𝐁𝐚𝐝 𝐓𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫 || ᴋ. ʙᴀᴋᴜɢᴏ

Pt: 67 - Progress

Therapy helped that, too.

Two to three times a week, depending on how the sessions landed.

The first couple still left your head spinning-your heart raw and your chest tight.

But over time, talking about the past didn't feel like drowning anymore.

More like... wading through it.

You had space between the memories now.

In the beginning, Bakugo would come along.

Sit outside in the waiting room with his arms crossed and his foot tapping, just like the first day.

You never asked him to come-but he never made you ask. He just showed up.

Said "you good?" when you walked out.

Never pressed. Never pried.

And when the nerves started to quiet, when you realized you could walk into that building alone without your knees buckling, you told him.

"I'm good going solo from now on."

He just gave you a look and said, "Good."

You kept going.

And every time, when you left that room with your head clearer and your breathing steadier, you got in your car and drove straight to Bakugo's agency.

It became the routine.

He was always there.

Kirishima popped in a few times too-just to hang out.

He never intruded, never made it weird.

He'd toss a protein bar at you, ask how therapy was going, offer to spot you during sets.

It helped.

His energy was solid.

Once, he mentioned Mina might want to drop by too-but between her patrol schedule and mission load, she never made it.

Still, the support was there. In small ways. In real ways.

Now, present day-

You were walking down the main street toward Bakugo's agency in your usual workout clothes.

Leggings, a fitted tank top under your hoodie, your beat-up sneakers that had definitely seen better days, and a gym bag slung over your shoulder.

The sun was low but bright, washing everything in late-afternoon gold.

You turned the corner-and just like it had happened so many times before-you saw him.

Bakugo.

Coming from the opposite direction, already halfway through a bottle of water, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows.

He spotted you immediately, didn't even break stride.

"Yo," he called, tossing the empty bottle into a nearby bin without missing a beat.

You gave a small wave, falling into step beside him as if it were choreographed.

"You always find me halfway," you said with a faint smirk.

He shrugged. "You walk slow."

"Liar. I'm punctual and efficient."

He gave a soft scoff. "You're lucky I don't count stretching as warm-up or I'd double your circuits."

"Don't threaten me with a good time."

You grinned at each other, and then the conversation slipped into silence-but not the awkward kind.