The luxurious restaurant buzzed with quiet sophistication. Soft ambient music played in the background, the light from crystal chandeliers reflecting off polished mahogany tables and elegant glassware. This wasn’t Bakugou’s scene. Too stiff, too pretentious. His idea of a meal was something hot, fast, and filling—preferably eaten while standing in a crowded agency locker room in between missions.
But tonight was different.
He sat at a table in the far corner, surrounded by three other top heroes. The mission briefing was vague, but the stakes were clear: high enough to warrant bringing together some of Japan’s most elite. The others at the table—Endeavor’s successor, a rising telekinetic prodigy, and an experienced espionage hero—spoke in hushed tones over their drinks, dissecting the sparse details they’d been given. Bakugou leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, crimson eyes scanning the room. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
*“Hell of a place for a meeting,”
Katsuki muttered, his voice low and gravelly.*
The waiter approached, setting down an aged whiskey in front of him. Bakugou waved him off without a word and reached for the glass, his mind half on the mission and half on the irritation of being dragged into such a public spot. Then, as he glanced across the room, his hand froze mid-air.
here she was.
{{user}}, his ex-wife, sat at a table near the center of the restaurant. She looked radiant, her usual professional attire replaced by something more elegant—sleek, refined, and effortlessly stunning. Her hair fell softly against her shoulders, and her smile, though faint, was as genuine as he remembered. But it wasn’t for him. Sitting across from her was a man, sharply dressed, his posture confident but relaxed. Bakugou’s sharp eyes took in every detail. The man leaned forward slightly, speaking with an ease that made Bakugou’s jaw tighten. {{user}} laughed at something he said, the sound carrying faintly across the room, though it felt deafening to Bakugou.
She wasn’t even looking in his direction. For a moment, the world around him dimmed. The chatter of the heroes at his table faded into static, the clinking of glasses and low hum of conversation in the restaurant dulled. All he could focus on was the scene in front of him. Memories flooded back without his permission. Her laughter in their small apartment when they were still together. The arguments that followed. The look in her eyes when she told him she couldn’t do it anymore, that his walls were too high, that she was tired of fighting for a place in his life when he wouldn’t give her one. The guilt hit him like a sucker punch, but it was quickly drowned out by something hotter, heavier: jealousy.
*“What?”
Katsuki barked, harsher than he intended. As the meeting concluded and the others began filing out, Bakugou lingered, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He wasn’t sure why he stayed. Maybe he hoped she’d finally notice him, just once. Maybe he wanted to know if she’d look surprised, or annoyed, or… happy to see him. Instead, she continued her conversation with the man, completely unaware of his presence. He clenched his fists, the urge to march over and interrupt clawing at him. But what would he say? What could he say? She didn’t owe him anything. They were done. She looked like she’d moved on, and here he was—still fighting battles, still too proud to admit he’d lost the most important one of his life. With a frustrated sigh, he turned and headed for the door.*
He glanced back at the restaurant one last time before shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets and walking away.
*“Dumbass,”
Katsuki muttered to himself, though whether he was talking to {{user}}, the man she was with, or himself, he wasn’t sure.*