answer right away. He let the silence press long enough for Kaminari to clear his throat awkwardly before he finally spoke, voice gravelly.
“Tell me about home.”
That was all Kaminari needed. He jumped straight into updates, his words bubbling fast like he had rehearsed them.
“Uh—well, you know, Midoriya-san’s been crazy busy, like, schedule-packed kind of busy. But don’t worry, he still makes time for the kids. I swear, every night he’s there with them, even if it’s just a short while. Plays around a little, checks their homework… the guy’s like, unbreakable.”
Katsuki leaned back against the chair, eyes narrowing at the ceiling. He could hear the faint strain behind Kaminari’s voice.
“And the kids are doing great! Sora’s, uh, really looking forward to this role-playing event next month. Says he’s only performing if you’re back in time. He’s, like, serious about it too—keeps rehearsing lines under his breath. You’d be proud.” Kaminari chuckled, though it sounded more like a nervous tick. “Yuu’s… you know Yuu. Always climbing stuff. Kenji’s helping out more with chores now, acts like he’s grown-up. Aki’s drawing a lot. They’re all… yeah, they’re all doing fine, boss. They miss you, but they’re good.”
Katsuki listened. His chest eased, just a little, but there was still that gnawing weight he couldn’t shake. Something Kaminari wasn’t saying.
“And Hina?” he asked suddenly, cutting through Kaminari’s ramble. His tone was low, commanding.
There was a pause. A too-long pause.
Kaminari laughed lightly, forced. “Hina? She’s, uh, still the same old Hina. Enjoying her milk like always, you know? Oh, and she got these new sleepwears from Midoriya-san—real cute ones. She loves them. Sleeps like an angel.”
But Katsuki caught it. The shift. The stumble in Kaminari’s tone. The hesitation. His gut twisted tight, instincts screaming.
“Denki.” Katsuki’s voice hardened, dropping into that sharp, warning edge that brooked no lies.
On the other side, Kaminari went dead quiet. Then, a sigh—long, heavy, resigned.
“Sorry, boss.” His voice lost the fake brightness, weighed down with guilt. “I… I can’t. Not about this. Midoriya-san made me promise. He doesn’t want you to worry, not while you’re there. Some things… you need to hear from him, not from me.”
Katsuki’s hand clenched tight around the phone. “The fuck does that mean?”
“It means…” Kaminari’s voice wavered, but he pushed through, softer now. “It means you gotta trust Midoriya-san. He’s got things under control. For now, you focus on your competition, okay? We’ll make sure everything’s fine here until you get back. Just… just trust him, boss.”
The silence between them stretched again, thick and suffocating. Katsuki could hear Kaminari’s uneven breathing, the weight of things unsaid pressing through the line.
Katsuki’s teeth ground together, fury boiling in his veins, not at Kaminari, but at the way everyone seemed to be shielding him from something. From her. From Hina. His instincts screamed to demand answers, to tear them out of Kaminari if he had to.
But Izuku’s name hanging in Kaminari’s words—trust Midoriya-san—was what kept him from exploding. Barely.
Katsuki shut his eyes, a low growl rumbling in his throat. “…Fine.”
Kaminari let out a breath, almost shaky with relief. “Thanks, boss.”
But Katsuki’s mind was already a storm, every nerve screaming that something was wrong back home. Something Izuku didn’t want him to know.
And he wasn’t sure how long he could sit across an ocean, chained to silence, before it broke him.
The apartment was wrapped in a heavy quiet when Izuku returned home. His body ached from the long day of schedules, rehearsals, and meetings, but the sight of the warm lights left on in the hallway still gave him comfort. He set his bag down gently, moving quietly so as not to wake the children.
But as he walked past the living room, he froze.
There—small, fragile steps padding against the floor—Hina stood in the middle of the darkened hallway, clutching the stuffed toy Katsuki had given her before leaving Japan. The bear’s ears were worn soft from all the hugs she gave it, pressed tight against her chest as her little feet shuffled without direction.
“Hina-chan?” Izuku’s voice dropped to a whisper, but his heart leapt into his throat.
She didn’t answer. Her eyes were half-lidded, lost in some dreamworld, and her lips moved faintly. He stepped closer and heard her murmuring:
“…umbrella… Kenji… rain’s coming… wait…”
Izuku’s chest tightened. Those random fragments tangled together in his head, trying to form meaning. A dream? A memory? Something from her past she couldn’t let go?
“Hina,” he said more softly, kneeling down as he reached her. He gently took her hand before scooping her small frame into his arms. She didn’t resist, only curled against him, clutching the stuffed toy tighter.
“Shh, it’s okay. Mama Izu’s here,” Izuku murmured, his voice trembling with both relief and worry. He carried her to the couch, sitting down carefully, rocking her slightly as one hand stroked her hair. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”
Gradually, her murmurs softened. Her breathing evened out against his chest, her lashes finally closing in true sleep.
Izuku sighed, resting his cheek against her warm hair. His arms tightened around her unconsciously—protectively. “What are you dreaming of, Hina-chan? What’s hurting you like this?”
A quiet shuffle broke the silence. Izuku looked up and saw Kenji rubbing his eyes as he stepped out of the kids’ room, hair sticking up wildly from sleep.
“Mama Izu…?” Kenji’s voice was groggy. He blinked at the sight of Izuku holding Hina. “Why are you carrying her?”
Izuku offered him a small, weary smile. “Hina-chan was sleepwalking. But she’s fine now.”
Kenji nodded slowly, as if this wasn’t strange to him at all. He climbed onto the couch beside Izuku, leaning his small body against his mama’s shoulder with sleepy trust.
“So it happened again,” Kenji murmured.
Izuku stiffened. “…Again?” He turned his gaze to Kenji. “Kenji, what do you mean? Has this happened before?”
The boy nodded, blinking heavily. “Yeah. Back when we were still on the streets… after Hina-chan joined us, me or Sora had to take turns staying awake sometimes. Because she’d get up and start walking like that. Couldn’t just leave her alone.”
Izuku’s heart sank. He tightened his hold on Hina, kissing the top of her head. “I see…”
Kenji yawned, but continued. “Papa Katsuki was surprised too when it happened in our early days with him. But it was okay since he was always awake late, cooking or training. He’d notice if Hina started walking. It stopped after a while… maybe six, seven months? She got more comfortable with us, with the house. Then it just… went away.”
Izuku looked down at Hina’s peaceful face, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. His voice cracked when he whispered, “Then why is it happening again now?”
Kenji shrugged gently. “Maybe… ‘cause she feels unsafe again? After seeing her parents that day. Or…” He tilted his head, looking up with sleepy eyes. “…maybe she just misses Papa Katsuki. And you, Mama Izu. You’re both really busy.”
Izuku swallowed hard. He didn’t want Kenji to see the guilt in his face, but the boy’s words pierced deep. “She was calling your name, Kenji,” Izuku said softly.
Kenji paused, then a small, proud smile tugged at his lips. He reached out and took Hina’s little hand in his own, squeezing it gently. “That’s good then. Means she still thinks I’m the most reliable brother.” He giggled under his breath. “It’s a win against Sora.”
Izuku chuckled quietly despite the heaviness in his chest. “You’re still a child, Kenji. But you have such a strong sense of responsibility. I’m so proud of you.” He leaned down to kiss the boy’s head, then pulled him close into his free arm. “Thank you for telling me these things. It means a lot. But now… you should go back to bed.”
Kenji yawned again, nodding. “Okay… but Mama Izu, bring Hina back to the room too. I’ll protect her tonight. You should rest too.”
Izuku’s eyes stung with tears he didn’t let fall. He hugged both of them tighter, whispering, “Thank you, Kenji. You’re such a good brother.”
As Kenji leaned against him, Izuku felt the crushing weight of the situation double. Hina’s past traumas were resurfacing. Her fragile sense of security was breaking again, and he couldn’t let that continue—not while Katsuki was away, not while Hina’s parents threatened to reappear.
For now, though, he held them close, letting the quiet of the night blanket them in something that felt like safety, even if only for a fleeting moment.
Chapter 34: Fragile Fire
Chapter Text
The house had gone quiet again after Izuku gently tucked Kenji and Hina back into bed. He lingered by their doorway for longer than necessary, watching Kenji shift so he was closer to Hina, one small arm protectively draped over her even in sleep. The sight was so tender it should have calmed Izuku, but instead it twisted his chest tighter.
He padded back to his room, exhaustion heavy in his limbs but his mind refusing to rest. The bath did little to wash away the ache in his heart. When he slipped into bed, damp hair clinging to his forehead, he couldn’t stop staring at his phone on the nightstand.
The screen glowed faintly, Katsuki’s name sitting at the top of his messages—missed calls from earlier, unanswered texts. Izuku bit his lip. He’d been so careful, so deliberate about not letting Katsuki feel burdened while he was chasing the Bocuse d’Or. Yet, here he was, holding his phone like a lifeline and staring at Katsuki’s number as though it might bite him back.
Finally, with a shaky breath, he pressed the call button.
Please be busy, he prayed silently. Please don’t answer. I just… I just need to hear the dial tone tonight.
But after only two rings, the line clicked—and Katsuki’s voice came through immediately.
“Izuku.”
Not a hello. Not a casual greeting. Just his name, low and steady.
Izuku shot upright in bed, heart slamming in his chest. His fingers tightened around the phone as though it could keep him anchored.
“K-Kacchan…” he stammered.
There was a pause. Izuku could almost hear Katsuki’s frown through the silence.
“I—uh,” Izuku scrambled, nerves making his words tumble over each other.
“I’m sorry I haven’t updated you these past three days. I didn’t mean to make you worry, I just… things got so busy with the kids and my schedules. How’s—how’s practice? How are you? Are you eating okay? Sleeping enough? I should’ve—”
Katsuki’s voice cut through him, sharp but not cruel.
“What’s wrong with Hina?”
Izuku froze. The words hit harder than any scolding could have.
“W-what do you mean?” His voice shook despite him trying to sound calm. “She’s fine. Really. She was just… sleepwalking earlier. But Kenji helped me tuck her back in, and they’re both sleeping peacefully now.”
A long silence followed. Then Katsuki’s tone shifted, carrying that sharpness that only came when he already knew.
“So it happened again. That means something triggered it, Izuku. What is it?”
Izuku swallowed hard, his throat dry. He couldn’t bring himself to admit it—not like this, not when Katsuki had enough pressure of his own. He forced a smile into his voice and changed the subject.
“When’s the final competition? I’ve been thinking… I really want to be there, Kacchan. To see you live, to cheer for you in person. But—I can’t leave the kids. Not when they can’t travel yet. They’re still not officially ours. I can’t risk anything for them right now.”
The weight in his words slipped through despite his attempt to sound casual. And Katsuki caught it immediately.
“The adoption,” Katsuki said flatly. Izuku could picture him narrowing his eyes. “Something’s wrong with the adoption process, isn’t it? Izuku, what happened?”
Izuku’s breath hitched.
“K-Kacchan, it’s nothing, just—”
“Don’t give me that crap.”
Katsuki’s tone hardened, not with anger, but with a desperation Izuku wasn’t used to hearing.
“Before I left, everything was going smoothly. I made sure the paperwork was ready, that the trial would go through cleanly. So what changed? What’s wrong with Hina’s adoption?”
The way he said it—Hina’s adoption, not “the kids” or “our kids”—cut straight into Izuku’s chest. Katsuki wasn’t just guessing anymore. He knew. He felt the gap Izuku had tried so hard to hide.
Izuku’s eyes burned. His free hand clutched the sheets tightly as his voice cracked.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” he admitted, his words trembling. “Not now. Not when you’re so close to your competition. I thought I could handle it, Kacchan. I thought I could make it go away before you came home, but…”
His breath shuddered, and he squeezed his eyes shut as tears slipped free.
“Hina’s parents came. They said they’re ready now. That they want her back. I didn’t know what to do—I still don’t know what to do. And I’m scared, Kacchan. What if… what if we lose her? What if everything we built with her gets taken away?”
For a moment, all Izuku could hear was the sound of Katsuki breathing through the receiver. Steady, heavy breaths that grounded him even as his heart pounded with fear.
Izuku pressed the phone tighter against his ear, as though closing the distance.
“I didn’t want you to carry this too. I wanted to protect you from it so you could focus, but I… I’m so scared.”
The silence stretched, filled only by Izuku’s shaky breaths and the faint sound of Katsuki exhaling slowly, as though choosing his words with precision.
He tightened his grip on the phone, forcing his voice to stay calm even if he could already hear Izuku’s breath hitching on the other side. Katsuki hated that he wasn’t there to wipe those tears himself, but he knew if he didn’t steady Izuku now, his nerd would only drown deeper in worry.
“Deku, listen to me carefully,” Katsuki began, his tone low but steady, carrying that rare calm he only ever used for Izuku. “You don’t need to lose sleep thinking we’ll lose Hina. We won’t. I won’t let that happen.”
There was a pause, just the faint sound of Izuku’s sniffles, before Katsuki continued.
“I talked to her. She told me what happened on her birthday. Her parents—those bastards—left her out in the streets with nothing but a single umbrella. They didn’t even look back. Just said sorry, and then drove away. You get that? They left their kid like she was trash.”
His jaw tightened, but he kept his voice measured, not wanting his anger to spill over Izuku’s already fragile state.
“She also told me about her father being sick. And yeah, I get that it’s rough, watching your mom cry every night beside his bed. But none of that excuses leaving your child in the damn street. That’s not sacrifice, that’s neglect. And the law sees it the same way. The truth itself is proof of what kind of parents they are. So stop doubting, Deku. We’ve got this.”
On the other side, Izuku’s muffled sob slipped through, making Katsuki’s chest ache. He softened further, letting that sharp edge melt into something protective.
“I’ll win this competition. You know I fucking will. And once I’m back, we’re gonna settle the adoption together. No one’s gonna take her away from us. She’s already ours, Deku. She’s our kid.”
He inhaled slowly, his next words heavier, gentler.
“But you’ve gotta promise me something. Don’t ever hide shit like this from me again—especially when it’s about our kids. I can’t protect us if you’re keeping things locked up. We’re a team, remember? We do this together.”
Izuku let out a quiet hum, the sound fragile but agreeing, like a soft nod through the line. His voice didn’t come, only another sniffle, and Katsuki knew he was still crying. He rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes briefly, imagining Izuku curled up somewhere with puffy eyes and trembling hands.
“Rest now, nerd,” Katsuki said, gentler than before. “Close those damn eyes before you make yourself sick. I’ll handle the rest from here.”
Finally, he let the words slip that always steadied Izuku the most.
“I love you.”
There was a small hitch before Izuku’s watery voice answered back, shaky but full of warmth:
“I love you too… and thank you, Kacchan.”
The call ended with that soft note, and Katsuki sat in silence for a moment, jaw tight but heart heavy with determination. For Izuku, for Hina, for the family they were building—he was going to make damn sure nothing could break them apart.
Izuku sat in the chair, Mina carefully blending foundation across his cheekbones, while the rest of his team prepared the outfits for the fan meeting later that afternoon. His phone was propped on its stand at the corner of the vanity, streaming Katsuki’s competition live.
It had already been almost an hour, and Izuku hadn’t looked away once. The timer on the screen showed they had two hours total to prepare their meals, but the intensity in Katsuki’s movements made it feel like the finals of some high-stakes match. His hands were sharp, precise, and fast—chopping vegetables, tossing pans, plating with almost theatrical control.
“Hold still, Izuku,” Momo scolded gently, tapping his chin so she could get the contour line right.
“Sorry,” Izuku mumbled, though his eyes never left the screen.
There, at the center of the kitchen station, was Katsuki—coordinating with Shoto and Monoma. Izuku could see Shoto’s calm, efficient movements, and Monoma’s flashy flair at plating, but no matter how balanced the teamwork was, Katsuki still drew all the attention. The camera often cut back to him because the way he commanded the space was magnetic. Even in a simple competition, he outshone everyone.
Izuku’s chest tightened, pride and nerves twisting together.
“He’s… amazing,” he whispered before he could stop himself.
Momo glanced at the screen with a smirk.
“Your boyfriend, huh? No wonder you look this nervous. You’re more jittery now than before your first solo showcase.”
Izuku flushed, but his grip on the armrest tightened. He couldn’t tear his gaze away. Katsuki wasn’t just cooking—he was leading, calculating, protecting the balance of his team while still pouring his soul into every detail. Watching him like this reminded Izuku why he’d fallen so hard for him.
But the longer the stream went, the heavier his heart felt. Because while Katsuki shined there, giving his all, Izuku was sitting here hiding secrets—about Hina, about the adoption, about his private investigations. He wanted to scream support through the screen, yet guilt made his throat burn.
“Don’t move, Izuku,” Momo said again, pressing color onto his lips.
He nodded faintly, but his eyes shimmered as Katsuki bent over the stove, fire flashing around him in that controlled chaos that only he could master.
Izuku whispered again, softer this time, almost like a prayer:
“Please win, Kacchan.”
As Izuku had finished his makeup, the last brush stroke leaving a faint highlight across his cheekbones. Momo stepped back with a satisfied grin, while one of the staff clipped his mic pack to his waist, securing the cord through his clothes. Aida, standing a few steps away, held out a hand, signaling him to breathe the way they’d practiced.
“In through your nose, hold, out through your mouth,” she reminded gently. “Steady your chest before you go out there.”
Izuku nodded, trying to follow her rhythm. His heart was already hammering—not from nerves about singing, but from the weight he’d been carrying these past days. Still, he forced a smile, his phone tucked in his pocket with Katsuki’s competition stream still running in the background. He would go out there, perform his special number for the drama OST, and show everyone the best version of himself, just like always.
But before he could even take a step toward the stage doors, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed in the backstage hallway. Security rushed in, tension sharp in the air. And behind them—Kaminari.
“Izu—!”
Denki gasped, chest heaving, still in his flour-stained kitchen wear, apron half untied. His face was pale, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead.
Izuku froze. His throat went dry.
“Kaminari-kun? What—what happened?”
Kaminari’s eyes darted around, panicked, before he blurted out, “Hina’s missing.”
The words slammed into Izuku like a punch to the chest. His knees nearly buckled.
“What—what do you mean missing?!”
“H-her parents came again,” Kaminari stammered, voice cracking. “They forced their way in—they—Izuku, they took her. They said they’ll hurt her if we don’t let them go today—”
Izuku’s breath hitched, horror flooding his face.
“I—I tried to stop them, but the kids—Kenji tried—” Kaminari’s voice shook harder. “He pushed to get to Hina but—he hit his head on the table edge. I had to—he was bleeding, I had to get him first, Izuku, I couldn’t—”
Izuku’s vision blurred. His whole body trembled. “Kenji—Kenji’s hurt?”
“Just a gash,” Kaminari rushed to explain, guilt all over his face. “We’ve already called a doctor—he’s being treated now, but—Hina, Izuku—they have her—”
Aida, standing nearby, had gone stone still. But she didn’t flinch when Izuku suddenly ripped his mic off and shoved it into a staff’s hands. He didn’t care about the stage, the fans, the schedule.
His children came first.
Izuku’s mind was white noise, nothing but roaring fear and anger. His chest felt like it would burst. He grabbed Kaminari’s wrist, pulling him hard.
“Take me to them. Now.”
“Izuku—” Aida started, stepping forward.
But Izuku didn’t even look at her. His eyes were burning, unfocused.
“Fix it,” he snapped hoarsely. “Tell them I can’t—I won’t—my kids are in danger. Please, Aida-san—just fix it.”
Aida's lips parted, but then she nodded, firm and understanding, already pulling out her phone.
Izuku barely registered it. He was already dragging Kaminari with him down the hall, his own phone shaking in his hand as he dialed his lawyer’s number.
“It’s Midoriya. Emergency—I need you now. They—they took Hina. Her parents forced her out of our custody. I need every legal hold, every document we have ready. And send someone to secure the others immediately.”
His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop. His other hand was already pulling up another number—his private investigator.
“Hina Midori. Six years old. She was taken an hour ago. They can’t be far. Track her, find her—anything you need, just do it.”
By the time Kaminari breathlessly told him where Kenji and the other kids were waiting, Izuku’s whole body was trembling with a rage he didn’t recognize. His jaw locked, eyes wild.
This was the first time in his life he felt something like this toward other people—pure, unfiltered fury. Hina was his daughter. Their daughter. And no one—not even her parents—had the right to take her away.
He couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t think beyond the pounding in his skull. All he knew was that his children were in danger. And while Katsuki fought for their future on the stage of his competition, Izuku swore to himself—he would fight here, too. Whatever it took, whatever lines he had to cross.
He wouldn’t let anyone tear their family apart.
Chapter 35: Dark Room
Chapter Text
Izuku’s chest was burning by the time he reached the private room where the kids were gathered. He could already hear their cries before the door even opened—desperate, ragged little sobs that stabbed through his ribs.
When he stepped inside, his heart broke.
Yuu, Aki, and Sora clung together on the couch, red-eyed and trembling, faces blotchy from crying. They scrambled toward him the moment they saw him, their sobs growing louder. Izuku dropped to his knees, arms wide, and pulled them all into him, hugging them so tight he could barely breathe.
“Shh, it’s okay, I’m here,” he whispered, kissing their damp hair, rocking them as they tried to explain between gasps.
But Izuku hushed them quickly, brushing away their tears.
“Not now. You’re safe. I’ll handle it. Just breathe, babies. Just breathe.”
Over their shoulders, his gaze landed on Kenji.
The boy was sitting in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest, head wrapped in clean bandages. His little hands were fisted against his legs, his eyes locked on the floor. He didn’t even look up when Izuku called softly,
“Kenji…”
Izuku stood, approaching carefully.
“Kenji. Thank you for—”
“I didn’t do anything!”
Kenji suddenly shouted, startling the others. His voice cracked with anguish. His small body trembled as his fists slammed against his knees.
“I let them take her! I’m supposed to protect her—I’m her brother! I promised you, mama, but I failed! I couldn’t fight them—I got hurt, and they still took her. I’m weak. That’s why they took her!”
His shout broke into a sob, hot tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, mama!”
Izuku’s throat closed, his vision stinging. He crouched down in front of him, hands shaking as he reached out. But before he could speak, Yuu, Aki, and Sora rushed to Kenji’s side, hugging him tightly, their cries joining his.
Izuku swallowed hard, then leaned in, gently taking Kenji’s small hands into his own. He squeezed firmly, grounding him. “Listen to me, Kenji. Look at me.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Kenji raised his tear-soaked eyes.
“I am not mad at you,” Izuku said, voice trembling but steady with conviction.
“Do you hear me? I am proud of you. You fought for her. You tried. That is more than anyone could ask of a brother. You didn’t fail, Kenji. You are brave. And you are strong.”
Kenji’s lips quivered.
“Mama…”
Izuku’s tears finally slipped down his cheeks, but his smile was unwavering as he cupped Kenji’s hands tighter.
“I will bring Hina back. No matter what it takes. That’s my promise to you, to all of you. You didn’t lose her. And you are not weak. You are my son, and I am so proud of you.”
At that, Kenji broke completely, throwing himself into Izuku’s arms, sobbing into his chest.
“Please… bring her back, mama. Please. They can’t hurt her again. They can’t… they can’t put her back in the dark room…”
Izuku froze. The words hit him like a lightning bolt.
Dark room? His arms tightened around Kenji instinctively.
“What dark room, Kenji?” he asked, his voice unsteady.
Kenji just cried harder, unable to explain. It was Sora who wiped at his own face and whispered,
“He means what Hina told us before. When her dad was in the hospital, her mom always left her in their game room. But it wasn’t fun for her. It was dark. She said it felt like being locked away. Sometimes… sometimes her mom forgot she was there until the next day, or days later.”
Izuku’s blood ran cold.
Sora continued, his own voice breaking,
“That’s why she’s so small, mama. When we found her, she looked like a toddler. She wasn’t eating enough. We always gave her more food when we shared what we found in the streets. That’s why.”
Izuku’s entire body trembled. His fists clenched even as he kept the kids pulled close. A fire he had never felt before burned through him—something darker than fear, deeper than grief. Pure fury.
He kissed each of their foreheads, holding them as if he could shield them from everything.
“Thank you. Thank you for telling me,” he whispered, though his voice shook with rage. “I won’t let anyone hurt her again. I swear.”
He turned to Kaminari, who stood awkwardly by the door, guilt written across his face. Izuku wiped his tears with the back of his hand, jaw tight.
“Take care of them. Don’t let them out of your sight. Close the restaurant. Nothing else matters until Hina is home.”
Denki nodded quickly.
“Got it. Leave it to me.”
Izuku pressed one last kiss to Kenji’s damp hair before forcing himself to stand. He could still hear Kenji’s sobs, still feel the tremor of his little shoulders, but he had to move. He had to fight.
In the hallway, his phone buzzed. His personal lawyer—different from the adoption lawyer Katsuki had arranged—was already waiting with his car. Izuku climbed in, hands still shaking as he gave the order.
“I want every possible case filed against them. Neglect. Abuse. Endangerment. I don’t care how—it starts now.”
“Understood,” his lawyer said firmly.
At the same time, his private investigators were feeding him updates, tracing possible routes, checking cameras. The machine had already started moving.
As the car pulled forward, Izuku unlocked his phone, needing something—anything—to steady himself. He opened the live stream of Katsuki’s competition again.
There he was—focused, intense, the center of his team as they plated their dish. Katsuki’s movements were sharp but elegant, his concentration unbreakable. The crowd was in awe, and Izuku felt his throat tighten watching him.
“Twenty minutes until the final phase,” the announcer’s voice echoed faintly through the stream.
Izuku bit his lip, tears stinging again.
“I’m sorry, Kacchan,” he whispered to the screen.
I wanted to be there. I wanted to see you win. But right now… our daughter needs me.
He pressed the phone to his chest, trembling.
I know you’d understand. You’d rather I fight for her than sit and watch while she’s in danger. I’ll protect her, Kacchan. I promise.
And with that vow, he wiped his eyes, looked out the window, and prepared for the battle ahead.
Izuku’s knuckles were white where he gripped his knees, forcing himself to breathe as the car rolled up to the small, worn-down house that had once belonged to Hina’s parents. His men had already secured the area, and the moment he stepped out, the air around him felt heavy.
The house was silent. Empty.
But Izuku didn’t see absence—he saw ghosts. His little girl’s shadow everywhere. The door creaked open, and dust carried the stale scent of neglect.
He moved through the rooms one by one, eyes sharp, refusing to miss a detail. Then, something tugged at him—a door at the far end of the hallway. His chest clenched. He didn’t even breathe as his hand touched the knob.
When it swung open, his stomach dropped.
A game room.
Only it wasn’t light, or colorful, or alive the way children’s spaces should be. It was suffocating. The curtains were drawn, dust thick over toys that looked barely touched. And in the center—a small mattress, too thin, too cold for a child.
Izuku’s knees weakened. He stepped inside, eyes flicking to the corners. That was when he noticed the CCTV camera, pointed directly at the mattress.
“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, trembling. He immediately turned to his men. “Get that footage. I don’t care how far back it goes—years, if possible. If Hina was ever left here, I want proof. Everything.”
“Yes, sir!”
He lingered just long enough to touch one of the abandoned toys. A small stuffed rabbit, its fur matted, its eyes almost falling out. He imagined Hina’s little hands clutching it in the dark, alone, afraid. His heart twisted.
The vibration of his phone pulled him back. He answered sharply.
“Midoriya-san,” the adoption lawyer’s voice came quick, urgent. “We found them. Your men already have Hina. She’s safe. She’s being taken to the hospital now for evaluation. Her parents are in custody.”
Izuku’s eyes slammed shut. Relief hit him so hard his chest caved. His voice cracked.
“…She’s safe?”
“Yes.”
Izuku exhaled, hand pressed to his mouth, trembling as tears finally broke free.
“…Thank god.”
He straightened, voice hard again.
“I’m leaving the house. I want every piece of evidence secured. You,”—he gestured to his personal lawyer—“stay here. Handle it. Everything about this place needs to go into the case.”
“Yes, Izuku-sama.”
Izuku left without looking back, one of his men driving him straight to the station.
The moment he walked through the doors, the air changed. Officers stiffened, his presence commanding the room even without words. He was led toward the holding cells.
There they were.
Hina’s parents.
The mother’s face was streaked with tears. The father looked pale, worn, leaning against the bars as if his body could collapse any second. The second they spotted Izuku, both rushed forward, clutching the bars.
“Please, Midoriya-san!” the mother cried. “Please, listen to us!”
“We’re sorry!” the father added, coughing, his voice raw. “We didn’t mean to hurt her—we just… we didn’t know how to reach you again! My cancer… it came back. She lost her job, she was fired because she took time off for me. We—”
The mother cut in, desperation bubbling.
“We only wanted to see our daughter again! We thought—we thought maybe you could help us. We didn’t mean to make it worse. We just… we just wanted another chance.”
Izuku stood there, utterly still. His hands curled into fists so tight they shook.
He stepped forward, close enough that only they could hear him, his green eyes blazing. His voice was low, trembling with restrained fury.
“Another chance?”
He let out a hollow laugh, but there was nothing amused in it.
“You abandoned her. Left a little girl—your daughter—on the street. With a single umbrella. You drove away while she cried. You didn’t give her a chance.”
The father’s lips trembled.
“We—”
“Shut up!”
Izuku’s voice cracked like a whip, his anger uncoiling. The officers nearby stiffened but did not intervene.
“You don’t get to cry and say sorry now,” Izuku seethed, leaning closer. His voice was sharp, each word cutting. “You don’t get to hide behind excuses about cancer or jobs or pity. You used her. You are still using her.”
His hand slammed against the bars, making them flinch.
“You thought you could take her because now she has a life. Because now she has a family. You thought you could crawl back and leech off her happiness—off of us.”
The mother sobbed.
“That’s not—”
“It is!”
Izuku snapped, his chest heaving. His eyes glistened with fury, not sorrow.
“You never loved her the way she deserved. You left her in that dark room, over and over, alone, starving, scared. You left scars on her you can’t even see. And then, when she finally smiled again—when she finally felt safe—you came back to tear it all away!”
He was shaking now, his voice cracking.
“You bastards. Jerks. Filthy, selfish bastards.”
They flinched at his words, but Izuku wasn’t done.
He leaned in, his whisper colder than any shout.
“I will make sure you rot here. I will make sure you never touch her again. I will make sure every single crime you committed follows you until you’re burning in hell.”
His glare was merciless.
“You’re dead to her. You’re nothing. And the next time you dare to say her name, remember this—she already has a family. She already has parents. Me. Katsuki. Her brothers and sister. We are her home now. Not you. Never you.”
The father sank back, silent, pale. The mother’s sobs turned hollow, broken.
Izuku stepped back, jaw tight, chest heaving with the storm inside him. He turned sharply to the officers.
“Keep them here. I want maximum charges filed. I’ll have my lawyer bring the full case.”
“Yes, Midoriya-san.”
He left without another glance at them, his fists trembling as he stepped back into the night air.
His heart was breaking, his body shaking, but his resolve had never burned brighter. Hina was safe. And those people? They would never hurt her again.
Katsuki was already on his final steps, his focus razor-sharp, hands moving with the speed and precision of someone who had been living inside a kitchen battlefield his whole life. The cameras zoomed in, following every move, the sizzling sounds from pans and the clatter of knives against cutting boards filling the air like music. The crowd was murmuring, watching closely, and the judges leaned forward as if not wanting to miss a single detail.
Then it happened.
The metal utensil slipped from Katsuki’s grasp, the sharp edge clattering against the floor before snapping with a harsh crack that echoed across the competition hall. Time seemed to slow for him in that moment. He felt the sting immediately — the corner of his palm sliced open by the broken piece, hidden beneath the intensity of heat and movement. The shock registered in his body before his brain could even fully process it. His grip faltered. His rhythm, flawless until now, almost stuttered.
For a brief, heavy heartbeat, silence fell over their station.
Shoto’s eyes darted up instantly, calm but firm, his voice low yet commanding.
“Keep moving. We’ll handle it.”
Monoma’s hands were already reaching to adjust what Katsuki couldn’t, sliding in seamlessly, his smirk muted but determined.
“Don’t you dare let this throw us off, Bakugo. We’re almost there.”
Their movements wrapped around him like safety nets, pulling him back into the rhythm they had built. Shoto reached over, steady and precise, covering where Katsuki’s hand might falter. Monoma adjusted plating components with flair, his confidence unshaken. Together, they filled the silence, letting their teamwork shield Katsuki from the danger of distraction.
Three minutes.
That was all they had left. Just three minutes, and their dish was already perfected — flavors balanced, textures layered, presentation immaculate. Nothing more was required except to hold steady. They only had to wait, only had to breathe.
Katsuki knew it.
He knew it in his head. But his heart raged against it. His palm was throbbing now, warm and sticky, a reminder hidden from the cameras, from the audience, from everyone except himself. His pride screamed that he’d slipped, that he’d let a weakness show. And worse, deep in his chest, beneath the weight of his composure, came an ache — an urge he couldn’t suppress.
He wanted to call Izuku.
He wanted to hear that voice, the one that always grounded him, the one that always told him he was more than just the explosion of strength people saw. He wanted Izuku to scold him gently, to tell him he wasn’t wrong, that this one mistake didn’t make him less. He wanted to hear the reassurance that he could finish strong, no matter the sting in his hand or the broken utensil lying on the floor like a taunt.
But he couldn’t.
Not here.
Not with the cameras watching and the seconds ticking away.
So he gritted his teeth, set his jaw, and forced his face into the picture of control. His teammates had trusted him not to falter, and he wouldn’t let them down.
Not now.
Three minutes.
He could survive three minutes.
But inside, all he could think about was that as soon as this was over, as soon as the cameras cut and the lights dimmed, the first number he’d dial would be Izuku’s. Because no matter how unshaken he looked to the world, deep down, Katsuki Bakugo had only one place to put his hurt, his pride, and his need to be seen for more than perfection.
And that place was always Izuku.
Chapter 36: Unraveling
Chapter Text
Izuku arrived at the company building quietly, hood pulled low and mask hiding most of his face, though anyone could tell by the stiffness of his steps and the way his hands clenched at his sides that he wasn’t in his usual calm state. His manager, Aida, was already waiting at the private entrance. She didn’t say anything at first—just walked beside him, hand hovering near his shoulder in silent support. She knew better than to pressure him right away, especially when she could see the tension rolling off him in waves.
Inside the conference room, several heads of the company were waiting. The director sat at the center, his expression more worried than scolding. It was rare—almost unheard of—for Izuku to walk out of an official event. He was known for his reliability, his professionalism, even when his health had faltered in the past. That very reputation made his sudden decision to storm out all the more alarming.
Izuku took his seat, shoulders still trembling, not from fear but from anger that hadn’t yet burned itself out. His jaw was tight, lips pressed together, and his gaze fixed on the polished surface of the table rather than anyone’s eyes.
Aida placed a bottle of water in front of him, her voice soft but firm.
“Take a breath first, Izuku. You don’t have to rush. Just calm down a little.”
He blinked, fingers curling around the bottle but not opening it. The silence stretched. The room was thick with the weight of everyone’s concern.
Finally, the director cleared his throat, voice careful.
“Midoriya-san… we won’t ask about everything at once. But what happened today—it scared us. It was your first time doing something like that, and it wasn’t small. We just need to understand why. You know how important clarity is, especially with the media already waiting to twist the narrative.”
Izuku exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a moment. He had promised himself long ago he wouldn’t hide behind lies anymore. Not after all the battles he’d fought with himself, not after his recovery. He opened his eyes, lifting his head, his voice quieter than usual but steady.
“There are two things I need to confirm before I explain myself.”
The room stilled, waiting.
“First,” Izuku continued, “I’m dating someone.”
He felt the shift immediately—some surprise, some stiffening from the executives, though Aida remained calm, nodding faintly at him as if to encourage him to keep going.
“And second…” His hand tightened around the water bottle, knuckles whitening. “…I am adopting kids.”
The weight of his words sank in. Murmurs started, quickly hushed. The director leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable.
Izuku let the silence stretch before speaking again. His voice was firm now, determined, as if saying it aloud gave him strength.
“I know how this looks. I know you think I acted recklessly. But I couldn’t just stand there and let people attack them—those kids, my family—like they were nothing. I stormed out because I had to protect them. Even if you don’t approve, even if the public tears me apart for it, I won’t pretend they don’t exist. Not anymore.”
His anger softened into something more raw, more vulnerable. He glanced at Aida, then back at the table.
“I’ve worked hard to recover, to stand here again as your artist. I said I’d never use those private emergency contacts you prepare for us because I wanted to carry my own burdens. But this—this wasn’t about me. This was about them. And I will use everything I have to make sure they’re safe.”
The room was silent again, heavier than before. Some of the executives exchanged wary glances, calculating the risks, the potential fallout. But in the center of it all, Izuku sat with his shoulders squared, his trembling finally subsiding—not out of relief, but out of resolve.
Aida broke the silence at last, her voice carrying the weight of someone who had watched Izuku struggle and rise again.
“You’ve all seen what he’s been through. You’ve all seen how hard he fought to come back to this stage. If this is the first time he’s ever walked out, the first time he’s used those contacts… then don’t you think that means this is important enough to him to risk everything?”
Izuku bowed his head slightly, his voice quiet but unwavering.
“I’m not asking for permission to love, or to build a family. I’m just asking for your understanding—and your trust—that I won’t let it destroy what we’ve built together. I can do both. I will do both.”
The tension in the room didn’t vanish, but it shifted—less of confrontation, more of contemplation. They would still have to weigh the consequences, still have to decide how to protect their idol’s career. But Izuku had made his stance clear.
For the first time since he stormed out earlier, his trembling finally stilled completely.
The morning broke heavy with headlines.
Izuku’s company had moved fast, faster than even Aida expected. Their statement was everywhere—on official pages, press outlets, trending hashtags. It wasn’t sensationalized; it was careful, polished, but firm.
“Yesterday, during a scheduled event, our artist Izuku Midoriya encountered a personal emergency involving a child in immediate danger of being kidnapped. Mr. Midoriya chose to leave the event to personally intervene. His decision was made out of bravery and responsibility, and while it caused a disruption, our agency fully supports him. We confirm that the child in question has been safely recovered, and legal measures are now being handled by the proper authorities.
We want to emphasize that Mr. Midoriya’s actions are not neglect of his professional commitments, but a reflection of his integrity and courage. Our agency stands behind him and will continue to provide full support for both his career and his involvement in this case.
This child, Hina, may be familiar to many of you as one of the five children who made cameo appearances in Izuku’s music video ‘Recipe of Me,’ during his comeback after his health hiatus. We are proud to have shown those children to the world, and we remain proud of Izuku for protecting them now.
Updates regarding Mr. Midoriya’s condition, as well as developments in the case, will be provided as available.”
The official photo attached wasn’t of Izuku—it was of little Hina on set, bundled in a pastel dress, holding onto Izuku’s sleeve in that music video that once warmed hearts all over the internet. That detail alone sent fans into a storm.
Within hours, comment sections were flooded:
“Izuku is more than an idol, he’s a hero. Who would leave a red-carpet event to chase after a child unless they cared that much?”
“Protect him at all costs. He’s too precious.”
“This is why I’ll never stop supporting him. This is what real bravery looks like.”
“Imagine the trauma that poor kid has. Thank god for Izuku.”
Aida sat beside Izuku in the backseat of the van, phone in hand, scrolling through waves of messages. She read a few aloud, her tone soft, trying to coax some flicker of light from him.
“‘He’s the kind of person this world needs.’ … ‘Our Midoriya is fearless.’ … and here—‘We’ll fight for him like he fights for us.’”
She glanced at him, waiting for a reaction.
But Izuku just leaned against the window, eyes unfocused as the city blurred past. His hands were folded tightly on his lap, knuckles pale, and his jaw clenched every time his phone buzzed. He hadn’t opened social media once. He hadn’t even bothered to check the statement himself.
His voice was quiet, almost absent when he finally spoke.
“Did Kaminari call again?”
Aida exhaled, lowering her phone.
“Yes. I already checked in with him this morning. Osamu’s looking after the other four—they’re safe. Kenji’s wound is healing well. He’s more worried about Hina than himself, but he’s calmer now. Kaminari says the kids won’t let him out of their sight, so he’s… coping. As for Hina—”
She hesitated, because Izuku’s head snapped toward her the moment she said the name. “—I went to the hospital before picking you up. She’s stable. Sleeping most of the time. The doctors want to run full tests, make sure there are no hidden injuries or malnourishment issues. She’ll be fine.”
Izuku’s shoulders trembled faintly, though his face betrayed nothing. He turned back to the window, whispering,
“Good.”
Silence stretched again. Only the hum of the van and the faint shuffle of papers in Aida’s lap filled the space.
Izuku scrolled his phone briefly, not to check the comments but to open the competition feed from last night. The screen showed the headline:
“Bakugo Katsuki’s team triumphs in finale: brilliance under pressure.”
A photo of Katsuki standing front and center, bloodied hand wrapped neatly in a bandage, holding the trophy with Monoma and Shoto at his side.
Izuku lingered on the image, thumb hovering over Katsuki’s contact. He wanted—no, he ached—to call him. To hear his voice, to tell him everything, or maybe just nothing at all. Just to hear Katsuki breathe on the other end would’ve been enough.
But he didn’t press the call button. He locked the phone and tucked it back into his pocket. Katsuki was still drowning in post-competition interviews, still basking in the spotlight he had earned. Izuku couldn’t drag him into this storm—not now. Not when Izuku himself was barely holding on.
I need to finish this first, Izuku told himself. I need to clean this mess before he comes home. He deserves that much. He’s carried too much for me already.
Aida studied him quietly. Izuku's skin was pale, the shadows under his eyes deeper than yesterday. He hadn’t touched the meal she left in front of him earlier, only sipping water when she reminded him.
It was too familiar—this quiet retreat, this slow starvation of both body and spirit. She could see the ghost of the boy who once nearly vanished under the weight of his eating disorder.
Her chest tightened.
She wanted to say Eat, Izuku. Please. Call Katsuki. Don’t do this to yourself again.
But the way he sat now, rigid and closed off, told her he wasn’t ready to hear it. He needed focus, he needed control, and he clung to those like a lifeline.
So she said nothing.
She just adjusted her seatbelt, opened her laptop, and focused on preparing the documents they would need at the constitutional office. If supporting him meant walking beside him in silence, she would do it. But inside, she was deeply, painfully worried.
Because she knew Izuku’s heart. He would burn himself to ash to protect the people he loved—and she feared he was already starting to.
The air inside the constitutional office was heavy with the smell of polished wood and paper—formal, sterile, suffocating. Izuku sat between Aida and two of his lawyers, his posture stiff, hands clenched under the table where no one could see. He forced his eyes to stay on the folders spread across the long table, though every muscle in his body screamed to leave, to go straight to Hina.
The head lawyer adjusted his glasses, voice calm but sharp.
“Mr. Midoriya, today we’ll be cataloguing all evidence relevant to the case against Hina’s parents. This will strengthen not only the criminal charges but also the adoption process for her and the other children moving forward. Everything we secure now will ensure the trial is smooth.”
Izuku nodded once. He didn’t trust his voice to stay steady.
The first set of files laid out were from the house—their old home. Photos of the room where Hina had been locked. A windowless space, littered with broken toys, a thin mattress on the floor. It looked more like a storage closet than a child’s safe place. One photo showed the small camera bolted high in the corner, its light faint but unmistakable.
Izuku’s chest tightened.
“These CCTV records date back two years,” the lawyer explained, sliding a USB drive forward.
“We’ve already confirmed footage of Hina being repeatedly kept in that room, sometimes for hours at a time. That alone proves neglect and abuse. It will heavily weigh against their parental rights.”
Another folder opened: records from the restaurant, the incident just yesterday. The footage played on a laptop at the center of the table.
Izuku didn’t want to watch, but his eyes locked on the screen anyway.
There was Hina, sitting near Kenji at a table, crayons scattered. The moment her parents appeared, her tiny frame froze. She shook her head violently as they grabbed her arm, her mouth opening in a scream Izuku could almost hear through the screen.
Kenji ran forward, desperate, only to be shoved. The camera caught it all—his small body crashing into the table, the horrible crack as his head hit the edge before he crumpled, crying. Hina shrieked and reached for him, but her mother pulled harder, dragging her toward the door.
Then—the mother whipped around, waving a pair of scissors she had snatched from the counter, the blade glinting. She pointed it at Hina’s neck, wild and desperate. Staff froze. Other children cried, panicking, while Hina was pinned against her father’s chest, thrashing, her mouth open in sobs too raw to ignore.
The recording ended with them running out the door.
Izuku’s fingers dug into his knees so hard his nails almost tore through fabric. His face stayed unreadable, but inside, rage burned like acid. He wanted to scream, to smash the laptop shut, to curse until his throat bled. Instead, he pressed his lips into a hard line, his teeth aching with the effort of restraint.
One of the lawyers glanced at him cautiously.
“This… is damning evidence. We’ll present both sets—past and present—to demonstrate a repeated pattern of abuse. Combined with testimony from the restaurant staff, as well as the medical report of Kenji’s head wound, the case is undeniable.”
“We’ll also be reinforcing your petition for adoption,” another added quickly, as though sensing Izuku’s spiraling silence.
“The court will see this as proof that you are not only providing care, but actively protecting these children. We’ll keep things smooth, Midoriya-san. You’ll get peace of mind.”
Izuku gave a short nod, throat too tight to form words.
Aida, watching him tremble subtly under the table, leaned forward.
“I’ll coordinate with your team here for the rest of the day. Izuku… for now, you should go. See Hina.”
Her tone left no room for argument.
Izuku didn’t fight her. He rose too quickly, almost knocking his chair back. The lawyers stood respectfully as he left with Aida, but their voices faded the moment the office door closed behind him.
Later that day, Izuku arrived at the hospital. It was quieter than the office had been, but the atmosphere weighed heavier. Izuku’s steps slowed the moment they reached the pediatric ward. His heart pounded, his hand brushing unconsciously at his chest as though to calm the thundering.
Through the glass of Hina’s room, he saw her. Small. Fragile. Sitting upright on the bed, hugging a stuffed rabbit to her chest. Kaminari sat cross-legged on the chair beside her, animatedly telling her a story, hands waving, his bright energy filling the space.
For the first time in days, Izuku forced a smile. He inhaled deeply, willing his trembling to still, and pushed the door open gently.
The hinges creaked, drawing Hina’s gaze.
“Hina,” Izuku called softly. His voice cracked, but he carried a tenderness he didn’t even know he could summon in this moment.
Kaminari lit up instantly.
“Oh! Hina, look—Mama Izuku’s here!” He grinned wide, trying to ease the moment, his eyes darting between them.
Izuku stepped forward, crouching to be at her level. He reached out a careful hand, fingers trembling just above her hair. But before he could touch her—
Hina flinched. She slid sideways, burying her face into Kaminari’s side, clutching him like a shield. Her tiny hands shook, her stuffed rabbit squished against her chest.
The air cracked around Izuku.
“Hina…?” Kaminari whispered, stunned. He glanced at Izuku, panic flashing across his face.
“Hey, it’s okay, it’s Mama Izuku. He’s here—why are you—?”
But Hina stayed hidden, her shoulders heaving, silent tears staining Kaminari’s shirt.
Izuku froze, his hand hovering uselessly in the air before he slowly pulled it back. He forced his lips into a smile, even though his chest was caving in.
“I… I’m happy to see you again, Hina,” he said quietly, his voice breaking. “You’ll get to go home later, see your brothers and sister. They’re waiting for you.”
He swallowed hard, forcing the words out even as his vision blurred.
“I understand that… you don’t want me here right now. I wasn’t there when you needed me most. I didn’t protect you.”
His throat ached. Tears slipped down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Hina. I’ll make sure you’re with your siblings soon. That’s a promise.”
Before she could lift her head, before Kaminari could say another word, Izuku stood abruptly. The chair scraped, the door swung open, and he was gone.
“Midoriya-san—!”
Kaminari called after him, but his voice was muffled by the pounding in Izuku’s ears.
Izuku ran.
He didn’t care that people stared. He bolted down the hall until he reached the men’s restroom, shoving the door open and collapsing against the sink.
His body convulsed before he even registered it. He gagged, retching violently into the basin. Nothing came up—he hadn’t eaten—but his stomach twisted, forcing him to heave until his throat was raw. Tears streamed down his face as sobs wracked his chest.
He gripped the cold porcelain, knuckles white, and cried openly, brokenly.
Hina’s terrified eyes haunted him. Her small body hiding from him—from him.
The rejection pierced deeper than any wound he’d carried before. It dragged him back into that darkness—the boy who once starved himself, terrified of rejection, terrified of being unwanted, unloved.
And now, faced with the child he had sworn to protect, he felt that same crushing terror:
What if I can’t be the parent she needs? What if I fail them all?
Izuku pressed his forehead against the mirror, breath ragged, voice breaking into the empty bathroom.
“I can’t… I can’t lose her. Please… not again…”
His sobs echoed, raw and unrestrained, as if the walls themselves bore witness to his despair.
The celebration inside the practice kitchen was almost loud enough to rattle the walls. Monoma was sprawled on one of the counters, laughing as he replayed clips from the competition on his tablet, while Shoto calmly polished the edge of one of their knives, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“You see that plating shot?” Monoma grinned, waving his screen. “The camera loved me. I mean—us. But mostly me.”
Shoto raised an eyebrow.
“We won because of the flavor, not the camera angle.”
Monoma scoffed.
“Details, details—”
But Katsuki wasn’t listening.
He was slumped in a chair, hunched over his phone, thumb scrolling furiously as his forehead creased deeper and deeper with every swipe. His team’s laughter sounded muted, distant, drowned out by the words glaring back at him on the glowing screen.
Idol Midoriya Izuku Protects Child from Kidnapping During Restaurant Incident.
Bravery Beyond the Stage: Midoriya Izuku Intervenes, Saves Child.
Formerly Sick Idol Becomes Hero: Fans Praise His Courage and Humanity.
And then—photos. Izuku’s face, pale but composed, standing outside a police statio. Then Hina's picture from music video of 'Recipe On Me'.
Katsuki’s grip tightened so hard the phone creaked. He read every detail, his pulse hammering in his ears. The words felt unreal—like someone had taken Izuku’s private life and thrown it into the sun for everyone to burn their eyes on.
“Oi, Bakugo,” Monoma finally noticed his silence. “You good? We just won an international competition and you’re scowling like we lost.”
“...Shut up for a sec,” Katsuki muttered, not even glancing up.
Shoto tilted his head slightly.
“What are you reading?”
Katsuki ignored them, thumb stabbing at the screen as he dialed Kaminari. The line rang. Once. Twice. Straight to voicemail.
“Damn it.”
He swore and redialed, this time calling Osamu. Same result.
Monoma leaned closer, curious.
“Who are you calling? You look like your cat just died.”
Katsuki’s jaw tightened as he scrolled to Aida’s number. He hesitated only a second before hitting dial. The phone rang before a calm, professional voice picked up.
“Bakugo-san.”
Katsuki’s throat felt dry.
“You’ve seen the articles too?” Aida’s voice softened. “I have. Congratulations on your win, by the way.”
“Cut the crap,” Katsuki snapped. “Where’s Izuku?”
Another silence.
Katsuki’s knuckles whitened around the phone.
“Tell me where the hell he is.”
Finally, Aida sighed.
“...He’s at his apartment. Locked himself inside since this morning. I… heard Hina rejected him when he visited. Since then, he hasn’t welcomed anyone in.”
Katsuki’s heart lurched. He could picture it too clearly: Izuku curled up in a dark corner, trembling, his face buried in his knees, crying silently until he couldn’t breathe. Worse—he could imagine Izuku not eating again, slipping back into the dangerous cycle he’d fought so hard to crawl out of.
Katsuki pressed his palm over his eyes, trying to steady the rush of panic.
“Shit…”
“Bakugo-san,” Aida said carefully, “I know you’re worried, but—”
“Listen to me,” Katsuki cut her off, his tone sharp but laced with urgency. “Make sure Kaminari and the restaurant staff handle meals for the kids. Don’t leave them on their own. And you—if Izuku doesn’t open the door, I don’t care—use force if you have to. Call his damn doctor too. I don’t care how pissed he gets. Don’t let him starve himself again.”
There was a pause on the line. Aida exhaled slowly.
“Understood. I’ll make sure he’s checked on. You… should focus on returning home.”
“I’m back tomorrow.” Katsuki’s voice cracked, and he lowered it, softer but desperate. “Please… don’t let him break himself before then.”
“I won’t.”
The call ended.
Katsuki sat still for a second, staring blankly at the phone, before slamming it down on the table hard enough that Monoma flinched.
Shoto and Monoma had gone silent, watching him. Shoto’s eyes were sharp, assessing, while Monoma looked more confused than anything.
Shoto spoke first.
“You’re worried about someone.”
“Obviously,” Katsuki muttered, raking a hand through his hair. His chest burned with restless energy. He couldn’t sit here. Not when Izuku was falling apart.
Monoma frowned.
“Wait. Did you just say Izuku? As in Midoriya Izuku? The Midoriya Izuku? The idol?”
Katsuki froze, realizing what slipped. His jaw tightened.
Monoma nearly toppled off the counter.
“You’re telling me we’ve been cooking with that guy’s—”
“Not your damn business.” Katsuki cut him off sharply, finally lifting his eyes, his stare blazing. “Drop it.”
Shoto, however, didn’t look surprised. His calm voice broke the silence.
“If you’re going to him, you’ll need to leave tonight. Waiting until tomorrow will only make things worse.”
Monoma blinked.
“Wait, you’re serious about flying back right now?”
Katsuki stood abruptly, grabbing his jacket.
“Can you two handle shit here for me? Pack everything, check us out, deal with the organizers. My family needs me back home. I’m not wasting another hour.”
Monoma’s mouth opened, then shut, for once speechless. Shoto merely nodded.
“We’ll handle it.” Shoto’s gaze lingered on Katsuki, steady and unflinching. “Go.”
Katsuki didn’t waste time. He shoved his phone in his pocket, already pulling up flight schedules. His hands shook as he typed, but his resolve was iron.
Hold on, Deku. Just hold on until I get there.
Chapter 37: Hollow
Chapter Text
The night stretched endlessly. Izuku hadn’t moved much since returning to his condo. He sat with his back pressed against the corner of the room, knees pulled tight to his chest, his eyes fixed on the silver trail of moonlight spilling in through the tall window. It was quiet—the kind of quiet that wasn’t comforting but suffocating, pressing in on him until his breath felt shallow.
It felt like waiting for something he couldn’t name. Or maybe, denying everything he didn’t want to admit. He had built years of walls—boundaries so carefully drawn, not just between himself and the industry, but between himself and the world. Fans loved him, cheered for him, but he learned long ago to accept that their love wasn’t permanent. He had survived because he never expected more.
And yet… two years. Two years of Katsuki’s stubborn presence. Two years of laughter, of bickering, of learning how to hold chopsticks correctly again without trembling hands. Two years of letting small hands tug at his shirt and voices calling “Mama Izuku” without hesitation. Somewhere along the way, he let himself expect—no, hope—that they would stay.
Now, the memory of Hina shrinking back from his touch burned in his chest like a scar that wouldn’t heal.
“How do I face him now?” Izuku whispered into the empty room. His voice cracked, dry. “How do I tell him I couldn’t even… protect them right?”
The thought spiraled. Would the adoption even go through if Hina hated him? What if the officials thought he wasn’t fit? What if Katsuki should just do it alone, bear the title of parent without him? It would be safer—for the kids, for Katsuki’s future. Izuku was the unstable variable, the one who kept falling back into cracks he promised he’d never touch again.
And worse—what if someday, the fragile thing they had broke? What if Katsuki woke up one morning, regretting that he had tied his life, his children, to someone as flawed as Izuku? Would he be erased again, pushed out not just from Katsuki’s life but from the children’s hearts?
The thought carved deep, sharp wounds in his chest. He pressed his face into his knees, unable to stop the quiet sob that broke through.
I keep failing him…
At some point, his body protested the stillness. He forced himself upright, staggering slightly from how long he had been sitting. His reflection in the window caught his eye—pale, sunken, with eyes rimmed in red. A ghost.
“Kacchan said…” he murmured weakly, rubbing his hands together, “…that I should always try. At least… try to cook something. For myself.”
The kitchen felt colder than the rest of the condo. Izuku opened the fridge, pulling out a few vegetables, some rice. His hands moved automatically, mimicking the lessons Katsuki had drilled into him. Wash. Slice. Season. Stir. The motions were there, but the rhythm was hollow.
When he finally sat down to taste the food, the bluntness hit him like a wall. No flavor. Just warm mush. His chest tightened again.
“I… still can’t do it right.”
He shoved the plate away, dragging himself to the cupboard instead. Cup noodles. Simple. Mindless. He boiled water, poured it in, and slid down the kitchen cabinets until he was sitting on the floor. He pulled a blanket from the chair into his lap, wrapping it around his shoulders like armor.
There, on the cold tiles, he ate in silence. Each bite felt heavy. Tears dripped down his cheeks, mingling with the steam rising from the cup. He covered his mouth with his sleeve to muffle the sound of his sobbing.
The condo was silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator—until it wasn’t.
A soft, mechanical beep-beep echoed from the front door. Someone was pressing in the code. Izuku froze, his chopsticks clattering against the cup. His breath caught in his throat.
No one was supposed to come.
No one was supposed to see him like this.
The lock clicked, the door eased open, and footsteps entered. Izuku’s pulse thundered in his ears as he pressed the blanket tighter around himself. He couldn’t see clearly from the kitchen—the hall light framed a silhouette, tall, steady, moving closer.
“…Who…?”
Izuku whispered hoarsely, his eyes wet, his body trembling as if caught between hope and fear.
The figure that stepped inside was not Katsuki. It was Aida, carrying her bag tightly against her side, followed by a man Izuku hadn’t seen in months—Doctor Morita, his personal physician.
Izuku’s eyes widened. His throat tightened as he clutched the blanket closer.
“...Aida-san? Morita-sensei? Why… why are you here?”
His voice was rough, hoarse from crying, from neglect.
“I told you… to focus on the case. You shouldn’t be here. You—”
His gaze flicked to the doctor.
“You shouldn’t either. I didn’t… I haven’t called you. I’m fine.”
But even as he said it, his hands trembled.
Morita’s eyes dropped to the cup noodles sitting beside Izuku’s knee. His expression hardened, quiet but sharp with disappointment.
“Instant food,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Izuku-kun, after everything we worked on…”
Izuku pulled the blanket over the cup, hiding it like a child caught in the act.
“It’s nothing,” he said quickly, his voice pitching higher, desperate. “I was just tired… I wanted something easy, that’s all. I can eat properly tomorrow—”
The sentence broke off with a strangled sound. Pain twisted across his abdomen so suddenly it made his knees buckle. Izuku dropped the cup, water spilling across the floor, and bolted down the hall, one hand clamped over his stomach. He barely made it into the bathroom before his body betrayed him.
The sound of retching filled the narrow space.
Aida was at his side immediately, crouching down, rubbing his back with one hand while her other gripped a bottle of water.
“Izuku,” she whispered, her voice trembling despite her attempts to steady it. “Breathe, please. Just breathe.”
Morita knelt on the other side, checking Izuku’s pulse with clinical precision while his other hand brushed across his forehead.
“His pulse is racing… temperature slightly elevated. He’s dehydrated.”
He grimaced as Izuku convulsed again.
“This is worse than last time.”
Izuku tried to shake his head, even as he gagged.
“I-I’m fine,” he insisted through the spasms, tears streaking his face. “Just stress… just—” He lurched forward again, his body violently rejecting what little he had.
Morita’s eyes narrowed.
“Days of malnutrition. Stress on top of it. His body is collapsing on itself.”
Aida’s lips pressed thin, her hand still soothing along Izuku’s back.
“I knew something was wrong. He hasn’t been eating. He hasn’t been talking either.”
She swallowed hard before adding quietly, almost like a prayer,
“Katsuki will be back by tomorrow… maybe sooner if he catches an earlier flight. Izuku, you have to hold on until then. You need strength to face him. You both said you wanted to build a future—”
“No!”
Izuku’s voice cracked, almost a scream as he pushed himself away from her. His arms shook as he braced against the cold bathroom tiles, eyes wild and wet.
“Don’t tell him. Don’t let him come!”
Aida froze, stunned by the desperation in his tone.
Izuku shook his head violently, his chest heaving.
“He… he should focus on the kids. On Hina. Not me. I’m—” His words stumbled, choked. “I’m just a burden again. I can’t… I can’t even hold one child without failing. I can’t let him see me like this.” His breathing grew ragged, panic rising like a tide. “Please. Please don’t let him come here.”
“Izuku…” Aida whispered, reaching out, but he flinched away as though her hand burned him.
His voice dropped, breaking. “
You used to hate me, Aida-san… remember? Then do it again. Push him away. Force him to leave me. If he stays, I’ll ruin everything for him. For the kids. Please… please, I beg you—”
The plea dissolved into sobbing gasps. His body, wrung dry by stress and weakness, finally buckled under the weight of panic. His eyes rolled slightly before his body went limp, collapsing forward.
“IZUKU!” Aida caught him before his head struck the tiles.
Morita immediately moved in, checking his vitals again with rapid, professional efficiency. His jaw clenched.
“He’s passed out. Stress-induced collapse, compounded by malnutrition. We need to stabilize him.”
Together, they carried him to his room. Aida smoothed the sheets back while Morita laid Izuku carefully down, adjusting his position so he wouldn’t choke if he vomited again. His skin looked waxy under the moonlight streaming in through the curtains.
Morita set his bag on the bedside table, pulling out supplies with practiced motions. He cleaned Izuku’s arm, slid in an IV, and adjusted the drip of fluids.
“This will rehydrate him and stabilize his system. But this isn’t just physical. His psychological state is deteriorating fast. He’s relapsing—not just physically, but mentally. If we don’t monitor him closely, he’ll spiral.”
Aida sat on the edge of the bed, her hands shaking as she brushed damp hair from Izuku’s forehead.
“He begged me not to tell Katsuki… begged me to push him away.” Her voice trembled, her throat thick with emotion. “But… I’ve never seen him like this. Not even before.”
Morita sighed, his gaze heavy with both clinical concern and personal weight.
“For now, follow his wishes. Let him think he has space. Pressing him while he’s this fragile could break him further. But…” His tone softened, more human than doctor now.
“You and I both know Bakugo-san has an impact no one else can replicate. When the time is right, he should be the one to reach Izuku. Not you, not me.”
Aida nodded slowly, her chest tight. She looked down at Izuku—his face pale against the pillow, his body so small beneath the blanket, an IV line running from his arm. Her heart clenched at the contradiction: the idol loved by millions, yet fragile as glass when the spotlight faded.
“…Rest, Izuku,” she whispered, smoothing his blanket. “Just rest until he comes back. Whether you want it or not… you can’t keep shutting him out forever.”
After almost seventeen hours of flight, Katsuki finally set foot back in Japan. His body ached from the cramped airplane seat and the exhaustion of traveling, but his mind was sharper than ever, wired with restless energy.
The moment he walked out of the arrivals gate, he spotted Kaminari waving his arms like a maniac, his blond hair standing out in the crowd. Beside him stood Yuu, Aki, and little Sora, their faces lighting up the moment they caught sight of Katsuki.
Katsuki’s lips curled into the first genuine smile he had worn in days. The three kids rushed toward him, and he crouched just enough to open his arms wide, letting them crash against him. Yuu buried his face against Katsuki’s chest, while Aki clung to his arm, and Sora simply clung to his leg with the kind of stubborn grip only small children had.
“Took you long enough, dad,” Yuu mumbled, voice muffled.
“Yeah,” Katsuki muttered back, his throat tightening as he rubbed Yuu’s back.
“Plane was slow, not me.” He pulled back to scan their faces—tired but relieved, eyes searching his for reassurance. He ruffled their hair roughly, earning small complaints but also faint giggles.
Kaminari gave him a weary smile, though his eyes betrayed concern.
“Kenji stayed home. He’s… been quiet. He keeps asking me to call Izuku, but… Deku’s phone’s been off for almost three days.”
That sharp tug in Katsuki’s chest deepened.
Three days.
Izuku shutting himself away again. The damn nerd, running from this instead of standing in front of it.
He clenched his jaw, trying to tamp down the frustration before it spilled out in front of the kids.
“And Hina?” Katsuki asked, his voice low.
Kaminari sighed, scratching the back of his head.
“She’s with Manager Aida. They’ve scheduled trauma recovery sessions. For now… she’s staying in the hospital. Authorities agreed it’s safer until you’re back since you’re the top guardian in the adoption process. They didn’t want to move her without your word.”
Katsuki’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His name. Always his. But Izuku’s was written there too—right next to his. They should’ve called him. They should’ve given him that chance. But Izuku… Izuku hadn’t stepped forward.
The moment of Hina’s rejection, her trembling words against Izuku, was imagined by Katsuki’s mind.
No wonder. Deku must’ve convinced himself he wasn’t wanted, not even as her mama.
Katsuki inhaled sharply through his nose. Later. He’d deal with Izuku later. Right now, the kids needed him.
“Let’s go,” he said gruffly, shifting his carry-on bag to his shoulder.
The car ride was a blur of chatter. Yuu told him about school projects, Aki tried to argue about who would get to open gifts first, and Sora’s small voice piped up every few minutes with nonsense words and babbling laughter. Kaminari filled in the gaps—Kenji had been helping at the restaurant but had gone quiet again lately.
When they finally pulled up to the restaurant, Katsuki could already smell the faint traces of spices and broth that clung to the place even when it was closed. The sight of the familiar sign made something in his chest settle. Home. This was home, no matter what else was falling apart around them.
Kenji was sitting at the counter when they entered, his small frame hunched over, flipping through one of the manga volumes Katsuki had left behind. His head jerked up, eyes wide, and the book slipped from his hands as he leapt off the stool.
“Dad!” Kenji’s voice cracked slightly as he rushed forward.
Katsuki crouched again, catching his son in a fierce hug.
“Tch. You’ve gotten heavier. What’ve you been eating, bricks?” His voice was teasing, but his eyes softened as he held on, feeling Kenji’s trembling and still has his casted head.
Kenji sniffed but shook his head against his father’s shoulder.
“I… I tried to call Mama Izu. But his phone was off.”
“I know,” Katsuki murmured, rubbing the boy’s back. His throat burned again, but he kept his voice steady.
“I’ll handle it.”
The kids quickly demanded to see their gifts, and Katsuki chuckled, shaking his head.
“Later, you little brats. When we’re home. I’ll give you all what I bought from Lyon. You’ll like it.”
That made their faces light up again, three different shades of excitement and joy. Even Kenji, though his eyes still carried a hint of worry, cracked the smallest smile.
“Tell you what,” Katsuki added, rising and stretching the stiffness from his limbs. “Once we’re settled, I’ll cook something for all of you. Something good. Lyon inspired me. You’ll see.”
He said it lightly, but in his chest, the thought carried weight. Cooking for them always grounded him. He’d cook for the kids, for Kenji… and he’d make something for Hina too, something warm and comforting for when she was ready.
And Izuku.
He probably hadn’t eaten properly in days.
Katsuki clenched his jaw again, his mind flashing with the image of Izuku alone, shutting himself away. He’d cook something for him too. Maybe, just maybe, it would drag the nerd back to the table where he belonged.
For now, he looked around at his children, Kaminari watching him quietly from the side, and let his lips curl into another small smile. He was home. He’d deal with the chaos piece by piece.
One meal at a time.
Again.
Chapter 38: His Arrival
Chapter Text
Katsuki pushed open the hospital room door quietly, already spotting the small figure curled on the bed. Hina’s hair was tied in a loose braid, a few strands falling into her face, and she was fiddling with the stuffed toy that Izuku had brought her days ago. The moment her eyes lifted and recognized him, they widened, shimmering with tears.
“Papa 'ki!”
Hina’s voice cracked as she sat up so quickly that the toy fell from her hands.
Katsuki crossed the room in two strides, crouching down so she could throw herself into his arms. She buried her face against his chest, tiny arms squeezing around his neck as though she was afraid he might disappear again.
“Hey, hey—” Katsuki soothed, his hand immediately running through her hair, combing gently at the strands.
“Don’t cry, brat. You’ll make me cry too, and you don’t wanna see Papa ugly, do you?”
Hina hiccupped a laugh, shaking her head.
“You’re not ugly. You’re the best… You’re back.”
Katsuki smiled and pressed a kiss to her temple, his thumb wiping at her damp cheek.
“Look at you. Tough little thing, huh? Holding on like a champ while Papa was away. I heard you’ve been working hard in therapy. Brave girl.”
Her small chest puffed with pride, though her eyes still glistened.
“I tried… It was hardto talk with people I don't know without someone I know. I wanted you.”
Katsuki’s throat tightened. He hugged her closer for a beat, letting his voice soften, something he rarely allowed anyone else to hear.
“I wanted to be with you too, Hina. I thought of you every damn day.”
The doctor cleared his throat gently, and Katsuki glanced up, keeping Hina secure in his lap. They discussed her condition—steady progress, upcoming therapy sessions, and new adjustments to her recovery plan. Katsuki asked every detail, his voice clipped and sharp in that way that made people pay attention.
“Don’t sugarcoat it,” Katsuki insisted, eyes narrowing. “If there’s something we need to worry about, tell me straight.”
The doctor reassured him with calm words, ending with, “With continuous therapy and proper support at home, she’s on the right track. You’ve got a strong daughter.”
“Hell yeah, I do,” Katsuki muttered, pressing another kiss to the top of Hina’s head.
After the doctor left, Manager Aida stepped in, a folder in hand. He gave Katsuki a short bow before speaking.
“I’ve been handling Hina’s appointments and paperwork while Midoriya-san has been… unavailable. These are the finalized therapy schedules for the next two weeks. If you’d like, I’ll coordinate the driver and make sure—”
“I’ll handle it from here,” Katsuki cut in firmly, flipping through the papers quickly. “Thanks for covering. You did good.”
Aida nodded, relief evident on his face, before excusing himself.
Hina wriggled in Katsuki’s arms, looking up at him with a sudden burst of excitement.
“Papa, can I go home with you today? Please? I finished my session already, right?”
Her hopeful tone knocked the air out of him. Katsuki hadn’t planned to bring her home this fast, but hearing her—seeing her so eager—he couldn’t say no.
“Cheeky,” he teased, tapping her nose. “You think you can just charm me into skipping protocol?”
Hina giggled.
“I don’t know what that means, but I wanna be with you!”
Katsuki huffed, pretending to be gruff, though his lips curved despite himself.
“Fine. You win. We’ll sign the papers, grab your stuff, and get you the hell outta here. But first, therapy always comes first, got it?”
“Got it!” she chirped, hugging him tight again.
As he stood with her in his arms, Hina rested her head against his shoulder.
“I can’t wait to see sister Yuu, brother Aki, brother Sora, and brother Kenji again… and Mama Izu, too. He’ll be so happy I’m better, right?”
Katsuki’s steps faltered just slightly.
The word Mama Izu hit harder than he expected, his jaw tightening. Hina had no idea that her rejection days ago had cut Izuku deep, spiraling him into locking himself away. She was innocent, hopeful, and yet—her small action had already scarred Izuku in ways she couldn’t understand.
Still, Katsuki didn’t let it show. He shifted her weight and forced a soft smile.
“You’re right. Mama Izu will be the happiest to see you again, Hina. No one’s gonna smile brighter than him when he sees you.”
“Yay!” she clapped her hands, not noticing the hesitation in his voice.
Katsuki kissed her forehead again, whispering almost to himself as he carried her toward the exit.
But first… let me get you settled. Let me focus on you, Hina. Then I’ll drag that damn nerd back home and prove to him that he can face all of you without breaking.
Izuku had prepared himself before stepping out of his condo unit. He’d worn a simple cap pulled low, glasses with clear lenses, and a mask—nothing extravagant, just enough to let him blend in. His heart hammered the entire time he rode the elevator down, but the moment Mina’s cheerful wave caught his eyes and Kirishima’s reassuring grin followed, a bit of the weight on his chest loosened.
Mina immediately looped her arm through his, her voice light and casual, as if they were just friends catching up instead of sneaking one of Japan’s most talked-about actors back into the public eye. Kirishima kept close to her, fingers intertwined with hers, a grounding presence that silently told Izuku: you’re safe with us.
They didn’t say much while driving. Mina occasionally hummed under her breath, and Kirishima asked if Izuku wanted water or if the AC was too cold. Izuku only shook his head, his nerves too frayed for conversation. When they arrived at the company building, Kirishima and Mina moved with practiced ease. They walked confidently ahead, hand in hand, while Izuku trailed a step behind, his posture bent slightly, like he was just another assistant or staff member following them in. The disguise worked better than he expected; no one stopped him, no one gave him a second look.
When the elevator doors shut behind them, Izuku finally let out the breath he’d been holding.
“Thank you,” he murmured, voice muffled behind his mask. His eyes softened as he glanced at them, and though he didn’t smile, his gratitude was clear. Mina reached out to squeeze his hand.
“Don’t thank us, Zuku. You know we’re always here,” she said with a wink.
Inside his office, the silence was deafening. The room smelled faintly of dust and papers that hadn’t been touched for a while. Izuku ran his fingertips across his desk, the glossy surface almost too clean, as though it hadn’t been lived in for weeks. He sat down heavily, trying to ground himself by flipping open his planner and running through his schedule. The neat handwriting of his manager filled every page, a reminder of how she always tried to balance his workload, especially when his health faltered.
A soft buzz from his phone pulled him back. A message from his manager.
Katsuki came yesterday. He picked up Hina at the hospital. I’ll update you more when I’m back—still handling her cases for now.
Izuku’s chest tightened. His grip on the phone trembled before he set it down, staring at the empty space on his desk.
So Katsuki already knew.
About Hina.
About how she rejected him.
That might explained the silence between them. Katsuki wasn’t the type to leave things unresolved, and yet—no calls, no messages.
Izuku pressed his lips together. The thought cut deep, but at the same time, it was almost… expected. Maybe Katsuki had finally realized that this dream of his—their dream—was too fragile, too easily broken. Maybe he had decided it wasn’t worth it anymore.
Izuku’s throat burned.
This is better, he lied to himself, the words like shards scraping his tongue.
This is better for him. For his dream.
He stood abruptly, trying to shake the ache in his chest. He dragged his finger down his schedule, murmuring the times and meetings under his breath, as though repeating them could drown out his thoughts. But halfway through, his vision blurred. His knees buckled. He barely caught himself against the edge of the desk, his other hand flying up to protect his head from colliding with the corner.
Dizziness swirled in his skull, a wave so sudden it knocked the breath out of him. He collapsed into the chair, one hand gripping the edge of the table, the other pressed against his chest as though it could anchor him. The tears came unbidden, burning hot down his cheeks. He covered his mouth with his trembling hand, sobs spilling out anyway.
“Come on, Izuku,” he whispered to himself, voice breaking.
“You’re okay. You can do this. Just… just live normal. A normal life. That’s enough. That’s all you need.”
He repeated it again and again, as though saying it enough times would make it true. A life filled with work, with schedules, with fulfilling what everyone expected of him—the public, his fans, his company. A life untouched by personal dreams that only tore him apart.
But his body betrayed him. His lips trembled with the words he tried to suppress. His stomach let out a low, pitiful growl that twisted painfully in the quiet room. His tears stilled for a moment, his hand drifting to his abdomen, fingers pressing lightly. A whisper slipped out before he could stop it, soft and broken.
“Damn... I want egg custard soup.”
The memory hit him all at once—the gentle warmth of the broth, Katsuki’s gruff voice telling him to eat slowly, the way it soothed not only his body but also his heart. Izuku bit his lip until it hurt, his tears streaming fresh. Because no matter how many times he told himself he could live a normal life, the truth remained: he didn’t just miss the soup.
He missed the person who made it for him.
Izuku spent the next day in silence, holed up in the dark corners of his office. Even though he had been granted a week of rest, not once did he allow himself to truly rest.
The food left by his friends remained untouched for hours until his body forced him to take a few bites. The curtains stayed drawn, the lights off, and the only sound in the room was the dull hum of the city far below.
He scrolled through his phone occasionally, never reading anything carefully, only watching the notifications pile up, like another weight he could never lift. Every message from his friends remained unopened. Every missed call from his manager remained ignored.
The rejection from Hina had been a sharp blade, but it wasn’t just that anymore.
It was the gnawing heaviness inside him—the quiet voice whispering that he had done it again.
He had become a burden.
He had caused trouble.
He had ruined the balance of everyone around him by trying to be part of something he should have known wasn’t his.
His friends worried. His company bent itself around his pain.
Katsuki… even Katsuki’s back in the country, they haven't seen each other nor talk to one another. The truth of sickened him. He didn’t want to be a fragile glass everyone tiptoed around. He was supposed to be strong, reliable, the “symbol” that carried others forward—not someone dragging them down.
That was why, after forcing himself into a suit and fixing his hair with trembling fingers, Izuku finally once again walked into the company's pathway. His presence turned heads instantly. Whispers carried across the halls—shock at how pale he looked, how sunken his eyes had become, and how tense his shoulders were despite the polite smile on his lips. He moved with rigid determination, his steps echoing until he entered the conference room where the heads of the company and his director waited.
They had expected excuses. Maybe even another plea for more time. But instead, Izuku bowed deeply, his voice calm but lifeless.
“Thank you… for granting me days to rest,” he began, even though he knew and they knew he hadn’t rested at all. “I don’t want to waste more of your time. I’m here to tell you that I’ll resume my work as scheduled. As your top idol, I will continue to do my best.”
The heads exchanged glances. His tone was steady, but his eyes—his eyes were empty.
“I only have one request,” Izuku continued, forcing his hands to stay at his sides, fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms.
“Please… continue to support Hina’s case. She’s a child who deserves protection. I don’t want to involve myself further, but I hope the company will help her until everything is settled. As for me…”
He straightened, eyes focusing on the table but not really seeing.
“I’ll move forward without looking back.”
The room fell into silence.
Everyone there could hear the denial layered beneath his words. They knew Izuku was burying his concern for the child, forcing it into a locked chest inside his chest where it would gnaw at him silently. But they also knew better than to challenge him now.
Finally, the director sighed and nodded.
“Very well. Two days from now, you’ll attend a press conference. You’ll also perform the OST you missed when… the incident occurred. It’s important to show the public you’re standing strong. We’ll adjust your schedule to what we believe is best for you—no negotiations this time. Your personal staff will remain assigned to you. You will follow their guidance.”
Izuku bowed again, his voice faint but polite.
“Understood. Thank you for your guidance.”
When he exited the meeting room, his friends were waiting. Jirou shifted nervously, Ochako stepped forward with worry etched into her features, and Mina and Kirishima, standing hand-in-hand, tried to offer gentle smiles as if their warmth could reach him. But Izuku didn’t slow down. He didn’t look at them.
His eyes—dark, dull, almost hollow—stared past them as though they were ghosts in a corridor he had no strength to acknowledge. He just walked by, the faint brush of air in his wake leaving them more unsettled than before.
“Deku…” Ochako whispered after him, her hand still half-lifted in a reach that never found his sleeve.
But Izuku never turned around. He simply kept moving forward, as though the only way to survive was to keep walking, keep pretending, keep burying every fracture inside until nothing could be seen on the surface.
Chapter 39: Starved Love
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Katsuki leaned against the wall outside the therapy room, one leg bent, thumb lazily scrolling through his phone. He wasn’t paying much attention until the sudden flash of green caught his eye.
A live stream.
His brows knitted as he tapped on it.
The screen filled with Izuku’s image — standing on stage, a conference banner behind him. His voice rang through the small speaker, steady and passionate. Katsuki’s lips parted, but no words came out.
“…Deku?” he muttered under his breath.
It had been almost a week since he returned to the country, and between Hina’s recovery sessions and the constant presence of Manager Aida, he hadn’t seen Izuku much. He thought Izuku might be resting now with help of doctor Morita, maybe adjusting. But here he was, performing, carrying the weight of a conference as though nothing had happened.
Katsuki’s brows furrowed deeper.
“Shit… is his company pushin’ him this hard already? Didn’t he just get cleared?” he muttered, jaw clenching. He didn’t even know Izuku had been the one who asked for permission to return.
The therapy door creaked open, snapping him out of his thoughts. Hina stepped out, her small hands clutching her sketchbook to her chest.
“Papa,” she said softly, cheeks flushed from the session.
Katsuki shoved his phone into his pocket and crouched down. “Done for today?”
She nodded.
He ruffled her hair and stood, taking her hand. “Told ya, you’re tougher than you think. Let’s go home.”
By the time they returned, the apartment smelled faintly of katsudon and grilled fish. Katsuki moved around the kitchen with practiced efficiency, Hina sitting at the table sketching in silence. It wasn’t long before Sora and Kenji burst into the room, their voices filling the air like sparrows.
“Kenji, stop it! You’re not supposed to lift that!” Sora snapped, tugging a small basket out of Kenji’s hands.
Kenji scowled. “I can carry it! I’m not weak anymore—my cast’s gone!”
“Doctor said you’re still recovering,” Sora shot back, puffing out his chest. “I’ll do it. I’m the big brother now.”
Kenji stomped his foot.
“That’s my job! I was born first, remember? You can’t just steal my title!”
“You gave it up when you broke your head!” Sora teased, smirking. “So until you’re all healed, I’m in charge.”
“Not fair!”
Kenji’s cheeks flushed as he turned to Katsuki.
“Papa, tell him! Tell him I’m still the big brother!”
Katsuki glanced over his shoulder, spatula in hand.
“Tch. Don’t drag me into your little war. Both of ya just focus on not breakin’ more bones.”
“But—!” Kenji whined, only to be cut off by Sora wagging his finger.
“You heard Papa. Which means I win. I’m big brother for now. You can take it back when you’re not a weakling anymore.”
Kenji groaned dramatically, throwing his hands in the air.
“You’re the worst! Hina, tell him he’s being mean!”
Hina looked up from her sketchbook, tilting her head.
“Mm… Sora’s not being mean. He’s just… taking care of you.” She gave a small smile. “I think that’s what big brothers do.”
Kenji froze, blinking at her. His cheeks turned pink before he crossed his arms and muttered, “Still doesn’t mean he’s better than me.”
Sora grinned triumphantly, ruffling Kenji’s hair.
“See? Even Hina agrees. For now, I’m Big Bro Number One.”
Kenji batted his hand away, scowling, but the corner of his lips twitched upward.
“Fine. But I’ll take it back soon. You’ll see.”
“Looking forward to it,” Sora said, smirking.
Their little bickering drew out something Katsuki hadn’t realized he’d been holding in all day — a laugh. Low, genuine. He shook his head as he plated the food.
“Alright, enough squabbling. Dinner’s ready. Sit down before I eat all of it myself.”
The kids scrambled to their seats, still teasing each other as Katsuki set the dishes on the table. His chest ached with warmth watching them, but his mind drifted back to that live stream. Izuku on stage, smiling despite the weight.
The hallway was quiet when Katsuki finally stopped in front of the familiar door. His grip on the paper bag tightened, knuckles pale. The smell of the warm meal he’d cooked still lingered faintly inside the bag, but his chest was heavy.
Deku… you better open up.
He waited.
The sound of shuffling came from inside, then the door clicked open. Izuku stood there, scarf half-wrapped around his neck, gloves still on, his mask pulled slightly down.
He must have just arrived from his work too.
Izuku's eyes were dull, sunken with exhaustion. When they met Katsuki’s gaze, something unreadable flickered — surprise, hesitation, then resignation.
“...Kacchan.” His voice was quiet, nearly hoarse.
Katsuki said nothing. He simply stood there until Izuku stepped aside, leaving the door open. Without a word, Katsuki entered. Izuku shut the door behind him, setting down his bag on the counter before peeling off his layers one by one. Scarf, gloves, mask, and finally his hat. Each movement was mechanical, as though he was stripping away armor.
Katsuki set the paper bag on the center table, watching him carefully. He didn’t miss how Izuku’s hands trembled slightly when he hung his coat.
“…Izuku.”
Izuku froze, then turned slowly, face void of emotion. But Katsuki could feel it—rejection. It sat in the air, suffocating, like smoke that refused to clear.
Katsuki swallowed, forcing his voice steady.
“Hina’s recovering well. Kenji too. Aida-san and the legal support your company brought in… they’re winnin’ the case. Final trial’s comin’ soon for Hina’s parents. It’s lookin’ positive. We’ll come out on top.”
Izuku only nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line.
“That’s good to hear. You'll be able to proceed with your adoption of the kids smoothly after that.”
Katsuki froze. His chest clenched, and his voice dropped, rough.
“…What the hell do you mean my adoption?”
Izuku turned away, heading into the kitchen as if trying to escape the weight of the question.
“Why not? Wasn’t this originally your plan?”
His tone was flat, like he was reading from a script he’d prepared.
“I’m an artist, an idol. I still have things I need to follow before giving up my life to have a family. It would be unfair for people to suddenly learn I’m a parent by adopting kids I barely know.”
The words sliced deeper than any knife. Katsuki’s hand shot out, grabbing Izuku’s wrist before he could move further. He yanked, but carefully, terrified that if he used his true strength, Izuku’s fragile arm would snap.
“Don’t you dare say that shit again,” Katsuki growled, his voice trembling with suppressed rage.
Izuku flinched but didn’t meet his eyes, his head hanging low. Katsuki’s chest tightened. He could feel it — Izuku’s arm trembling, his pulse erratic under his grip.
“You’re skin and bones,” Katsuki whispered, his voice breaking through the anger. “The hell happened to you, Izuku…?”
Izuku’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
Katsuki forced himself to breathe. Slowly, he loosened his grip but didn’t let go entirely. Instead, he reached for the paper bag he’d set earlier, dragging it into the dining area.
“Sit.”
Izuku didn’t move.
“I said sit, damn it.”
Katsuki’s voice cracked, but it wasn’t anger—it was desperation.
Izuku obeyed silently, lowering himself into the chair like a marionette with cut strings. Katsuki unpacked the food, placing steaming bowls and containers on the table. The familiar scent of broth and rice filled the air.
“Eat,” Katsuki ordered softly.
Izuku shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I… I don't want to.”
Katsuki pushed the spoon toward him.
“At least one bite. Don’t argue with me, please.”
Something sharp flickered in Izuku’s tired eyes—irritation, rebellion. His trembling fingers snatched the spoon, scooping a bit of food.
“Fine,” he snapped, voice cracking. “Is that what you want?!”
He shoved the spoon into his mouth. For a moment, silence. Katsuki watched him closely, hope flickering that maybe—maybe he’d feel comfort again. That his cooking would ground him.
But then Izuku’s expression twisted. His hand shot to his stomach, eyes widening.
“…K-Kacchan—”
He bolted from the chair, nearly tripping as he rushed to the sink. His body lurched forward violently as he vomited. The sound of retching echoed through the kitchen, shattering the fragile air.
Katsuki stood frozen, eyes wide in horror. His feet cannot even moved to rush to his side—too afraid he’d break him even more.
“Deku—” Katsuki’s voice cracked.
Izuku’s shoulders shook, his breathing ragged as he wiped his mouth, refusing to meet Katsuki’s gaze.
Slowly, trembling, they remained staring at each other.
Katsuki’s wide with terror—
Izuku’s glazed with shame.
And in that unbearable silence, something broke inside Katsuki too.
It wasn’t just his food Izuku’s body had rejected. It felt like him. Like everything they’d built.
Katsuki’s chest ached as the thought tore through him: Even his body won’t accept me anymore.
The one bond they’d always had—his cooking, his care, his love—wiped away as if it never mattered.
Katsuki’s hand dropped to his side, heavy, useless. His throat burned, but no words came. He just stared at Izuku, terrified and hollow, as if watching the person he loved slip further and further away.
For the first time, Katsuki felt like he had truly failed.
Notes:
Hi everyone 💕 We’re getting close to the end—just few chapters left before this story wraps up. It feels bittersweet to say that, but I want to take a moment to thank all of you for being here, spending your time with this little world, and for loving Bakugo, Izuku, and the kids as much as I do.
This AU has been such a big part of my writing journey, and your support made it even more meaningful. I’m so grateful to have shared it with you, and I can’t wait to give these last chapters the love they deserve (maybe??)). Meet you in the next chapters!
Chapter 40: Last Supper
Chapter Text
Katsuki froze when Izuku’s body lurched forward, hands clutching at the table edge. The sound of him gagging hit harder than any explosion could. The meal he had carefully seasoned, perfectly portioned—something warm, gentle, not overwhelming—was now splattered into the sink as Izuku coughed and heaved. Katsuki’s throat closed up. He couldn’t move.
Izuku’s voice came raw, strained between shallow breaths.
“Just… leave, Kacchan.” His knuckles turned white as he steadied himself against the counter. “I don’t—” He swallowed hard, tears already blurring his vision.
“I don’t think I need you here anymore.”
The words stabbed sharper than blades. Katsuki’s lips twitched into something like a chuckle, but it was hollow, cracked, as if laughter could patch the bleeding inside. His chest burned, his eyes stung, but he held them down. He didn’t deserve to cry here, not when Izuku looked so torn apart.
“Yeah… right.”
His voice was thin, trembling. He forced his shoulders to straighten, forced his jaw to lock as if that could keep everything from shattering.
“Guess… I’ll get out of your hair.”
Katsuki nodded, a jerky motion that felt heavier than a hundred weights on his back, then turned to leave.
The silence between them stretched, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and Izuku’s uneven breaths. Katsuki reached the door, hand gripping the knob, when something inside him twisted too tight to ignore. His free hand trembled before it moved on its own, catching Izuku’s wrist gently.
Izuku startled, blinking through his tears. That’s when he saw it—Katsuki’s left hand swathed in fresh white bandages, the fabric already faintly stained at the edges. His heart stuttered.
“Kacchan…?”
But Katsuki didn’t look up. His head hung low, shadows hiding his expression. His voice came out low, fragile, a whisper carrying every ounce of pleading he had left.
“…It’s fine if you can’t eat what I cook. I get it.”
His grip on Izuku’s wrist tightened just a fraction, desperate, terrified to let go.
“Just… promise me you’ll eat something. Anything. Doesn’t matter if it’s from me or not. Just keep your body together, damn it.”
Izuku’s lips parted, but nothing came out. His chest ached at the sincerity in Katsuki’s tone, at the way even now, after being pushed away, he still begged only for Izuku’s health.
Katsuki let out a sharp exhale, shaky, as though holding in tears.
“I’ll handle everything with the adoption. You don’t gotta worry about the papers—we’re still doing this, you hear me? I’m not taking your name off. Those kids… they’re ours.”
Finally, he loosened his hold on Izuku’s wrist, stepping back. His final words landed heavy, a quiet promise drenched in devotion:
“I’ll be back. And next time, I’ll make something you can eat. Even if it kills me.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Izuku stood frozen, arm still outstretched where Katsuki had touched him. The second the sound of footsteps faded down the hall, his knees buckled. He stumbled to the dining table, eyes wet and blurry, and grabbed at the plate Katsuki had made. His sobs broke out as he scooped a spoonful and shoved it into his mouth, chewing fast, desperate.
“One… two… three…” he counted under his breath like a mantra, shoveling more down as tears streamed hot down his cheeks. He swallowed painfully, chest heaving.
“See, Kacchan? I can eat it. I can.”
But his stomach twisted violently, betrayal rising in his throat. He slammed a hand over his mouth, forcing it down, trembling as sweat trickled down his temple. The fight didn’t last. He doubled over, body rejecting everything in one cruel surge.
The sound of his retching echoed, sharp and raw, until he collapsed to the cold tile floor, cheek pressed against it. His fists clenched. His voice cracked into sobs, words breaking apart as they slipped past.
“I’m sorry, Kacchan… I’m sorry… I tried—” He choked, pulling his knees close, his whole body trembling. “I can’t… I can’t… but I want to. I really want to.”
His cries filled the empty condo, carrying to no one but the walls. He curled in on himself, whispering broken apologies into the air as if the wind could carry them back to Katsuki’s ears.
He rejected the food.
Rejected the one thing that had always meant home with Katsuki.
The courthouse was heavy with silence. Even before the judge entered, Katsuki could feel the weight pressing down on everyone. He sat straight-backed at the long table beside Kaminari and Manager Aida, his jaw set, his hands clenched on his knees. It had been weeks of hearings, cross-examinations, witnesses, documents, endless paperwork—and finally, today, it would end.
Izuku wasn’t here.
Izuku hadn’t been here for any of it.
Katsuki hadn’t even heard from him since that night at the condo, since he’d seen him choking on food he’d made with his own hands. Every time he’d thought about calling, his chest seized, his stomach twisted. His phone remained silent.
So now, he shoved it aside and focused on the only thing that mattered: Hina.
When Mr. and Mrs. Midori walked into the room, Katsuki didn’t move.
He didn’t snarl.
He didn’t even tighten his fists.
He just stared.
The air around him dropped like stone, sharp and oppressive, and the Midoris froze as if they’d walked into the jaws of a predator.
They had already seen Izuku’s fire before, that quiet determination that had burned them to the ground little by little in previous meet-ups. But now, facing Katsuki’s silent, unflinching glare, their knees almost buckled. The intimidation was different here—it wasn’t pleading or lecturing. It was a pure, raw declaration: you will never win against us.
They opened their mouths once, as if to beg, but the words died. Shame hung on their shoulders like chains. They looked away.
The prosecution laid everything bare. Fraud, abuse, endangerment, neglect—the charges stacked one after another until even the Midoris themselves seemed crushed by the weight. Izuku had been meticulous in the paperwork. Every document, every claim, every connection to Hina’s suffering was lined up like knives pointed directly at her parents.
And then Aida leaned toward Katsuki, whispering something that made his chest tighten.
“Midoriya-san didn’t stop here. He filed a personal claim too—for damages to his career. His company backed it up. They’re charging the Midoris for everything they tried to destroy when they went after Hina.”
Katsuki blinked, lips parting slightly. He couldn’t breathe for a second.
“He did... what?”
“He didn’t let any detail go. Not one.”
Katsuki leaned back in his chair, silent. For a long moment, he just stared ahead blankly, letting the words sink in.
He hadn’t thought Izuku would still… still be fighting like this. But this—this wasn’t letting go. This was Izuku digging his heels into the ground and refusing to release the dream they had once promised each other. A family. Hina, the boys, all of them—untouchable, protected.
The judge’s final hammer struck like thunder. Guilty. Sentenced. The Midoris were escorted out, heads low, unable even to look toward Katsuki’s table.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t even sigh. He just nodded, a small, tired motion, as if acknowledging something only he could see. Then he left the court without another word.
Hours later, the restaurant was closed for the day. The kids laughed somewhere in the back room, playing board games with a couple of the younger staff, while Kaminari leaned against the kitchen doorway. The warm, rich smell of broth and simmered sauces filled the air. Pots clattered softly.
Katsuki stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, his bandaged hand steady as he stirred yet another pan. He had been at it since they’d come back. It was his third dish of the night—unnecessary, excessive, but he didn’t stop.
Kaminari scratched the back of his neck before stepping closer.
“…Boss,” he started lightly, “you’ve been cooking a lot lately. Like… a lot.”
Katsuki didn’t answer. He reached for another spice instead.
Kaminari tried again, softer this time.
“You didn’t even bring any of it to Midoriya-san. You’re just letting us eat everything after hours. You sure this ain’t just… flexing your title? I mean, yeah, we know you’re the top chef in the world. You don’t gotta prove it to us anymore.”
Still nothing. The only sound was the simmer of the pan.
Kaminari’s smile faltered. He leaned forward on the counter, lowering his voice.
“…Or maybe it’s not about that. What happened between you two?”
For the first time, Katsuki’s hand stilled. He stared into the bubbling sauce as if it might answer for him. Slowly, he set the spoon down, resting both hands against the counter. His shoulders slumped.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, raw, broken at the edges.
“…Izuku can’t eat my food anymore.”
Kaminari blinked. The words sank in like stones. His chest tightened with an ache that wasn’t even his.
He wanted to say something, anything—but nothing came out. For once, Kaminari, the one who always filled silence with noise, was struck completely mute.
The heaviness that Katsuki carried seemed to spill into the air, suffocating, dragging everything down. Hopelessness clung to him like a second skin.
The broth on the stove bubbled louder, filling the emptiness Katsuki left behind.
The kitchen smelled of soy, garlic, and freshly seared meat. Katsuki moved with mechanical precision, hands flying from pan to tray, wrapping dishes with practiced speed. Ten orders. All different. All paid in advance. At this time of night, it was unusual—almost suspicious—but Umi To Hi had a rule. If a customer trusted them enough to pay upfront, they didn’t turn them away.
Steam clouded the overhead lights as Katsuki sealed the last container and slid it into the paper bag. His shoulders were tight, a dull ache crawling up his neck, but he ignored it. He’d worked harder than this in competitions. He could handle it.
Just as he was reaching for his phone to call the delivery runner, his ringtone split the quiet. He glanced at the screen—Manager Aida.
He wiped his hand quickly on a towel before answering.
“What's wrong?”
“Katsuki.” Aida’s voice was firm, but there was an edge beneath it, something Katsuki wasn’t used to hearing from her.
“Did Izuku come to you tonight?”
The question hit like a blade pressed to his ribs.
Katsuki froze, his pulse spiking.
“...The hell do you mean? What happened?”
“I can’t find him.” Aida’s voice lowered, heavy now with tension. “He’s not at his condo. He’s not at the studio. I even checked the rehearsal hall, and the company hasn’t seen him all evening. He’s not answering his phone either.”
Katsuki’s grip on the counter tightened until the wood creaked.
“And you’re just tellin’ me now?”
“I thought he might have gone to you,” Aida admitted, more carefully. “Given the… connection you two have. Tense as it may look, you’re still the one he would run to if things got worse. I was hoping you might know other places. I’m sorry to trouble you with this, Bakugo-san, but—”
“Don’t.” Katsuki’s voice was sharp, low, but shaking at the edges. He raked a hand through his hair, heart pounding too fast.
“Don’t you dare apologize. I’ll find him.”
There was a pause, and then Aida exhaled softly, relieved.
“Thank you. I’ll keep searching too. Please… if you find him first, call me.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki muttered, almost growled, before hanging up.
For a moment, the silence of the kitchen pressed in. The paper bag of meals sat on the counter, the faint smell of broth and fried rice seeping through the paper. The sound of his heartbeat drowned out everything else.
Shit.
Katsuki grabbed the phone again, forcing himself to breathe. The customers still had their food coming. He couldn’t screw them over, not when they’d already paid. He called the delivery runner, gave instructions for the address, and shoved the bags into his hands the second he arrived at the back door.
“Don’t screw this up,” he snapped, harsher than intended. The runner just nodded quickly and took off.
The second the door closed, Katsuki was already moving. He locked up the kitchen, stripped his apron, and pulled his jacket tight around himself as he strode out into the cold night air. His phone buzzed in his palm—he had already tried calling Izuku multiply times. All calls went straight to voicemail.
“Damn it, Deku…”
He checked different cafés they’d once visited on a rare, awkward date. Closed. Lights off. He tried another place, the ramen stall where Izuku had laughed more than he’d eaten. Empty. Each stop, each corner, each step made the knot in his chest tighten further.
When he finally stopped, it hit him. His chest heaved as he stood in the middle of the street, steam from his breath ghosting into the night air. His head tilted down, bangs shadowing his eyes.
Every place he had searched—every single memory—was food-related. Restaurants, stalls, cafes. He had looked for Izuku in places tied to meals, tied to their connection, tied to the thing Izuku could no longer accept from him.
“…Shit.”
Katsuki pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, teeth gritting.
Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he didn’t know Izuku as well as he thought. Or maybe he knew him too damn well—that Izuku wasn’t seeking comfort where Katsuki thought he would. He was running. From food, from their dream, from him.
The silence of the street stretched, broken only by distant traffic. Katsuki lifted his head slowly, staring into the dark, as if his voice might carry somewhere Izuku could hear.
“Deku…” His voice cracked, the word fragile in the night.
“Where the hell are you?”
The only answer was the cold wind rushing past, scattering his breath into the dark.
Katsuki stayed rooted there, his fists trembling at his sides, haunted by the possibility that this time, he might not be able to catch him.
Chapter 41: Torn Between Bites
Chapter Text
Katsuki’s boots dragged on the pavement, his breath forming little ghosts in the night air as he forced himself forward. His chest felt like it had been filled with stones. Each step was heavy, each thought clawing at his skull.
He almost didn’t notice it at first—the faintest shuffle echoing from a nearby alley. A small clatter, the sound of something being set down too roughly. Katsuki’s head snapped up, sharp instincts flaring. The alley was half-hidden, swallowed by shadows at the far end of the block.
His stomach tightened.
He knew that place.
It hit him like a cruel joke. Three years ago, he’d wandered past this very alley and heard a voice—soft, muffled by a mask, singing to a cluster of kids who sat cross-legged around him. A hoodie pulled low, a man who’d been nothing more than a ghost in the dark, but one Katsuki never forgot. That voice had etched itself into his memory, and that night had burned itself into his fate.
He should have gone here first.
Idiot.
Katsuki slowed, every step deliberate as he crossed the distance, his boots crunching softly against the gravel. He stopped meters away, his chest seizing at the sight.
Izuku sat slumped against the cold wall of the alley, legs drawn up loosely, surrounded by open containers. Dishes Katsuki recognized instantly.
His dishes.
The ten meals from the online order he had just cooked hours earlier.
Izuku’s face was pale, streaked with sweat and tears. His hands trembled as he lifted another spoonful, his lips moving, murmuring words Katsuki barely caught.
“I can… eat this. I can… try this one. This might be… different…”
He pushed the spoon past his lips, chewing slowly, desperately. For a heartbeat, he sat still—then his body lurched forward violently. He choked, gagged, and retched into the small plastic bag at his side. The sound ripped through Katsuki like a blade.
Izuku wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, gasping, whispering hoarsely to himself again.
“I can… I’ll eat this one… just one more, Kacchan’s food, I can…”
Katsuki’s vision blurred, rage and grief twisting together inside him. Rage at Izuku’s self-destruction. Rage at himself for not stopping this sooner. Grief because this was Izuku—still forcing himself, still punishing himself just to cling onto something that was breaking him.
Katsuki’s body moved before he thought.
He strode forward, his hand shooting out to grab Izuku’s wrist just as he lifted another spoonful.
Izuku froze.
His head jerked up, eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. For a long, suffocating moment, neither spoke—Izuku’s breath ragged, Katsuki’s grip trembling.
Katsuki finally broke the silence, his voice low but commanding, raw.
“…Enough.”
Izuku blinked rapidly, confusion, guilt, and shame crashing over his expression all at once.
“K-Kacchan—”
“Stop.” Katsuki’s grip tightened just enough to steady Izuku’s shaking wrist, not enough to hurt. His jaw clenched hard, his eyes burning into him. “I’ve seen enough.”
Izuku’s lips trembled. He tried to form words, excuses, anything—but his throat only worked around a choked sob.
Katsuki’s voice softened, barely audible now, but it carried like steel in the stillness of the alley.
“Let’s go.”
Izuku’s chest hitched, torn between resistance and surrender. He glanced at the scattered containers, at the ruined food that once was Katsuki’s pride and his comfort. His shoulders shook as tears spilled freely down his cheeks.
But Katsuki didn’t let go. His hand stayed firm, grounding, unyielding. His eyes never wavered.
“Come with me, Deku.”
The words weren’t a plea. They weren’t an order. They were something heavier, something in-between—like Katsuki was dragging him out of the abyss by sheer force of will.
And for the first time that night, Izuku let the spoon fall from his fingers.
The bench creaked slightly as both of them settled into its worn-out wood, the faint smell of the lake water drifting around them with the late-night air. The lamps along the path flickered in patches, not bright enough to chase the heaviness pressing down on the two of them. Katsuki leaned back, his shoulders stiff, chin tilted upward as though the sky would give him answers. Beside him, Izuku hunched low, elbows on his knees, fingers twitching against each other like he was winding up courage he didn’t have.
He finally whispered, almost swallowed by the night.
“What are we doing here, Kacchan?”
Katsuki didn’t answer right away. He let the question hang there, echoing in Izuku’s chest, while he drew in a long, heavy breath. Izuku dared to glance at him. All he saw was Katsuki’s profile, sharp and unreadable, staring not at him but past the lake’s surface, where the dark water caught the silver sheen of the moon. Then the sigh came—a sound Izuku knew too well. That exhale that always meant Katsuki was biting back words, struggling to keep it locked in his throat.
Finally, Katsuki muttered, low and gruff.
“Eat first.”
Izuku blinked, confused at the shift, until Katsuki nudged the small paper bag he’d shoved into his hands earlier. When they passed the vendor, Katsuki had grabbed it without asking, forcing it into Izuku’s chest before dragging him to this bench. Izuku looked down at the bag now, unrolling it with clumsy fingers. A couple of warm Japanese breads lay inside, their sweet scent wrapping around him like a memory of easier days.
Without a word, Izuku broke off a piece and put it in his mouth. The taste was gentle, comforting. Nothing special, nothing complicated—but it stayed down. His throat tightened as he realized how long it had been since something didn’t immediately turn sour in his stomach. He kept chewing, slow and careful, as if testing whether his body would reject this too.
Katsuki finally looked at him.
Izuku felt the weight of that gaze, sharp and raw, and when he turned his head slightly, he found Katsuki watching him with something caught between relief and pain. Katsuki let out a dry, humorless chuckle—one that cracked at the edges.
“So it’s my meals now that get rejected by you, huh?” he said, the words barbed, but his tone too soft to be mistaken for mockery. “At least you can still eat other food. Good for you. You worked hard to force yourself to eat other people’s cooking, right?”
Izuku froze, his hands tightening on the bread until it nearly crumbled. He tried to swallow, but the bite stuck like a stone in his throat.
Katsuki leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping even lower.
“Guess fate really went out of its way to screw with us. Great plot twist, huh? You used to be the only one who could stomach me. Now, I’m the only one you can’t.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Izuku couldn’t even breathe properly. His chest ached because every word was true. He had noticed it.
The cruel irony of it.
Meals from strangers went down fine—even if he hated them, even if they meant nothing. But the food that mattered most, food laced with Katsuki’s care, his skill, his heart… his body threw it all back up. It was like his own being had betrayed him, punishing him for clinging to something he could never let go of.
Izuku lowered his head again, staring at the bread in his trembling hands. He couldn’t form words—not an apology, not an explanation. Nothing felt right. Katsuki’s words lingered, digging into him, and all he could do was sit there, silent and small, as the distance between them felt wider than the dark lake in front of them.
Katsuki didn’t push further. He just stayed there, jaw tight, eyes burning holes into the water. He had already said enough. And Izuku… Izuku could only eat in silence, each bite tasting more bitter than sweet, knowing that the bread wasn’t the one choking him—his guilt was.
Chapter 42: Secret Ingredient
Chapter Text
Katsuki didn’t speak again after his last words by the lakeside. Instead, he rose slowly, brushing invisible dust off his hands, then turned and extended one toward Izuku. The gesture was silent, but Izuku understood it well.
For a moment he hesitated, staring at that rough, scarred hand that had always been the first to pull him out of every pitfall in his life. His fingers twitched, resisting out of habit, out of fear—but then he reached out anyway, slipping his smaller hand into Katsuki’s.
Katsuki’s grip closed around him immediately, firm and steady, the kind of hold that didn’t allow for escape.
Neither of them said a word.
They walked side by side through the quiet night, their footsteps syncing over the pavement. Izuku’s head remained low, hood tugged up, mask covering most of his face, while Katsuki stared forward with a gaze fixed and unyielding. Izuku stole glances, but Katsuki’s expression gave nothing away—his jaw clenched, eyes shadowed in thought so deep that Izuku couldn’t read them.
Yet, Izuku didn’t need to.
He already knew.
Katsuki was thinking about what happened earlier—the cruel rejection of Izuku’s body against the food Katsuki had cooked with his own hands. It wasn’t just about meals. It was about everything they had built together. Izuku wanted to cry as the weight of that irony crushed his chest.
Why does it have to be this way?
Why was it his body, his emotions, that betrayed the love Katsuki poured into every detail of their lives?
Still, beneath the heaviness, there was something that softened the ache. Their hands locked tightly together, as if both were unwilling to let go, no matter what was breaking inside them. Under the starry night sky, with silence pressing on their shoulders, Izuku allowed himself to admit what he had been denying for so long—he missed him.
He missed Katsuki’s care, his scolding, his stubbornness, the warmth of someone who always made sure Izuku ate, slept, and kept moving forward. He missed home, because Katsuki was home.
When they reached the condo, Katsuki stopped just before the door. He didn’t step inside, didn’t assume. Instead, he let Izuku open the lock and walk in first.
Once Izuku turned to face him, Katsuki lifted a hand, resting it gently atop his messy curls before letting it slide down, caressing his cheek with uncharacteristic softness. Izuku leaned into that touch without hesitation, eyes fluttering closed as though afraid to lose it.
Katsuki allowed a small smile, the kind that carried no fire, just quiet reassurance.
“Stop worrying already,” he said.
“Take a bath, get some rest. Eat whatever you can eat, and stop apologizing for not keeping my food down. We’ll get through it, shitty nerd. I’ll even ask Kaminari and the brats to make you something. As long as you’re eating… I’m fine with that.”
Izuku bit his lower lip hard. His chest ached with all the words he couldn’t form.
Before Katsuki could pull back, Izuku grabbed his wrist and tugged him inside. The door shut behind them with a dull thud, and before Katsuki could even process what was happening, Izuku slammed against his chest, burying his face there as his arms locked around him in a desperate embrace. His shoulders shook, muffled sobs slipping through the layers of fabric.
Katsuki stiffened, stunned, then slowly—so slowly—his arms moved, wrapping around Izuku’s trembling frame. His chin came down to rest on the crown of his curls, his palm spread protectively across Izuku’s back. A quiet smile tugged at his lips despite the sting in his chest.
“Stop crying already, nerd,” he murmured against Izuku’s hair. “Everything’s all right. We’ll get through this. We’ll be fine tomorrow, and the next day, and every damn day after that. Just… stop thinking about choices that split us apart. That’s not on the table. Not anymore. I’m never choosing that.”
Izuku’s sobs deepened, pressing harder into Katsuki’s chest. Katsuki huffed softly, teasing even through the ache.
“Remember what I said back then? If you ever broke up with me, I’d never take you back. I told you I’d spray pepper, toss salt at your face and tell you to piss off. That I wouldn’t even look at you again.”
Izuku lifted his head, cheeks wet, eyes red and wide.
“Kacchan’s mean,” he whispered, voice breaking. “What if I broke up just because I was scared? You’d really just… stop seeing me, even if I came back?”
Katsuki pinched his nose, a crooked grin cutting across his face.
“Dumbass. A break up isn’t something you do when you’re scared or need space. That’s not how this works. In a relationship, you fight, you argue, you want time away from each other—but that’s not the same as ending it. Love isn’t perfect. It’s not always soft. Sometimes it’s ugly. But when there’s love, that’s when you start dating.And you stay because of everything else that grows with it.”
His voice softened, dropping into something raw and unguarded.
“We began with love, yeah—a spark that pulled us close. But we’re still here because love turned into trust. Because our laughter turned into home. Because even silence like this feels safe, not empty. We stay, Deku… because our roots are tangled now. What we have isn’t just love anymore. It’s belonging.”
Izuku broke all over again. His tears streamed freely, his sobs almost painful to hear, and Katsuki only laughed softly through the sting in his own chest, hugging him tighter like he’d never let go.
“Don’t leave,” Izuku choked out. “Please, Kacchan. Stay with me tonight. I… I missed you so much.”
Katsuki pressed a kiss into his hair, nodding firmly.
“Yeah, yeah. I missed you too, damn nerd. I’m staying.”
And for the first time in a long while, Izuku let himself believe him.
The sound of running water had long faded when Katsuki stepped out of the bathroom, towel draped around his shoulders, steam still clinging to his skin. He rubbed at his hair as he moved toward Izuku’s bedroom, expecting to find the nerd curled up under his blanket. But the bed was empty.
A faint shuffle, the clink of something against marble. Katsuki paused, listening closely. The noise wasn’t upstairs—it came from the kitchen.
He descended the stairs, footsteps quiet against the polished floor, and there he found him. Izuku stood in front of the counter, hair still damp, droplets dripping down the curve of his neck. He wasn’t cooking, just staring at the cabinets as if trying to will them into giving him answers.
Katsuki leaned on the doorframe, watching for a moment, his lips twitching at the sight. He chuckled under his breath, though it was tinged with a hollow ache. By this time, normally, he would’ve already prepared something warm, placed it on the table, and nagged Izuku until the idiot ate. But now, Izuku stood here searching for food himself, and Katsuki could only watch. The memory of earlier—the rejection of his meals—pressed heavy on his chest.
With a sigh, he pushed off the frame.
“Oi, nerd.”
Izuku turned, startled, strands of his damp hair sticking to his cheeks. He opened his mouth to speak, but Katsuki crossed the distance first, taking the towel from around his neck and rubbing gently at Izuku’s hair.
“You’ll catch a cold if you leave it like that, dumbass,” Katsuki muttered, tone softer than his words. He draped the towel over Izuku’s head, rubbing firmly but carefully until most of the wetness was gone. When he pulled it away, Izuku’s hair stood in uneven tufts, and Katsuki smirked.
“There. Less pathetic.”
Izuku chuckled weakly, then lowered his eyes.
“I… I don’t know what to eat. I tried thinking of the dishes you taught me before but… since I started vomiting again, I stopped practicing. I just—” His voice faltered. “I need something light. But I don’t even know what to cook anymore.”
Katsuki exhaled, resting his hands on his hips.
“Then I’ll tell you. Grab a pan.”
Izuku blinked, surprised.
“Eh?”
“You said you don’t know what to eat. So I’ll guide you. You’ll make it yourself this time. That way you’ll know it’s yours, not mine. Might be easier to keep down.” His voice dipped lower, more to himself than Izuku. “At least this way I’ll know you won’t starve when I’m not around.”
Izuku’s throat tightened, but he nodded, obeying Katsuki’s tone like muscle memory. He reached for the pan.
Katsuki scanned the fridge and cabinets, mentally mapping what they had.
“We’ll start with zosui. Rice porridge. You got leftover rice?”
“Mm, yes.” Izuku pulled a small container from the fridge.
“Good. Eggs too? And miso?”
Izuku fumbled but managed to line them up on the counter. Katsuki nodded.
“Alright. Let’s get started. Heat the pan, add a little water, about a cup. Then toss in the rice. Loosen it up.”
Izuku followed his instructions, hands trembling just a little. The steam rose as the rice softened, and Katsuki’s voice kept steady.
“Now add the miso. Dissolve it in gently—don’t just dump it. Use the back of your spoon, yeah. That’s it. Then beat the egg in a bowl. Slowly pour it in while stirring.”
Izuku focused intently, brows knitting, lips pressed together as if the simple act of cooking demanded his whole heart. And maybe it did. Each movement, each step Katsuki walked him through, felt like stitching together something fragile they had almost lost.
When Izuku finally stirred the porridge, waiting for it to thicken, Katsuki moved closer. Without a word, he leaned forward, resting his chin lightly on Izuku’s shoulder. His arms slid around Izuku’s waist from behind, his chest pressing against Izuku’s back.
Izuku stiffened, then slowly relaxed, the rhythm of the spoon steadying under his hand. Katsuki’s voice was low, brushing against his ear.
“Not bad. You’ll get the hang of it. Can’t wait to see you learn more dishes. Who knows? Maybe someday you’ll surprise me. Make me fall in love with your cooking the same way I did with you.”
Izuku’s breath hitched, heat rushing to his cheeks. He chuckled nervously, though the sound cracked with emotion.
“That sounds like a goal, huh?”
Katsuki smirked, squeezing him closer. “Damn right it is.”
The porridge simmered gently, the scent mild and comforting. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, the heaviness between them eased—just a little—replaced by the simple warmth of cooking together, of being held in the kitchen like this. It wasn’t a cure. It wasn’t magic. But it was something. A small bandage pressed against a wound that still needed time.
And maybe, just maybe, it was enough for tonight.
Izuku sat down at the small dining table, the bowl of freshly cooked zosui steaming gently in front of him. His spoon trembled just a little when he lifted it, but he forced himself to take a bite. Katsuki leaned his cheek on his palm, watching in silence, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as if he was holding back a thousand things at once.
Izuku blew carefully on the spoonful, lips trembling slightly, then put it in his mouth. The mild warmth of the porridge spread across his tongue, settling in his chest, light but filling. He swallowed slowly, cautiously. And when it stayed down, when he didn’t feel the immediate revolt of his stomach, his hand shook.
Tears pooled in his eyes before he even realized. He laughed shakily, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Ha—look at me. Crying while eating porridge. What the hell, right?”
“Oi,” Katsuki muttered.
He frowned and immediately pushing back his chair and sitting beside him. He crouched beside him first, then pulled out the chair to sit down properly.
“Why the hell are you crying again? Tastes bad?”
Izuku shook his head quickly, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes.
“No… no. It’s just… it feels so weird. Eating in front of you after almost three months of being separated.”
His voice cracked, raw and unguarded.
Katsuki leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose.
“Three months, huh? Idiot. It should’ve just been a month and a half if we’d stopped being stubborn and actually reached out when I got home.”
Izuku chuckled weakly, lowering his spoon.
“You’re right. I’m sorry for all the drama I’ve been… dragging us through. Sometimes I feel like…” He rubbed his temple sheepishly. “It’s like you’re adopting six kids instead of just five. You’re way too patient with me. Always treating me like I’m Hina or one of the kids who needs pampering.”
That made Katsuki snort.
“Well, you’re not wrong. Feels like I’ve got six little brats hanging off me, and the sixth one’s the loudest crybaby of all.”
Izuku elbowed him lightly, pouting. “Kacchan!”
Katsuki let out a short, genuine laugh, pulling Izuku into a brief, firm side hug, surprising Izuku. Then he leaned over and wrapped an arm around Izuku’s shoulders, pulling him close.
“Yeah, I guess so. But," Katsuki’s voice softened, holding him closer, " I don;t mind. I already prepared myself for chaos the second I imagined us living together with the kids. You think I didn’t picture every possible mess? Every tantrum? Every late-night crying fit? I knew what I was signing up for."
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
"It’d be chaos the second we decided to live together—with kids, with you. I imagined all of it. The fights, the mess, the noise. The happiness too. And honestly? Even with all that, if you start pulling away again…then the picture’s fucked. And I don’t want that.”
Izuku looked at him, speechless, as Katsuki continued, his words clumsy but earnest.
“I’m supposed to be the greatest chef in the world, right? But what’s the point of the best dish if I’m missing the secret ingredient? My life’s like one big recipe, and it doesn’t mean shit if you’re not in it. The secret ingredient to my life isn’t just the happiness I get from the kids. Or my friends. It’s you. Yes, they’re good. They make me happy. But you—” his hand curled at Izuku’s nape, pulling him in forehead to forehead, “—Izuku, you’re the flavor that makes everything complete.”
Katsuki paused for a moment, like trying to stop himself from saying more but he can't help it. He still want to keep confessing himself to Izuku.
“I didn’t have you at the start, but once I tasted how perfect life becomes with you as part of my seasonings, I can’t let go anymore. Every dish without you feels bland, as if it was never meant to be eaten without your flavor in it.”
Izuku’s chest tightened, tears slipping free before he could stop them. His lips wobbled into a laugh.
“You really… compared me to seasoning? That’s so Kacchan-coded.”
“Shut up, nerd,” Katsuki muttered, though he was smiling too.
Izuku blinked, stunned. Katsuki’s voice dropped, low but burning.
The words struck Izuku deep. His chest ached, but not with pain—with a crushing warmth that made his tears spill over again. He laughed weakly, shoulders trembling.
“Kacchan… you’re so unfair. Saying things like that—making me feel so loved when I’ve been so stupid.”
"My stupid lover, though."
They sat like that for a beat before Katsuki leaned back, reaching for Izuku’s spoon. He scooped some porridge for himself, blew on it, then tasted it. His brows rose slightly.
“Huh. Not bad. Could use more salt, though.”
He smirked, side-eyeing Izuku.
“Guess it’s edible enough for you. But hey, I’ll make sure you’re eating the best dishes again. My dishes. I know you’ll get back there. So don’t get depressed over this, Izuku. ‘cause I’m not letting you stay stuck with baby food forever. You’ll eat my best dishes again soon. That’s a fucking promise.”
Izuku sniffled, but smiled. “Kacchan…”
“If you want to go for another round of therapy, I’ll come with you. Every damn time. I don’t care how long it takes—I’ll be there. So stop thinking you’re dragging me down. I’m here because I want to be.” Katsuki’s tone left no room for argument.
Kacchan… always hopeful, always stubbornly determined, even when I keep running away. Even when I make things complicated.
Izuku bit his lip, overwhelmed. He put the spoon down and pressed into Katsuki’s chest, burying his face against him.
“I don’t even know how to say thank you. I just… I love you so much, Kacchan. You’re like—you really like the prince in my stupid life story. The one who always saves me from myself.”
Katsuki’s laugh rumbled against Izuku’s ear.
“Prince again, huh? Tch. That’s becoming a real thing on us. You’re such a damn nerd, lover. But listen—having your prince shouldn’t be enough. You need to see your fairies soon. They’re getting sadder every day you don’t visit them.”
“But...”
“You need to go see your fairies too. They’re sad as hell waiting for you,” Katsuki said, eyes softening.
“Kenji, Sora, Yuu, Aki… and especially Hina. They’ve been counting the days, waiting for their Mama Izu to come back. You think I can cover for you forever? Hell no.”
Izuku’s tears came all over again, but this time with a smile. The thought of the kids—his kids—still waiting for him, still wanting him despite everything… it was too much. Too precious. He clutched Katsuki tighter, heart pounding, finally believing that maybe—just maybe—he was allowed to be happy again.
“You’re right. I miss them so much it hurts.”
Katsuki tightened his arms around him.
“Then stop running, Izuku. Just… come home already. To me. To them. To us.”
Izuku nodded, his voice muffled against Katsuki’s chest.
“I will. I promise.”
Chapter 43: Waiting Inside
Chapter Text
The sizzle of eggs filled the kitchen, blending with the warm smell of toasted bread. Katsuki moved with sharp, practiced motions behind the counter of their family restaurant, hair tied back loosely as he flipped a pan with one hand and poured juice into glasses with the other. The kids, already dressed in their uniforms, sat on the high stools in front of the counter, their legs swinging restlessly as they waited.
Aki, always the observant one, reached for the remote.
“Papa, look!” she chirped, pointing at the small TV mounted in the corner of the restaurant.
The screen lit up with Izuku’s bright smile, his voice carrying through the speakers as he sang from his newest album, the stage lights making his emerald eyes shine. The kids immediately erupted into giggles and cheers.
“Mama Izu!” Hina clapped her tiny hands, practically bouncing on her seat. “Mama’s singing again! Look! He’s so cool!”
Yuu and Sora echoed his excitement, drumming their hands on the counter while Aki pretended to conduct an invisible orchestra. Even Kenji, who usually tried to act composed as the eldest, couldn’t hide his grin as he hummed along to the melody.
Katsuki paused mid-flip, his lips twitching before he chuckled quietly. He let himself watch Izuku on the screen for a few seconds longer, his chest softening.
That smile, that voice—his nerd was back on stage, dominating the world again. It made him proud in a way words couldn’t explain. For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to wear a genuine smile, not just for the kids but for himself too.
“Alright, alright, settle down, you little monsters,” Katsuki barked lightly, setting plates on the counter. “Food’s ready. Eat before you’re late for school.”
The kids scrambled to help. Sora grabbed napkins, Aki carried cups, and Kenji carefully placed a plate in front of where Katsuki stood. His small hands lingered a second longer than necessary, and without looking up, he whispered,
“Papa…”
Katsuki, hands on his hips, raised a brow.
“What is it, brat?”
Kenji’s voice was soft, hesitant, like he’d been carrying the words for days.
“Can Mama go back and stay longer with us now? I really… I really want to talk to him more. He hasn’t sung a song with us in bed like before. Not once.”
The question struck hard. Katsuki’s breath caught, his hand tightening on his hip. Slowly, he turned to look down at Kenji. The boy finally lifted his gaze, his dark eyes filled with quiet worry.
Katsuki exhaled through his nose, reaching out to ruffle Kenji’s hair.
“Don’t worry about that. Mama’s just… recovering. He’s trying to be stronger so he can face all of you without fear. I’m not gonna let him go anywhere, you hear me?”
Kenji’s lips pressed tight as he dropped his gaze again.
“But… he doesn’t need to get stronger when he’s with us, right? We can just be together. He can be scared if he wants. We won’t mind. Why can’t he just… do that?”
The other kids had quieted, their heads turning toward the pair. Their little faces were a mix of confusion and curiosity. Katsuki noticed and immediately made a decision.
“Kenji. Come with me.”
He led the boy by the shoulder into the kitchen, away from his siblings’ curious ears. Katsuki crouched down so they were eye-level, his arms resting on his knees.
“Listen,” Katsuki started, his voice low but steady. “Parents… we always want to look strong in front of our kids. Not ‘cause we don’t trust you, but because we want you to feel safe. Mama’s not avoiding you because he doesn’t care. He wants to be with you. More than you think.”
Kenji frowned, frustrated.
“Then why? Why can you be strong around us, but Mama needs space?”
Katsuki hesitated, then sighed, raking a hand through his hair.
“Because Mama’s healing. He’s got scars, Kenji. Even before we all meet him. Ones you can’t see. And those scars… they make him think that if he comes too close, he’ll hurt us instead of helping. He’s scared that if he stands with us, he’ll be the reason we fall apart.”
Kenji’s eyes widened.
“But that’s not true! Mama makes us happy!”
“I know,” Katsuki said firmly, gripping his son’s small shoulders. “I know. But Mama doesn’t see that yet. He still can’t see himself as the missing piece that makes this family stronger. That’s why I’m keeping my eye on him. He’s the last ingredient, Kenji—the one thing I need to make our family the best damn dish this world has ever seen.”
Kenji blinked, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes.
“I need you, kid,” Katsuki continued, his voice softening. “You’re the big brother. I’m asking a lot, I know. But I need you to help me hold your siblings together while we wait for Mama Izu. Support them, protect them. Be the bridge between Mama and them until he’s ready.”
Kenji bit his lip. “That’s… that’s too much. I’m just a kid.”
Katsuki reached out and smoothed a hand over his hair.
“You are. And you’ll stay a kid. When you’re with me, you don’t have to act older than you are. You can whine, mess around, laugh all you want. I’ll cover for you. But when it comes to your siblings, I need you to step up—just until Mama comes back all the way. Can you do that for me?”
Kenji sniffled but nodded, his small fists tightening at his sides.
“O-okay. I’ll try, Papa.”
Katsuki pulled him into a hug, one hand steady on the back of his head.
“That’s all I need. Just try. Mama’s coming home to us. You’ll see.”
From the dining area, the faint sound of Hina’s giggles and Izuku’s voice on the TV drifted in, warm and bittersweet. Katsuki closed his eyes, silently promising himself that the next time Izuku’s voice filled this restaurant, it wouldn’t just be from a screen.
The soft ticking of the clock in Dr. Morita’s office filled the silence between Izuku’s words. He sat on the edge of the couch, posture slightly hunched, fingers twitching in his lap as he tried to explain himself. His voice wavered, but he pushed the words out anyway.
“It’s strange… I didn’t even plan it, sensei. I just thought—I should try. And… it worked. I ate food from other places. And I didn’t throw up.”
Izuku’s eyes flickered with guilt.
“But when I tried Kacchan’s dishes again… it still—” His throat closed, shame creeping over his face. “It still came back up.”
Dr. Morita leaned back in his chair, hands folded neatly on the desk as he studied Izuku with calm, attentive eyes. He had watched this young man crumble and rebuild countless times before, witnessed the jagged path of his recovery. There was no easy road with Izuku Midoriya, only persistence and patience.
“You sound almost… apologetic about this,” Dr. Morita remarked gently.
Izuku’s head dipped lower.
“Because it doesn’t make sense. His food should be the safest for me. The one thing I can trust. I ate it for years, and it was home. Now… it feels like my body doesn’t want it. Like I’m rejecting him. Like I don’t deserve it anymore.”
Dr. Morita took a quiet breath, letting Izuku’s confession hang in the air before answering.
“Izuku, your body’s reaction isn’t about the food itself. It’s about the meaning you’ve tied to it. Katsuki’s meals carry memories, love, comfort—but also conflict, fear, and guilt. That weight is heavy. Sometimes, too heavy for the body to accept without resistance.”
Izuku blinked, his chest tightening.
“So… it’s not just about eating?”
“It rarely is,” Dr. Morita said, his voice steady, patient. “Food, for you, has always been more than survival. It’s trust. It’s safety. It’s love. And right now, there’s a part of you that believes you don’t deserve that love—not after what happened. So, when you try to take it in, your body says no. Not because Katsuki’s food is unsafe, but because your mind is still wrestling with the belief that you’re unworthy of it.”
Izuku’s throat ached, his fingers curling into fists.
“Then… what am I supposed to do? Keep eating strangers’ food until I’m ready?”
“No,” Dr. Morita shook his head lightly. “We’ll focus on untangling that belief. You’re not undeserving, Izuku. Katsuki’s meals, his love, his care—they are not rewards to be earned. They are gifts freely given, ones you’re allowed to receive. Healing means reminding yourself of that truth, over and over, until your body begins to believe it too.”
Izuku swallowed, tears pricking at his eyes. His voice was raw.
“But… it feels so unfair. He cooks for me with everything he has, and I can’t even…”
“Recovery isn’t about fairness,” Dr. Morita cut in softly, but firmly. “It’s about progress. And compared to where you were years ago, your progress is undeniable. Fewer sessions, fewer breakdowns, quicker rebounds. You’re not failing, Izuku. You’re just… missing one last piece.”
Izuku lifted his head slightly, eyes searching.
“And what is that piece?”
Dr. Morita smiled faintly, knowingly.
“Acceptance. Not of the food, but of yourself. Once you believe you are worthy of Katsuki’s love—the kind that feeds your soul as much as your stomach—you’ll find your way back. Not just to eating his meals, but to living with him fully again.”
The words sank deep, leaving Izuku both fragile and strangely lighter. He wiped at his eyes quickly, embarrassed by the wetness on his cheeks. Dr. Morita didn’t rush him, didn’t push further. He simply waited until Izuku found the courage to stand and bow respectfully, signaling the end of the session.
When Izuku stepped outside, the crisp evening air brushed against his skin. For a moment, he hesitated on the clinic’s front steps, his hands tightening on the strap of his bag. Then his gaze lifted—
And there he was.
Katsuki stood a few meters away, leaning against a lamppost with his arms crossed, pretending to scroll through his phone. But the slight furrow in his brows and the way his foot tapped restlessly against the ground betrayed his anxiety. He wasn’t just waiting—he was worrying.
As if sensing Izuku’s eyes, Katsuki looked up. The tension on his face softened immediately, replaced by something steady and grounding. He straightened, pocketed his phone, and opened his arms wide without hesitation.
Izuku’s chest tightened, his throat closing with a sob he barely held back. His feet moved before his mind caught up, and in seconds he was running. Running straight into Katsuki’s embrace.
The impact was soft, warm, familiar. Katsuki’s arms closed around him instantly, solid and sure, his chin settling on top of Izuku’s head like it belonged there. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t demand explanations. He just held him.
“You’re done?” Katsuki’s voice rumbled above him, low and careful.
Izuku nodded against his chest, gripping the back of Katsuki’s shirt like he’d fall without it.
“Good,” Katsuki muttered, pulling him closer. Then, softer, almost hidden in the night air: “I got you.”
And for the first time in weeks, Izuku let himself believe it.
The drive home from the clinic was unusually quiet, the air between them calm but heavy, like both of them were waiting for the right moment to speak. Katsuki kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually but close enough on the console, like he was silently reassuring Izuku that he was there if needed. Izuku sat with his hands folded over his lap, still hearing Dr. Morita’s voice in his mind about deserving nourishment, about the weight of choosing to accept things outside Katsuki’s cooking. It felt like both progress and a betrayal, and he wasn’t sure how to carry that balance just yet.
When they finally arrived Umi To Hi, Katsuki killed the engine, sat there for a beat, then turned slightly toward him. His voice was quiet, careful—like he was trying not to make it sound heavier than it was.
“You wanna… eat together tonight? With the kids,” Katsuki asked.
Normally, that kind of question wouldn’t have felt unusual—they always ate dinner as a family whenever possible. But today, something about the way Katsuki asked made it different. Like he wasn’t just asking if Izuku wanted food, but if he wanted to share that moment, to try being fully present. Izuku understood the weight behind it immediately.
He lowered his gaze, fingers brushing over the strap of his bag, and slowly nodded.
“...Yeah. I’d like that.”
Katsuki’s eyes softened almost imperceptibly, relief flickering over his expression. He didn’t push further, didn’t praise him or make it obvious. He knew Izuku didn’t need that right now.
Instead, Izuku exhaled and added, “But… can I take a nap first? Just a little while.”
Katsuki hummed quietly, a sound of agreement.
“Yeah. Go on. Kids’ room’s quiet right now—they’re still at school. You can rest there while I get busy with the restaurant for a bit.”
“Thanks,” Izuku whispered, his voice lighter, though he wasn’t sure why his chest ached.
Katsuki reached out before Izuku could move, brushing his knuckles gently against his cheek. A warm, grounding touch.
“Rest, nerd. I’ll handle the rest.”
Izuku let that touch linger for a moment before slipping out of the car and heading inside.
The house was warm the moment he entered. Not just from the afternoon sun that spilled through the curtains, but from the weight of familiarity—the faint smell of Katsuki’s cooking clinging to the air, the muffled ticking of the wall clock, the tiny messes here and there that spoke of children running around. With the kids at school, the house should have felt light and quiet. But Izuku, stepping into the back room, felt the silence heavy against him, like it was reminding him of everything he’d missed, everything he had been absent from.
He set his bag aside and sat on the edge of the bed, letting his eyes roam across the room. That’s when he noticed the board on the wall.
It was covered in pictures, drawings, and sticky notes—something they had started long ago to collect their family’s small, happy moments. Pictures from travels, candid shots of birthdays and casual days at home. Izuku smiled faintly at some of them, the memories tugging warmly at his heart. There were childish doodles too—colorful scribbles from Aki and Yuu, often accompanied by crooked words only a parent could decipher. Random sticky papers with short messages, a joke here, a “love you mama” there.
But the more he looked, the more he noticed one name that stood out over and over again.
Hina.
Almost every drawing had her name on it. A little girl’s handwriting, bold and insistent, as though she wanted to make sure she was seen, that her family wouldn’t forget she contributed too. Many of her drawings showed the same theme: a family picture.
Izuku stepped closer, eyes lingering. He traced one of them with his fingertips: a man holding a girl’s hand, surrounded by smiling faces. Then his gaze moved down to newer drawings, ones he hadn’t seen before. His heart clenched.
One showed their house. Inside, Katsuki and five kids were smiling, standing together. Outside, separated by the walls, was another man. His name written clearly above him: Mama Izu.
At the bottom, in a child’s shaky handwriting, were three question marks. As if Hina didn’t understand why he was outside. As if she was asking: Why aren’t you with us? Why aren’t you inside the house?
Izuku’s breath hitched. His chest felt tight, his throat burned. He lifted his hand, trembling, and gently touched the drawing. The colors blurred as his vision filled with tears.
He whispered so softly it was almost soundless, “I’m sorry.”
Sorry for leaving them outside, for standing apart, for making his children question where he belonged.
The room stayed quiet, save for the sound of his shaky breathing. The board in front of him reflected not just his children’s view, but his own fears laid bare. And yet, even in that ache, there was love—so much love etched into every line of every drawing, love that was waiting for him to believe he deserved it.
Hours later, Izuku stirred at the faintest brush against his shoulder. A gentle pressure, warm and steady, like someone calling him back from a dream. He blinked groggily, his lashes heavy, until he made out the blurred outline leaning over him. Katsuki. His voice came low, almost a whisper, rough but soft in the way only he reserved for Izuku.
“Hey… wake up, love. Dinner’s ready.”
Izuku blinked again, disoriented. The room was dimmer now, shadows long against the walls.
“...What time is it?” His voice came out husky, still thick with sleep.
“Seven,” Katsuki answered, brushing a thumb lightly along Izuku’s arm as if to coax him fully awake.
“You slept for almost six hours, babe.” His words carried a mix of amusement and concern. “Your manager called earlier to ask about you, but when I told her you were sleeping, she didn’t push. Just said you should message her tomorrow morning since you’ve got a shoot.”
Izuku blinked at him, guilt pricking faintly, but before he could form words, Katsuki’s tone shifted—so subtle, but transparent in its worry.
“You feelin’ too tired? You don’t have to come out if you don’t want to. I can bring dinner here. No big deal.”
Izuku frowned softly, not at Katsuki, but at the idea.
“Where are the kids?”
“They’re downstairs,” Katsuki replied without hesitation. “At the restaurant. Got here hours ago, but I asked them not to bother you. Figured you needed the rest more. They decided to just hang out there while waiting for you.”
Izuku’s heart ached at that—his children waiting, but not complaining, respecting the rest their father had promised.
“You should’ve let them come up. Change, at least. They shouldn’t have to wait all that time.”
Katsuki shook his head immediately, wagging it like the thought was ridiculous.
“No way. I’m not risking your sleep for something the kids can do later. They’re fine. And you… you needed this.”
Izuku exhaled, a sigh that carried both defeat and warmth. His lips curved faintly as he leaned his head against Katsuki’s shoulder, closing his eyes again despite just waking. It felt safe there—too safe.
“I don’t even know how to respond to you kindness,” he murmured, voice barely audible.
Katsuki turned slightly, letting his temple brush against Izuku’s hair.
“Don’t call it kindness,” he corrected softly, his tone firm but warm. “It’s love, honey.” His lips curled into the smallest smirk as he added, “Now give me my reward for it.”
Izuku chuckled, low and quiet, shaking his head against Katsuki’s shoulder.
“You’re impossible.” Still, he tilted his chin up, leaned in, and pressed his lips against Katsuki’s—slow, unhurried, filled with the weight of gratitude he couldn’t put into words.
When they pulled back, Katsuki rested his forehead against his for a breath before muttering, “C’mon. Let’s not keep the brats waiting any longer.”
Izuku nodded, his hand finding Katsuki’s instinctively as they stood. His body still felt heavy, but his heart was lighter. Together, they walked downstairs, toward the soft hum of chatter and clinking dishes from the restaurant below—toward their children, toward dinner, toward family.
Chapter 44: Stilled Hearts
Chapter Text
Katsuki didn’t rush him. He never did. His hand simply slipped to the small of Izuku’s back, steady and warm, as they descended the stairs together. To anyone else it looked natural, casual, but Izuku could feel every ounce of intent in that touch—the silent guidance, the reassurance that he wasn’t walking into this alone. Izuku smiled faintly, almost shyly, at the way Katsuki’s presence anchored him with something as simple as a palm at his waist.
When they stepped into the restaurant, the chatter of the kids at the table quieted at once. Five sets of eyes turned toward them, wide and searching. The air shifted—curiosity, surprise, even a hint of disbelief flickering across their young faces, as though seeing their mama and papa walk down together was something unusual, something fragile.
Izuku froze under their gaze. His throat tightened. He parted his lips to say hello but found the words stuck there, trembling, as if even a small greeting might break the delicate balance of the moment.
Katsuki leaned in, his voice cutting through the silence with ease.
“Oi, what’s with those faces? Is the table ready or not? Mama Izu’s here. Don’t you brats wanna impress him?”
The tension cracked. The kids’ faces shifted, embarrassed grins replacing their earlier stares. Izuku blinked up at Katsuki, whispering quickly,
“Impress me? What do you mean?”
Katsuki bent his head down, lips brushing close enough to tickle Izuku’s ear as he murmured,
“They cooked for you.”
Izuku’s eyes darted to him, uncertain. “...Kacchan, you—”
“—didn’t do a damn thing,” Katsuki interrupted, still smug. “It’s all them. You better clean those plates, though. Kenji and Sora are already itching to fight about who made the best dish.”
Izuku turned his gaze on him, searching, almost desperately—wondering if Katsuki felt guilt, knowing he himself couldn’t cook for Izuku right now. But there was nothing of that in his face. Only pride for the children, and when Katsuki caught Izuku’s eyes again, he smiled wider, brighter, like a challenge.
Izuku laughed nervously, shaking his head.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re stalling,” Katsuki teased before giving him a little push toward the table.
They sat down together, Katsuki never letting go until Izuku had settled in his seat. The kids, though buzzing with excitement, hesitated. They exchanged glances, elbows nudging, shoulders bumping, each waiting for the other to be the first one to approach. The air filled with a strange, expectant silence.
Izuku lowered his gaze, his chest tight. He could feel the heat rising behind his eyes again, shame curling in his stomach for being the one who made these moments so heavy, so awkward.
Then—a gentle tug at his sleeve.
Izuku looked down and found Hina standing beside him, her small hands clutching the fabric of his shirt. Her big eyes stared up at him, her lips curving into the sweetest, most innocent smile.
“Mama,” Hina’s small voice came, sweet and unwavering. Izuku looked down to see her smiling up at him. “Welcome home.”
Izuku’s breath broke. He scooped her up at once, hugging her tightly as his tears finally spilled over. “I’m sorry,” he murmured
against her hair, over and over. “I’m so sorry, Hina.”
That was all it took. The others surged forward—Sora, Yuu, Aki—wrapping their arms around him, pressing close, their little voices tumbling together, calling him Mama, telling him they missed him. Izuku clung to them, crying and laughing all at once, overwhelmed by their warmth.
“Mama, I missed you!”
“Why didn’t you come sooner?”
“Don’t disappear again, okay?”
Kenji stayed back, fists clenched, his lips tight as he stood near Katsuki.
watching quietly as his siblings wrapped themselves around their mama. His face was tense, lips pressed together, his hands clenched at his sides.
Katsuki noticed immediately. He crouched slightly, his eyes never leaving the pile of children and their mother, and asked lowly,
“You’re not gonna join them?”
Kenji’s voice wavered but he kept his chin lifted.
“Mama’s here. That’s all good for now. You told me to be the big brother, right?”
Katsuki huffed a quiet chuckle, reaching out to ruffle his hair.
“Tch. I also told you to be a kid too when I’m here, didn’t I?”
Kenji looked up at him then, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. He didn’t say anything, but Katsuki could read the silent plea in his expression—permission, reassurance, the nudge he needed.
Katsuki gave a firm nod.
At the same moment, Izuku looked up from the huddle, his own eyes catching Kenji’s across the room. The boy didn’t hesitate anymore. He bolted forward, throwing himself into Izuku’s arms, and for the first time letting the tears spill freely.
“Mama,” Kenji cried, his voice breaking, “I missed you. I miss you here with us. Please don’t leave again. Not tonight, not tomorrow… not ever.”
Izuku broke down all over again, hugging him as tightly as the others, kissing his hair through his sobs.
“I’m here, Kenji. I’m here.”
Katsuki stood back, arms crossed but eyes soft, watching them. He muttered under his breath, just enough for Izuku to catch.
“Damn nerd… always making the kids cry.”
Izuku looked up at him, still cradling Kenji. Through his tears, he chuckled.
“You’re one to talk. You cry inside too, Kacchan.”
Katsuki snorted, turning his face away so they wouldn’t see the way his eyes glistened.
“Shut up and sit down. Food’s getting cold.”
The kids all laughed through their sniffles, tugging Izuku toward the table. Then they quickly scattered, each one suddenly looking busy, bustling with energy now that their mama was truly there with them.
“Alright, brats,” Katsuki announced, easing Izuku down into the seat with a hand on his shoulder.
“Go on, show off what you did. Don’t keep your mama waiting.”
Hina was the first to move, holding up a tray with both hands like it was some kind of treasure.
“I made onigiri! They might look funny but I promise they taste good, Mama.”
Izuku’s lips wobbled into a soft smile.
“You made these yourself?” He reached for one, biting gently into the rice ball. His eyes lit up as he chewed. “Mm! Hina, this is wonderful.”
Hina beamed and shyly climbed onto the chair beside him.
Before Izuku could finish, Sora dragged his plate forward, chin raised proudly.
“I made karaage! Papa helped with the oil part, but the seasoning was all me.”
Kenji, sitting across from him, immediately snorted.
“All you? You dropped half the salt before Papa stopped you. Don’t exaggerate.”
Sora’s eyes narrowed.
“At least mine’s crunchy and not mushy rice like yours when you first tried!”
“That was months ago! And mine wasn’t mushy this time—”
“Oi,” Katsuki’s voice cut sharp, though his smirk betrayed him. “Shut your traps and let your mama eat before you two turn this place into a battlefield.”
Izuku, cheeks pink from laughter, picked up a piece of Sora’s karaage and popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, deliberately.
“Mm… Sora, it’s amazing. Perfect crunch, perfect flavor. You’ve gotten so good.”
Sora puffed his chest proudly, while Kenji muttered under his breath.
Then Kenji pushed his own plate forward, quieter than his siblings.
“I… tried making steamed custard egg.”
Izuku’s hands trembled just a little as he lifted the spoon. The silky surface wobbled under the touch, steam curling warmly into his face with the familiar, delicate scent. One bite and Izuku’s eyes softened in surprise. “Kenji…” He set the spoon down, looking right at him. “This tastes exactly like Papa Kacchan's. Thank you so much.”
Kenji’s lips pressed tight, but his eyes glistened as he nodded.
Katsuki, sitting with one arm propped on the back of Izuku’s chair, watched the whole thing without saying a word. His sharp eyes followed every expression on Izuku’s face, every tremor of his hand, every flicker of his smile. When Izuku finally leaned into him between bites, Katsuki let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
Dinner stretched on with laughter and bickering—Sora insisting his karaage was better, Kenji challenging him to cook again tomorrow, Hina quietly pushing more of her onigiri into Izuku’s plate whenever it got empty.
By the time plates were scraped clean, the kids were buzzing with excitement, already talking over each other about their sleepover plans.
“You promised you’ll join us, Mama!” Sora reminded, tugging on Izuku’s sleeve.
Izuku smiled warmly. “Of course I will. After your baths, okay?”
The five ran off together, their laughter echoing up the stairs. Izuku lingered in his chair, the warm glow of their voices still wrapped around him.
Meanwhile, Katsuki rolled up his sleeves and started on the dishes before Izuku could even stand.
“Sit down, dumbass. You’re not lifting a finger tonight.”
Izuku huffed but obeyed, folding his arms on the counter nearby and resting his chin there. His tired eyes followed the way Katsuki moved through the kitchen: the strong flex of his forearms, the easy rhythm of his motions, the ownership in every gesture.
“You always close the restaurant too early whenever I get here,” Izuku said softly, breaking the comfortable silence.
Katsuki glanced over his shoulder, one brow raised as he rinsed a plate.
“Yeah. So what?”
Izuku’s lips curved in a faint smile.
“It just feels… selfish. Like you’re giving up work just for me.”
“Idiot.” Katsuki shook his head, setting the plate on the rack. “You think I care about keeping this place open more than having dinner with you? I’ll throw the damn keys into the ocean if it means seeing your face at my table.”
Izuku let out a shaky chuckle, lowering his gaze.
“I miss this… just watching you do your thing. Like you’re in your domain.”
Izuku's fingers absentmindedly traced patterns against the counter.
“Back then, I always thought… Katsuki belongs here. And now… I’m lucky enough to sit here and breathe it in again.”
Katsuki turned, dish towel slung over his shoulder. His eyes softened as he caught Izuku’s whisper.
“I’m breathing again,” Izuku said, almost too quietly.
Something in Katsuki’s chest tightened. He stepped closer, wiping his damp hands on the towel before tossing it aside. His heavy footsteps stopped right in front of Izuku.
Izuku tilted his head up just as Katsuki leaned down, their faces close enough for breath to mingle.
Katsuki’s mouth curved in the faintest smirk.
“Then don’t stop, dumbass.”
They both chuckled softly, tension unraveling between them, before Katsuki closed the distance. Their lips met in a kiss—slow, lingering, the kind that tasted of soap, miso, and the months they had lost but were finding again.
Izuku’s hand reached up, clutching lightly at Katsuki’s shirt, pulling him closer. Katsuki deepened the kiss for just a moment, before pulling back only enough to press his forehead to Izuku’s.
“You’re here,” Katsuki whispered, almost to himself.
“I’m here,” Izuku echoed, breath warm against his lips.
And for a long, quiet moment, the restaurant was just theirs again.
Izuku had meant only to lull the children with a soft song, one of those simple melodies he used to hum when they were much smaller. But the warmth of Aki curled into his side, Hina’s hand looped loosely over his sleeve, and Sora’s steady breathing from the foot of the futon pulled him under too. His voice had faded somewhere in the middle of the second verse, and sleep claimed him without warning.
He woke again to the faintest shift of weight—the subtle rustle of fabric. Izuku blinked against the dim glow of the nightlight and turned his head.
Hina.
She was standing, small and fragile, her long hair shadowing her face. She moved with a strange, quiet determination, like someone with a destination already in mind.
“Hina?” Izuku whispered, his voice husky with sleep. He pushed himself up carefully, not wanting to disturb Aki. “Where are you going, sweetheart?”
No answer. The little girl didn’t even look at him.
Izuku frowned, fully awake now, and eased himself out from under the blanket. He followed, heart pinching with worry. He thought maybe she wanted the bathroom. But instead of turning down the short hallway, Hina padded straight toward the door, slipping out as though she knew the way by memory.
Izuku’s chest tightened. He was halfway to the door when the sound of footsteps on the stairs caught him.
“Got ya.”
Katsuki’s low, steady voice filled the hallway. He bent easily, catching Hina before she could make it past the stairwell, one strong arm scooping her up against his chest. He looked entirely unsurprised, as though this wasn’t the first time.
It was then that Katsuki noticed Izuku standing frozen in the doorway, his hand clutching the frame, eyes wide with worry.
“Oi.” Katsuki exhaled, his mouth twitching into a half-smile that carried more reassurance than humor. “It’s okay. She’s sleepwalking again. Did she wake you up? Sorry, I should’ve checked sooner.”
Izuku shook his head quickly, stepping closer. “No—it’s fine. I just…” His voice faltered as he glanced at the small girl limp against Katsuki’s shoulder. “Has… has she been like this for months?”
Katsuki’s eyes softened. He shifted Hina carefully, her cheek pressed against his collarbone. “Yeah. I heard you saw it before, didn’t you? That night while I am still in Lyon. The same day her parents came to the restaurant, tried talking to her.”
Izuku’s throat constricted at the memory. He nodded slowly.
“She’s been like this again ever since,” Katsuki continued, his voice quieter now. “Even with those bastards in jail, even with the case over… she still does this. Like she’s searching for something every night.”
Almost like a cruel confirmation, Hina stirred, her lips parting as a faint murmur slipped free.
“Papa… where’s Mama?”
Both men froze. Izuku’s breath caught, his body trembling as if the words pierced directly into him.
Katsuki gave a soft, bittersweet chuckle, though his eyes betrayed the ache underneath. He rubbed her back in gentle circles.
“Mama Izuku is here with you, baby. Right here. Go back to sleep with him, okay?”
Hina’s head shifted slightly, and as though she understood, her small arms lifted, reaching toward Izuku without opening her eyes.
Izuku’s lips parted in shock. Slowly, carefully, he stepped forward and gathered her into his embrace. The moment her weight settled against him, something inside his chest cracked wide open.
He hugged her tightly, pressing his cheek against her hair. His voice trembled as he whispered, “I’m here, Hina. Mama’s here. I won’t go anywhere.”
Katsuki watched, his expression unreadable at first—something torn between pain and relief. Then, with quiet tenderness, he reached out to rub Izuku’s back too, grounding him with steady warmth.
After a long moment, Katsuki bent and pressed a kiss to Izuku’s forehead, his lips lingering there. His voice was a low murmur.
“You go back and rest. I’ll keep guard.”
Izuku shook his head faintly, tightening his hold on both Hina and Katsuki’s shirt at the same time. His fingers clutched the fabric, trembling but firm. He looked up at Katsuki with wet eyes.
“You should sleep with us,” Izuku whispered.
It wasn’t a request—it was a plea.
Katsuki inhaled, long and slow. He studied Izuku’s face, the rawness in his eyes, the way Hina had nestled seamlessly against him as if she’d always known her mama was right there.
Finally, Katsuki nodded once. His hand slipped into Izuku’s, warm and calloused, and together they turned back toward the futon.
As Izuku settled with Hina clutched to his chest, Katsuki lay down on his other side, his arm draped protectively over them both. And for the first time in years, the three of them—papa, mama, and daughter—rested under the same blanket, the air thick with unspoken promises.
Chapter 45: Endless Constellations
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Months had passed since that quiet night of sleepwalking and whispered promises under the same blanket. Since then, Izuku had been learning how to breathe again—slowly at first, shallow and cautious, then deeper, freer, as if his lungs had finally remembered how to carry the weight of his dreams without collapsing.
And all of that led him here.
The Tokyo Dome.
The space itself felt alive. Massive, echoing, endless—its ceiling glittered like a galaxy overhead, studded with lights that shimmered and blinked like distant stars. Below, the sea of fans moved as one, tens of thousands of lightsticks glowing in greens, silvers, and whites, their swaying rhythm forming a constellation of its own. The sound of them—screams, cheers, sobs, laughter—was thunderous, but also strangely harmonious, like a single heartbeat.
It was the final night of his first-ever solo dome tour. The tour that had once seemed impossible.
The concert had already stretched past three hours, but to Izuku, it felt like time had been suspended. He had given everything tonight—his voice, his sweat, his stories, his tears. He had danced until his legs trembled, laughed at his own fumbles, leaned into the crowd’s chants with joy so raw it nearly split him open. And now, there was only one song left. The song.
The band behind him quieted, the last notes fading like ripples into still water. The massive Dome dimmed all at once, until only a single white spotlight fell on Izuku, standing at the very center of the stage. The sudden hush was almost surreal. It was as if even the air itself had stopped moving, holding its breath for him.
Izuku’s chest rose and fell, too fast at first, then steadier. His hand shook slightly around the mic, but his gaze swept across the endless ocean of faces—some smiling, some crying, all of them waiting for him. On the massive screens, his face was magnified for all to see: his lashes wet, his eyes glassy, his lips parted as though caught between laughter and a sob.
And then, softly, into the silence:
“Thank you.”
Just two words, but they hit like lightning. The Dome roared, erupting in cheers so powerful the ground seemed to shake beneath his feet. Lightsticks waved wildly, chants of his name thundered, and Izuku’s heart clenched so tightly he thought it might burst.
He lifted his hand slowly, smiling through the tears, and the noise subsided again. The fans quieted, their trust in him so complete that they were willing to wait, to listen.
“I…” His voice trembled, cracking slightly at the edges, but he pushed through, because if there was ever a moment to be honest, it was this one. “I never thought I’d be here. Not like this. On this stage. In this place. As a soloist.”
His throat worked as he swallowed, words catching, but he kept going.
“When I was younger, I dreamed big, but not… not this big. Not a Dome filled with people just here for me. I thought dreams like this belonged to someone else, not me. So… thank you. For accepting me. For appreciating me. For loving me.”
The audience was silent again, breathless, hanging on every syllable.
“I was so scared,” he confessed, clutching the mic tighter. “Scared of letting everyone down. Scared of disappointing every single person who looked up to me. When the news about my condition—the psychosomatic vomiting—came out, I thought… ‘This is it. They’ll all see how weak I am. How much I’ve failed to be the person they thought I was.’”
His tears slipped free now, hot streaks running down his cheeks, and the screens captured every glimmering drop. Down in the seats, fans covered their mouths, cried openly, shouted words of encouragement he could almost hear.
“They gave me a month off back then,” Izuku continued, voice shaking. “And I thought it meant rejection. I thought, ‘Maybe they don’t want me anymore. Maybe I’m too much trouble. Maybe I don’t deserve to stand here.’”
He paused, pressing his lips together as his vision blurred. Then, with a shaky, watery laugh:
“But I was wrong. They didn’t push me away. They just wanted me to rest. To breathe. To live.”
The Dome responded with cheers, chants of Izuku! rolling like waves through the stands. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, smiling despite the tears.
“When I came back, I was afraid no one would be there anymore. But instead…” His voice caught again, steadier now, firmer. “Instead, there were more of you. Waiting. Cheering. Worrying about my health instead of just my voice. Caring about me, not just what I could do. And I’ve never—” He broke into another laugh, small and broken and beautiful.
“I’ve never felt so cherished before. Not unwanted. Cherished.”
The Dome erupted again, voices so loud they seemed to rattle the roof. Izuku bowed low—nearly folding himself in half, his back almost parallel to the stage floor. He stayed down long enough that the cheers became deafening, as though the Dome itself would split apart under the weight of their love.
“Thank you,” he whispered again into the mic, muffled but strong.
When he finally rose, the cameras captured the full sincerity of his trembling smile, his eyes red and shining but burning with gratitude.
“This last song…” His voice grew softer, almost reverent. “It’s from my new album. It’s my story. The seasons of my life. From dreaming… to failing. From failing… to drifting, not even knowing what I was chasing anymore. And then… to finding something magical. Something that made me complete. This song is for you. For everyone who stayed. For the people who made me stronger. For my family.”
The first notes rang out, gentle and melodic, like the first golden rays of sunrise spilling over a horizon.
As he sang, his voice became something more than music. It was a confession, a lifeline, a love letter. The Dome screens lit up with a montage of his journey: grainy clips of his earliest practice room recordings, the nervous, too-bright smiles of his first small-stage performances, the painful headlines that once defined him, and then—the triumphant return. Footage of his healed smile, his steady voice, his resilience.
And through it all, Izuku’s eyes kept drifting upward. To the VIP seats.
There they were. The foundation of his new life.
Katsuki leaned forward in his seat, arms crossed, his posture casual but his face unguarded. Every line of his expression radiated pride so fierce it was almost overwhelming. Around him, five kids clutched their lightsticks, waving them with all the strength their little arms could muster, their mouths wide as they sang along—even though their voices could never compete with the Dome, Izuku could hear them in his heart.
Each time his gaze landed there, his voice steadied, his smile grew brighter, his song lifted higher. He was singing for thousands tonight, but his heart knew its true audience.
The lyrics climbed toward their peak, telling of loneliness turned into togetherness, of fear alchemized into courage, of finding family and love in the least expected places. The Dome echoed back every note, thousands of voices joining, swaying, crying, shouting his name.
By the final chorus, the Dome had become a sea of light and sound, tens of thousands united as one. Izuku’s voice cracked with emotion, but he pushed through, giving everything he had until the very last note rang out like a prayer.
When silence finally fell, it was filled with thunder—cheers, screams, sobs, chants of his name.
Izuku lowered his mic slowly, his chest heaving, tears shimmering on his cheeks. His gaze swept the crowd one last time, before finally settling—tender, unwavering—on his family.
Katsuki tilted his chin up, just slightly, lips curving into the faintest proud smirk, eyes blazing with the kind of pride words could never capture. Izuku’s throat closed, his vision blurred, and he smiled back through the tears, whispering into the mic so quietly it was meant for only one set of ears:
“I’m home.”
The Dome exploded—lights, voices, hearts—erupting as though the very universe itself was cheering with them.
The dressing room had finally quieted down after the thunderous cheers from outside faded into the walls. Izuku sat on the small couch, still in his stage outfit, his damp curls clinging to his forehead. He leaned his head against the cushions, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling slowly as though each breath carried the weight of the night. He had cried already—silent tears that slipped out of pure, overwhelming joy—and now all he wanted was to bask in the feeling of being surrounded by the people he loved most.
A soft brush landed on his forehead. Izuku’s lashes fluttered open, green eyes glimmering with residual tears, and the first thing he saw was Katsuki leaning down, his sharp gaze softened only for him.
“You did well, our angel,” Katsuki whispered, voice low and warm as his lips lingered for a moment longer against Izuku’s skin.
Izuku’s smile broke wide, tender and bright.
“Kacchan…” he murmured, just as the sudden squeals of little voices filled the room.
“Mamaaaa! You were so cool!”
“Mama, look, look!”
The kids came bounding in, light sticks still glowing faintly from the concert. Yuu waved his stick in big circles, humming loudly the part of one of Izuku’s songs he adored, and Hina chimed in with her own off-key but enthusiastic version. Even Aki, though older and calmer than the younger ones, couldn’t resist clapping along, her voice small but steady as she sang her favorite chorus. The entire room broke into chuckles—staff, bodyguards, even Manager Aida, who had just stepped inside carrying some papers, found themselves grinning at the sight of this little impromptu concert.
Izuku sat up straighter, cheeks warming, and laughed softly as he clapped along with them. His heart was swelling—this was better than the stage, better than the crowd.
Then Aki, determined and composed as always, stepped forward.
“Mama,” she said, tugging gently at his sleeve. “Can you give me your wrist for a moment?”
Izuku blinked in surprise but obediently held it out. Aki carefully slipped something over his hand—a bracelet, made from beads and colorful threads, clearly crafted with love more than precision. Yuu and Hina peeked over her shoulder, their smiles wide.
“We made this for you,” Aki explained, her tone carrying the authority of the eldest sister. “Me, Hina, and Yuu. Since Sora and Kenji were too busy fighting over who’s better at cooking with Papa Kacchan.”
The room erupted with laughter. Immediately, both boys stiffened, caught red-handed. Sora scratched the back of his neck, looking away with a cough, while Kenji crossed his arms and muttered something under his breath. When they both tried to speak at once to explain, Aki gave them such a sharp glare that they clamped their mouths shut.
Izuku’s heart ached sweetly. He touched the bracelet, holding his daughters’ and son’s hands.
“Thank you,” he whispered, pulling them all into his arms. His joy doubled when he noticed their little wrists—Aki, Yuu, and Hina—each wearing matching bracelets.
Sora groaned dramatically.
“Why don’t we have one, huh?”
“Yeah, unfair!” Kenji added, pointing at his sisters and little brother.
Aki rolled her eyes with the kind of sass only an eldest daughter could manage.
“Because you’re just pigs in the kitchen, big brothers. We’ll protect Mama from you two.”
Both boys instantly pointed at each other.
“It was his fault!”
“No, yours!”
The bickering only deepened until Katsuki cut in with a smirk.
“Oi. Where’s mine?”
The room froze for a beat. Yuu and Hina exchanged guilty glances.
Aki, standing firm, crossed her arms and said flatly, “We didn’t make one for you either, Papa.”
Katsuki blinked, genuinely taken aback.
“...Hah? Why the hell not?”
“Because you’re the reason Sora and Kenji are always stealing time from us,” Aki declared matter-of-factly, and the younger two nodded in agreement.
The entire staff tried to stifle their laughter. Katsuki opened his mouth, then shut it again, completely dumbfounded.
“The hell is this—”
Before he could argue further, Izuku covered for the kids, chuckling as he slipped between them.
“Kacchan, don’t be so dramatic.” He leaned close, his smile mischievous. “You don’t even look good in bracelets anyway. You just wear your watch whenever you feel like it… and we all know you take it off when you’re cooking. Clean freak.”
“That’s called being professional!” Katsuki shot back immediately.
Izuku rolled his eyes in playful exasperation.
“Mm, sure, professional. Whatever you say.” His sarcastic tone made the whole room chuckle again.
Manager Aida, already shaking her head at their antics, finally stepped forward.
“Izuku, can you go home now with them? Or should I wait for you?”
Izuku didn’t even hesitate when he answered.
“I want to go home with Kacchan and the kids.” His smile was soft but certain.
Aida, who once used to argue against such requests, only sighed in resignation. After three years of working with this family, she knew better.
“Fine. I’ll bring your dinner before you leave—it’s late, and the kids might fall asleep on the way. You don’t let them sleep hungry, right, Mr. Bakugo?”
Katsuki smirked knowingly.
“Damn right. Especially this one.” He jerked his thumb toward Izuku.
Izuku gasped, pouting instantly.
“Hey! Don’t lump me in with them—I’m not a kid.”
Katsuki’s grin widened, eyes gleaming.
“I’m your baby,” Izuku finished firmly, puffing his cheeks out.
The kids immediately cheered, delighted.
“Mama’s Papa’s baby!” they chanted.
Katsuki groaned, rolling his eyes but unable to hide his smile. The staff laughed, and Aida pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Enough already. Everyone, stop watching this family or you’re going to throw up.”
But no one could look away.
The soft hum of the van’s engine filled the quiet night, steady and unchanging, like a lullaby carrying them forward. Outside, the world blurred past in muted shadows, streetlamps flashing by in soft pulses of gold. Inside, warmth reigned—blankets tucked around small bodies, soft snores, and the faint clink of ceramic mugs on the little fold-out table.
All four kids had fallen asleep hours ago. Aki clutched her handmade bracelet in her tiny fist, her chest rising and falling steadily. Yuu and Hina had collapsed into each other, their hair tangled, their breaths matching in rhythm. Even Sora and Kenji—who had insisted they weren’t tired—had given in, sprawled on their bunks, snoring like they’d run a marathon.
The van had become a cocoon. Not just a vehicle, but a home on wheels, Izuku’s idea from the start. Built last year, kept quiet until now, and tonight—for the first time—it was filled with the family it was always meant for.
At the little dining nook just before the bunks, Izuku sat tucked close to Katsuki, both of them with steaming cups of tea in hand. Izuku leaned against Katsuki’s shoulder, his glasses fogging slightly as steam curled up into his face. Katsuki absently carded his fingers through Izuku’s hair, slow and soothing, grounding him with the absent-minded tenderness of habit.
“You wanna sleep?” Katsuki asked at last, his voice low and rough in the hush of the van.
Izuku shook his head. His smile was soft, almost boyish.
“Not yet… I still feel it. Like the Dome is still under my skin. Three nights, Kacchan. Three nights at Tokyo Dome.” He laughed breathlessly, tilting his face into Katsuki’s shoulder. “I keep waiting to wake up and realize I imagined it.”
Katsuki bent his head and kissed the crown of his curls, lingering there.
“You didn’t imagine shit. You earned it. Every damn second of it.”
Izuku huffed a laugh, watery at the edges.
“When you say it like that… I almost believe it.”
“Almost?” Katsuki arched a brow, tugging lightly at a curl.
Izuku turned, eyes glimmering in the dim light.
“I do believe it. I just… I don’t know. I thought being happy like this would always feel temporary. Like the second I blink, it’ll all be gone. But…” He hesitated, then smiled. “It’s not. You’re here. They’re here. It’s real.”
Katsuki didn’t answer right away. He just studied him, thumb brushing idly at Izuku’s temple.
“You talk too much when you’re tired,” he muttered, but his voice was warm, affectionate in its bluntness.
Izuku chuckled.
“Maybe. But you like it.”
“Tch. Damn right I do.”
They fell into quiet again, sipping tea, listening to the engine’s hum. Then Izuku set his cup down carefully on the table. He reached for Katsuki’s wrist, thumb grazing over the familiar leather strap of his watch. Katsuki frowned, curious, as Izuku murmured something under his breath—soft counting.
Then Izuku smiled. Small. Secretive. He lifted Katsuki’s hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it before whispering,
“Happy second anniversary, Kacchan.”
Katsuki froze. His eyes widened, then narrowed in disbelief.
“You—” He barked a laugh, low and incredulous. “You’re kidding me. You remembered the exact minute?”
Izuku’s cheeks flushed.
“Of course I did. How could I forget? That night was…” He trailed off, searching for words, then settled on, “Everything started there.”
Katsuki stared at him, then shook his head with a crooked grin.
“You sap.”
Izuku pouted faintly, though his eyes were bright.
“Hey, it’s important!”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.” Katsuki set his own cup aside and caught Izuku’s face in his hand. His thumb brushed across Izuku’s cheek, lingering on the faint dampness of tears Izuku hadn’t realized had slipped free.
“I just… damn, Deku. You blindsided me.”
Izuku leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. “Good. For once, I wanted to catch you off guard.”
“Hah. Congratulations. You did.” Katsuki’s voice dropped lower, huskier. “But don’t think you’re the only one who remembers shit. I do too. How could I forget the night you finally got your stubborn ass to say what you felt?”
Izuku laughed, quiet and a little breathless.
“It wasn’t just me. You said it too. You even made me sing before truly confessing.”
“Damn right I did.” Katsuki leaned closer, their foreheads almost touching. “And I meant every word. Still do.”
“Me too,” Izuku whispered, his hand fisting lightly in Katsuki’s shirt.
Katsuki didn’t bother answering with more words. He closed the space between them, kissing him slow and steady. No rush, no fire—just warmth. Just reverence.
The kind of kiss that said we made it.
We’re still here. We’re still us.
Izuku melted, sighing into it, his heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the roar of an arena.
When they finally pulled apart, Izuku kept his forehead against Katsuki’s, his voice soft.
“You know… out there, it feels like the whole world is watching me. But here? With you? It feels like I’m just… me. No stage. No mask. Just Izuku.”
Katsuki’s grip tightened gently against his jaw.
“Good. ‘Cause that’s the version I love.”
Izuku’s breath hitched, tears welling again. He laughed through them, pressing another kiss against Katsuki’s jaw.
“Happy anniversary, Kacchan. Thank you… for being my home.”
In the stillness of the van, with their children sleeping just a few steps away,Katsuki kissed his hair once more. The two of them held on a little longer—because no stadium, no spotlight, no ovation could ever compare to this.
Notes:
The next update will be the epilogue—the final piece of this journey. I can’t believe we’ve already reached this point. Honestly, I’m already teary-eyed just thinking about saying goodbye to this story and this love.
Thank you, truly, for walking beside me all the way here. Your time, your love for Bakugo, Izuku, and the kids—it all means the world. 💕
Chapter 46: Special Chapter: Sea and Fire
Summary:
Exhausted by victories that feel hollow, Katsuki discovers a deeper purpose in cooking—leading to the dream of his own restaurant, Umi to Hi (Sea and Fire).
Notes:
I know I promised the last chapter and then the epilogue, but I felt like I needed to drop this extra piece in between. It just didn’t sit right with me to leave things as they were. It felt too rushed for the weight of the ending I want to share. This special chapter is my way of giving the story the depth it deserves before we close it out. The epilogue is still coming, and it’s something I’ll truly cherish for life. I hope this helps you appreciate the ending even more.
Thank you, as always, for reading and staying with me through this journey. 🧡💚
Chapter Text
The plane ride home had been exhausting. At only sixteen, Katsuki Bakugo was already balancing high school, international cooking competitions, and the suffocating weight of everyone’s expectations. He had won again—of course he had. His hands were steady, his palate sharper than chefs twice his age, and the fire in him never flickered. But beneath the victory there was a hollowness, one he would never admit to anyone.
By the time they arrived at his relatives’ seaside restaurant, the sky was already bruised with orange and violet, the horizon melting into the calm sea. Katsuki dragged his suitcase across the gravel, his exhaustion pulling at his limbs. He was ready to complain—tell his mother he didn’t need “inspiration” or “rest,” he just needed his own kitchen—but he didn’t. He was too tired.
Then his steps faltered.
Right before the entrance, his gaze caught on the view: the sun dipping lower, the ocean swallowing the heat of the day. He stood there, still as stone, watching the reflection of fire dissolve into the cold surface of the water.
“Katsuki,” Mitsuki called from the door, one hand on her hip. “What are you doing just standing there?”
Absently, his lips moved before he could think.
“...The heat of the sun is being swallowed by the coldness of the sea.”
His mother blinked. For a second, she saw her son not as the relentless prodigy who barked at sous-chefs twice his age, but as a boy, lost in a rare moment of quiet thought. A smile tugged at her lips, though she quickly rolled her eyes, masking it with her usual sharpness.
“You’re so damn weird sometimes. Now move it, or I’ll drag you in by the ear.”
Katsuki sighed, shoved his hands in his pockets, and followed.
Inside, the restaurant buzzed with chatter. Cousins he barely knew waved at him, relatives clapped his back, aunts and uncles fired questions his way—about the competition, about food, about his plans.
“Did you win again, Katsuki?” one cousin piped up.
“Of course he did,” another answered before he could. “Look at him. He’s a machine.”
“Not a machine,” his uncle added with a laugh. “A dragon. Breathes fire, that one.”
Katsuki muttered, “Shut up,” but it was drowned in their laughter.
He answered the barrage with nods, short shakes of his head. Everyone was used to it by now; Katsuki Bakugo only truly came alive in the kitchen. Anywhere else, he was a quiet storm bottled up.
As he sat at the long table, his attention drifted to the cousins across from him. They were hunched over a tablet, giggling, whispering about some idol.
“His hair—look, it’s so fluffy!”
“And his voice? Ugh, I could listen all night.”
Katsuki scowled.
“Tch. Pathetic. You don’t even know if he can fry an egg.”
The cousins stuck their tongues out at him.
“Not everything’s about food, Kats!”
He clicked his tongue again, folding his arms.
“The hell else matters?”
They groaned and turned back to their screen. Katsuki let them, uninterested. His world was knives, fire, salt, and steel.
When the dishes finally came, his eyes lit up despite himself. Platters of grilled fish, bowls of miso soup, rice steamed to perfection, pickled vegetables, clams baked with butter—each plate looked like a new opponent, a challenge daring him to break it down, replicate it, improve it. Mitsuki and Masaru exchanged knowing glances.
Their son was home, but even here, his mind was in the kitchen.
“Wait, wait—let’s put some music!” one cousin announced suddenly. They connected their tablet to a speaker, fumbling with excitement.
Katsuki groaned.
“Tch. Just hurry it up. I wanna eat in peace.”
The intro of a song drifted through the speakers—gentle piano, like the sound of falling rain. The family bowed their heads for a quick prayer, then chopsticks clicked as the first bites of food were taken.
Katsuki chewed silently, tasting, cataloguing, dissecting. His father slipped extra dishes onto his plate, knowing his son’s appetite. Katsuki didn’t protest. But then—
The voice began.
Clear. Fragile. Soaked in something raw and aching, like it carried the weight of a thousand broken dreams. Katsuki froze, chopsticks midway to his mouth.
The lyrics bled into the air:
“My dream was once a flame, burning bright in my hands…
But the weight has turned it heavy, a burden I can’t withstand.
Still, I search for warmth—
For the gentle light I once loved,
The place where I can breathe again.”
The table quieted as some cousins softly hummed along.
“This one’s my favorite,” one whispered. “His voice… it’s like it hurts, but in a good way.”
Masaru glanced at his son.
“Katsuki? You okay?”
But Katsuki wasn’t. His chest tightened. He didn’t know this singer—didn’t care to know—but the voice carved into him like a knife through butter. Each word pressed against something buried deep, something he had been ignoring for months. He thought of the competitions, the trophies, the endless applause that never touched the quiet void inside him.
His cousin leaned over.
“Cool song, right? The artist is so goo! You’d like him, Katsuki, he writes all his own stuff—”
“Shut up,” Katsuki muttered hoarsely. His throat felt raw.
And before he realized, his eyes blurred.
Tears slipped down his cheeks, falling silently onto his bowl. He lowered his head, shoulders trembling. He didn’t want to make a sound, didn’t want anyone to notice—but the whole table had fallen silent.
“...Katsuki?” Mitsuki’s voice was sharp, but it wavered.
Relatives stared, wide-eyed, as the prodigy chef, their pride, their rising star, sobbed quietly over his food.
Katsuki clenched his fists, furious at himself.
Why the hell am I crying? What is this?
The song kept flowing, the angelic voice rising with sorrow and hope intertwined, and his chest ached worse with every line.
Masaru reached across the table, resting a hand near his son’s plate. He didn’t touch him—Katsuki hated that—but his voice was gentle.
“Sometimes… we hear something that speaks the words we can’t.”
Katsuki’s teeth grit. He bit down hard on his lip, shoulders shaking as the last notes filled the seaside restaurant. He had no name to place to it yet—only that whoever was singing knew exactly what it felt like to love something so much it hurt, to chase it until it broke you, and still… still yearn for the warmth that made it worth it.
Izuku Midoriya’s voice faded into silence, and without knowing it, Katsuki’s fire found the first touch of the wind that would change its course forever.
The years rolled on quicker than Katsuki expected. One moment, he was just eating dishes with relatives, crying for unknown reason, and the next, he was standing in a professional kitchen surrounded by polished counters, industrial ovens, and classmates who spoke of flavors like philosophers did of meaning.
Culinary college wasn’t about just cooking. Katsuki already knew how to cook—hell, he knew how to command fire, coax meat into tenderness, and make vegetables sing even before he enrolled. What he hadn’t expected was the language he would learn here. Professors didn’t just teach knife skills or recipes; they taught him to listen.
“Food talks to you,” one chef said in their first practical class. “Not with words, but with color, aroma, resistance. A steak doesn’t lie about whether it’s ready to flip. Bread will tell you if it’s been kneaded enough. The question is—are you paying attention?”
That stuck with Katsuki.
For weeks, he found himself muttering under his breath in the kitchen.
The oil’s shimmering, you’re telling me you’re ready.
Too much salt—dammit, you’re yelling at me already.
Fine, fine, I’ll let you rest. You’re still breathing.
His classmates thought he was eccentric, maybe even unhinged, but Katsuki didn’t care. He realized cooking wasn’t just about forcing ingredients into shape—it was a dialogue. Every dish had a will of its own, and it was his job to coax it into harmony.
He wrote things down in a notebook—quotes that came to him after hours of practice:
-
Cooking isn’t commanding—it’s negotiating.
-
Every dish has a soul. You either honor it, or you kill it.
-
When I plate something, it’s not for people to eat only—it’s for them to feel what I felt when I made it.
One night, after staying behind in the practice kitchen, Katsuki whispered to himself while staring at a bowl of ramen he’d perfected:
“Food’s alive. It’s the only art that disappears the second you finish it—but if it’s good, it stays forever inside the bastard who ate it.”
He almost laughed at himself, thinking how sappy that sounded. But it was true.
A few months later, Katsuki was called into the dean’s office. He walked in, hands shoved into his pockets, expecting a lecture about his tendency to hog the kitchen after hours. Instead, the dean leaned back in his chair with a smile.
“Bakugo,” he said. “We’ve chosen you to represent the academy in the upcoming international culinary competition. You’ll be working with a team, but you’ll be leading them in the main round.”
Katsuki didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. He already knew which competition it was—he’d been watching it for years, studying the way chefs moved, the way judges tasted. He’d dreamed of it, but never out loud.
“Fine,” Katsuki said, his voice even. “Tell me the schedule. I’ll be ready.”
The dean chuckled. “No hesitation, I see. Good. That’s the spirit.”
Katsuki didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
That night, instead of celebrating or bragging, he went straight to the practice kitchen. He rolled up his sleeves and started again—testing, tasting, rewriting every move he’d perfected. Each dish was another conversation. Each plate another argument to win.
As he stirred the pot, he muttered under his breath,
“You and me, we’re going to that competition. Don’t screw with me now.”
The broth bubbled, fragrant, almost as if it was answering back.
And Katsuki smirked.
Hours later, the kitchen smelled like simmering broth and citrus zest now. Katsuki was standing in front of his stove, his hands steady, his eyes narrowed, every movement deliberate. The pan hissed like it was obeying his commands, and he muttered under his breath—half to himself, half to the dish.
“You’re almost there. Don’t mess up on me now.”
The door clicked open without warning.
“Yo, Bakugou~!”
Kaminari’s voice carried through the condo before Katsuki even turned. “You’re seriously cooking again? Bro, it’s past midnight!”
Katsuki snapped his head toward the doorway, glare sharp enough to cut through steel.
“The hell are you doing in my place, Dunceface?!”
Unbothered, Kaminari shuffled in lazily, dropping his bag by the couch. He plopped down, grabbed the remote, and clicked the TV on. The sound of a bright, cheerful jingle filled the room.
“I’m dead, man,” Kaminari groaned dramatically, stretching across the couch like he owned the place. “Do you know how exhausting it is to memorize French mother sauces and plating concepts? Screw that. I just wanna lay here and be a normal college student, not some future kitchen slave.”
Katsuki rolled his eyes and turned back to his stove.
“Then quit already. Nobody’s forcing your ass to be here.”
Kaminari ignored him completely, flipping through channels until he found the one he wanted.
“Nah, nah, you don’t get it. By the way, look—this song’s been trending for a week straight. I’ve got total last song syndrome, man. It’s stuck in my head. Listen to this.”
The TV screen shifted to a muted café set, all soft browns and pastel lighting. A young man sat by the window, notebook open in front of him, pen idle in his hand. And then—he started singing.
Katsuki was just about to plate the garnish on his dish when the voice reached him. He froze, spoon hovering mid-air. His head lifted slowly, like his body knew before his brain caught up.
The voice was smooth, clear, threaded with warmth and just a hint of ache. It wasn’t flashy, not forced—it felt.
And the singer—
Green hair, messy but soft under the light. Freckles dusted across his face, bright eyes shining with something that wasn’t entirely joy. His expression shifted naturally with every lyric, as if he wasn’t performing at all but confessing something.
For a moment, Katsuki forgot he was in his own kitchen. He stared at the screen, lips parting slightly. His chest tightened with something he couldn’t name.
Why the hell does this feel familiar?
The camera lingered on the idol looking down at a plate of food—a simple sandwich, steam curling faintly in the air. The way he looked at it, like it meant something deeper, like he wasn’t just hungry but aching for something more—it made Katsuki’s stomach twist.
He muttered under his breath, frowning.
“Did that guy… train as an actor or something? No one pulls off an expression like that unless it’s real.”
Kaminari was too busy humming along to answer, already swaying to the rhythm.
“Right? Angel-voiced, they call him. Dude’s blowing up fast. Whole world’s crushing on him.”
Katsuki didn’t reply. His eyes were locked on the screen, on that green-haired singer whose voice carried a weight of happiness mixed with loneliness. He looked like someone who had never been properly fed—not just with food, but with something deeper.
He tore his gaze away only when the last touch of garnish left his fingers. He leaned back, staring at the plate he’d been working on. Bright green herbs crowned the dish, sharp against the warm tones of the sauce.
For some reason, it made him smirk.
“Just like him,” Katsuki whispered, barely audible.
Green.
That stranger on the screen.
Paris smelled of butter and iron pans. The kind of city that whispered both history and pressure. Katsuki stood under the bright lights of the competition hall, chest heaving, chef’s jacket damp with sweat. The applause thundered around him, reporters snapping photos as the golden plaque of first place was pressed into his hands.
Another win. Another medal. Another proof that his fire burned hotter than anyone else’s.
But as the cameras flashed and his team clapped him on the back, Katsuki barely felt it. His body was exhausted, his mind empty. He was already thinking of the flight back to Japan the next day, the long hours he would spend shut away in the academy kitchen, the endless cycle of training and perfecting.
He should’ve been proud. Instead, he just… felt hollow.
“Congratulations, Chef Bakugou!” one of the judges beamed, his French accent thick. “Your flame has no rival. Truly, the fire of your cooking!”
Katsuki bowed, muttered his thanks.
Fire.
Always fire.
He was starting to wonder if he was burning himself out.
That night in his Paris hotel room, he sat by the window, city lights glittering across the Seine. He leaned his head back against the glass, eyes heavy. He wanted to ask himself:
Why am I doing this?
But the answer didn’t come. It wasn’t that he hated cooking—hell no, cooking was his life—but lately, it felt like something was missing. Like he was chasing medals while leaving a part of himself behind.
The next morning, he boarded his flight home. Window seat. Headphones in. The hum of the plane felt like white noise against the restlessness in his chest.
Back at the academy, his schedule exploded. Graduation was approaching, and not just any graduation—advanced graduation, the kind that secured him a reputation before he even left school. Classes doubled, projects tripled, and then came the one course that made him stop in his tracks: business strategy for culinary arts.
At first, Katsuki wanted to scoff. He wasn’t here to play entrepreneur—he was here to cook. But the more he sat through those lectures, the more his brain started to wander.
A restaurant, huh?
The idea wasn’t foreign. Hell, every chef dreamed of one day having their own place. But for the first time, Katsuki wasn’t thinking of it as some far-off goal. He started sketching rough menus in the margins of his notebook. Drawing layouts of kitchens. Imagining plates not just for judges but for… people.
And that’s when memories began to creep back in.
The seaside when he was sixteen.
The way the sunset bled into the waves, fire sinking into the cold sea.
That weird answer he’d given his mom—the heat of the sun swallowed by the coldness of the sea.
And then months ago, Kaminari’s dumb intrusion.
That music video.
That voice.
That freckled face that looked at food like it was salvation and sorrow in one.
It hit him like a knife in the gut.
That guy… he looked like he needed a place like that sunset. A fire burning strong, but cooled and balanced by the sea.
Katsuki began to think about more than just dishes. He thought of people.
The salaryman too tired to smile, eating alone after a fourteen-hour shift.
The couple sitting in silence, needing comfort without words.
The child who hated vegetables but could be coaxed into loving them with the right flavor.
And yes—even an idol, smiling for cameras but starved of real care, maybe walking in to eat something cooked without expectation.
It stirred something inside him, something deeper than competition. Cooking not just to prove he was the best, but to give something—to balance fire and sea, warmth and calm.
His pen scratched across his notebook one evening, letters bold and deliberate:
Umi to Hi.
Sea and Fire.
The words looked right. Felt right. Like a sign waiting for him all along. The sea he saw as a boy, the fire everyone always associated with him. Together, not against each other. A place where people could sit and feel whole, not just full.
Katsuki closed the notebook, staring at the name. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just exhausted.
He was… alive.
Chapter 47: Chef's Kiss
Notes:
To the one who’s been here since the very first Chef’s Kiss chapter —Fandomer8316 💚🧡 —your steady support, thoughtful comments, and kind encouragement turned this into a conversation, not just a story. I wouldn’t have found the courage to go deeper or keep writing without you. Thank you for being more than a reader — a true friend. This epilogue is for you.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The courtroom was too quiet. Izuku could hear the thrum of his own pulse, the faint hitch of Katsuki’s breathing beside him. Their hands were clasped so tightly it was as though letting go would mean the whole moment would shatter.
The judge adjusted his glasses and began to read aloud, voice deep and measured.
“Mr. Midoriya. Mr. Bakugo. You stand here today not as relatives of these children, not as guardians by default, but as two men who deliberately sought to make them your family. You filed a petition that is, by its very nature, unusual. Joint adoption by two unmarried partners is an action that many would not dare attempt. Yet you did.”
Izuku’s stomach knotted. He bowed his head slightly, lashes wet.
We had to… there was no other choice. They’re ours.
The judge continued, tone weightier now.
“You are aware, I assume, that the court questioned this decision thoroughly. We examined your backgrounds, your careers, your stability. We questioned if a world-renowned chef and an internationally acclaimed idol could truly give priority to children over fame. We asked whether these children would be paraded as part of your image—or cherished as part of your hearts.”
Katsuki’s jaw locked tight.
What the hell do you think we’ve been fighting for, damn it…
His thumb rubbed once over Izuku’s knuckles—steady, grounding, even as his chest burned.
The judge’s eyes moved between them.
“We also noted your choice. You requested the surname ‘Midoriya-Bakugo’ for the children. Not ‘Midoriya.’ Not ‘Bakugo.’ But both. Together. Despite the fact that you are not, by law, married.”
Izuku’s throat worked. He wanted to speak, to explain how much it meant, but the words wouldn’t come.
The judge leaned forward slightly, his expression softening, though his voice remained firm.
“And when asked why, your testimonies were consistent. You stated—without hesitation—that marriage is not a question of if, but when. That you wished the children to carry both your names, because they belong to both of you. Because, in your eyes, you are already a family. This court does not often hear such conviction, and rarer still does it believe it.”
Izuku’s tears slipped free then, silent but unstoppable. Katsuki, for once, didn’t hide his trembling exhale.
The judge’s voice lowered, filled with a kind of reverence.
“We saw it in the reports, too. From social workers, from teachers, from the children themselves. They spoke of a ‘Papa Kacchan’ who protects them, who cooks for them, who never lets them feel unsafe. They spoke of a ‘Mama Izuku’ who listens, who sings to them, who holds them when nightmares come. They did not describe guardians. They described parents.”
The words cracked something in Izuku’s chest. He pressed his free hand to his lips, trying to keep his sob quiet. Beside him, Katsuki blinked hard, his throat tight with the weight of emotions he never let show.
The judge looked at them a long moment, then nodded once.
“It is not without risk. It is not without scrutiny. But this court has decided: the petition is approved. From this day forward, Hina, Aki, Yuu, Sora, and Kenji are legally your children. Their surname shall be registered as Midoriya-Bakugo. And this court commends you—for the risks you accepted, the fight you endured, and the future you are choosing together.”
Izuku gasped, his knees almost buckling. He pressed both hands to his face, shoulders trembling with sobs of relief.
We did it. Oh god, we did it.
Katsuki’s head bowed, a laugh breaking through the tightness of his chest. His hand squeezed Izuku’s so hard it hurt, but neither let go.
They’re ours now. Officially. Forever.
At that very moment, the doors opened and the children rushed forward, their voices breaking into cheers and tears.
“Mama Izuku! Papa Kacchan! Are we really yours now? For life?”
Izuku dropped to his knees, crying openly now, pulling them into his arms. Katsuki crouched beside them, dragging the rest into his embrace, his voice rough and cracking as he answered.
“Yeah, damn brats. For life. For good. You’re Midoriya-Bakugo kids now. Ours.”
The gavel had barely fallen before the children burst forward again, and this time, Katsuki moved first. He bent low, scooping up Yuu—his quietest, most easily frightened son. The boy’s small arms clung desperately around his neck, damp cheeks pressing into Katsuki’s shoulder.
“Papa,” Yuu whispered, voice trembling, “are we really…?”
“Yeah, squirt,” Katsuki muttered gruffly, though his own throat burned. He shifted Yuu higher against his chest, one hand bracing his back, the other gently swiping away the boy’s tears with the pad of his thumb.
“It’s done. You’re ours. Don’t you cry anymore.”
Yuu hiccupped but managed a small nod, nestling closer. Katsuki tightened his hold instinctively, as though promising the world wouldn’t dare take him away again.
Izuku had dropped to his knees, and in an instant Hina and Aki barreled into him. Their little arms wrapped around his torso, Hina’s face buried against his chest, Aki’s nose pressed into his side. Izuku’s arms curved protectively around both, his eyes wet but smiling.
“It’s real,” he whispered to them, voice cracking but warm. “You’re safe. We’re together forever.”
Meanwhile, Sora and Kenji—older now, though their eyes still shimmered with relief—stood tall at either side of their parents. Kenji’s chin trembled, but he set his small jaw in determination, the way Katsuki so often did. Sora quietly pressed closer to Katsuki’s free side, his gaze protective in its own way, like a little shadow ready to stand guard.
The image was imperfectly perfect: Katsuki with Yuu in his arms, Izuku cradled by Hina and Aki, their older boys bracing them both like pillars.
And then, almost naturally, Katsuki reached across the small tangle of children and found Izuku’s hand. Their fingers laced, grip tight and unyielding, the silent vow they had always carried.
“Come on,” Katsuki muttered, his voice only for Izuku, though his lips brushed Yuu’s hair as he spoke. “Let’s take them home.”
They walked together down the aisle of the courtroom, Manager Aida trailing close, her eyes suspiciously red despite the small smile on her lips. The doors opened, and the sound hit them—reporters shouting, cameras flashing, the muffled roar of a waiting crowd.
Two of Izuku’s personal guards stepped forward immediately, cutting a path. More security followed, surrounding them in a protective wedge. And among them, familiar voices rang out. Kaminari darted ahead, holding the door for them with an exaggerated wave.
“Yo! VIP family coming through!” he called, winking at the kids. “Don’t worry, squirt squad, Uncle Denki’s got your backs.”
The children giggled despite their tears, their fear softened by his ridiculous grin.
But beyond the safety of friends and guards lay the swarm—press pressing forward, cameras rising like weapons. Questions were barked at them, fragmented and chaotic:
“Mr. Midoriya, is it true—?”
“Bakugo, how do you feel about—?”
“What about marriage plans—?”
The guards held firm, blocking every desperate lunge. Yet it wasn’t only reporters waiting. The crowd had gathered thickly, fans waving banners, clutching phones, crying out Izuku’s name not with intrusion but with desperate support.
“Izuku! We love you!”
“We’re proud of you, Mama Zuku!”
“They’re yours now, congrats!”
Their voices layered over the harsh noise of reporters, drowning them out. Fans pressed forward, not to attack but to shield—pushing against the press line, shouting louder, blurring cameras with a sea of signs and cheers.
Izuku’s breath caught. He leaned his head, barely audible in the din, whispering past trembling lips:
“…thank you.”
It was so soft that Katsuki almost thought he imagined it—until the nearest fans heard. A single scream broke, then another, and suddenly the crowd erupted, voices rising in a wave of joy.
“HE THANKED US!”
“IZUKU! WE’RE WITH YOU!”
The energy surged, no longer a wall of pressure but a tide that carried them forward. Guards tightened formation, guiding them through the shifting sea until the familiar white van came into view—the one they had used since Izuku’s Tokyo Dome event, their unofficial family carriage.
The door was held open. The family climbed in—Katsuki first, setting Yuu gently onto the seat, then holding out his hand to pull Izuku in with Hina and Aki still attached to him. Sora and Kenji slipped in after, quiet but steadfast.
Manager Aida climbed in last, exhaling like she had run a marathon. Kaminari gave a goofy salute from outside as the door slid shut, muffling the storm into a low hum.
Inside, there was only breath—shaky, uneven, but shared. Yuu wiped at his eyes again, Hina sniffled against Izuku’s shirt, and Aki tugged at Katsuki’s sleeve.
“…Papa,” Aki murmured, “was that scary for you?”
Katsuki froze, then barked a laugh, rough but soft.
“Hell no. I’ve faced scarier things than some reporters. They can scream all they want. What matters is this—” He wrapped his arm around Aki and Kenji both, dragging them closer. “—you brats are ours now. Nothing’s changing that.”
Izuku’s smile trembled, his green eyes shining in the dim van light. He squeezed Katsuki’s hand again, fingers warm, unshakable.
For the first time since the gavel fell, they let themselves believe it.
The ride back was quiet—exhaustion weighing on all of them after the courtroom storm, the flash of cameras, the cheers of strangers. For the first time, the van pulled up not to a venue, not to a competition hall, but to a place that could finally be home.
Izuku’s condo unit loomed softly lit against the evening skyline, familiar and yet… different. For the first time, they weren’t stepping inside as just Katsuki and Izuku. They were stepping inside as seven.
Manager Aida was the last to step down from the van, her sharp gaze cutting across the street as her hand flicked to the guards, confirming that all was clear. She followed them to the entrance, stopping just short of the doorway as though she might push herself inside to check again. Old habit. Old instinct.
Izuku turned before entering, his hand reaching out. His fingers brushed her wrist gently—hesitant at first, then firm when she froze in surprise.
“Thank you,” Izuku whispered, leaning closer so only she could hear. His voice was low, raw from earlier tears but steady. “Not just for today. For… everything. You’ve always looked after me, even when I didn’t make it easy.”
Aida blinked, lips parting as if to respond, but no words came right away. Her usual briskness softened; the lines of her face trembled with something unguarded.
“You’re…” She exhaled, shaky, her eyes glistening as she gave a small, helpless smile. “You’re a pain sometimes, Midoriya. But you’re also the son I never thought I’d get to protect. So thank you. For letting me.”
Izuku’s heart squeezed. For years, their relationship had been business, strained by his stubborn drive and her uncompromising standards. But somewhere in between rehearsals and breakdowns, through arguments and reconciliations, she had stopped being just a manager. She had become family.
He gave her wrist a final squeeze before letting go. She nodded briskly, swallowing her own emotions, and stepped back.
“Go on, then. Your family’s waiting.”
Izuku inhaled, then stepped inside.
The sight that greeted him stopped him at the threshold.
Katsuki was on the floor in the middle of the living room, legs crossed. Yuu and Hina had already claimed his lap, each nestled against his broad chest like they had always belonged there. Katsuki’s rough hands rested protectively across their small backs, steadying them as they shifted, safe in the cradle of his arms.
Aki stood in front, bright-eyed, her hands animated as she spoke, the center of her own stage. Her words tumbled out like a story she had been waiting her whole life to tell.
“…and then, the food guy we met on the streets—he wasn’t just a good guy. He was a prince! He made sure we ate when no one else cared. He cooked for us, even though we were strangers. That’s how we got our papa Kacchan!”
Katsuki grunted, feigning annoyance, though his lips twitched. Hina giggled, hugging his arm tighter.
Aki’s eyes sparkled as she spun around dramatically.
“And before that too, our angel! The one everyone loved but was so lonely—he wasn’t just an idol. He was the good guy too. The one who sang for us, who told us we were fairies of his story! He needed another prince, and they saved each other!”
Izuku’s breath caught. His hands trembled slightly where they still clutched the doorknob. He had told them that, hadn’t he? Late at night when they were in their first vacation together—how they were his fairies, his little sparks of hope in a dark world.
Sora and Kenji, standing like little soldiers at the back, suddenly stepped forward.
“Aki’s the real reason we’re here,” Kenji said firmly, his gaze steady as he looked at his sister. “She’s the one who made this story possible.”
Sora nodded.
“She’s the one who cried for help when we couldn’t. She clung to Papa Kacchan and begged him to take us away. If she hadn’t been so brave, we might still be…” His voice faltered. He swallowed hard. “…out there.”
Aki’s face flushed, her hands balling at her sides.
“I–I just didn’t want us to lose everything,” she mumbled, her lower lip trembling. She tried to turn away, but Kenji stepped forward and hugged her tight.
“Dummy,” Kenji muttered, his own voice cracking. “That’s what made us strong.”
Sora joined the hug a second later. Hina scrambled off Katsuki’s lap to throw her arms around Aki too, and even Yuu squirmed, his small hand reaching out.
Aki’s pout deepened as tears welled in her eyes despite her best effort to look tough. She clung to her siblings, shoulders shaking.
From the floor, Katsuki ruffled Aki’s hair roughly.
“Brat. You did good.” His voice was low, husky with emotion he wouldn’t admit to.
Izuku finally stepped fully into the room, his chest tight, his throat aching. He watched Katsuki on the floor, surrounded by their children, his children, and felt something inside him break open and rebuild all at once.
This was no longer a condo. No longer just his space. It was home. Their first night as a family—imperfect, messy, but real.
Izuku stepped farther into the room, finally letting go of the breath he’d been holding at the doorway. He let his voice rise lightly, playfully, though his chest was still tight.
“Hey now—why’d the story start without me?”
Aki turned sharply, her tears already wiped away, her face lighting up like a lamp.
“Mama!” she squeaked, rushing over to grab his hand. Her small palm pressed against his with surprising determination as she tugged him toward the couch. “You’re here just in time! Sit, sit!”
Izuku let himself be pulled, chuckling softly, and settled onto the couch. The moment he sat, Katsuki leaned back from the floor until his broad shoulders pressed against Izuku’s legs. He tilted his head just enough to glance up, eyes sharp as ever despite the softness around them.
“You okay?”
Katsuki’s voice was low, meant only for him. His crimson eyes flicked up, catching the faint wetness still clinging to Izuku’s lashes.
“You look like you’re about to cry.”
Izuku stiffened. Not because of the question itself, but because even in a room full of noise and laughter, Katsuki had noticed—like always. He hesitated a beat, then gave a small, assuring smile.
“I’m fine, Kacchan.” His fingers twitched against his cup before he placed it on the table. “Really.”
Katsuki didn’t look entirely convinced, his gaze holding steady as though trying to peel away the layers of Izuku’s smile. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“…Good.” He turned back toward the kids, expression slipping back into his usual blank steadiness.
Aki, now bouncing with excitement, grabbed the remote and waved it in the air.
“Papa! Mama! Karaoke time!” She scampered to the TV, fumbling with the buttons before calling out, “Big brothers, help me!”
Kenji groaned but was already moving, muttering something about Aki always getting her way. Sora smirked, crouching to type on the remote while Aki hovered beside him, giving instructions like a general.
Hina gasped loudly when the words “Karaoke Playlist” popped up on the screen.
“Mama’s songs!” she squealed, bouncing in place. Yuu joined in, his little fists clapping excitedly as he hopped up and down.
“Sing, Mama, sing!”
Izuku’s heart swelled as he watched them, his children—their children—so openly joyful. But his attention was pulled back when Katsuki shifted. Their youngest two had climbed off his lap to rush toward the TV, leaving Katsuki free.
He turned slightly, crimson eyes finding Izuku again. The look was strange—weighty but unreadable. Izuku frowned faintly, leaning down just enough to whisper,
“What is it?”
Katsuki didn’t answer. He just stared for another long moment, then gave a small shake of his head and exhaled, leaning back down. This time, instead of resting against the couch, he rested directly on Izuku’s lap. His cheek pressed to Izuku’s thigh, his body sprawling across the carpet without hesitation.
Izuku blinked, then softened. His hand instinctively moved, brushing through Katsuki’s ash-blond hair. The strands were still slightly rough from the day’s chaos, but familiar, grounding. Katsuki hummed low in his chest, eyes slipping shut, as though this touch was the only thing he’d needed all day.
“Sing!”
Aki suddenly shouted, running over and shoving a microphone into Izuku’s free hand. Her face was bright, her earlier tears already forgotten.
“Mama, sing for us!”
Izuku chuckled, adjusting the mic with his free hand while his other never stopped carding through Katsuki’s hair.
“Alright, alright. One song.”
The opening chords filled the room, and silence quickly fell as the kids turned toward him. Izuku closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, his angelic voice flowing out, warm and gentle.
The melody wrapped around them like a blanket, steady and resonant. His children swayed and hummed along. Aki clasped her hands to her chest, Hina leaned against Kenji, and Yuu plopped onto the floor, wide-eyed and entranced.
But Katsuki… Katsuki didn’t move. He lay there with his head in Izuku’s lap, eyes closed, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The hand in his hair soothed him deeper into the moment, grounding him.
As Izuku’s voice filled the room, Katsuki felt the strange ache he had carried for years stir again—the same ache he’d once felt when he first heard that voice through a cheap speaker in a crowded family dinner, the same one that haunted him when he saw that first music video.
The angel voice he never thought would be part of his life.
He had chased fire his whole life, burning through competitions, kitchens, and dreams. But somehow, it was this voice—the warmth, the vulnerability—that had turned everything upside down. It had forced him to make choices he’d never considered before. Not just cooking, not just winning.
A family.
A home.
A dream beyond the fire.
Katsuki smiled wider, eyes still closed, as Izuku’s song washed over him. He let himself sink fully into the sound, into the touch at his hair, into the quiet certainty that for once in his life, he wasn’t chasing something—he was exactly where he belonged.
The scent of sizzling garlic and eggs filled the kitchen, layered with the faint sweetness of soy sauce caramelizing in the pan. Katsuki moved with practiced ease, sleeves rolled up, knife clinking steadily against the cutting board. Beside him, Sora was carefully beating eggs in a wide ceramic bowl while Kenji monitored the rice cooker, his expression as serious as if he were guarding treasure.
“You brats better not burn anything,” Katsuki muttered, though his lips curved into the faintest smirk as he checked the pan. He flicked his eyes toward them before turning back to stir.
Sora snorted softly.
“We won’t, Pa. Don’t worry.”
Kenji straightened a little at the stove’s beep.
“I’ll keep watch. Promise.”
Satisfied, Katsuki gave a small grunt, then set the spatula down. He lowered his voice, making both boys lean in instinctively.
“Listen up. Today I’ve got a plan.” His eyes gleamed faintly—there was a mischievous spark there that instantly made the brothers alert. “It’s for your mama. Something I promised him before I ever entered Bocuse d’Or. Before you two were even old enough to remember. I think.”
The boys exchanged a glance but stayed silent, sensing the weight of their father’s words.
“I need you both to look after your siblings for a bit. Just for a while. I’ll call Kaminari later—he’ll come to pick you all up and bring you to where I’ll take your mama. But…” Katsuki paused, his gaze dropping to the pan as though steadying himself.
“He deserves to be the first to see it.”
Sora and Kenji nodded almost in unison. There was no need to press further—when their father spoke like this, with that sharp edge of conviction under his voice, they knew it was something important.
“We’ll watch them,” Kenji said, his voice quiet but firm.
“Yeah,” Sora added, elbowing Kenji lightly. “Don’t worry. We got it.”
Katsuki exhaled slowly, tension leaving his shoulders. He reached out, tapping each boy’s back in turn.
“Good. Thanks, idiots.” His tone was rough, but there was warmth in the gesture, pride simmering just beneath the surface.
And just as though on cue, the sound of hurried, uneven footsteps echoed from the floor above. All three men looked up at once.
“Good morning!”
Aki’s bright voice rang out as she descended the stairs, her arms wrapped securely around little Hina, who giggled at every bounce of her sister’s steps.
Right behind them was Yuu, clutching tightly at Izuku’s hand with both of his smaller ones. The boy’s hold was careful, protective, as if afraid his mama would disappear if he let go.
Katsuki’s sharp ears caught the exchange before they even reached the last step.
“Aki, you’re so bossy,” Yuu mumbled with a pout. “I’m not a baby.”
“You’re older than Hina but you cling more than her,” Aki teased, sticking her tongue out. “You’re like… a koala stuck to Mama.”
Yuu’s cheeks reddened, and he ducked his head. Before he could argue, Hina piped up with her small, sweet voice, “No! Brother Yuu loves Mama. I want to hold Mama too, but Sister Aki is holding me. That’s not fair.”
Aki opened her mouth to protest but froze when she caught sight of Katsuki standing by the stove, smirk tugging at his lips as if he’d been watching her unravel this whole time. Her expression softened immediately, switching tactics. She bounced Hina a little higher in her arms and beamed.
“Good morning, Papa! Good morning, big brothers!”
“Morning,” Sora and Kenji chorused, chuckling at her sudden shift.
Izuku followed last, slower than the kids, his steps more measured. The moment he entered the kitchen, his eyes swept the counters, brows lifting. The table was already filling with plates—rolled omelets, grilled fish, rice, miso soup, even a platter of fresh fruit.
His lips parted slightly in surprise.
“Kacchan… why is there so much food? Did you two”—his gaze flicked toward Sora and Kenji—“really cook all this?”
Katsuki answered before the boys could. He didn’t even glance up from the pan he was working with.
“I asked them to. I don’t want the idiots from Umi to Hi doing all the cooking for today’s family celebration. They’d probably mess something up.” He clicked his tongue and added, almost proudly, “These two are better than those losers anyway. I’ve been teaching them myself.”
Sora tried to hide his grin. Kenji ducked his head to cover the way his chest swelled with pride.
Izuku’s gaze lingered on his partner, watching the way Katsuki commanded the kitchen. His hands never faltered, his body flowed with years of discipline and instinct, but it wasn’t just skill that made him radiant here—it was joy. This was his world. And every time he was inside it, Katsuki burned brighter.
Izuku’s chest warmed at the sight, but at the same time, something deep inside him ached, heavy and sore.
It had been nearly two years now—two long years where he still couldn’t eat Katsuki’s food. No matter how many consultation and therapy session he had, and no matter how much Katsuki brushed it off with his usual gruff reassurance, the fact remained: the meals his lover poured his heart into remained untouched by him.
He sat at the table, forcing a smile as the kids bustled around to help. The warmth of the scene wrapped around him—their family, their laughter, Katsuki’s steady presence in the kitchen—but that small pain gnawed quietly at the edges.
Soon.
Izuku told himself again, lips barely moving as he whispered under his breath.
Soon, I’ll be able to eat your food again, Kacchan.
He clung to that promise, even if Katsuki had long since accepted it. For Izuku, it was more than just a meal—it was connection. It was love.
So he smiled, pulling Yuu closer into his lap as the boy pressed against him, and let himself be carried by the moment. Katsuki was already setting plates down with Sora and Kenji’s help, calling the rest of the family to the table. And Izuku, even with the ache in his chest, let himself believe in “soon.”
Izuku blinked, pulled back from his quiet thoughts when he suddenly felt the weight of a familiar hand on his waist. Katsuki leaned down, his breath brushing warm against Izuku’s ear.
“After breakfast,” Katsuki murmured low, his voice a mixture of command and promise, “allow me to steal you for a while.”
Izuku’s eyes widened slightly, heartbeat skipping at the intimate tone. He turned his face toward Katsuki, searching for a clue in those sharp eyes.
“Steal me? Where are we going?” he whispered back, curious and amused.
Katsuki only gave a crooked grin, the kind that revealed nothing yet burned with confidence. Instead of answering, he pressed a soft kiss against Izuku’s temple—a rare, fleeting gentleness that made Izuku’s chest tighten—and straightened, already turning his attention back to scolding Aki for holding her chopsticks incorrectly.
Izuku sat there, lips parted, warmth spreading across his face. Whatever Katsuki was planning, he wasn’t going to get an answer. Not yet.
After breakfast, Izuku excused himself to bathe and prepare. The steam from the shower did little to settle the nervous flutter in his stomach. Katsuki was not someone who wasted words; when he promised to “steal” him, it meant something. The thought of where they might go pulled at Izuku’s curiosity like a string he couldn’t unravel.
By the time he stepped out dressed and ready, the hum of laughter filled their home. From the hallway, he caught sight of the living room: Sora and Kenji were sprawled across the floor, clearly trying to outdo each other in building block towers, while the younger three alternated between “helping” and knocking pieces down.
Kenji noticed him first. He raised one hand in an easy wave, and Yuu, sitting beside him, immediately mimicked the gesture with both little hands, giggling as if proud to match his big brother.
“Mama!”
Hina squealed, bouncing on her knees until her hair flopped around her face. She waved with both hands too, then leaned against Aki.
Aki, ever the little charmer, puckered her lips dramatically and blew a flying kiss toward Izuku.
“See you later, Mama!” she called, eyes sparkling.
Sora didn’t say much, but when Izuku’s gaze landed on him, the eldest simply gave a confident smile and a thumbs-up, steady and reassuring.
The sight filled Izuku’s chest with a warmth that spread all the way down to his fingertips. He bent slightly, returning their waves before heading toward the door.
Katsuki was already waiting.
He leaned casually against the wall near the front door, arms crossed, his foot tapping lightly against the floor. But the moment Izuku appeared, Katsuki’s entire posture shifted. His arms dropped, and he straightened, a smile tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth.
Without a word, Katsuki extended one hand toward him, palm open, waiting.
Izuku slowed, his breath catching at the simplicity of the gesture. That hand—it wasn’t just an invitation. It was Katsuki’s silent way of saying:
I’ve got you. Trust me.
Smiling, Izuku slid his hand into Katsuki’s, their fingers fitting together with a natural ease that still, after all these years, made him feel like a boy with a crush again.
“Ready?” Katsuki asked.
Izuku nodded.
“Always.”
With that, they stepped out of the condo together.
The morning air was fresh, the city still buzzing with early traffic. Izuku blinked in surprise when, only a few paces away, a familiar pair approached them—Kaminari, waving his arm exaggeratedly, and Jirou, walking with her usual unbothered grace, earbuds hanging around her neck.
Izuku tilted his head slightly, unable to hide his surprise.
“Kaminari? Jirou? You two…?”
Kaminari grinned, slinging an arm around Jirou’s shoulder despite her sharp eye roll.
“Yup! The babysitters have arrived!”
Jirou gave a small, amused shrug.
“Don’t worry, Midoriya. We’ll look after the kids. You two go do whatever explosion-boy has planned.”
Izuku blinked at her words, cheeks heating a little. He quickly bowed, earnest as always.
“Thank you so much. Really—I don’t even know where we’re going, but I’ll feel better knowing you’re with them.”
Kaminari smirked, leaning in conspiratorially as he waggled his brows.
“That’s the point, Midoriya. You’re not supposed to know. Just wait—it’s worth it.”
Izuku straightened, blinking at him, then turned his questioning gaze to Katsuki. But his lover only tightened his hold on his hand, that small, infuriating smirk still on his lips.
Izuku’s heart thudded. He hated surprises—yet when it was Katsuki leading him, he found himself wanting to let go of the unease and simply follow.
And so, with Kaminari and Jirou heading inside to the kids, Katsuki guided him down the street, every step pulling them closer to a promise Izuku couldn’t yet imagine.
The hum of the engine filled the car, steady and calming. Izuku sat with his hand still locked in Katsuki’s, fingers warm and secure. Every few minutes, Izuku tried to peek at the road signs, his brows furrowing as the scenery began to blur into unfamiliar streets.
“Kacchan,” Izuku finally asked, tilting his head toward his lover, “are you sure you’re not lost?”
Katsuki scoffed, his lips twitching upward.
“Do I look like the type to get lost?”
Izuku pouted, shifting in his seat.
“Well… maybe not lost, but you’re definitely avoiding my question.”
“What question?” Katsuki replied smoothly, eyes never leaving the road.
Izuku narrowed his eyes.
“Where are we going.”
A low chuckle escaped Katsuki, rumbling in his chest. He glanced sideways, catching Izuku’s expectant look, before leaning down briefly to press a soft kiss to the back of Izuku’s hand.
“Tch. Just keep guessing, nerd.”
Izuku flushed, his heart skipping. He tried again, tossing out guesses like a child desperate to win a game: “A restaurant? A vacation house? …Some secret training ground?”
Each time, Katsuki only smirked, squeezing his hand. “You’ll see.”
And minutes stretched into what felt like hours, yet Izuku found himself oddly at peace. The gentle hum of the car, the warmth of Katsuki’s grip, the quiet road—they all lulled him into a strange haze. He blinked, realizing he’d lost track of the route entirely.
And then—his breath caught.
Beyond the horizon, the glint of blue appeared, shimmering under the afternoon light. The sea.
Izuku’s entire body leaned instinctively toward the window, his green eyes wide, captivated by the way the coastline opened up before them. The salty air seeped through the cracks of the car, and with it came an unshakable sense of familiarity, a warmth that spread through his chest like fire.
Without realizing, Izuku tightened his hold on Katsuki’s hand, squeezing with such force it made Katsuki glance over with a smirk.
“Excited?” Katsuki asked, voice low, already knowing the answer.
Izuku nodded quickly, eyes never leaving the view.
“It feels… I don’t know… it feels like coming home.”
Katsuki didn’t respond, but his smirk softened, his thumb brushing across Izuku’s knuckles as he slowed the car.
Then Izuku saw it.
Nestled by the edge of the water stood a house—modern, sleek, and yet somehow warm, with wide glass windows reflecting the sunset sky. The pool curled into the earth like a piece of the ocean itself, lights glimmering beneath the surface. The house looked alive, as though waiting for them, as though built with the promise of laughter and memories that hadn’t yet happened.
The car rolled to a gentle stop in front of the driveway.
Izuku finally tore his gaze from the house, turning to Katsuki with eyes already brimming with unspoken questions, his lips trembling with the beginning of words he couldn’t find.
Katsuki leaned over, calm and deliberate, fingers reaching across to unbuckle Izuku’s seatbelt. For a brief moment, their faces were close—so close that Izuku could see the faint flush on Katsuki’s cheeks, the determination shining in his red eyes.
Izuku’s chest tightened. His eyes screamed a thousand emotions at once—confusion, awe, overwhelming love.
Katsuki only gave him that small, certain smile before getting out of the car. He walked around and opened the passenger door with deliberate care.
Izuku stepped out, his knees almost buckling beneath him. He gripped Katsuki’s arm tightly, his eyes glued to the house towering in front of them. His lips trembled before finally whispering, voice breaking:
“…Is this it?”
Katsuki met his gaze, and though he didn’t say much, the slow, steady nod was enough.
Izuku’s breath hitched. His vision blurred as tears began to spill down his cheeks. He raised his head, gazing at the home—the home Katsuki had once promised to build with his own hands. A place not just for them, but for their family. A place that would hold their love, their scars, their healing, and their future.
The Midoriya-Bakugo home.
Izuku’s shoulders shook as he whispered again, this time almost to himself.
“You really did it, Kacchan…”
And for the first time in a long while, he cried not from pain, but from a happiness so overwhelming it stole the air from his lungs.
Katsuki only tightened his arm under Izuku’s grip, standing tall beside him, letting his tears fall freely.
Izuku followed Katsuki through the hallways, his hand still warm from the way Katsuki had held it outside. Every step felt heavier, not because of exhaustion, but because of how surreal this moment was. A home.
Their home.
Each door Katsuki opened wasn’t just a room—it was a reflection of how much he had paid attention, how deeply he had loved not only him but also every single one of their children.
Kenji’s room came first—sleek and neat, almost minimalist, yet with dark accents that screamed “young man,” the room of a dependable eldest brother. Izuku could already picture Kenji sitting at the desk, headphones on, quietly working but keeping an eye on his siblings as always.
Sora’s was next, deeper shades of maroon making the room feel grounded, a little serious but still warm. Izuku’s chest swelled at the thought of Sora, dependable like Kenji but in his own steady, protective way. Maroon for his big-hearted son who tries to look tougher than he is.
Aki’s door swung open, and Izuku actually gasped. It wasn’t just a room—it was art. Swirls of color, bold accents, fabrics that looked like they belonged on a runway. Sketchpads already stacked neatly on the desk. Katsuki even thought of this. He laughed softly, because of course his fiery little fashionista got the room that screamed expression and freedom.
Yuu’s was gentle. Soft blue walls, with white trimmings that made it glow calm, almost like the boy himself. Simple, neat, not demanding. A room that looked like it belonged to a son who often smiled quietly but always found a way to make the house lighter.
And then Hina’s—sunshine itself. Bright yellows, soft creams, warm orange accents. Izuku felt his throat tighten.
She’s the light of our home, Katsuki knows that too.
But it was the kitchen that made Izuku nearly laugh aloud.
“Of course,” he muttered.
Twice the size of what was normal, counters stretching, cupboards taller, appliances heavy-duty. This wasn’t just Katsuki’s domain anymore—it was theirs. A kitchen for two cooks, and for five hungry kids who always seemed to want snacks every hour. Izuku trailed his fingers over the counters, imagining laughter, spilled flour, arguments about who cut vegetables better.
Then Katsuki opened the final door.
Their room.
Izuku froze at the threshold. It wasn’t extravagant. It wasn’t overbearing. It was warm. Intimate. Two people’s sanctuary. Their sanctuary.
His eyes landed on the frame sitting proudly on the dresser. One picture from their first family vacation—on the yacht he had rented, with the children’s laughter caught mid-frame, hair wild from the sea breeze. Another—just the two of them, back when they were still only dating. A photo from their second anniversary, when things were simpler, and yet Izuku had thought back then that life couldn’t possibly get better.
Now, nearly at their fourth year, Katsuki had built this. For them.
Izuku’s throat ached. He stepped in slowly, as though afraid if he moved too fast, it would all vanish. He sat on the edge of the bed, pressing down slightly. Soft. Real. He looked up at Katsuki, who stood there silently, arms crossed but not in his usual intimidating way—more like he was holding himself back from revealing too much too soon.
“Thank you,” Izuku whispered, his voice trembling. “For this house. For… everything. You could’ve asked me years ago. We could’ve done this years ago. But you waited. You made it perfect. You—”
But Katsuki shook his head sharply.
“I’m not done yet.”
Izuku blinked, confused.
“Kacchan…?”
And then Katsuki moved. Not with his usual reckless energy, but with deliberate, grounded purpose. He walked forward, stopped right in front of him, and knelt down on one knee. Izuku’s breath caught, his world spinning.
Katsuki took his left hand, firm but gentle. With his other, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, elegant black box. It clicked open with ease, as though it had always been waiting for this moment. Inside, a ring gleamed—simple, elegant, but unmistakably them.
Katsuki looked up at him, lips twitching in that smirk Izuku had loved and hated for years. His voice was teasing, rough but laced with tenderness.
“We already decided, didn’t we? To be together. To raise this family. To fight and cry and laugh and screw up together. There was never a ‘what if’ for us. Not once it was welcomed. Not in the ugly way people use it. The only question was when.” He swallowed, and for a second his voice cracked before he steadied it. “And I’ll admit it, Izuku—I’m selfish when it comes to you. I wanted it sooner. I wanted it years ago. But I also wanted it to be like this. Ours. Not rushed, not just convenient. Right.”
He exhaled shakily, squeezing Izuku’s hand.
“So… I’m asking you now. Let me make this more possible. More real. Let me call you mine in every way there is, and let everyone else know it too. Marry me, Izuku.”
The ring sparkled between them, but Izuku wasn’t even looking at it. His eyes blurred with tears, fixed only on Katsuki, who had turned his entire world upside down just by existing in it.
Izuku’s lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, hot tears slipped down his cheeks, dropping onto the hand Katsuki was holding. His chest heaved as he tried to form an answer, but his voice cracked into sobs.
“K-Kacchan…” He sniffled, shaking his head slightly. “Are you really… really sure about this? About me?” His fingers trembled as they clutched Katsuki’s hand back. “You know how messy I am. How childish I can be. Sometimes I don’t even feel like I’ve grown up at all, even though we have five kids. I still… stumble. I still cling to you. Are you sure you want that forever?”
Katsuki stared at him for a moment, then let out a quiet chuckle—low and warm, not mocking. He slipped the ring box onto the bed, leaned forward, and pulled Izuku into his arms. Izuku practically melted against him, still hiccupping with little sobs as Katsuki wrapped him up, one strong hand stroking slowly up and down his back.
“I know,” Katsuki muttered against Izuku’s ear. “Love, I know you’re messy. I know you’re childish. Hell, I know every single one of your stupid habits better than anyone else does.”
He leaned back just enough to look Izuku in the eye, his thumb brushing the tears away from Izuku’s cheek.
“But I also know something else—you can handle it. You’ve always been able to handle everything life threw at you. The only reason you look messy around me is because you’re letting yourself be free here. With me. You’re not pretending to be the strongest, or the calmest, or the most perfect. You’re just… you. And that’s what I like. What I want.”
Izuku’s breath hitched, his face crumpling again. Katsuki’s hand moved back to cradle the back of his neck, pulling him close until their foreheads touched.
“Remember when I told you to promote Umi to Hi?” Katsuki’s voice softened further, his breath warm against Izuku’s skin. “I didn’t ask you because you’re some idol with a pretty face. I asked because you were perfect for it. Because you looked like someone who needed a proper meal, someone who looked hungry. Not for food, but for care. For someone to fill the empty spots.” His thumb caressed Izuku’s jaw now, firm but tender. “And I wanted to be that person for you. I still do. So let me keep seeing you like this—messy, soft, vulnerable. Mine to protect. Mine to cherish. Always.”
Izuku’s tears didn’t stop, but this time, they carried relief with them. His lips wobbled into a smile, and he nodded, pressing his hand over the one holding his cheek.
“Fine…” his voice was thick, shaky but sincere. He pulled back just slightly, blinking up at Katsuki with watery determination. “Then put it on my finger already, Kacchan. Let’s do it.”
Katsuki’s laugh burst out, loud and unrestrained, echoing in the room. He leaned forward to kiss Izuku’s temple before fumbling back for the ring box.
“Yes, yes, calm down, you crybaby,” he teased, though his voice cracked with emotion too. He slid the ring onto Izuku’s trembling hand, watching it settle perfectly in place.
For a moment, neither of them moved, just holding each other as the weight of what had just happened sank in.
Then Katsuki’s phone rang.
The sharp sound broke the silence, and Katsuki cursed under his breath before fishing it out of his pocket. He glanced at the screen and snorted.
“It’s Kaminari.”
Izuku wiped at his face quickly, trying to pull himself together, as Katsuki answered.
Before Katsuki could even say hello, a familiar, high-pitched voice came shouting through the speaker.
“Papa! We’re here!” Aki’s excited squeal made both of them freeze, and then she added dramatically, “Open the castle’s gate!”
Izuku blinked—and then laughed so hard his shoulders shook. Katsuki pressed the phone against his ear, but even he couldn’t keep the grin from spreading across his face.
“The castle, huh?” Katsuki muttered, rolling his eyes though his smile softened immediately.
Izuku reached out, taking Katsuki’s hand again, intertwining their fingers.
“Then let’s go, Your Majesty,” he teased softly, voice still thick from crying but filled with joy.
Hand in hand, they left the room, moving through the halls of their new home. And when they opened the front door, their world was waiting. Not just their children bouncing with excitement—Kenji with his calm wave, Sora steady and smiling, Aki practically vibrating with glee, Yuu and Hina clinging to each other while pointing eagerly at the house—but also their whole extended family.
Kaminari and Jirou stood off to the side, already grinning like idiots. The staff from Umi to Hi waved happily, while Izuku’s idol team clapped in encouragement.
The home wasn’t just ready—it was alive. Ready to be filled.
Izuku tightened his grip on Katsuki’s hand as they stepped outside together, side by side. His heart was still racing, but now it wasn’t from fear. It was from something much deeper.
He had said yes, not just with words but with every part of him. And now, they were ready to celebrate—not just a housewarming, not just a family gathering. But the beginning of everything new.
The new house was alive with light and laughter. Strings of warm bulbs and paper lanterns lined the garden, bouncing off the reflection of the pool outside. Inside, the long dining table was set like a banquet—dishes from Umi to Hi steaming with rich aromas, a few homemade specialties from Sora and Kenji proudly displayed at the center, and plates of food prepared by Izuku’s loyal staff and even his longtime manager, Aida, who had insisted on helping.
Dr. Morita, stood by the drinks with a kind smile, raising a glass whenever someone looked his way. Ochako, Mina, and Kirishima had instantly become “playground buddies” for the younger kids, jumping in on karaoke rounds and silly dancing. Jirou sat on the couch with Hina on her lap, helping her strum a few chords on the guitar. Yuu twirled around to the beat Mina was making, while Aki—dressed in something sparkly and way too fashionable for her age—was already trying to teach Ochako the dance of her favorite idol song.
It was chaos, but it was their chaos. And for the first time, Katsuki and Izuku could breathe in the joy of a family fully bound—five children now carrying the name Midoriya-Bakugo, and this house to hold them together.
The music slowed when Kenji, tall now at nearly fifteen, walked forward. His dark eyes glanced at Izuku, then at the microphone in his hand. For a moment, he hesitated, but then he turned and held it out.
“Mama,” he said, his voice steady but full of emotion. “Can you… sing that song again? The one you sang for us five years ago… in the alley. When we didn’t even know you yet, but you… saved us.”
The room quieted instantly. Izuku froze, the request sinking in. He hadn’t expected that memory to surface tonight—the memory of five ragged, frightened children huddled together, and him, disguised and desperate, singing to ease their pain. His chest tightened.
“Kenji…” he whispered, his hand trembling as he reached for the mic. He looked at his eldest son—no longer the frail boy who once looked at him with hollow eyes, but a young man on the brink of adulthood. Almost grown. His throat burned.
“You still remember that?”
Kenji nodded firmly.
“We all do. It was the first time… we believed someone could really find us.”
Izuku bit down a sob and pressed the mic to his lips. He hesitated for a breath, scanning the faces around him—his children, their friends, Katsuki. And then, softly at first, he began to sing.
♪ Even if I fly too far,
And lose the light behind the star,
Just whisper once—I’ll find my way
Back to your heart someday. ♪
The notes filled the room, carrying with them five years’ worth of history. Izuku’s voice was steady, crystalline, tinged with emotion that made every line vibrate. He wasn’t just singing a song—he was singing their story.
A hush fell over the guests. Mina clasped her hands under her chin. Ochako’s eyes welled up. Even Aida, usually professional, wiped at her cheek discreetly.
Katsuki, standing at the edge of the room, didn’t take his eyes off Izuku. His chest swelled with a fierce, aching pride.
That song… he knew it.
He had heard it once, long ago, on a night when he was still just a wandering man trying to make sense of the world.
Back then, he hadn’t even realized it was Izuku. He had just been drawn to the voice—raw, aching, filled with hope. He remembered standing in the shadows of that alley, listening to a masked man in black singing softly to a group of children. He hadn’t known the singer’s face, but the melody had burrowed into his chest, making him return again and again to that alley, just to check if the kids were still there.
And the very next day, by chance or by fate, he had met Izuku for the first time—bright-eyed, stubborn, infuriatingly kind Izuku. He hadn’t known it was the same voice that haunted him until much later.
Now, watching Izuku surrounded by the very children who had once clung to that song for comfort, Katsuki’s heart threatened to burst.
Izuku’s eyes closed as he reached the last line, his hand tightening around the mic, his other pressed over his heart.
♪ Just whisper once—I’ll find my way
Back to your heart someday. ♪
Silence hung in the air for half a beat before the room erupted in applause. The kids whooped and clapped, Aki bouncing in place. Sora and Kenji exchanged glances, both smiling—the rare, soft kind that only came when they felt truly safe.
Izuku lowered the mic, his face flushed with tears and laughter all at once. Then he looked at Katsuki.
Katsuki didn’t clap. He just smiled, slow and sure, and mouthed the words:
Found you.
Izuku’s breath caught. In that instant, the weight of their journey pressed on him—the alley, the orphans, the strangers they once were. And now here they were, a family, celebrating a birthday not of years but of belonging.
The celebration continues as the night buzzed with warmth—clinking glasses, children laughing, and voices overlapping in the big house that finally belonged to all of them. Izuku had slipped away from the karaoke chaos, balancing a plate of food one of the Umi to Hi cooks had insisted he try, when Katsuki’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
Katsuki glanced down, saw the name, and his brow lifted.
“Tch. That bastard.” He looked toward Izuku, who met his eyes across the room, and gave a little nod as if to say, Go on, it’s fine. Katsuki pressed his lips together and stepped out into the quieter hallway, answering the call.
“Yo.”
“Katsuki.”
Shoto’s calm voice drifted through the receiver, layered with the faint noise of an airport in the background.
“I saw the news. You and Midoriya… and your kids. Congratulations.”
Katsuki leaned a shoulder against the wall, smirking despite himself.
“Hn. News spreads fast, huh? You stalking me from Paris now?”
“I don’t need to. You’re trending worldwide. Midoriya too. The whole story—it’s everywhere.” Shoto’s tone softened just a fraction. “I wish I could be there tonight, but… competition schedules won’t let me.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Katsuki said, running a hand through his hair. “You got your own crap to win.”
A beat of silence, then Shoto added, “Katsuki… people miss you. They’re waiting for you to come back too. You know that, right?”
Katsuki’s gaze slid back toward the living room, where he could see flashes of Izuku’s bright smile and their children gathered around him, tugging at his sleeves. His chest clenched.
“I know,” he said lowly. “But… bear with me. I just started my own family here. This is my arena for now.”
On the other end, Shoto didn’t argue.
“I get it. Just don’t forget—you’re still the only one who can burn that stage the way you do. When you’re ready, the world will still be waiting.”
Katsuki smirked faintly.
“Yeah, yeah. Now shut up and go win Paris.”
Shoto’s voice held the faintest smile.
“Always.” Then the line clicked off.
Katsuki slipped his phone back into his pocket, about to rejoin the noise, when he froze.
Music.
Not just any music—a melody that struck like lightning through his bones, so sharp and sudden it made his breath catch. His heart pounded, his skin prickling as if his body had recognized it before his mind did.
He turned his head slowly, almost afraid. And there, in the center of the room, stood Izuku. Mic in hand. Singing.
♪ My dream was once a flame, burning bright in my hands…
But the weight has turned it heavy, a burden I can’t withstand.
Still, I search for warmth—
For the gentle light I once loved,
The place where I can breathe again. ♪
Katsuki’s throat closed. His vision blurred at the edges, not from tears but from the force of memory slamming into him.
He knew this song.
He knew it in his blood.
Sixteen years old. Sitting at his relatives’ dining table, irritation simmering under his skin as cousins joked around and the TV blared in the background. Someone had insisted on playing music during dinner, scrolling through random playlists. He’d rolled his eyes, stabbed at his food—and then this voice had filled the room.
This song.
It had struck him so hard he’d dropped his fork. His chest had ached, heavy, suffocating, and before he even understood why, tears had burned at his eyes. His family had laughed at him, confused, asking if he was sick, but he couldn’t explain it. Couldn’t explain why the sound of a stranger’s voice had unraveled him completely.
It was just a faceless melody that haunted him in the quiet hours, like a promise half-remembered.
And now—ten years later—here it was again. Not faceless. Not nameless.
It was Izuku.
The man he loved.
The father of his children.
His anchor.
His angel.
Izuku’s smile was radiant as he sang, glancing at their children, who were clapping and swaying to the music, and at their friends who listened with awe. Then his gaze lifted—green eyes locking onto Katsuki’s from across the room.
Katsuki stood frozen, still half in the memory, half in the present. His pulse thundered in his ears.
Izuku’s voice carried the next lines, soft and steady, but every word felt like it was meant for him.
And in that moment, Katsuki realized—every thread of fate, every unexplainable pull, every time he’d been moved without reason—it had always been him. Always Izuku.
The flame he once thought was his dream.
Katsuki didn’t realize he was walking until his legs brought him back into the heart of the living room. The last note of Izuku’s song still lingered in the air, warm and golden, as the chatter resumed around them. Laughter, clapping, children tugging at Izuku’s sleeve.
But Katsuki’s eyes were locked only on him.
He stopped in front of Izuku, his chest tight, his voice rough when he finally asked.
“...That song. Was that yours? An original?”
Izuku blinked at him, surprised by the abruptness, but then nodded gently.
“Yeah. That was… my first solo single. When I debuted at sixteen.” He smiled faintly at the memory. “It’s not one I usually sing nowadays, but Aki asked for it, so…”
The words blurred in Katsuki’s ears. Sixteen. Sixteen. He staggered inwardly at the truth cementing itself in his chest.
It was really him.
Izuku.
The voice that had torn him apart in dining room a decade ago.
The ghost he’d chased unconsciously ever since.
Before he could speak again, his gaze dropped—and froze.
On the bowl in Izuku’s hands.
Izuku lifted a spoonful of the delicate custard, its surface trembling slightly, fragrant steam curling up. He let it slide onto his tongue, and it melted effortlessly, silky and warm, a gentle savory flavor unfolding with each bite. Smiling, unbothered, laughing a little at something Aki chirped beside him, he ate without hesitation, without a flicker of the nausea or pain that had haunted him for nearly two years.
Katsuki went still. His breath caught in his throat, his heartbeat deafening.
Izuku glanced up, puzzled by the way he was staring.
“What? Do I… do I have something on my face?”
Katsuki couldn’t answer at first. His mouth opened, closed. His chest felt too full.
Finally, in a hoarse whisper, he managed, “...You’re not feeling sick?”
Izuku frowned, brows knitting.
“No. Why? Kacchan, are you worried about the food? I’m eating fine, look—these dishes are perfectly good. Don’t worry so much. Someone cooked this so well, I can't help but to eat a lot of this.” He tried to laugh it off, but the way Katsuki just stared at him unsettled him further.
“Why do you look like you’re the one who’s not feeling well?”
Katsuki’s lips trembled. His voice cracked as he whispered, almost in disbelief.
“Izu… that’s my food.”
Izuku blinked.
“...What?”
Katsuki swallowed hard, forcing the words out.
“That chawanmushi dish—it’s mine. Out of everything on the table, that’s the only one I made.”
Izuku froze.
His gaze fell back to his bowl, to the silken custard glistening with a faint sheen, fragrant steam curling from its surface. He held his breath, realization dawning, before his eyes widened and he looked back up at Katsuki.
That was when he heard it—sharp and broken, the sound of a sob tearing free.
Izuku’s world tilted.
Katsuki’s head had dropped, shoulders trembling, eyes brimming with tears he couldn’t hold back. The first time Izuku had ever seen Katsuki cry.
The entire room went silent. Children stopped mid-laughter, friends froze mid-step. All eyes turned to the man everyone thought unshakable, the chef who never yielded.
Izuku didn’t hesitate. He set his plate down and moved forward, wrapping his arms around Katsuki and pulling him into his chest, shielding his face from the world. His hand rubbed soothing circles across Katsuki’s back, his voice hushed but steady.
“Kacchan… hey, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”
Katsuki shook his head against him, the sobs still spilling out. His words were broken, gasped between breaths.
“I’m just… too damn happy, Izu. A family. A house. You—” His hand fisted in Izuku’s shirt as his body trembled. “You’re the one who made me cry over dinner ten years ago without even knowing your name or how you look like. And now… now you’re eating my food again. Without pain. Without fear. You’re smiling. It’s… too much. It’s too much and I—”
Izuku’s own tears slipped free, but he only held Katsuki tighter, pressing his cheek to blond hair damp with emotion.
“Kacchan… it’s okay. You don’t have to hold it back. You don’t have to anymore. I’m here. We all are.”
A small weight pressed against Izuku’s side, then another. He glanced down and saw Aki and Hina squeezing themselves into the embrace, wrapping their little arms around Katsuki’s waist.
“Papa, don’t cry,” Yuu whispered fiercely, as if scolding the tears away.
Yuu’s tiny arms clung next, followed by Sora’s quiet but steady presence, his hand patting his father’s shoulder. Kenji, taller now, circled behind and looped his arms around them all, grounding the cluster of warmth.
One by one, their friends and staff softened into smiles, some brushing their own eyes, watching as the Midoriya-Bakugo family pressed close together in the center of the room.
Katsuki’s sobs gradually eased into uneven breaths, then into silence, his face still hidden against Izuku’s shoulder. But his arms—those never let go, holding Izuku and their children as if anchoring himself to the only truth he ever wanted.
Izuku’s hand brushed through his hair, steady and gentle, his whisper carrying like a promise.
“This is it, Kacchan. The dream you gave me, the family we built, the home you made. You don’t need to doubt it anymore. It’s real. We’re real.”
Katsuki pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes still wet but blazing with raw love. His lips parted, but no words came. Instead, Izuku leaned forward and kissed him softly, a seal over everything unspoken.
The children cheered, hugging them tighter. The room erupted with laughter and clapping again, joy crashing like waves over them all.
And for the first time in years, Katsuki didn’t just cook for the people he loved. He tasted the fullness of his dream—his family, his home, his Izuku—complete at last.
That was the chef’s true kiss.
—the end.
Notes:
And it’s a wrap! 💛 Thank you so much for staying with me until the very end of this story. I know there might still be little pieces missing here and there, but this journey means a lot to me. It carried so many heavy lines and lessons I had to learn before I could even write them out. I especially loved shaping this green-flag Bakugo and the love he and Izuku built into a family. Thank you again for sharing this journey with me. It really means the world. I hope to see you all to my other stories again! love love!🧡💚
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Fandomer8316 on Chapter 1 Tue 15 Jul 2025 05:45AM UTC
Last Edited Tue 15 Jul 2025 05:46AM UTC
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