𝔸 𝔾𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕎𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕎𝕒𝕤 𝕆𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕄𝕚𝕟𝕖 𝕍.𝟚 💥𝔹𝕜𝔻𝕜💥

Chapter 63

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

To Every You I've Loved Before

The moon hung heavy in the night sky, a cold, silent witness as Katsuki landed on the deck of his house. Around him, the city lights shimmered like distant stars, scattered against the darkness, oblivious to the chaos clawing at his insides. The sun had long since drowned beneath the horizon, leaving the world bathed in the pale, unforgiving glow of the moon.

And the back door—

It was open.

Slightly ajar, tilted just enough to let the night slip in, just enough to welcome the shadows inside. The moonlight pooled in silver puddles across the floor as pale silver streaks spilled over the furniture, stretching across the floor in warped, shifting patterns. It touched everything—the couch, the shelves, the framed photos on the walls—familiar shapes bathed in cold silver.

Katsuki stepped inside, his breath slow, controlled, every movement deliberate. His gaze flickered over the room, tracing the places where memory had settled into the walls. The coffee table, still marked with the faintest scratch from when Izuku had dropped his grip strength trainer. The corner where Katsuki had once kicked off his boots too hard, leaving a scuff on the baseboard. The spot near the bookshelf where, on one rare night of peace, Izuku had dozed off, head pillowed against Katsuki's shoulder, his stupid mumbling filling the quiet like a heartbeat.

The quiet pressed against him, thick and loaded. The kind of stillness that wasn't just emptiness. The kind that meant someone had been here.

He didn't call out, didn't dare make a sound.

His jaw clenched as he took another step inside, his boots barely making a sound against the hardwood. His fingers curled at his sides, slow, deliberate, as he focused, filtering out the steady tick of the wall clock, the distant hum of traffic, the soft creak of the house settling.

Then—

A sound.

Soft. Subtle. Like the faintest rustling of fabric. His head snapped to the left, instincts sharpening to a razor's edge. The sound came from the kitchen.

Katsuki moved without thinking, his steps soundless, controlled—cat-like in the way he navigated the familiar space. He barely breathed as he approached, keeping to the shadows, muscle memory guiding his every step.

The door to the kitchen was cracked open just enough to see through. Just enough to catch a glimpse.

And there he was.

Standing in front of the kitchen island like it was exactly where he belonged.

Izuku.

His head was bowed, shoulders stiff, hands clutching something between them. The light from the range hood cast his face in sharp relief, throwing deep shadows beneath his eyes, accentuating the exhaustion lining his features. His fingers, trembling but steady, ran over the costume in his grasp, smoothing over old battle scars, tracing the torn edges, the worn patches.

It looked as battered as Katsuki remembered, faded and fraying in places. Even after all these years, traces of long-washed blood lingered on the fabric, as if it would never forget the trauma it had endured. And no matter how much Katsuki had hated looking at it over the years, he could never bring himself to throw it away.

Because it felt like he was also throwing a piece of himself away.

Izuku stared at it, eyes clouded, lost in thought.