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The air crackled with the sharp scent of ozone and the heavy heat of sweat as Katsuki launched himself off the ground in a blinding blur of orange light.
"Take this!" Katsuki roared, slamming his palms downward to unleash a massive, concussive wave of explosions.
Izuku’s instincts flared. Dropping his center of gravity, he sidestepped sharply, sliding off the concrete just as the blast slammed into the ground where he’d been standing a fraction of a second before.
Katsuki landed in a crouch, gritting his teeth, a vein throbbing violently at his temple as he pushed off the floor again, a trail of smoke and fire tracking his ascent as he vaulted high into the air.
Mid-air, Izuku caught the trajectory, his muscles snapping into gear. He threw his arm back, his eyes locking onto the falling target.
"Fifth! Blackwhip!"
The dark, crackling tendrils burst violently from his right arm, surging outward with the intent to wrap, secure, and redirect Katsuki’s momentum.
And then the world violently fractured.
In the microsecond between the quirk's release and its target, the training gym dissolved. The roar of the wind vanished, replaced by a suffocating, ringing silence. In its place, a horrific flash tore through Izuku's mind: the ruined, blood-soaked sky, the sickening sound of flesh tearing, and the brutal reality of Katsuki's body punctured through the air, lifeless and falling.
The phantom image hit Izuku like a physical blow to the chest.
His breath caught hard in his throat. The sudden, agonizing wave of terror paralyzed his nervous system, breaking his concentration entirely. The surging tendrils of Blackwhip violently lost their momentum, whipping past Katsuki's shoulder harmlessly, missing him by a wide, gaping margin without even brushing his uniform.
Katsuki twisted mid-air, catching sight of the completely misfired quirk shooting uselessly into the empty space behind him. A flash of pure, bewildered rage spiked in his chest.
"What the hell's got you so distracted?!" Katsuki yelled across the gap, his voice cracking with fury.
Before Izuku could force air back into his lungs, before he could blink the ghost of a corpse out of his vision, Katsuki closed the distance. He pivoted in the air, spinning into a devastating, point-blank explosion right above Izuku.
The blast hit with concussive force. Izuku didn't dodge. He didn't even raise his arms to guard. He just took the full weight of the heat and kinetic shockwave dead-on, the blast throwing him violently backward until he crashed hard against the concrete, sliding to a dead stop on the ground.
The ringing in Izuku’s ears is deafening, a high-pitched whine that blends with the rapid, frantic hammering of his own heart. He lies flat on his back against the scorched concrete, the breath completely knocked out of his lungs. The acrid smell of burnt sulfur and dust coats the back of his throat, but all he can taste is copper—the metallic phantom taste of blood.
Heavy footfalls slap against the ground, closing the distance instantly.
"Get up!"
Katsuki’s voice cuts through the ringing, sharp and laced with a lethal edge of fury. A second later, a hand grabs a fistful of Izuku’s suit, yanking him violently upright so his spine slams against the ground and forces him to a sitting position.
"I said, get up, Izuku!" Katsuki snarls, his face inches away. His chest is heaving, red eyes blazing with an unholy mixture of adrenaline and white-hot anger. He’s standing over him, one hand still balled in Izuku's shirt collar, the other twitching with frustrated, smoking sparks. "What the hell was that garbage? You didn't even try to brace! You just sat there and let me take your head off!"
Izuku can’t breathe. His chest feels caved in—not from the explosion, but from the crushing weight of the flashback still echoing behind his eyelids. He’s staring right at Katsuki, but all he sees is the ragged tear in his hero uniform, the stillness of his chest, the horrifying drop off the edge of the sky.
"Kacchan—" Izuku gasps out, his voice trembling so violently he can barely form the syllables. His hands come up, fingers clawing desperately into the fabric of Katsuki’s forearms, not to push him away, but to anchor himself to the solid, living reality of him. He's warm. He's breathing. "I—I couldn't—"
Katsuki freezes. The furious tirade dies instantly in his throat.
The anger in Katsuki’s crimson eyes fractures, replaced by a sudden, jarring jolt of realization as he looks down at Izuku. He sees the absolute terror blown wide in Izuku's green eyes, the uncontrollable shaking in his hands, and the cold, clammy sweat beading on his forehead. This isn't exhaustion. This isn't holding back out of arrogance or pity.
It’s panic. Pure, unadulterated terror.
Katsuki’s grip on Izuku’s shirt slackens, his fingers uncurling from the fabric. The sparks die out completely against his palms, leaving only the quiet, heavy hum of the wind sweeping across the training ground.
"Oi," Katsuki mutters, his voice dropping an octave, losing its explosive bite and turning rough, dangerous, and low. "What did you see?"
Izuku’s jaw trembles, his teeth clicking together as he tries to force words past the obstruction in his throat. His fingers grip tighter onto Katsuki’s forearms, digging in hard enough to bruise, desperate for the friction of skin and muscle to overwrite the memory.
"The...the sky," Izuku whispers, the words spilling out broken and breathless. "I saw—I tried to use Blackwhip, and I just—I saw you falling. I saw you there. You weren't breathing. You weren't—"
He chokes on the rest, his breath stuttering into a ragged wheeze as his heart hammers a frantic, deafening rhythm against his ribs.
Katsuki’s jaw tightens. He stares down at him, a muscle ticking sharply in his cheek. He knows the memory. He knows the exact goddamn hole he left behind when his heart stopped on that floating battlefield. The instinct to brush it off, to yell at Izuku to snap out of it and stop living in the past, flares up instantly.
"Tch. ’s fine," Katsuki mutters, his gaze dropping briefly to the concrete before snapping back up. He lifts one hand, awkward and stiff, as if to shove Izuku’s shoulder or push him back to his feet. "The war's over. I'm right here. Stop acting like a damn idiot and get up."
"It's not fine!"
The dismissal hits Izuku like a match to dry tinder, burning away the paralysis and replacing it with a sudden, violent surge of anger. The panic doesn't recede; it twists, morphing into a raw, defensive fury that makes his ears ring.
Izuku violently shoves Katsuki back—a hard, desperate push to the chest that catches Katsuki completely off guard, forcing him to stumble back a full step.
"Don't do that!" Izuku yells, tears hot and blinding on his face as he scrambles up onto his knees. "Don't just look at me like it's nothing! You think I can just turn it off because you're standing here telling me to?! You died, Kacchan! You were dead in my arms, there was no pulse, there was nothing, and my quirk—my quirk wouldn't even let me reach you because my brain thinks you're still bleeding out on the ground!"
He’s shaking so hard he can barely keep his balance on the scorched ground, his chest heaving as he glares up through his tears, desperate and furious and drowning in a nightmare he can't wake up from.
Katsuki stands frozen.
The fire in his chest—the automatic, knee-jerk instinct to yell back, to match Izuku's volume, to demand he snap the hell out of it—dies a sudden, suffocating death. His arms hang slightly away from his sides, his fists unclenched for the first time all day.
He’s never seen Izuku like this. Not when they were kids, not during the darkest days of the war, and not even when Izuku was breaking his own bones to pieces. This isn't the self-sacrificing, quiet grief Izuku usually swallows down to keep everyone else steady. This is naked, ugly, bleeding panic, and it’s entirely directed at him.
"You just expect me to get over it?!" Izuku’s voice cracks, breaking into a ragged, pathetic sob that he immediately tries to swallow down with another furious gasp of air. He points a shaking finger right at Katsuki's chest. "You think you can just come back and smile and act like everything's normal, like I didn't spend God knows how long staring at your corpse thinking my whole world had ended?! I can't even use my quirk, Kacchan! My own body won't let me touch you because it's still terrified you're going to break!"
The silence that follows is deafening.
Katsuki doesn't move a muscle. He doesn't puff up. He doesn't snap back with a caustic remark or a dismissive scoff. He just stands there, taking every single jagged word straight to the chest, his crimson eyes locked onto Izuku’s tear-stained, furious face. The weight of what he put him through—the permanent, invisible wreckage left behind in the quiet aftermath of a war they barely survived—settles over his shoulders like a lead blanket.
For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound between them is the rough, stuttering drag of Izuku’s breath and the low hum of the wind.
Katsuki doesn’t flinch away. He doesn't yell. Instead, he takes a slow, deliberate step forward, heavy boots crunching against the scorched concrete, closing the distance between them. He stands in front of Izuku, with a rough, unhesitating motion, he reaches down, grabs Izuku’s trembling wrist, and hauls it upward.
He presses Izuku’s palm flat against the center of his chest, right over his hero costume.
"Feel that," Katsuki says, his voice stripped of all its usual abrasive static, raspy, low, and terrifyingly steady.
Underneath the layers of thermal weave, there is no mistaking it. It’s a fast, heavy, undeniable rhythm. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
"It's beating, you damn nerd," Katsuki mutters with stubborn force. He presses Izuku’s hand down harder, anchoring his palm so he has no choice, no way to look away from the physical proof. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
Izuku gasps, a sharp, choked sound breaking from his lips as his fingers curl instinctively into Katsuki’s chest. The phantom cold of the wasteland starts to retreat, slowly beaten back by the suffocating, undeniable heat radiating straight from the palm of his hand and the steady drumbeat beneath it.
Katsuki doesn't let go of his wrist. With his other hand, he reaches up, his fingers grab a handful of Izuku’s green curls, and he shoves his head down hard against his shoulder. It’s clumsy, abrupt, and entirely Kacchan—no sweeping apologies, no soft platitudes, just a blunt wall of physical reality forcing Izuku to stop drowning in his own head.
"Breathe, Izuku," Katsuki mutters against his hair, the vibration of his voice rumbling straight through his chest and into Izuku’s bones. "I'm done dying. Just breathe."
Izuku’s shoulders hitch, another heavy, shuddering breath tearing out of him as the phantom weight in his chest slowly begins to fracture. But the panic is still a live wire under his skin, his mind desperately trying to drag him back to the edge of that ruined battlefield.
Katsuki feels the lingering tremble in Izuku's wrist—feels how his fingers are still half-curled, as if waiting for him to dissolve into ash all over again.
With a sharp, determined tug, Katsuki pulls Izuku’s hand away from his chest. Before Izuku can pull back or shield his tear-stained face, Katsuki brings the back of Izuku’s wrist upward, pressing his palm flat against the side of his own face, right over his cheekbone.
"Look at me," Katsuki orders, his voice low, sharp, and commanding.
Red meets green, locked dead-on across a distance of barely a few inches. There’s no place left for Izuku to hide, no dark corner of his own mind he can retreat into when Katsuki is right there, anchoring him with a hot, unyielding stare.
"Stop doing that," Katsuki says, his voice cutting through the ringing in Izuku's ears. "Stop replaying it. You think I don't know what you're doing? You're sitting here mourning a ghost that isn't even fucking here."
"I saw it, Kacchan—" Izuku chokes out, a fresh tear spilling over his lashes, tracking hot down his cheek. "I saw your heart stop. I felt it go cold. Every time I try to use my quirk, every time I reach out, my body remembers—"
"Then stop letting it," Katsuki interrupts, fierce and unyielding. The palm of his own hand comes up to clamp over the back of Izuku's hand, pressing his skin harder, warmer against his cheek, making damn sure Izuku feels the pulse ticking in his jaw, the heat radiating off his skin, the very real sweat dampening his gloves.
"I'm flesh and blood, you idiot," Katsuki snarls softly, his crimson eyes burning into Izuku's soul. "I'm breathing. I'm right in front of your face. So wake the hell up and look at me, not what happened back then."
The raw heat of Katsuki’s skin radiates straight through Izuku’s palm, burning away the phantom frost of the battlefield until there is nothing left of the nightmare except the harsh, ragged sound of their breathing.
Izuku’s hand is flat against Katsuki’s cheek, his fingers trembling slightly where they brush the line of his jaw. He’s completely unmoored, drowning in the sudden, dizzying proximity. With Katsuki standing right there—solid, breathing, and entirely untouchable by death.
Katsuki tracks the movement of Izuku’s eyes, watching the exact second the blind terror in green gives way to something far more dangerous.
Katsuki’s jaw tightens against Izuku’s palm, a muscle jumping beneath the calloused skin. He leans into the touch, a silent, demanding pressure that forces Izuku to hold him, to keep him grounded there. He hates this—hates that a ghost ever had the power to make Izuku look at him like he was already gone.
"I'm right here, 'Zuku," Katsuki murmurs. His voice is a low, rough rasp, stripped of all its usual abrasive volume, vibrating directly against the center of Izuku’s palm.
"Kacchan..." Izuku breathes out, his name breaking on a wet, ragged gasp. His thumb brushes unconsciously over Katsuki’s cheekbone, tracing the line of sweat. Every instinct in his body is screaming to pull him closer, to wrap arms around him and verify every single inch of him, but his arms feel leaden, anchored only by the hand glued to Katsuki’s face.
Katsuki hates the break in Izuku's voice more than anything. He hates the fear still clinging to the edges of it.
Without breaking eye contact, Katsuki steps in closer—so close the heavy, reinforced plating of their hero costumes clatter softly together. He tilts his chin up into Izuku’s palm, his crimson eyes locking onto Izuku’s with a fierce, burning challenge.
"Stop looking at me like I'm a tragedy," Katsuki snaps softly, the words laced with a sharp, possessive edge that sends a jolt straight down Izuku’s spine. "I survived. Because of you. So stop using your head to dig my grave when I'm standing right here letting you touch me."
Izuku’s breath stutters. The contrast is agonizing—seconds ago he was drowning in the cold void of a corpse, and now Katsuki is right beneath his hand, flushed and breathing and entirely his, demanding to be felt. The panic dissolves into a heavy, aching heat, pooling low and sharp in Izuku’s veins. His fingers curl instinctively, nails pressing just a fraction deeper into Katsuki’s skin as his gaze drops from Katsuki's eyes down to his mouth.
Katsuki notices the shift instantly. A dark, sharp smirk flickers across his lips, stubborn and infinitely proud, even as the breath catches in his own throat. He doesn't pull away; instead, he presses his face harder into Izuku’s palm, anchoring him, daring him to do something about it.
"Well?" Katsuki taunts, his voice dropping another octave, rough and dripping with invitation. "Are you going to keep standing there shaking like a damn coward, or are you going to prove to yourself that I'm real?"
The challenge is all the permission Izuku needs.
The lingering remnants of the nightmare shatter completely, burned away by the sudden, roaring surge of heat rushing straight to his head. The panic in his chest twists into something hungry, desperate, and fiercely alive.
Izuku’s other hand shoots out, grabbing a heavy fistful of the dark fabric at Katsuki’s collar and yanking him forward with zero hesitation.
There is nothing gentle about the way they collide. Katsuki lets out a sharp gasp as Izuku crashes his mouth against his, the impact hard enough to rattle their teeth. It’s bruising, frantic, and entirely unpolished—a frantic collision of lips and breath that tastes faintly of copper, sweat, and ozone.
Katsuki doesn’t try to pull away. Instead, a low, rough sound vibrates in the back of his throat, and he melts instantly into the push, his hands flying up to grip the back of Izuku’s neck, fingers tangling deep into green curls to drag him in closer, making the kiss deeper, heavier, impossibly tighter.
He tilts his head, opening up to him completely, letting Izuku taste every frantic, stubborn ounce of the life he fought to keep. Every brush of their lips is a violent refutation of the ghost Izuku had been staring at a minute ago—there is nothing cold here, nothing still, just the blistering heat of Katsuki’s skin, the sharp scrape of his teeth, and the desperate, matching rhythm of their heartbeats slamming against each other through layers of fabric.
Izuku’s grip on Katsuki’s collar tightens until his knuckles ache, his thumb digging hard into the line of his jaw, tracing the pulse point that had terrified him by stopping once, now hammering against his palm like a war drum.
When they finally break apart for air, they’re both chest-heaving and trembling, foreheads resting together in the quiet dust of the training ground. Katsuki’s crimson eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, and flashing with a fierce, possessive satisfaction, his lower lip bruised and red.
"Feel real enough for you now, nerd?" Katsuki whispers, his voice rough, raspy, and dangerously soft against Izuku’s lips.
His hand is still cupped against Katsuki’s cheek, his thumb brushing over the skin as if he’s waiting for it to fade like a hologram, needing the continuous friction to prove it’s permanent. Katsuki doesn't pull away. He lets him touch him, his eyes staying heavy-lidded and fixed on Izuku’s face, tracking the last remnants of the storm clearing out of green eyes.
Izuku lets out a shaky, self-deprecating huff of breath, his forehead sliding down to rest against Katsuki’s shoulder, right over the heavy plating of his chest. He buries his face there, drinking in the scent of smoke, sweat, and whatever detergent Katsuki uses on his uniform.
"I thought..." Izuku’s voice comes out muffled against the fabric, thick and raw. "For a second, I thought I was back there. When the wind blew just right, or when you moved too fast...it felt like my brain was rewriting what was happening."
Without a word, Katsuki lets his hands slide down from Izuku's hair to cup the sides of his face, his thumbs brushing lightly over the damp tracks of tears on Izuku's skin. It’s an intimate, yielding gesture—the kind of quiet surrender he only gives to Izuku when the rest of the world fades out.
"You're a pain in the ass, you know that?" Katsuki mutters, leaning his forehead forward until it rests gently against Izuku's. "Dragging me down into your damn melodrama."
"I didn't mean to," Izuku whispers, a faint, fond smile touching his lips as he leans into the warmth of Katsuki's palms. His hands drift down to wrap securely around Katsuki’s waist, pulling him that tiny bit closer, relishing the way Katsuki doesn't just allow it, but tilts into the grip, letting himself be held.
"Tch. Whatever," Katsuki scoffs softly, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward in a reluctant, half-there smirk. He lets his eyes flutter closed for a second, soaking in the anchor of Izuku's arms around him. "Next time your brain breaks, you don't gotta freeze up. Just pull me down. I'll drop you flat on your ass if it gets you to shut up."
Izuku lets out a soft, genuine laugh, the sound bubbling up and chasing away the last lingering shadows of the panic attack. "Is that your way of saying you'll let me win a spar?"
"In your dreams, nerd," Katsuki fires back immediately, though there's no heat behind it. Instead, he shifts closer still, sliding his arms up to wrap securely around Izuku's neck, burying his face softly against the crook of Izuku's shoulder.
Izuku's arms tighten around him, his hands sliding up to press firmly against the small of Katsuki's back, holding him flush against his frame. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the ash-blonde hair at his temple, feeling the way Katsuki lets out a long, shuddering sigh against his neck, finally letting all the leftover adrenaline bleed out of them both.
"You're glaring at my vest again," Izuku murmurs softly into the space between them, his voice low and laced with a quiet, affectionate amusement.
Against his neck, Katsuki lets out a disgruntled, rumbling scoff, though he doesn't make an inch of motion to pull away. "Shut up. I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"About how you're a dramatic idiot," Katsuki mutters, his voice vibrating right against Izuku’s collarbone. His hand shifts slightly, knuckles brushing lazily against the back of Izuku’s neck before his fingers curl back into the thick green curls. "Staring at me like I'm about to turn into dust every time you spark up a damn whip. It's annoying."
"It's not that easy to just turn off, Kacchan," Izuku replies, his tone dropping into something a little more honest, a little more fragile, though his grip tightens protectively around Katsuki's waist.
Katsuki goes still for a second. The abrasive, defensive snap doesn't come—instead, he lifts his head just enough to press his forehead back against Izuku's shoulder, a quiet concession.
"I know," Katsuki says, the rough edges smoothed out entirely. "I remember it too. I remember how cold it got."
Izuku draws in a sharp breath at the blunt honesty, his arms tightening automatically, pulling Katsuki impossibly closer as if trying to physically weld them together and block out the memory.
"So stop making me live through it twice," Katsuki adds, his voice dropping to a raw, gravelly whisper. He tilts his chin up, pressing a brief, firm kiss right against the exposed skin of Izuku’s neck—a rare, grounding gesture of his own. "You want to use your quirks? Fine. You want to spar until we're both bruised to hell? Do it. But stop looking at me like I'm a ghost you lost. I'm right here."
Izuku lets out a long, shuddering breath, the last heavy knot in his chest finally dissolving under the steady, immovable heat of Katsuki holding onto him. He rests his chin on top of Katsuki's head, closing his eyes.
"Yeah," Izuku whispers, a faint, genuine smile ghosting across his lips as he listens to the steady drum of Katsuki's pulse right against his chest. "You're right here."
Izuku’s eyes stay closed, listening to the solid, rhythmic thud of Katsuki’s heart right against his ribs. It’s an anchor, steady and real, but the quiet moment only gives his mind the space to drift backward. The phantom cold of the battlefield creeps back in at the edges of his thoughts, sharp and suffocating.
He remembers the stillness of it. He remembers the split second his heart had stopped beating, the terrifying emptiness of a world where Katsuki wasn't in it, and the sickening realization of just how close he came to losing him forever.
Slowly, the peaceful relief in Izuku’s chest curdles, twisting into something heavy, dark, and protective.
His arms, which had relaxed around Katsuki’s waist, instinctively tighten again—not out of panic this time, but with a sudden, rigid clamp of ownership and terror. His fingers bunch into the back of Katsuki's hero suit, pulling him so hard against his frame that there isn't a millimeter of air left between them.
Katsuki feels the shift instantly, feeling the way Izuku’s whole body goes rigid, the muscles locking up with a fierce, quiet tension.
"Hey," Katsuki starts, shifting slightly to look up, but Izuku doesn't give him the space.
Izuku buries his face deeper into the crook of Katsuki's neck, his breathing turning hot and uneven against his skin. The thought of that moment—of anyone ever getting that close again, of letting someone lay a hand on him, of coming within a hair's breadth of watching life drain out of him—sends a violent spike of fury and dread straight through his veins.
"I won't let it happen again," Izuku murmurs, his voice dropping low, trembling with a quiet, terrifying intensity. "I mean it, Kacchan. I don't ever want to see you like that. I won't let anyone get near you. I won't let anyone ever lay a hand on you like that again."
Katsuki’s breath catches at the abrupt shift in tone. The raw, unhinged edge in Izuku’s voice isn't about fear anymore; it's pure, unfiltered possessiveness.
"If anyone even tries—" Izuku continues, his hand sliding up to grip the back of Katsuki’s neck, his fingers tangling roughly into the ash-blonde hair, forcing his head back just enough to press a hard, burning kiss against his jawline. "—I'll tear them apart. I don't care who it is. You're mine. And I am never, ever letting anyone get close enough to take you from me again."
The absolute finality in the words sends a hot, thrilling shiver straight down Katsuki's spine. He doesn't pull away or try to brush it off with a snarky remark. Instead, feeling the frantic, protective heat radiating off Izuku, a low, rough sound rumbles in the back of Katsuki's throat, and he melts entirely into the iron-clad grip, letting himself be held.
"I know," Katsuki murmurs softly, his voice a low, gravelly rasp vibrating straight against Izuku's collarbone. There’s no mockery in it, no abrasive pushback—just a quiet, rare concession of surrender to the man holding him. "I'm not going anywhere, dumbass. You don't have to keep a death grip on me to prove it."
"I do," Izuku replies, his voice muffled against Katsuki’s skin, stubborn and entirely unyielding. He presses one last slow, lingering kiss right over Katsuki's pulse point, feeling the heavy, steady thud of it hammer reassuringly against his lips. "I'm never letting up."
Katsuki lets out a soft, huffing exhale that feels suspiciously like a laugh, though his fingers tighten right back into Izuku's back, anchoring them together in the quiet twilight of the training ground.
Izuku’s arms finally slide away from Katsuki’s waist, but he doesn't give him any space to breathe. The moment Katsuki’s weight shifts, Izuku’s hand moves instantly, catching his wrist and lacing their fingers together with a firm, absolute hold.
"If you're going to stare at me like that the whole way back to the dorms, people are going to think you lost your mind, nerd," Katsuki scoffs softly, his voice a low gravel rasp in the quiet evening air. But his thumb brushes a lazy, grounding circle over the back of Izuku’s hand, completely betraying the casual bite of his words.
"Let them think whatever they want," Izuku replies, his voice steady, low, and completely unapologetic.
He steps in close, closing the micro-distance between them so that their shoulders brush as they turn toward the exit. He refuses to walk side-by-side with a safe buffer of space; he keeps Katsuki tucked right against his side, his grip on his hand tight enough that anyone looking would know instantly—there is an invisible line drawn around Katsuki, and Izuku is holding the boundary.
Katsuki doesn't complain. In fact, he leans into the side-by-side friction, letting Izuku steer him off the cracked concrete and toward the path leading back to the dorms.
As they walk through the quiet, dimming shadows of the UA campus, the residual adrenaline slowly bleeds out of the air, replaced by a dense, suffocating sort of intimacy. Every time Katsuki’s arm brushes against Izuku’s, it’s a living, breathing proof of the exact opposite of the nightmare that had paralyzed him twenty minutes ago.
"You're squeezing too hard, 'Zuku. You're gonna cut off my circulation," Katsuki murmurs after a few minutes, though he makes zero effort to pry his fingers loose.
"Good," Izuku answers quietly, not even blinking. He glances down at him, his green eyes burning with a dark, unwavering intensity that makes Katsuki’s breath hitch. "Then you won't be able to go anywhere without me knowing it."
A hot, thrilling jolt rolls down Katsuki’s spine. He loves this unhinged, unapologetic edge to him—the way the sweet, self-sacrificing hero completely sheds his skin when it comes to keeping Katsuki safe, leaving behind someone who looks at him like he owns every single breath he takes.
Katsuki’s mouth quirks up into a sharp, lopsided smirk. He doesn't pull away; instead, he shifts his grip, lacing his fingers even tighter between Izuku's.