Chapter Text
The click of the central lock was the starting gun for a daily marathon of misery.
Izuku Midoriya yanked open the passenger door of the silver sedan and slid into the seat, the familiar, worn leather a cruel reminder of happier times. She slammed the door with a little more force than necessary, the sound echoing in the tense silence of the garage.
Katsuki Bakugou, already in the driver's seat, didn't even flinch. He just kept his eyes fixed forward, his knuckles white on the steering wheel
"You're late," he grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated right through her bones.
"My lecture ran over," Izuku replied, her voice clipped and tight. She didn't look at him, instead focusing on meticulously buckling her seatbelt, the click sounding like a tiny, final nail in the coffin of their relationship.
"Bullshit. You stopped for coffee, I can smell it on you," he accused, finally turning his head to glare at her. His crimson eyes, once the source of a warmth that could melt her resolve, were now just chips of ice.
"And what if I did? It's a free country, last I checked," she shot back, staring straight ahead at the concrete wall of the parking garage"Or did you revoke my rights to caffeine along with my key to the apartment?"
He let out a harsh, humorless laugh "Don't start, Deku, not today."
"I didn't start anything, you did, with your baseless accusations."
He threw the car into reverse, the tires screeching in protest as he backed out of the spot with a jerky, aggressive motion. "Baseless? You're late every fucking day and you always smell like that cheap vanilla flavored crap."
"It's not cheap, it's artisan," she mumbled, sinking lower into her seat.
She knew this was a mistake.
This whole arrangement was a mistake.
A 6 month old mistake that they were legally and financially entangled in.
They had bought the car together, 3 months before they broke up.
It was supposed to be their car, the symbol of their next step. A sensible, reliable sedan for their sensible, adult future. Then the future had imploded. Not in a fiery explosion of cheating or betrayal, but in a slow, agonizing collapse of exhaustion, miscommunication, and arguments that went in circles until they were both too tired to even fight anymore.
The breakup was a quiet, mutual surrender.
But the car… the car remained.
A 50/50, joint owned, inescapable monument to their failure.
So now, three months later, they still had to do this. Every morning, he picked her up from her tiny new apartment. Every evening, he dropped her off. They had schedules that theoretically should have allowed them to avoid each other, he worked mornings at his auto shop, she had afternoon classes at the university but somehow, they always ended up needing the car at the same time.
Or, at least, that's what they told themselves. Neither of them was willing to admit the truth, that they subconsciously structured their lives around these 20 minute car rides.
The first few weeks had been excruciating. A silence so thick and heavy you could choke on it. They had a list of unspoken rules, a fragile truce built on denial.
Rule 1: No talking about the breakup.
Rule 2: No emotional conversations in the car.
Rule 3: No "accidental" touching.
Rule 4: No pretending things are normal.
They broke them all, constantly.
Today, the silence was punctuated by the aggressive tap of Katsuki's fingers on the steering wheel and the soft, almost inaudible sound of Izuku chewing on her bottom lip. The city blurred past the windows, a smear of gray and color.
"Can you turn the music down?" Izuku asked, her voice tight "It's giving me a headache."
Katsuki's rock station was playing at a volume that was clearly intended to drown out thought "No, It's my car, my music."
"It's our car Katsuki. I paid for half of that sound system," she retorted, her frustration bubbling over "And I have an online exam in an hour, I can't study with you screaming in my ear."
"Then you should have left earlier," he shot back, but he did turn the volume down, just a notch. It was a tiny concession, a crack in his armor of indifference.
She didn't say thank you. That was another unspoken rule. It implied you owed something, and they were done owing each other anything.
She pulled a textbook out of her bag, propping it open on her lap. She tried to focus on the words, on the intricate diagrams of cellular mitosis, but all she could feel was the heat radiating from him, all she could smell was the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with motor oil and the faint, sharp tang of his sweat. It was a scent that used to feel like home.
Now it just felt like a ghost.
She felt his gaze on her. She didn't have to look up to know. She could feel it like a physical touch, a prickling sensation on the side of her face. She ignored it, turning a page with a sharp rustle of paper.
"Still studying that biology crap?" he asked, his voice a low grumble.
"It's 'crap' that's going to get me into medical school," she said, not looking up.
"Right, Doctor Deku," he scoffed, but there was no real bite to it. It was their old dance, the familiar rhythm of their banter, and it hurt more than any angry words could.
They stopped at a red light, the car plunging into a tense, expectant silence.
Izuku risked a glance at him. His profile was sharp, illuminated by the morning sun.
He looked tired. There were dark circles under his eyes that she hadn't noticed before. His jaw was tight with a tension that seemed permanent now. A wave of something sharp and painful washed over her, a mixture of pity and longing and the gut wrenching ache of missing him.
She quickly looked away, focusing back on her textbook, but the words were just meaningless squiggles now.
Her mind falling back on their beautiful yet painful memories to remember.
--
They soon arrived at her apartment.
She shoved the door open and practically fell out onto the sidewalk, not even bothering to close it gently. She slammed it shut, the sound echoing her own internal chaos. She didn't look back. She couldn't. She just walked, her head held high, her back ramrod straight, and forced herself not to run until she was safely inside the building's lobby, her back pressed against the cool glass of the inner door, her breath coming in ragged, silent sobs.
In the car, Katsuki didn't move. He just sat there, staring at the closed door to her apartment building. His hands were clenched so tightly on the steering wheel that his knuckles were bone white. He watched the lobby, halfexpecting, half dreading to see her small frame appear at a window.
She didn't.
He sat there for five full minutes, the engine idling, a war raging behind his eyes.
He could still smell her, the faint, sweet scent of her vanilla coffee mixing with the floral scent of her shampoo. He could still see the glistening track of that single tear she'd tried to hide. He could still feel the phantom weight of her gaze on him.
"Fuck," he snarled, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. The horn blared, a short, angry sound in the quiet street.
He finally threw the car into drive, peeling away from the curb with a screech of tires. He drove. He drove aimlessly, taking back roads and cutting through neighborhoods he didn't know, the radio blasting a deafening, angry wall of sound. He was trying to outrun her voice, her face, the memory of her smile.
It didn't work. Nothing worked.
He ended up at a shitty diner on the edge of town, a place they used to go to after late night study sessions. He sat in a cracked vinyl booth, nursing a cup of black coffee that tasted like ash, and stared out at the rain slicked street.
The waitress, a bored woman with tired eyes, refilled his cup without a word.
He thought about her hoodie he still have. It was balled up in the back of his closet, under a stack of old t shirts. He'd found it a week after she'd moved out, tangled in the bedsheets he hadn't had the heart to wash.
He should have thrown it away.
He should have burned it.
Instead, he'd shoved it in a dark corner, a secret he kept from himself. He told himself it was just a piece of clothing. But he knew it was a lifeline. A tangible piece of her that he couldn't let go of.
He thought about the car. This fucking car.
He'd suggested selling it, splitting the cash, and being done with it. She'd agreed, of course. But then they'd looked at the numbers, the payoff amount was more than the car was worth. They were upside down on it.
Trapped.
And a small, treacherous part of him had been relieved. A part of him he hated with every fiber of his being.
His phone buzzed on the table. A text from Kirishima.
{Bro, you coming in today? Denki's about to set the lift on fire again}
Katsuki typed back a quick, curt reply.
{Be there in 20.}
He downed the rest of his coffee, threw some cash on the table, and walked out into the drizzling rain. He got back in the car, the passenger seat still holding the faint imprint of her presence. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, and told himself that tomorrow would be different.
Tomorrow, he would be colder. More distant. He would follow the rules.
He knew he was lying to himself.
--
The next morning, the universe decided to test Katsuki’s resolve in the cruelest way possible.
He was parked outside her building, engine idling, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the steering wheel. He was two minutes early. He was always early. It was a point of pride, a way of maintaining control in a situation that was utterly out of his control.
He stared at her apartment window, a dark square in the early morning light. She was late. Of course, she was late.
He was just about to lay on the horn, a short, sharp blast of his annoyance, when the front door of the building flew open.
Izuku came sprinting out, a frantic, disheveled mess. She was wearing a simple skirt and a blouse, her hair still damp and pulled into a messy bun. In one hand she clutched her oversized tote bag, and in the other, a small makeup bag.
She fumbled with her keys, nearly dropping them twice before finally managing to yank the passenger door open.
"I'm so sorry! I'm so, so sorry!" she gasped, practically throwing herself into the seat and slamming the door "My alarm didn't go off, and I-" she broke off, already unscrewing a tube of mascara and propping a small compact mirror on the dashboard.
Katsuki just stared, his jaw tight. He watched as she leaned towards the mirror, her lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration, her hand shaking slightly as she brought the wand to her lashes.
The sight was so familiar, so painfully domestic, it was like a punch to the gut. He used to watch her do this every morning, while he made coffee. He'd always tease her about taking forever, and she'd always jab him in the ribs with her elbow.
"Seatbelt," he gritted out, the word clipped and harsh.
"Right, sorry," she mumbled, not looking away from her reflection. She fumbled for the belt with one hand, her other hand still holding the mascara wand precariously close to her eye.
He let out an aggravated sigh, the sound full of old, worn-out frustration. He threw the car into drive, pulling away from the curb with more force than necessary, intending to jolt her, to annoy her, to do something to break through the casual intimacy of her morning routine.
He took the first corner fast, the tires groaning in protest. He braked hard at the next stop sign. He was aiming for discomfort, a petty revenge for the way she was invading his space, his car, his memories.
But then he glanced over.
She was trying to apply eyeliner. Her hand was braced against the dashboard, but the jerky motion of the car was making it impossible. A dark, wobbly line was now extending from the corner of her eye, making her look like a sad, exhausted raccoon. She let out a tiny, frustrated whimper, her shoulders slumping in defeat.
And just like that, his anger evaporated, replaced by a wave of something that felt suspiciously like guilt.
He hated that sound. He hated knowing he was the cause of it.
Without a word, he eased his foot off the accelerator. His grip on the steering wheel loosened. He stopped driving like a man possessed and started driving like… well, like he used to when she was putting on makeup in the car.
He slowed down, his movements becoming deliberate, smooth. He took the next turn with a gentle glide. He saw a pothole coming up, a nasty one he usually enjoyed hitting with a satisfying thud and he swerved to avoid it with a careful precision that felt foreign and yet deeply ingrained.
Izuku noticed immediately. She froze, the eyeliner pencil hovering an inch from her face. She slowly lowered her hand and turned to look at him, her expression a mixture of confusion and suspicion.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice quiet.
He kept his eyes fixed on the road "Driving," he grunted "What does it look like?"
"You're… being careful."
"The roads are shit," he said, a weak, flimsy excuse "Don't need to fuck up the suspension."
She didn't say anything else. She just watched him for a moment longer, her gaze searching his profile. He refused to look at her, focusing on the road ahead as if his life depended on it.
Finally, she turned back to her mirror. With a new, steady hand, she finished her eyeliner, then her mascara, then a quick swipe of lip gloss.
The rest of the drive was silent. But it wasn't the usual tense, angry silence. It was something else. Something softer. Something heavier. The only sounds were the soft click of her makeup containers closing and the gentle hum of the engine.
He pulled up to the curb in front of the university, putting the car in park. She gathered her things, stuffing her makeup bag back into her tote. She opened the door, then paused, one foot on the pavement.
She didn't look at him. She just kept her gaze fixed on the building in front of them.
"Thanks," she said, her voice so quiet he almost didn't hear it.
Then she was gone, shutting the door gently behind her and disappearing into the stream of students.
Katsuki sat there for a long time, his hands still on the wheel. He watched her walk away, his heart a heavy, useless stone in his chest. He hadn't meant to do it.
He hadn't meant to care.
But he did.
And as he sat there, alone in the car that still smelled faintly of her vanilla perfume, he knew he was completely and utterly fucked.
Izuku pushed through the heavy glass doors of the university's main science building, the cool air a welcome relief against the heat flushing her cheeks. Her mind was still reeling, replaying the silent, careful drive. The way he’d slowed down for the bump in the road. The way his knuckles had gone from bone white to relaxed on the steering wheel. The quiet, weighted "thanks" she'd thrown over her shoulder.
It was a truce. A fragile, terrifying truce.
"Izuku! Over here!"
Ochako Uraraka's bright, cheerful voice cut through her thoughts. She was waving from a plush armchair in the corner of the campus coffee shop, a steaming latte already in front of her and another waiting on the table.
Izuku forced a smile that felt more like a grimace and wove her way through the tables, sinking into the opposite chair with a weary sigh.
"You look like you wrestled a bear and lost," Ochako said, her brow furrowed with concern as she pushed the latte towards Izuku. "Rough morning?"
"You have no idea," Izuku mumbled, wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic mug. She took a long sip, hoping the caffeine would magically unknot the tension in her shoulders.
Ochako watched her, her big brown eyes sharp and knowing. She was Izuku's best friend, the one person who knew the full, sordid story of the breakup and the car.
"Let me guess," she said, tapping a manicured nail on the table "The 'We Already Broke Up But We Still Share a Car' saga continues?"
Izuku just groaned and let her head fall back against the chair. "It's getting worse, Ochako. Or maybe better? I don't know anymore. It's just… more."
"What happened? Did he finally snap and drive you into a ditch?" Ochako asked, only half joking.
"No," Izuku said, lifting her head "The opposite. I was late, woke up late, had to do my makeup in the car. You know how he gets, drives like a maniac to punish me."
Ochako nodded, swirling the foam in her cup "Classic Katsuki power move."
"At first, yeah. He was jerking me all over the place," Izuku recounted, her gaze drifting to the window, to the street where the silver sedan had just disappeared "I was trying to put on eyeliner and I almost poked my eye out. I made this… frustrated noise, and I just… gave up."
She paused, taking another sip of her latte. "And then he just… stopped. He slowed way down. Started driving like a little old lady, all careful and smooth. He even swerved to miss a pothole he usually tries to aim for."
Ochako's eyes widened, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Wait. For real? He did the 'gentle drive'?"
"That's what I'm saying!" Izuku exclaimed, her voice rising with a frantic energy. "It was so… intimate. And not in a good way! In a 'we-know-each-other's-habits-so-well-we-can't-escape-it' way. It's like my body is still programmed to expect it from him, and his is programmed to give it."
"Okay," Ochako said, leaning forward, her expression turning serious "But is that a bad thing? I mean, yeah, it's complicated as hell, but he's still looking out for you. In his own grumpy, emotionally stunted way."
"That's the problem!" Izuku cried, dropping her voice to a harsh whisper "I don't want him to look out for me! I want him to be the asshole ex I'm supposed to be getting over! I want to hate him! It would be so much easier if he would just be a dick all the time. But then he does things like… like drive carefully so I don't mess up my eyeliner."
Ochako reached across the table and put her hand over Izuku's. "Izuku, you guys never stopped being you. You just added a breakup to it. You can't erase years of knowing someone's every tell. He knows you're about to cry before you do, and you know he's about to blow his top before he clenches his fists."
"I know," Izuku sighed, slumping in her chair.
"But this morning… he was just so… Kacchan. The Kacchan I fell in love with, not the Kacchan I broke up with. And it's messing with my head."
"So what's the end game here?" Ochako asked gently. "Are you guys just going to drive together until the car falls apart? Or until one of you does?"
"I don't know," Izuku admitted, her voice small. "Selling it is a financial nightmare. We're stuck. And every day, it feels less like a punishment and more like… a test. And I'm terrified I'm going to fail."
Ochako squeezed her hand. "Or maybe you're terrified you're going to pass."
"...."
.