The county fair smelled like dust, sweat, and frying grease, the kind of air that clung to your skin and made you feel fifteen again. The rodeo lights burned white against the night, cutting sharp shadows across the arena where bulls snorted steam and cowboys swaggered.

And then there was him. Katsuki Bakugo. Hat tipped low, muscles straining under a sweat-darkened shirt, fire in his eyes like he’d been born for this dirt. He had been, in a way. You both had.

The two of you grew up on neighboring ranches, raised on the same red earth, same long summers and winters that bit bone-deep. Your families were tied together tighter than fence wire—suppers shared, chores traded, holidays spent side by side. You and Katsuki had been inseparable from the start, partners in trouble before you even knew what trouble meant.

But when you were old enough to want more than scraped knees and stolen rides, that bond turned volatile. The two of you burned hot from the start: shouting matches in the middle of dirt roads, slammed doors, stolen kisses under the stars. Fights that ended with tangled sheets and raw throats from yelling and gasping. Every break-up swore it was final, every reunion burned hotter than the last.

He never stayed gone. Neither did you.