Chapter Text
Katsuki Bakugo has the build of a God. Not that I would ever tell him that. No, if anything, I’d express that appreciation through…other means. Like right now.
He’s above me, close, heat rolling off him like he’s seconds away from snapping. One hand is buried in my hair, grip firm, possessive, like he’s the one in control here. Which, knowing him, he’d die on that hill.
“Tch, don’t slow down.” Of course he’d say that. Like he’s not the one who’s breathing just hitched or whose shoulders didn’t just tighten the second I moved. Like I didn’t feel it. His abs tense under my hands, sharp and reactive. Every muscle gives him away no matter how hard he tries to lock himself down. His blond hair sticks slightly to his forehead. He’s holding it together through sheer force of will, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed like this is some kind of competition he refuses to lose. Which, unfortunately for him, it is. And I plan on winning.
“You trying to piss me off or something?” His voice comes out rougher this time. Lower. Strained. It betrays him more than anything else. Because he is affected. He just hates that I can tell.
His grip tightens in warning, like he’s daring me to push further, like he’s not already right there, teetering on the edge of losing that control he’s so obsessed with. Acting untouchable, like nothing gets to him. Except his breathing’s uneven now. His head tips back, just slightly, before he catches himself, clicking his tongue in irritation like his own body just offended him.
“Don’t get cocky.” I would laugh. But my mouth is currently…occupied. I know exactly how this goes. I know the second he slips, the second he lets himself react, he’s going to pretend it never happened. Like he didn’t feel a thing. Like this didn’t get to him.
Like I didn’t get to him.
His fingers tighten again. A sharp inhale breaks through. There it is. My reward. The moment I’ve been waiting for.
He’s about to—
“It’s time to wake up.”
…what?
“It’s time? To wake up?” There’s a bomb going off directly in my ear. My eyes snap open.
Ceiling.
Room.
Reality.
Oh. Oh no. That was a dream. About Katsuki Bakugo. Oh, hell no. What the fuck? No. No no no no no. Absolutely not. Hanako, you’ve officially lost your goddamn mind. Pack it up. Turn yourself in. This is the end.
That did not happen. My brain is defective. Yes. That’s it. We’re going with that. A glitch. A bug. A tragic system error. We forget. We move on. We bury this so deep it never sees the light of day again. No one will ever know because I will not be telling a single soul.
Haha.
Hahahaha.
God, I’m never sleeping again.
Unfortunately, my completely reasonable, not at all unhinged spiral over a dream I absolutely did not have has made me late for college. Fantastic.
I basically throw on the first thing my eyes land on. No coordination. No thoughts. Just instinct. Survival.
Shirt? Good enough.
Pants? Acceptable.
Hair? Wrestled into the tightest bun known to mankind. Pulled so hard it might qualify as a facelift.
Face? Scrubbed.
Teeth? Brushed with the urgency of someone trying to erase their past sins. Which to be fair, I was.
Bag? Somewhere on my shoulders.
Shoes? On the correct feet.
That’s all that matters. I’m out the door before my brain can betray me again.
That evil woman will not let it slide if I show up late. Or worse, don’t show up at all.
“I blame you Katsuki Bakugo,” I mutter under my breath, half-sprinting across campus like my GPA depends on it. “Wait ‘til I get my hands on you—”
“…”
I nearly trip over my own foot. Immediately regretting that phrasing. Nope. Not thinking about that. Not today. Not ever again. We are not revisiting the events of last night because they did not happen. They are fictional. Fabricated. A lie created by a deeply disturbed subconscious.
We are moving on.
Immediately.
Forever.
I was not, in fact, moving on.
I was suffering. Deeply. Spiritually. Academically.
That lecture felt like psychological warfare. Not because the content was hard, but because the woman teaching it had this uncanny ability to look directly into your soul and judge you for every bad decision you’ve ever made. Including, and I was convinced, about dreams you did not have. I sat there the entire time back stiff, eyes forward, spiritually sweating. Because I was convinced she knew. At any moment she would pause mid sentence, point at me and go, "You. You had a morally questionable dream this morning. Leave.”
Did that happen? No. Did I believe it could? Absolutely.
By the time the lecture ended, I felt like I had survived something. Barely. I practically collapsed into the cafe chair across from my good friend, who took one look at me over her coffee and didn’t even hesitate.
“Girl,” she says flatly, ”you look absolutely trashed.” You know what? Fair.
“Bestie,” I groan, dragging my hands down my face, "you don’t even know the half of it.” I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I really, really should have. But no. I lean in. Lower my voice and proceed to absolutely ruin my own life. I told her everything. Well, not everything everything. I have dignity. Barely. But… enough. And once I was finished, she choked.
Actually choked.
Nearly spat her coffee across the table, coughing like I’d just confessed a crime.
“OH MY GOD—“ she wheezed, clutching her chest. “YOU—BAKUGO—ARE YOU SERIOUS?”
“SHHH!” I hissed, trying to crawl out of my own skin. “Keep your voice down. I’m begging you.” She was still laughing. Actually laughing. I stared at her.
Traitor.
After a full minute of taking the fun out of my misery, she finally calmed down, wiping her eyes.
“So,” she said, still grinning, ”what are you going to do?”
“Do?” I repeated, horrified. “I’m doing absolutely nothing. My dream shall die with you.”
“Wow. Tragic.”
“Necessary.” She took a sip of her coffee, far too calm.
“You know,” she said casually, ”Science says when you have a dream like that about someone, you need to get them out of your system or it’ll drive you crazy.” I froze.
“Stop bullshitting, science does not say that.” Please don’t let science say that. Because otherwise, I have a problem. A very specific, very explosive problem with anger issues and perfect abs. She just shrugged, clearly enjoying my suffering. I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling like it might offer me a way out of this situation.
Because the worst part? I couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t affecting me. Every time I tried to push that stupid dream away, it came right back. Clear as day. Like my brain had decided to betray me personally. And now? Now I had to go about my day like everything was normal. Like I wasn’t one accidental encounter from completely short-circuiting. And the real problem? I see Katsuki Bakugo all the time. Different course, sure. But I see him everywhere. On campus. At parties. At the agency we both work at. Close enough to notice. Close enough to talk to. Close enough to—
Nope. Shutting that down immediately. I dropped my head onto the table with a soft thud.
“I need to get over this,” I muttered. Fast. Before whatever this is that I’m feeling turns into something worse.
Something real.
A wise man once said that releasing your frustrations in the gym is a good form of healing. Or maybe I made that up to cope. Either way it’s working. Kind of. At some point during the day, I came to a very mature, very rational conclusion. Shirtless, sex-god Bakugo was going to be living in my head rent-free for the foreseeable future. Until I find a way to evict him. Legally. Respectfully. Violently, if necessary. But I digress.
The burn in my muscles is grounding. Familiar. Unlike the absolute psychological warfare my brain put me through this morning. I focus on the rhythm. Lift, breathe, lower. Again. Again. Again. See? Healing. Growth. Maturity. I am evolving. This dream? A random phenomenon. A harmless Bakugo fanservice. Yes. Acceptance is the path to healing.
Because of how my quirk works and the kind of hero I want to be, I never allow myself to skip leg day. Today: hip thrusts. Because we build strength and character in this house. Everything is fine. Everything is under control—
That is until I feel a presence. I don’t even look at first. I don’t need to. I feel it. The shift in the atmosphere. Like a disturbance in the force. Speak of the devil.
Katsuki Bakugo walks in. Of course he does. Of course he decides to come to the gym on the same day at the same time. Dear Universe, what did I do to deserve this level of targeted harassment?
It’s fine. I’m fine. We’ve reached acceptance, remember? Just don’t look. Keep working out. Be normal. Be cool. Be someone who has not recently had a deeply inappropriate dream about him.
He hasn’t noticed me, which, in itself, is a small win. Headphones in, focused. Scanning the room like he owns it. His gaze moves in sharp, deliberate sweeps. Quick, assessing. Like he’s cataloguing everything. Everyone. The confidence and ego I wish to have. There’s that look about him that he gets when he wants a specific equipment. His jaw shifts slightly, a subtle clench, like impatience sitting just under the surface. A slow, simmering glare. And like clockwork, someone using the rack decides they’re done with their entire fitness journey and leaves immediately. I almost snort. Bakugo doesn’t even react, just steps forward like the outcome was inevitable. Okay, that part never gets old.
Anyway I mind my business. I get back to my set.
Lift.
Breathe.
Lower.
Do not look. Do not—
I sense his movements. And of course he moves closer. One bench between us. Close enough that I can hear the faint shift of his breathing between reps.
One. Bench.
That’s fine. That’s manageable. That’s until I realise I’ve been watching him through the mirror the whole time. Which means I’ll obviously see what he’s doing next. Great.
The mirror is the real traitor here.
He grabs a pair of dumbbells. His fingers flex once around the handles before lifting, like he’s grounding himself. Leans back on his bench. Lifts them smoothly, controlled, bringing them up near his shoulders. Pressing. Lowering. Repeating. Controlled. Precise. Not a single wasted movement. And I am simply observing, from a distance, through the mirror. Respectfully. Scientifically. His arms flex with each rep. Muscles tightening, releasing, tightening again.
God.
No.
Nope.
Abort.
My core feels… off. I should be grateful this humiliation remains internal.
“This is fine,” I whisper under my breath, staring very intently at the ceiling now. “It’s just stress. Very normal. Absolutely no psychological implications whatsoever.” Yes. Exactly. Schoolwork. Academic pressure. That’s what this is. Bakugo just happens to be a very physically well built individual. That I am noticing. In a completely neutral way.
I go back to my set. Again. What number was I even on again?
Hip thrust.
Up.
Hold.
Down.
Again.
My breathing is heavier now and I am painfully aware of everything. The music. The heat. Him. And I make the unfortunate mistake of glancing at the mirror again. Just for a second. Just—
He’s already looking at me. Just… there. Like he noticed a while ago and didn’t bother looking away. Caught. Red-handed.
His brow twitches. Not confused. Not surprised. Just…aware. A silent call out.
Oh my god.
I snap my gaze away so fast I’m surprised I didn’t get whiplash. I swear I hear the faintest exhale from his direction. Not quite a laugh. Not quite anything. I suddenly find the floor fascinating.
Wow. Floors.
Incredible.
Love what they’ve done with it.
Did he see me looking?
He definitely saw me looking.
He absolutely saw me looking.
Kill me now.
I try to recover. I may be losing cognitive function around Bakugo, but I still have decorum. Maintain composure. I am a grown woman. A hero-in-training. I will not be defeated by the likes of Katsuki Bakugo.
I sense movement from his direction. Again. Slower this time. Deliberate. Mirror. Why did I look again?
He hooks his fingers under the hem of his shirt and pulls it off in one smooth motion, like it’s nothing. Like he’s not abusing the fact that he looks like that. Oh my god. He took it off. He doesn’t even look at me while doing it, which somehow makes it worse. My dream truly didn’t do him any justice. At all. Not even close. Because this is illegal. Illegal. There should be laws. I feel like I need to call someone.
And just like that I remember everything I was desperately trying to forget. Vivid. Clear. Uninvited.
My brain: Hey girl, remember this? Let’s replay it in HD.
I recall his face just before he was about to let go of all his personal restraints to—
And suddenly my knees go weak. And the remaining slivers of my dignity go with my knees.
“Eek!” I end up sliding straight off the bench. The barbell clatters down with me in the most dramatic, attention-grabbing way possible.
Silence. Even the weights nearby seem to pause mid-clank.
Gym wide silence.
Just what I needed today.
I freeze on the floor. Maybe if I don’t move I’ll disappear. That’s how this works, right?
“Are you…alright?” an unknown individual interrupts my silent meltdown. I gather all the strength within my body to get up. But as I do I notice Bakugo is fully staring at me now. Dumbbell still in one hand, unmoving. Like I’ve just interrupted his entire existence. Wearing a ‘how dare you interrupt my workout’ expression.’ His eyes narrow slightly, not annoyed exactly. Assessing. One eyebrow raised as if to say ‘Well?’ Like he’s waiting to see what I do next.
I nod at the guy who asked the question.
“I’m fantastic. Never better. Peak condition.” Bakugo’s grip tightens around the dumbbell, just slightly. I scramble up, avoiding Bakugo’s piercing gaze with the precision of someone dodging sniper fire. I clean up my weights like a responsible adult because I have standards. Even in humiliation. But I can still feel his eyes on me the entire time. Unmoving. Unhelpful. Extremely present.
And then, I’m gone. Out the door. I don’t look back. I refuse to confirm whether he’s still watching. Possibly assisted by my quirk. No witnesses. No evidence. No further questions.
I deserve a cold shower. And possibly a new identity.
I spent so long under the shower that my body was one bad decision away from turning blue. Which, in hindsight, might’ve been preferable to facing society again. But unfortunately, I had hero work later, and getting hypothermia over a gym incident was not how I wanted to go out. So. I stepped out. Dried off. Got dressed. Reassembled my dignity piece by fragile piece. And finally, decided I was ready to face the world again.
I opened the bathroom door. And immediately almost died. Because standing right outside, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, biceps flexed (yes, that’s what I notice first, I hate myself), an unimpressed look carved into his face was Katsuki Bakugo. The bane of my existence.
Of course. Because why would today show me any mercy?
“What do you want?” I blurt out, way too fast, way too defensive. Smooth. Real smooth. He didn’t answer straight away. Just looked at me. Slow. Deliberate. His eyes drag over my face like he’s trying to piece something together. His jaw shifts, just slightly. Not annoyed. Not yet. Thinking. Like I don’t make sense. And I did not like that. Not one bit.
“You’re acting weird.” Straight to the point. No build up. No mercy.
“I’m always weird,” I shot back instantly. “It’s part of my charm.” Nothing. Not even a twitch. His gaze doesn’t move. Doesn’t soften. If anything, it sharpens like he’s filtering out the bullshit in real time. So he’s not buying that. Great.
“Not like this.” Oh. So there are levels. Good to know I’ve unlocked a new, more concerning tier. I shift my weight, crossing my arms, like that would somehow shield me from his line of sight. It did not.
“Maybe I’ve evolved.”
“You’ve definitely something,” he muttered. His lip twitches faintly after, like the sentence almost came out harsher and he reined it in at the last second. And then he pushes off the wall. I immediately clock it. The movement. The intent. The problem. He moves slow. Unhurried. Shoulders loose, but his eyes never leave me. Like he already knows I’m not going anywhere. Like he’s already decided this ends with me cornered. And before I can even process it, he steps in. Close. Too close. His arm comes up, bracing against the doorframe beside my head. Not slamming. Not aggressive. Just…there. Blocking. Cutting off my exit like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Oh. Oh this was going to be a problem. He isn’t touching me. Doesn’t need to. But my body reacts anyway.
The space between us collapses. Heat rolls off him, close enough that I can feel it against my skin. My back presses flat against the door like maybe, maybe, I can phase through solid wood if I try hard enough.
I gulp. Loud. Humiliating. “If that’s what you’re calling your slip off a bench.” I freeze. Oh. So we’re bringing that up.
“That was a strategic dismount,” I say carefully. “Very advanced technique. You wouldn’t get it.”
“Tch.” His eyes flick down, quick, sharp like he’s replaying it. “Looked like you ate shit—“
“I did not—“
“You did.”
“I slipped.”
“You flailed.”
“I did not flail—“
“You made a noise.” His brow lifts slightly on that. Like he’s waiting for me to deny it. Okay, yes. I did make a noise. And no we’re not revisiting that. He leans in, just slightly. Not enough to touch. But enough. Enough that my thighs press together before I can stop myself. Enough that my breath stutters. This feels way too intimate.
“What’s wrong with you?” YOU. YOU’RE WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME.
“I’m perfectly fine,” I say, far too quickly “Never been better. Thriving, actually.”
“Yeah?” His voice doesn’t soften, it drops. Lower. Closer. He tilts his head just slightly, eyes narrowing like he’s zeroing in on something specific. “Then why the hell were you staring?” My soul leaves my body. He saw. Of course he saw. Why wouldn’t he see? I push at him, light, but enough to get some space. Because if I don’t, I am going to short-circuit. Not that it helps much. He barely shifts, just enough to allow it.
“I—what?” I laugh. It comes out wrong. Too high. Too fast. “I wasn’t staring.” His eyebrow lifts again. Unimpressed. Unconvinced.
He shifts. Closer. Not by much. Just a fraction. But it’s intentional. Deliberate. His head dips slightly, just enough that I can feel his breath, not quite on my skin, but close enough that my brain thinks it is. Like he’s testing distance. Testing me. My entire body locks up.
“Don’t lie,” he says, quieter now. Not softer. Just..closer. His eyes flick down to my mouth for half a second. Then back up. Waiting. Watching. Like he’s measuring the reaction. And I—
I forget how to function.
“I’m not!” I manage, voice just a little too tight. His gaze lingers. A beat too long. Like he’s confirming something. Then—
“Tch.” He leans back. Just enough to break it. Like he got what he wanted. “I saw you gawking.” Oh my god. End me. Immediately.
“I was not staring,” I insist, attempting dignity and achieving absolutely none of it. “I was…observing. There’s a difference.”
“Observing what?” His gaze doesn’t leave mine. Not even for a second. Like he already knows the answer and is just waiting to watch me crash. Your abs. Your arms. The way you—
NO. STOP.
“Your technique. As a hero. Very…uh…educational,” I blurt. Silence. His eyes narrow. Then flick, briefly, down my body. Then back up.
“You’re full of shit.” I gasp. Offended.
“Wow. I am being open and honest right now—“
“You just said you weren’t staring.”
“I said observing. Keep up.” He stares at me. Long enough that my brain starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. Like replaying my dream. Frame by frame. In high definition.
“Tch,” he clicks his tongue and straightens, arm dropping from the doorframe. The space opens instantly. “Whatever.” There’s a pause, just half a second. Like he almost says something else. But then he doesn’t. “Just don’t screw up later.” Ah. There it is. Safe ground. A normal conversation.
I scoff, relief flooding in me way too fast. “Please. I’m a professional.”
“Yeah?” he says, already turning away. His shoulders roll once, casual, but there’s tension still sitting underneath it. “Then don’t get in my way.”
“I won’t.”
“And fix whatever the hell this is.” His hand gestures vaguely in my direction without even looking back. And just like that, he walks off. Like he didn’t just shave off five years of my lifespan. I made the mistake of watching him leave. Back muscles shifting under his shirt. I stand there, still pressed against the bathroom door. Frozen. Heart racing. Face burning. Brain…unfortunately, fully operational again.
“Somebody sedate me,” I whisper to absolutely no one.
Believe when I say I cannot wait for this day to be over. Back in my first year, I enjoyed working for Best Jeanist. It felt like validation. He said he was impressed with my performance at the Sports Festival, and he was looking forward to my growth. Which, at the time, felt like my life peaking in a neat, respectable, and, mostly, non-embarrassing way.
That was until Best Jeanist took me on for Hero Study and I met Katsuki Bakugo. Who was also contracted at the agency. And us “not getting along” was an understatement of the century. Fast-forward a few years, and somehow we’re both still here as part-time sidekicks under Best Jeanist, juggling our respective programs. Bakugo, in the Advanced Hero Track, building towards his becoming the number One Hero and running his own agency. Me, on the other hand, surviving my course.
We’ve…calmed down. Slightly. To put it nicely. Ignoring how my body has been reacting to him lately.
After our first encounter turned into a full-on spar, Best Jeanist made it his personal mission to keep us as far apart as possible. By some miracle, we were never assigned to patrol together. Our interactions stayed limited to passing comments, competition over arrest counts, and the occasional attempt to verbally annihilate each other. It worked.
Until today.
“Dynamight, Mistveil. You’ll be patrolling together this evening.” Best Jeanist announces when we arrived. Of course we are. There’s a villain loose, so I get it, resources stretched, all hands on deck.
But still. I should’ve called in sick. Faked my death. Transferred countries. Anything. Because being stuck with him today of all days. Ever since that dream.
No. We are not thinking about that.
“Try not to slow me down,” Bakugo mutters as we patrol. Ah. Good. Some things never change.
“You wish,” I retort automatically, folding my arms as we patrol. Normal response. Casual. Controlled. Not at all compensating for the fact that I cannot look at him for longer than half a second without remembering the way sweat dragged down his chest, slow and deliberate, like it knew exactly what it was doing.
We walk. In silence. Not peaceful silence. But the kind that hums with mutual irritation. Normally, I’d lean into it, poke at him, get a reaction, keep things grounded in our usual dynamic. But today, I am fighting for my life internally.
Don’t look at him.
Don’t think about how he leaned against the door frame, muscles flexing, when he cornered you.
Definitely don’t think about your dream.
“Mistface.”
“I’m focused,” I snap immediately, too fast.
“I didn’t say you weren’t.” Great. Get a grip, Hanako.
Thankfully, patrol is quiet. Some civilians wave, a few stop us for help. Bakugo handles it with his usual mix of efficiency and impatience. I keep my distance, nodding along, doing my job, pretending I am not hyper-aware of every movement he makes. I’m fine. I am so incredibly fine. The mission for today is simple on paper. A serial thief with a mind reading quirk. Annoying, but manageable. As long as you stay disciplined. Which is hypothetically something I can do. Probably.
“Can’t believe they haven’t caught this guy yet,” Bakugo scoffs beside me. “What a joke.”
“Yeah, well,” I mutter,”not everyone solves problems by blowing them up.”
“Tch.”
We’re halfway through patrol. Me, controlling my thoughts and him, grumbling about something every now and then. While, Bakugo goes off to help possibly the 10th civilian that day, I stop near a side street. I pretend to check my comms but really I’m just buying myself a second to breathe. My brain’s been too loud, too crowded, and I need—
Footsteps come up behind me. Heavy and deliberate. I am so accustomed to him I know he’s there.
“Oi.” I don’t turn.
“Yeah?’ I answer, keeping my tone flat. Casual. Unbothered. A masterclass in not losing my mind.
“Since when are you this quiet?” Of course nothing gets past him. Not like I can say ‘hey, I had an inappropriate dream about you and now my brain won’t function like a normal human being without imagining—.’
Do not finish that sentence.
I sigh, lowering my hand from my ear. “Since I’m on a mission and not interested in listening to you talk.”
“Bullshit.” There’s a sharp thud beside my head. I freeze. Not again. His palm hits the wall next to my head, hard, deliberate, close enough that I feel the impact through my spine. Close enough that it might as well be a cage. I can already feel the heat coming off him. Great. I’m going to die. Slowly, I turn my head. He’s right there. Too close. Crimson eyes narrowed, not in anger. Worse. He is focused. Observant. Like he’s already halfway through taking me apart and doesn’t like what he’s finding.
“You’ve been acting weird all day,” he says.
I scoff. “Yeah? And you’ve been insufferable all day. Nothing new.” His jaw ticks. But he doesn’t move. If anything, he leans in slightly. And I get hit with a wave of deja vu because we’ve already done this once today and I barely survived it the first time.
“You losing your edge or what?” He continues, voice lower now. There it is. Straight to the ego.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I snap, forcing a laugh that sounds almost believable. “Didn’t realise I needed to submit a full behavioural report to you.”
“Tch. Don’t play dumb.”
“I’m not—“
“You are.” Closer. There is absolutely no reason for him to be this close. This is unnecessary. Excessive. My thoughts trip and I’m back to that gym. To that cold shower. To that stupid dream. I need him out of my head.
“I’m fine,” I say sharper now. “You’re the one making it weird.”
“Then stop acting weird.”
“I’m not—“
“You are.” We’re just staring at each other now. This is normal. This is a normal, professional interaction between two coworkers who just don’t—
His gaze flicks, just briefly. And I hate that I notice. He looks down. Then back up. I hate what that does to me. A shiver runs down my spine, sharp and unwelcome. I hate how my body is so desperate for his attention. I hate the idea that if he touched me now I might melt.
He notices everything. Of course he does.
“You’re distracted,” he mutters, more to himself than me.
“I’m not distracted.”
“You are.
“Drop it.“ I cut us off before we loop again. “Why do you care?” I snap, a little too fast. Because that’s the real problem, isn’t it?
Silence.
That’s it, isn’t it. Because he shouldn’t care. We’re not friends. We don’t like each other. We don’t talk unless we have to. We compete, we argue, we exist in the same space out of necessity and nothing else. So why is he onto me twice in one day? Why won’t my body stop wanting what it shouldn’t?
His eyes narrow. “I don’t,” he says immediately. Too fast. Too flat. I know it’s a lie. I grin, because if I don’t lean into this, I’m going to combust on the spot.
“Wow. You sound very convincing.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.” The words hit the air and stay there. Wrong. That was the wrong thing to say. Why did I say that? Why did I look at his mouth when I said it? Why am I wondering what he tastes like?
There’s a pause. A real one this time. His eyes flick to my mouth. Then back up. Slow. Intentional. Like he’s checking something. Testing it. He leans in just a fraction more and the heat coming off him spikes, sharp and suffocating, like standing too close to something that might explode.
“You talk too much,” he mutters, which is contradictory to what he said when this conversation first started. But my breath catches.
“Then stop listening,” I shoot back, quieter now despite myself. And for a split second, neither of us moves. And I swear he’s going to do something. He’s going to close the distance, press me into this wall. And the worst part? I think I’d let him. That’s the problem. And as ashamed as I am to admit it, I think I want him to. So maybe Riko was right. I need to get him out of my system or these feelings will get the better of me.
But then the moment snaps.
“Hey! Stop! Somebody help!” Bakugo pulls back instantly, irritation flashing across his face like nothing just happened.
“Finally,” he clicks his tongue, already moving. I stay there for half a second longer than I should. Processing. Replaying that entire interaction against my will. What was I just about to do!? Then I force myself to move, activating Mist Step as I follow after him. Perfect. Just perfect. Because clearly what I needed today was that. I cut through the street faster than any physical form could manage.
There. Our target.
The thief was already running, erratic, unpredictable. We move in tandem, unspoken coordination built from years of competition. Bakugo closes the distance first, going in for a strike.
Misses. Of course. Mind reader.
“Annoying,” he clicks his tongue. No kidding. I clear my head, force everything out. No thoughts, no distractions. Just instinct. If he can’t read me, I might get the drop on him. I materialize my body hoping to knock him down.
The villain’s head snaps towards me. Oh. Before I can react, he lunges. Grabs me. Not strategic. Not tactical.
“Did you just—“ Rage hits instantly. I swing and he dodges, laughing.
“You disgusting perv!” Bakugo moves in again, blast heavy enough to rattle the street but our villain slips away like he saw it coming. Because he did. We reset, circling. This isn’t working.
“Mistveil here. We have eyes on the target,” I call in, breath tight.
“On route. Keep him busy,” comes the reply. Good. Because this is getting out of hand. The villain tilts his head, studying us. Then he smiles. Wrong. That smile is wrong.
“You two are interesting,” he hums. “You’ve got very loud thoughts.” My stomach drops. He better not—
I lock everything down. Walls up. Nothing gets through.
“Oh?” His expression shifts. Recognition. Amusement. Horror floods my system. He. Better. Not. He grins wider.
“Didn’t expect that,” he laughs. “Your dreams are loud. Messy. Hard to ignore. All that tension, and that’s where your head goes?” His grin widens. “About him?” There’s a pause, small but wrong.
“Shut up,” I snap, lunging. He dodges easily.
“No, this is good. This is really good. You wouldn’t want him hearing about those little—“
“Shut. Up.” I move before I can think. I don’t even notice Best Jeanist arriving on the scene. All I can think about is not letting him spill my secrets when Bakugo is right there. Heat, panic and the overwhelming need to end this immediately keeps me going.
“Mistveil, wait—“ Too late. Misty Fog. Mist floods the street. Too much. Too fast. I know I’m not supposed to use this until I can control it better. But I don’t care. I can’t allow him to utter another word. The world blurs. My presence fractures the fog. I am everywhere and nowhere at once. The villain hesitates. That’s all I need. I materialize just long enough to drive my fist straight into him with everything I have.
“Shut up!” Impact. He slams into the wall, crumpling. And the mist dissipates. And so do I. I’ve used up all my energy. My limbs feel heavy. I barely register hitting the ground. It’s over. No one heard anything. No one knows. A hand lands on my shoulder.
Ah. I’m dead.
“Mistveil.” That smile is never a good sign. Across, I see Bakugo staring at me. Not annoyed. Not bored. Locked in.
For the next hour, I was elegantly dismantled by Best Jeanist for using a move I was very clearly, very specifically told not to use until I could actually control it.
The negative implications of using Mist Fog is that it takes everything out of me. It drains my energy, my focus, and my control. My limbs go heavy, unresponsive, like they’re not mine anymore. Afterward, even walking becomes something I need help in. It’s the kind of move you save for emergencies. Which, in my opinion, salvaging my dignity absolutely qualified as. Best Jeanist didn’t think so.
Two hours later, feeling had just returned to my legs. Enough to walk. Barely. So I made the slow, humiliating trek home. Unfortunately, I wasn’t alone.
“You don’t have to follow me,” I mutter for what is probably the fifth time.
“Tch. Jeanist said to make sure you get home.” Of course. So now I have a walking explosion escorting me like I’m some kind of liability. We move at my pace. Which is slow. Painfully slow. I can feel him behind me, close enough that I’m tracking every step whether I want to or not. Heavy, grounded, impatient. There’s a heat to him too, even without looking. It presses at my back, constant, distracting. I don’t turn. I refuse to turn.
“I don’t need babysitting,” I say.
“Then walk faster.”
“I can’t.”
“Tch.” Silence. Thick and irritating. God, I should’ve just called a taxi. We walk another block before he finally speaks again.
“That was reckless.” I don’t stop. Just keep moving forward.
“Mhm.”
“Don’t ‘mhm’ me.” I wave a hand vaguely.
“I heard you.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.” I exhale slowly. I am too tired for this.
“Jeanist already gave me the full lecture,” I mutter. “You can skip your turn.”
“Not interested in lecturing you.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Another step. Another.
“You lost control.” Does he ever stop—
I turn, slower than I should, legs still protesting and immediately regret it. He’s closer than I expected. Not right up in my space like before. But close enough that I have to tilt my head slightly to look up at him. Close enough that I notice things I absolutely should not be noticing right now. The way his shoulders sit, broad, solid, still tense from the fight. The faint sheet of sweat at his collar. The way his chest rises, steady, controlled.
“What’s your point?” I ask flatly. Those crimson eyes lock onto mine, sharp as ever. He doesn’t look away. But I’ve outgrown feeling shy when I caught him looking at me. Now I stare back.
“You’re better than that,” he says, like it annoys him that you weren’t. That throws me more than if he’d just insulted me. I scoff, folding my arms even though it makes my shoulders ache.
“Wow. Didn’t realize you were keeping track.”
“Don’t need to,” he shoots back. “It was obvious.” His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s replaying it. Right. I just had to lose it in front of him.
“I handled it,” I say, sharper now.
“Yeah?” He steps closer. Not much. Just enough. Enough that I feel it again. That heat, that presence, that pressure. “By ignoring orders?”
“I got the job done. You’re just jealous I got one over you.” He clicks his tongue.
“You got lucky. Don’t confuse that with skill.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.” I am so done with this. Who does he think he is—
I turn too fast. My foot catches. This is it. This is how I die. Face first into pavement, dignity already buried six feet under. Except, I don’t hit the ground. Something solid catches me, fast and unyielding. Hands lock around my arms, steadying, stopping the fall before it fully happens. And everything stutters to a halt. For a second, I forget how to breathe. Not brushing past. Not incidental. Not like before. Holding me. His grip is tight, grounding. Heat seeps through the fabric where his hands press into me, sharp and immediate, like it’s burning straight through my skin. It’s not gentle. Not careful. Just there. Solid. Certain. Like I wasn’t going anywhere the second he got ahold of me. I look up. He’s already looking at me. Expression tight, irritated, like this entire situation is personally offensive but there’s something else under it. Something sharper. Focused in a way that makes my chest feel strange. For a split second, neither of us moves. Then his grip shifts. One arm slides behind my back. The other hooks under my legs. There’s a pause. Barely a second. Like he’s deciding something. And then he lifts me. Just picks me like it’s nothing.
“Hey!” I jolt, grabbing onto him instinctively as the ground disappears beneath me. “Put me down!”
“You can’t even walk straight,” he snaps. “You’re slowing me down.”
“I am not—!” I stop. Because arguing requires energy. Energy I do not have. And also, because I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I am in his arms. Properly. One arm braced under my legs, the other steady at my back, holding me close like this is the most efficient solution. Whatever this is. I can feel everything. Too much. The solid press of his chest. The steady rhythm of his breathing. The heat of him. Everywhere, constant, overwhelming. I shift slightly before I can stop myself, arms coming up around his neck. “If you drop me, I swear to God—“
“Tch. I won’t.” I rest my chin against his shoulder. Just to steady myself. That’s all. Not because it puts me closer. Not because I can feel the warmth of his skin through his collar. Not because—
God.
This is a mistake. And yet, I don’t move. Because despite everything, the noise in my head, the embarrassment, the way today has been spiraling since the second I woke up, I feel safe. I hate that. And that might be the most dangerous part of all. Eventually we make it to my apartment, just off campus. I don’t remember ever telling Bakugo where I live. And I’m too tired to question it now.
“You can just put me down here,” I say, nodding toward the entrance. “I’ll be fine getting up.” This time, he listens and sets me down carefully. Not rough. Not careless. Like he’s accounting for the injuries he pretends not to care about. My legs wobble slightly when they take weight again, and for a split second, his hand lingers at my arm a second too long like he’s making sure I don’t immediately collapse. Then he pulls back.
“Good,” he mutters. “Next time, don’t overdo it.” There it is. Back to normal. I almost roll my eyes. He turns, about to leave. No pause. No second thought. And that should be it. Should be. But—
“I—” The word slips out before I can stop it. He stops. He doesn’t fully turn, just enough that I can see the side of his face. Then he glances back. Waiting. And suddenly I don’t know what to do with myself.
“I…uh…” Brilliant. Articulate. Stunning. Really showing off my communication skills today. He turns a bit more now, facing me. Doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t say anything. Just watches, expectantly. It’s now or never. “I just—“ I clear my throat, avoiding his eyes for half a second before forcing myself to look back. “Thanks.” It comes out quieter than I intended. “For…helping,” I add quickly, like I need to justify it. “You didn’t have to. So, yeah.” Smooth. So smooth. I nod once, like that concludes everything. Like that wasn’t the most awkward thing I’ve said all day, which is saying something. Silence stretches. Just a second. Maybe two. But it feels longer. Because he doesn’t answer immediately. He’s still looking at me. Not annoyed. Not mocking. Just looking. And it’s different from earlier. More like something I don’t have the energy to figure out right now.
“Tch. Don’t mention it,” he mutters, eyes flicking away for a second before settling back. But he’s quieter than usual. Less bite. “Don’t make me carry you again.” My stomach flips.
“I didn’t make you—“ I start, automatically defensive.
“Yeah, yeah,” he cuts in, already turning away. And just like that, it’s over. Or it should be. But I see him hesitate slightly. Like he’s about to say something and decides not to. But then he clicks his tongue and starts walking. And then he’s gone.
I stand there way too long. Overanalysing every second of that interaction like my life depends on it. Right. Exactly what I needed.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “Cool. Normal. That was normal.” Before my brain can spiral any further, I turn and make a beeline for the building, pushing through the door and head inside. Fast. As if I can outrun the embarrassment. Or the way my chest feels tight. Or the fact that for a second, he didn’t look at me like he usually does.
And I don’t know what to do with that yet.