Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Soul-lights aren’t as common in this day and age as they were in the past, before quirks, but they’re common enough that people do still find their soulmates, especially in the more urban areas.

You meet Bakugou at thirteen, at Aldera, after school in a hallway empty except for you, Bakugou, and his friends. He’s not in your class, so it took some time before you bumped into him, and when you do, you wish you hadn’t.

“You’re not my soulmate,” he sneers at you. “I'm not letting some dumb lights tell me I should let some loser hang around me for the rest of my life.”

His friends laugh and jeer, and your face pinches, sour. He's haloed in a strong, vibrant orange that graduates into a warm gold, and the colors are beautiful. He, at least, is your soulmate. You’d made the mistake of telling him so, blurting it out upon meeting him. It doesn’t sound like you’re his.

And—good. Because he shoves you hard enough that you stumble, barely catching yourself, and then he turns to leave with his friends. As you stare at his retreating back, angry tears well up in your eyes, dreams of having someone as just yours and being someone’s one and only in pieces. You can’t believe you can see his lights. You can’t believe he’s supposed to be your soulmate.

Well, you don’t want him. You don’t want to be his; that feeling is mutual. You wish you’d never found him.

Despite Bakugou’s vehement warning that you stay away from him, it doesn’t seem to go the other way. Because over the next two years, not a week goes by without you running into him and experiencing some level of unpleasantness.

“That's your quirk?” Bakugou gives you an ugly look. “Completely useless.”

“Heard you rank eleven in your class. Pathetic,” Bakugou says, getting in your face.

“Why is he so mean to you?” your friend asks, exasperated after helping you escape Bakugou and co.’s latest taunts. After a while, you grew immune to his mean little comments, surrounded by kind friends and supportive parents. But you’d be glad, graduation day. Even you know that Bakugou has plans to attend UA after graduation. You have no such intentions.

You smile at her, shrugging.

“No idea. He’s mean to a bunch of people, though. I’m not special.” After that day, you never told anyone you could see Bakugou’s lights. Not even your family. Bakugou and his friends seemed to keep the same silence. You think it’s because Bakugou doesn’t even want to acknowledge it ever happened. That’s how you feel, at least.

“Yeah, I guess…” she says, frowning. She tucks some hair behind your ear. “Whatever. Let’s go to that cafe I told you about. The one I saw on socials. I’ll treat you.”

After graduating junior high, you swear to yourself that you won't think of him ever again. He’ll disappear from your memory like what you had for lunch on Monday last month, like a bad dream when the sun rises.

And you succeed, for the most part.

There’s one time near the end of your first year of high school, when everything had fallen apart because of the war.

Despite the chaos of everything, it’d been a normal day; you were helping your mom cook lunch in the kitchen. You were washing some vegetables in the sink, prepping them for chopping, when you suddenly felt your stomach plummet, and then something inside you frayed, like threads of rope pulling apart. You’d gasped, dropping the vegetables into the sink, and clutched the counter because it felt like your whole world was shaking, tremors.

When you came to, you were on the floor, tears you don’t remember shedding streaming down your cheeks. Your mother was at your side, calling your name, calling for your father.

The doctor chalked it up to a panic attack, anxiety, because of the day-to-day stresses caused by the war. Your parents fussed, worried, but it never happened again.

You? You tuck the memory away for years, not wanting to look at it. It frightens you. You don’t remember what you’d been thinking about before or after; all you remember is seeing a flash of a young Bakugou’s face, somehow. Not ugly, screwed up in a sneer, or mean, laughing at someone’s expense, the Bakugou of your memories. Instead, his face was—blank. Eyes emptied. Beautiful orange and gold lights—out.

You see Bakugou again on a Tuesday, in your neighborhood’s grocery store, over a pile of bok choy.

Chapter Text

It’s late, and most people are home, finishing up dinner or getting ready for bed. The store is muted, only a handful of people around. The people you do pass are in their own worlds, focused on their tasks. You’re grateful for the quiet. It’s been a long day.

You grab one of the plastic produce bags and head over to where bok choy are stacked, taking the time to look for the best-looking pieces, slowly filling your bag. 

It’s that nostalgic bright orange, that familiar warm gold that sends a jolt through you when a hand nearly bumps into yours, reaching for the same vegetable. 

You jerk your head up, and—

You’re staring at Bakugou Katsuki, at his face, puppy fat all gone and replaced with sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline, eyes crimson and intense as ever. He’s tall, taller than you now, and his shoulders are so broad. He’s in sweats and a plain white shirt, looking very human under the store’s fluorescent lighting, in the produce aisle. He looks so grown up. 

You realize, then, that he’s looking at you, too.

Jumping, like you’d just been shocked, you look away quickly and duck your head. Panic rises, jerking your motions. 

“Sorry,” you say, subdued, picking up a different piece of bok choy and shoving it into your produce bag. Maybe he hadn’t recognized you?

You turn on your heel to make a hurried getaway, but a grip around your upper arm stops you. 

“Wait,” Bakugou says, following it with your name. Hearing it makes you feel as if he’d punched you, no breath left in your lungs. Something in you curls, braces itself. 

You turn back to look at him, wary; your eyes glance at his hand on you. He drops it as if you’d burned him. You don’t know him well enough to decipher the complicated expression on his face, but he looks serious. 

“I—” He cuts himself off, swears quietly, then says, voice gruff, “I know it probably doesn’t mean much to you. But m’sorry. For everything I did to you when we were kids.” 

You stare at him, mute. For a few seconds, your head is just static, empty. What?

Then old rush of anger rises up in you, and you feel a geyser of words stick in your throat. Words like, Do you think saying sorry makes up for two years of being picked on by your soulmate? Or, What makes you think you should even be talking to me after the cruel things you said? And, I still hate you for what you took from me. I wish someone else had lit up for me. Not you. 

You choke on them. A distant part of you can’t believe this is happening in a grocery store, the absurdity of it. You’re glad no one’s around, because you could die. 

Bakugou shifts, looking more and more strained as the seconds tick by. You half-expect him to storm away, but he stands there, waiting, hands fists at his sides. His eyes lock on yours. You’ve never been the best at disguising your emotions, so you feel like everything is plain on your face. But he doesn’t look away.

It’s unexpected of him, a distant part of you thinks. The Bakugou of your childhood would’ve never apologized, admitted he’d done wrong, tolerated being subjected to someone’s will like this. 

This is what cools you, drops things down to a simmer. You remember where you are, the person you are now. Screaming at him in public is not something you want to do. You’re not sure screaming at him is something you want to do at all, with how it’ll make you feel about yourself. 

“...Thank you,” you say tersely, finally. You're not sure what else you can say.

You don’t miss how his fists release, or how his shoulders lower. Like he’d been gearing up for a fight that lost steam before it even began. 

“S’the least I could do,” Bakugou mutters. “I know it’s not enough.”

And what are you supposed to do with that? He’s right. It doesn’t feel like enough. But you don’t know what you want from him. For years, you’d dreamed of him apologizing to you just like this. But now that it’s happening, you feel adrift. Lost. What now? 

You’re suddenly hit with the overwhelming urge to be away from here. 

“Well, I should…” you trail off, gesturing in a random direction. You almost complete your sentence, nearly saying the automatic it was nice seeing you that comes naturally when bumping into someone you haven’t seen in a while, but. Well, it hasn’t exactly been nice seeing him, has it? It’s been confusing, tense, but not nice. 

Surprising.

“...Yeah,” he says, taking a step back. His eyes don’t leave yours. The orange and gold around him catch your attention, swirling, soft. No longer so bright and loud as they’d been five minutes ago. 

You look into his face, searching. You think you see a discontent that mirrors yours in the set of his lips, the look in his eyes. But it’s resigned in a way that yours isn’t. As if this is what he’d been expecting. 

Bakugou shifts to walk away.

“...Wait,” you say, your turn to stop him. 

You glance to the side, back down at the bok choy. The tips of their dark green leaves curl gently.

You worry at your bottom lip and peek back up at him. You’re not sure what you’re doing. 

“Do you… Do you want to grab a coffee, sometime?”

He says yes. So you exchange numbers, make meeting arrangements, and get coffee.

Chapter Text

You quietly breathe in the rich smell of roasted coffee beans. The hiss of the espresso machine, people speaking to one another, utensils clinking against cups, and chairs scraping against the floor come together in a lulling ambience. It’s soothing in a way that makes you a little sleepy. You didn’t sleep well last night. 

Minutes trickle by. Bakugou walks into the coffee shop, looks around, and sees you sitting at a table. He frowns. Making eye contact with him wakes you right up, buzzing with awareness. 

“Hey,” you say, looking up at him as he comes to a stop next to your table. You stand; you don’t like looking up at him. The corners of his mouth are still turned down, and you wonder what you’ve done that’s already elicited such displeasure. 

“D’you order yet?” he asks, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“Not yet,” you say, and he jerks his head to the counter. You follow him, gazing at the back of his head as you both wait in line. 

He’s in a plain black shirt and sweatpants, hair still a little damp, shower-dewy. You wonder if he’s just come from work, or the gym, or home and he’s headed out somewhere after this. It’d be an easy ask, if he were anyone else, but he isn’t, and you’re annoyingly tongue-tied standing in line with him in the light of morning. No late night grocery store liminal spaces to hide behind. 

“You go,” Bakugou tells you when you arrive at the register. You rattle off your order, reaching into your pocket to pay, but Bakugou tells the cashier what he wants and hands over his card before you can process what’s happened. After a moment, you trail after him as he strides over to the pick-up area. 

You stare at him, eyebrows furrowed, until he turns his head to look at you.

“What?” 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you tell him, frowning yourself, now. 

“Cry about it,” he says. 

You blink, stunned. You open your mouth, and only a sound comes out, halfway between a sputter and a squawk. You think you see a hint of a smirk tilt the corners of his lips before he turns away to accept the drinks the barista hands him. Before you can articulate anything resembling words, Bakugou hands you your drink, grabs his, and walks over to the table you’d been waiting at, still empty.

You gaze at his back, that blond head of his, wishing you could read his mind. Is he messing with you?

Conscious that you’ve just been following him around this coffee shop like a baby duckling and irritated about it, you sit in the chair opposite him. You sip your drink and struggle. 

“...Thanks,” you say, fiddling with your cup. He grunts something indistinguishable and brings his drink to his lips. 

You inhale deeply, opening your mouth and hesitating, faltering. 

What are you supposed to talk about? It feels like prickles across your skin, the discomfort of trying to find your footing with the Bakugou in front of you. You feel the years that’ve passed weigh heavily on the silence that stretches. You’re hyper-aware that despite the familiar orange and gold lights casting him aglow, he’s a stranger, sitting across from you, scowling down into his coffee like it’s done something criminally offensive to him. 

Sure, as a teenager, you’d seen him mentioned in the media every once in a while. The UA Sports Festival coverage, for example. And it’d been impossible to miss the media tracking his ascent to becoming a pro-hero, especially after the reputation he gained due to his role during the war. In your adolescence, you’d oscillated between completely blocking out any mention of him and actively trying to learn about him, conflicted and angry about it. 

As you’d gotten older, dwelled less on past hurts and more on thoughts about what you wanted to do and who you wanted to be, he’d faded into the periphery. You thought you’d put him behind you. It’s why his sudden reappearance in your life leaves you so off balance.

“Did you just come from the gym?” you ask, finally.

Bakugou shakes his head. He picks at something on his cup. “Just got off patrol.”

“Oh,” you say. “I heard you just cracked the top twenty. Congrats.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You pay attention to that stuff? Thought you were some office worker or some shit.” 

You roll your eyes. “I do work in an office, but shockingly I do also have access to the news. Social media. The nine-to-five is consuming but not that consuming.” 

His eyes narrow and he gives you this look. Something about it makes you want to be contrary, to piss him off. You raise your chin and wait. 

“What’d you do after… Aldera?”

You clear your throat. “Went to a normal high school. College. I got a job in corporate after graduating and just worked my way up. I’m in a management position right now.”

“You like it?” he asks, the words sounding awkward in his mouth.

“It pays the bills,” you say.

Bakugou has big hands. They dwarf his coffee cup. You stare at them, those long fingers, large palms, the hidden destructive power in them, as you fumble for what to say next. 

The conversation is painful. It’s stops and starts, and questions about what exactly you think you’re doing begin to trickle in. Each question and reply is like pulling teeth, or answering questions in an interview. Maybe you can make up an excuse and leave in ten minutes. You try to rally. 

“You went to UA, right? Was it as great as you thought it’d be?” 

Bakugou’s eyes shutter in a way you haven’t seen before. His expression closes, becoming hard, dispassionate. It feels wrong. You can’t help but study his face, taken in, a little morbidly fascinated. 

“It was a lot of things,” he says, clipped, gruff. 

You wait for him to continue, to say more, but he doesn’t. The longer the silence stretches, the more you think: you don’t like the look on his face. 

You’re conscious you’re dancing on a thread, pulling at the lion’s whiskers, when you say, “You really changed from when we were kids, huh?”

Bakugou’s eyes shoot up to yours.

“You were so loud and obnoxious in junior high. Had all these things to say. Where’d all your words go?”

His face screws up into a truly magnificent scowl, marring the clean lines of his face, the handsome features. He cocks his head, as if he can’t believe his ears. 

“What’d you say?” 

“Not that it’s a bad thing. A very mature change,” you say, smiling. It’s like you’re watching yourself from far away, and that you is screaming your head off. What the hell are you doing?

Your words seem to rile him up further, and his lights swirl, brighten, pulse. 

“You—”

Bakugou’s phone beeps and he stops, gritting his teeth. He shoves his hand into his pocket and checks his phone. He makes an annoyed sound and thrusts it back into his pocket.

“I gotta go,” he says, standing. Before you can decide how to respond, he’s next to you, looking down into your face.

You have to crane your neck at an uncomfortable angle to look at him, and you shy back when he leans forward, red eyes blazing. 

“This isn’t over, you little nerd,” he tells you, then leaves.

You’re not going to think about it, you tell yourself as you clock into work that day. 

It was just a one-off, weird little charade of catch-up with someone you knew a long time ago over coffee. You did it out of a sense of obligation, maybe curiosity, and you have no idea why he did it. But like countless before you in all things like this, you’d send some message thanking him for the meetup and that you should do it again and never actually do it again. You’d both fade from each other’s lives, you’d never see him again except for on the news or on socials, and things would return to normalcy. 

…But nerd? Nerd? Why would he call you that? What the hell.

Okay, so you think about it. You think about it a lot.

Chapter Text

The nerd comment aside, Bakugou’s last words to you as he left the coffee shop fill you with a vague sense of worry. What did he mean, it isn’t over? It sounds like the kind of line a movie villain would say to the superhero protagonist before retreating to plot some hardcore revenge. Isn’t he supposed to be a hero?

But two weeks pass, and nothing happens. You’re beginning to think he forgot all about you. You relax. 

Waving goodbye to the front desk receptionists and wishing them a good weekend, you cheerfully make your way onto the streets of Musutafu. They’re bustling as office workers like you go home for the day. You think of kittens waiting for you at home, filled with fluffy anticipation.

You have to make a pit stop before heading home, though. They’re running low on food, and there’s something in particular you want to buy for them, so you make your way to a pet store your coworker had recommended. He’d said that the store carries food and specialty items the typical stores don’t. You’re eager to check things out. 

Your head is so full of images of cute little whiskers and pink toe beans that you don’t hear when someone calls your name. 

It’s only until the voice is right in your ear, an annoyed growl, that you snap to awareness of your surroundings. Your body is a step ahead of you, though, because you’re taut with tension; your body knows that voice.  

You turn slowly.

It’s Bakugou, in full hero gear, looking intimidating and broad-shouldered. His bracers are clipped at his waist instead of on his arms. Despite this, somehow, he looks even bigger when he’s wearing his suit. He has a frown leveled at you. 

“You ignoring me or something?” he demands, eyes smoldering. The crimson of them is even more vivid against the black of his mask. “Called you three times.”

A man hurries by, nearly bumping you off the sidewalk. You make a surprised sound, barely sidestepping. Bakugou crowds you, using his body to corral you closer to the buildings on the left. You find yourself with your back to the wall of some building, Bakugou in front of you. This way, he’s in-between you and the stream of people coming and going. It’s a testament to how off balance you are that you let him herd you around. 

“Sorry,” you tell him, trying to get over the sudden shock of seeing him. “I was just lost in thought.”

People give the both of you—him a wide berth, glancing at the pair of you. Some look wary; you think it’s smart of them, considering Bakugou’s reputation for unfriendliness, even towards his fans. Others look curious, even excited. Despite his grumpy attitude, Bakugou’s popular, you concede wryly. But everyone keeps their distance, pretends to mind their business. It occurs to you that they might think Bakugou’s stopped you for a crime. He certainly looks severe enough to make that assumption. 

He clenches his jaw. “Pay more attention when you’re walking around, du— Pay more attention.”

You narrow your eyes at him. It sounded like he’d been about to call you something mean. 

“Aren’t you on patrol?” you ask. “Should you even be talking to me?”

“I’m off,” Bakugou says, crossing his arms. “Next shift’s just relieved me.”

“Oh.” 

Now that you’re paying attention, you see that his spiked hair is drooping a little, and the black around his eyes, underneath the mask, is smudged and faded. You wonder if it’s been a long day for him. 

Movement behind his shoulder catches your eye. You spot a very large man with red hair hovering several feet away, very obviously stealing glances at the two of you. 

He looks vaguely familiar. He’s clearly a hero, with a black headpiece framing the lower half of his face and black and red sleeves and pants. His gear leaves his torso bare, which doesn’t seem like a very practical choice. 

“Uh… Do you know that guy?” you ask Bakugou, pointing at the man. “He looks like he wants to talk to you.”

Bakugou turns, looking around. His eyes snag on the man. He growls. 

The red-haired man takes Bakugou’s eye contact as a sign to come over, and Bakugou moves to intercept him. But the man is too fast, arriving with a startling speed to where the both of you are standing, looking bright and eager.

Bakugou shifts in front of you, blocking the man’s view of you. You find yourself with a view of just his back. He starts, his voice a warning rumble, “Ei—” 

“Hi!” the man exclaims, paying Bakugou no mind, leaning around him to look at you. The skin around his eyes creases with how widely he’s smiling. “I’m Kirishima Eijirou. The hero name’s Red Riot! I’m Bakugou’s best friend. It’s so nice to meet you!”

“Oh, hi! Nice to meet you too,” you say, a little overwhelmed. You give him your name, smiling tentatively. In front of you, Bakugou’s crossed his arms over his chest, biceps bulging. You can just imagine his scowl. Kirishima’s completely unaffected. 

Feeling a little ridiculous talking around Bakugou like this, you take a step to the side and forward so you can see Kirishima properly. 

“Are you taking over Bakugou’s patrol?” you ask. 

“Yeah! Just came from our agency. It’s a couple blocks down that way.” Kirishima jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “You should come visit us sometime! We just opened a few months ago, so it’s a little rough around the edges in places, but I’m sure Bakugou would be happy to see you.”

“Oh, um—” You glance at Bakugou just as he erupts into motion. 

“Get outta here, you got work to do.” He shoves his—best friend? in the other direction and dogs his steps, as if to make sure he goes and stays gone. Kirishima laughs good-naturedly and waves goodbye at you. 

You wave back, amused and thoughtful. Bakugou hadn’t denied Kirishima’s statement that he’s Bakugou’s best friend. It strikes you as a little funny, the contrast between them. They seem like total opposites. Kirishima seems… nice. Friendly. 

Even more baffling, you get the feeling Kirishima has the mistaken idea that you and Bakugou are friends. You wonder what Bakugou’s said about you to give him that impression. 

“Where’re you going?” Bakugou asks when he returns to your side, looking grumpy and ruffled around the edges. Without waiting for you to reply, he starts walking in the direction you’d originally been headed. After a half-step, you shake your head and follow him. 

“I’m going to this pet store nearby. Isn’t your agency the other way?”

“I’m headed this way,” he says, in a tone that invites no further questions. “You got pets?”

“...Kind of,” you tell him. “I’m fostering some kittens right now. It’s my first time trying it out, but I like it. I need to pick up some food for them. Maybe a couple of toys too.” 

Bakugou grunts, scanning the crowd out of what looks like habit. You wonder if he’s even listening to you. 

You squint at him, studying his side profile. “Why’re you really talking to me, Bakugou? I don’t think it’s because you find our conversations particularly riveting.” 

His eyes slide over to meet yours. 

“Told you we weren’t done, didn’t I?” he says. 

It takes you a second to connect the dots and recall what he was referring to. What he’d said to you last time. You give him a look.

“No,” you say. “You told me, ‘This isn’t over’ in a super ominous way and then called me a nerd. And I’ve been meaning to say that if anything, you’re the nerd. You acted like you didn’t try hard at anything in junior high but you were always at the top of your class. I bet you hit the books for hours. Bet you were like that in high school too.”

Bakugou stops in his tracks. He studies you for a long moment, and the crimson of his eyes pins you, leaves you feeling a little like a rabbit that’d just spotted a wolf. You get the ridiculous urge to hold your breath.

“You grew up mouthy,” Bakugou says, a strange inflection to his voice. You don’t know what to make of it. 

“...Thank you,” you tell him primly, having no idea what else to say, and then ahead to duck into the pet store you’d just arrived at. You’re not running away; you’re just making a strategic retreat. 

The store’s small and very crowded. You sigh. Grabbing a shopping basket, you head towards the food section. As you squeeze past a woman coming out from the aisle, you wish you’d come during a less busy time. 

You scan the shelves for the brand of food you’d been feeding the kittens. Bending down to slide a multi-pack of canned food off the shelf, you straighten and almost drop the thing when you realize Bakugou’s appeared right next to you. 

“Jeez, you’re quiet,” you say, heart racing. For someone as big as he is, he shouldn’t be that quiet. He’s wearing boots. 

“You just needa get out of your little head and pay more attention to shit around you,” Bakugou says. He plucks the box out of your hands. When you move to try to take it back, he holds it out of your reach. 

You look into his face; it’s pure stubbornness. You let him have it without a fight. If he wants to carry the thing, fine. 

“I really don’t think that’s the problem here,” you tell him as you make your way out of the aisle. 

He bares his teeth at you in a smile that’s not very nice. “And you’d be wrong.”

You roll your eyes.

You pass by the toy section, grabbing a pack of springs and new attachments for the teaser wand you have at home. Bakugou follows you, and you’re conscious of the glances you’re garnering from other patrons. Bakugou does look a little out of place in this store, wearing his hero suit. You try to speed up. 

You get to the section dedicated to household items and supplies and stop. Here, you take your time looking at each of the shelves.

“What’re you lookin’ for?” Bakugou asks, shifting his grip on the cat food. 

“I’m looking for something that’ll stop the kittens from destroying my couch.” You frown, giving up. It doesn’t look like they have anything that’d work. You head over to the register where you’re thankfully immediately seen. 

Greeting the cashier, you place your items on the counter. Bakugou steps up next to you to place the cat food there too, his arm brushing against yours. 

“I’ve tried scratching posts, distracting them, bribing them… But they love my couch. I’ve had to move furniture to surround the couch and block their access,” you explain as you pay. “But I hate that. Almost fell trying to get water the other night because I forgot I’d moved stuff around.”

“Your fault. Shoulda known the fleabags would tear your shit up,” Bakugou says, looking down at you. You gasp, indignant. 

“They don’t have fleas.”

“Furballs, then.”

“Do you have something against cats?” you demand.

He shrugs. “They’re whatever. Don’t have time for pets. Work too much.”

You roll your eyes. Gathering your bagged items and thanking the cashier, you make your way out of the store, Bakugou on your heels. You can’t imagine him with a pet anyway. Pets make people approachable, somehow. You think it’s because pets are proof that you care about something in the soft way people do with pets. Soft is not a word you associate with Bakugou. 

Once you’re outside, back on Musutafu’s streets, you find yourself unsure of what to do. You transfer your bagged purchases from one hand to another, then clear your throat. You look up at him and find he’s already looking at you.

“Thanks for keeping me company, I guess.” It’d been a little weird, the way he’d inserted himself in your plans, but… you hadn’t hated it. You’re surprised, contemplative, as you acknowledge the thought. “I’m headed home, so…” 

“See you around, brat.” Bakugou turns on his heel and walks away. 

You stare at his back until he disappears around the corner. Shaking your head, you head home. 

So it seems like Bakugou never grew out of name-calling. Nerd, brat… But somehow, it doesn’t feel malicious. Not like it did when you were kids. You’re not sure where the names come from, but you’re surprised to find that it doesn’t really bother you.

What bothers you is why he’s doing this. Going out of his way to prolong contact with you. You can’t imagine it’s because he wants to be friends.

A small, ugly, bitter part of you wonders if he’s doing pre-emptive damage control, trying to get to a point with you where he doesn’t have to worry about you coming forward to air out your past and taint his career as a pro-hero and agency owner. You wouldn’t put it past him. It’s practical. 

But who knows what Bakugou’s thinking? He clearly would be the last to tell you. So you put it out of your mind, trying not to worry about things you don’t have control over, and sigh as one of the kittens uses your couch as a scratching post.

Chapter Text

He texts you a few days later.

It’s early evening, and you’re winding down from work by playing with the kittens. You’re a little winded from running around your apartment; the three of them had chased you around as you teased them with a wand with a fuzzy mouse attached to one end. 

You hear the chime of your phone and let one of the orange kittens, Mikan, have the toy. He scampers off, mouse held in his mouth. His siblings give chase. You fumble your phone a little upon seeing a message with Bakugou’s contact pop up on your screen.

Bakugou: Come by the agency tomorrow. 

You: Why? 

You wish you could sit on your couch and catch your breath, but it’s still surrounded by other furniture, boxes, and any other barriers you were able to come up with to fend off kitten claws. Instead, you remain standing, watching as three little dots appear at the bottom of your screen. 

Instead of an answer, he sends an address. 

You plug it into your phone’s map app, and it indicates it’s his agency’s address. You wait to see if he, y’know, actually answers your question. He doesn’t. You send him a follow up text. 

You: ?????

You switch to a different app, killing time as you wait for his response. Five minutes pass. Nothing. Getting up to corral the kittens back into your spare room, you then head into the kitchen to make dinner. You figure he’d gotten busy and would reply later; you have no idea what his schedule is like, if he works in the daytime or night, if he’s on call… You don’t know any heroes personally, except for him, now, you guess. 

You forget all about it until the next morning when you’re on the train, headed into work, checking your messages. You pull your thread with him up and stare. 

He never replied to you. 

You’re very tempted to not show up. You hadn’t expected Bakugou to be like this… cryptic? He’s such a different person than you remembered. You really can’t tell what he’s thinking. 

But you’re a little curious, you admit. Why does he want to meet? And you do want to take a look at the agency Red Ri—Kirishima had so proudly talked about. 

After graduating high school, you couldn’t escape the media speculation about his generation of heroes graduating from UA. Who’s opening up an agency, who’s which hero’s sidekick, who’s leaving the country, who’s dating whom? There’d been speculation that Bakugou—Dynamight—might open up an agency with Deku. The Symbol of Victory and the Symbol of Hope. 

But Deku went abroad, and you’re not sure exactly what happened after that. You’d gotten busy with school, then with work, and you’d stopped going out of your way following what was happening with Dynamight. All you knew was he very quickly outgrew being a sidekick, shot up the hero ranks, and became his own pro hero. 

You thought the next step would be opening up his own agency. It’s what he’d talked about doing, in junior high. Instead, curiously, he opened one up as co-owner with Red Riot. 

So after work finds you in the lobby of their agency. The lobby is all clean lines, straddling the line between modern and timeless. You’d expected a sterile office atmosphere or cool masculinity, but there are touches of warmth here and there—plants in corners, bright windows, soft couches. You wonder if Bakugou had a hand in the interior design or if they’d hired someone to do it. 

“Excuse me,” you say to one of the people sitting at a receptionist desk. She looks up at you with a pleasant smile. Reflexively, you smile back. “I’m here to see Baku—I mean Dynamight.”

“Your name, please, and ID?”

You give both to her, and her eyes light up in recognition. 

“Oh! Yes, we’ve been waiting for you. Dynamight is unfortunately in a meeting at another hero’s agency, but he’s left this for us to give you.” She hands you a medium-sized parcel, which you take, brow furrowed. He isn’t even here? 

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” you ask.

“I’m sorry, I don’t. These meetings are unpredictable in length. Dynamight did mention that you shouldn’t wait for him.”

“Oh. Okay,” you say, blinking. What the hell? “Thanks for your help.”

“No problem! Take care and have a good evening!”

“You too.”

You walk outside the agency, holding the box in both hands. It’s plain cardboard, no identifying text, no wrapping. Your fingers itch to open it up, but you resist. Your feet take you to the station that’ll ferry you home, and your mind is awhirl. 

Why would he ask you to come to his agency but not even be there to tell you what’s going on in that head of his? Couldn’t he have at the very least shot you a message to reschedule if he knew he wouldn’t be there? And what’s with this box? You can’t even imagine what’s inside.  

Resisting the urge to rattle it, or bother the people in the train car around you by trying to open it, you stew in your thoughts.

By the time you get home, you’re nearly bursting at the seams with curiosity. 

You toss your things onto the kitchen table and get some scissors to cut open the tape sealing the box. Crumpling up the packaging paper you find inside, you peer in to see what’s settled at the bottom.

It’s several bundles of what appear to be clear sheets of plastic. You read the paper labeling on the bundles, which tell you that they’re furniture protector tape sheets in large and extra large sizes. 

You empty the box, root around the paper packaging you’d crumpled up, in case you’ve missed something. Sure enough, a tiny slip of paper flutters to the ground, and you bend over and pick it up. 

For your dumb couch, it reads.

You look up at your dumb couch, surrounded by paraphernalia intended to ward off naughty kittens. 

Your eyes light up. 

Thank you Bakugou, you message a while later, sitting cross-legged on your living room floor. You watch through the screen of your phone, recording, as Mikan stretches up and places his paws on the now plastic-protected fabric of your couch. His sharp little claws shoot out to scratch. 

Instead, his claws slide off. You can almost see the question mark appear over his head. Mikan sniffs at the protector. He paws frantically at the plastic, trying to make some headway into the one thing separating him from ultimate satisfaction, cat tree and scratching posts scattered around the room be damned. He sniffs it one more time before leaving it alone, wandering off, defeated. You end the recording, a big smile on your face. 

The two other kittens had made their attempts in the past thirty minutes since you’d let them roam the room. They both failed and lost interest even more quickly than Mikan had. You’re so happy, you pick up the female tortie, Natsu, who’d wandered near you and give her a big smooch on the head. She mewls, a protest, and you let her go. 

You send Bakugou the video you’d just recorded for good measure and get up to do some laundry. Your phone chimes a few minutes later as you’re folding your clothes.

Bakugou: Did they all do that

You: They all tried scratching it, yeah, but Mikan (the little orange boy in the vid) tried the hardest lol. All the others gave up at first scratch

Bakugou: He seems like the dumbest of the litter

You: Bakugou! 😠 Stop picking on baby animals

Bakugou: I call it like I see it

You laugh. 

Alright, so it means something to you, that he’d been paying attention the other day, even while you’d been talking about something so small and insignificant. That he went out of his way to do something that’s making your life easier. 

He’s been so… nice, you acknowledge. You see what he’s doing with these gestures, awkward and brusque as they are. You still don’t know what he’s trying to accomplish by doing all this, and that makes you wary, but. You think you’re willing to see where this goes. 

What do you have to lose, anyway? If he’s doing this to quell lingering guilt or for his PR image, fine. You can assuage the guilt; you can hang in there until he thinks it’s enough and then fades back out of your life. After a lot of therapy, you’ve gotten to a place in your life where you accept that you were children, when he was cruel to you, and as adults, maybe you can allow him to prove that he’s grown as a person. It might even be good for you to get some type of closure, even if it is contrived. You want to let this go, once and for all. 

And if he’s doing this because he wants to be friends, genuine friends, well. 

You won’t lie and say that there isn’t a part of you that has survived, that still treasures the fact that there’s someone out there who lights up for you. That craves that connection. That admires, every time you see him, the orange and gold that limns him.

So you’ll see where it goes. You hope Bakugou continues to surprise you. 

You start to message him more. Just to test the waters. 

You: So Kirishima’s your best friend, huh? He seems nice

Bakugou: No.

You: No? No, what? He’s not your best friend? Or he’s not nice??

Bakugou: No as in I’m not telling you fuck all about him

You: That’s not nice ☹️

Bakugou: Good thing I ain’t nice

You: Look at what Mikan did!!! 😿

You send a picture of the bag of bread he’d gotten into, half-chewed and unsalvageable. 

Bakugou: Furball’s a menace. Better pray someone takes him off your hands 

You: Maybe he’s just hungry? Should I feed them more?? Is bread bad for cats???

Bakugou: I ain’t fucking Google. I don’t know shit about your fleabags, go ask someone else

You: Bakugou ☹️ 

So he’s mean, and snarky, but it’s a little funny to you now. You’re getting used to him, and you’re finding that he has more bark than bite. 

A couple days pass where you’re too busy with work to message him. You’re stressed about a task your boss has given you, and when you get home, you barely have the mental energy to take care of yourself and the kittens before collapsing into bed. 

In the past few weeks since you started messaging him more frequently, he’d only ever replied, not instigated. Occasionally, you’ve wondered if your messages are annoyances rather than welcome interactions, but he always replies. You’re starting to think he’s just not a great texter. He doesn’t use emojis at all, and he never sends memes like normal people in your age group do. He’s grumpy. 

But Sunday night, the night before your deadline, Bakugou texts you first for a change. 

Bakugou: You alive or should I file a missing persons report 

You: Barely 😞

Bakugou: What’s that supposed to mean

You: I have a work thing due tomorrow and I’m super stressed about it. I can’t sleep bc I can’t stop thinking about it and it’s driving me fucking insane 

He doesn’t reply immediately. The longer you stare at the message you sent, the more you begin to regret it. It’s weird, right? You shouldn’t have vented at him. The two of you aren’t like that. You just see each other occasionally, and Bakugou sometimes does something nice in an attempt at making up for being unkind to you when you were children. You needle at him because it’s fun and he growls at you and that’s it. 

Suddenly, your phone starts to ring in your hand, and you immediately silence the ringer, heart rate spiking in surprise. It’s late, and the last thing you expect to see when you look at your screen is Bakugou’s contact. You bite your lip. You answer.

“Hello?”

“What’s your dumb work thing.”

“What?”

“Tell me about the shit that’s keeping you up. If you’re gonna be up all night thinking about it anyways.”

“I don’t know…” you say. “It’s highly specific to my job. I’m sure it’d be boring to hear about…”

“Stop stalling or I’ll come over there to kick your ass.”

This startles you into laughter. “You don’t even know where I live. Idle threats.”

“You don’t want me to find out, and don’t think I can’t.”

A smile lingering on your lips, you acquiesce. “Alright, alright. So my boss…”

You explain the task your boss had given you, the tight timeline for it, the multiple departments you’ve had to collaborate with in order to complete it, the feeling that you won’t put out a satisfactory end product.

He’s quiet for the most part. Lets you talk. Lying in bed, working your worries out and hearing him breathe on the other end of the line lulls you into a space where your thoughts go soft, turn into wisps. You don’t mind that he doesn’t have much to say; he grunts at points and makes other reactive sounds, so you know he’s listening. He’s a good listener, you realize, drowsily.

Your eyes begin to droop, and you’re yawning every other sentence before you know it. 

You slip into sleep. 

The next day, you submit your project to your boss, and she’s pleased with your work. You’re so relieved, and excited, and happy, that you don’t think twice about pulling up your message thread with Bakugou and texting him.

You: It’s done! I’m free!! My boss liked it, mission success 💪

He texts you back a few moments later.

Bakugou: Good work. 

Chapter Text

It’s a weeknight, after dinner, when your coworker messages you.

Is this you????? They send you a link to a tweet.

The tweet reads, Dynamight dating someone? 🤔 and there are two pictures attached.

You tap the first image and zoom in. 

It is you. It’s at the pet store, you realize. This first picture is of you and Bakugou from behind. The second picture is the both of you from the side, though it’s blurry because Bakugou’s in motion, angled in a way that blocks your face from view. 

There are a few interactions with the tweet, people retweeting it with commentary. Some people are saying that it looks like you could just be some random office worker; you’re wearing office attire. You think those people seem like rational, reasonable human beings. Others are analyzing the distance between you and Bakugou standing next to each other, estimating in centimeters, and say it’s too close, that you must be romantically involved. You think those people are a little unhinged.

There are other, meaner comments, but you skip over those and close out of Twitter.

You stare at your phone blankly. The screen goes dark, and a rock settles in your stomach. You hadn’t even thought of the repercussions of being in public with Bakugou. With Dynamight. It’s stupid. That day, you noticed people looking, but you thought they’d been looking at him. Not both of you.   

You jump a little when your phone goes off in your hand. It’s Bakugou. Speak of the devil. You hope he’s calling to tell you he can make this go away. You don’t want this kind of attention. 

“Hello?”

“Don’t lose your shit. D’you see the dumb gossip rags?”

“What gossip rags?” you ask. There’s more?

“Nosy assholes took pictures of us at the pet store the other day. You might’ve seen stuff on socials. A couple of the shittiest magazines are talking about it.”

“Oh,” you say, feeling like you’re listening to him from far away. “Yes, my coworker just sent me a tweet with pictures of us from that day.”

You can feel your heart rate rising. Hearing it confirmed in Bakugou’s gruff voice makes it real in a way it wasn’t a minute ago.

“Yeah, I—” He sighs harshly, stops. “Where are you?” 

“What?” Your brain takes a second to load. “I’m at home. Why?”

“I’m coming over.”

“What?” you repeat, feeling like your thoughts are moving through molasses—slow, viscous. You shake your head, trying to clear it. It sounded like he’d said he’s coming over. 

“You heard me. What’s your address?”

“Bakugou. Don’t come over. Why do you want to come over?”

He exhales, and it crackles the line. “Look, I know you’re thinking up a bunch of shit in that squirrely head of yours—”

“Squirrely?” you say, making a face. 

“—and you needa knock it off. S’gonna be okay. I’m gonna take care of it.”

It’s what you wanted to hear, but actually hearing it makes your mind empty, the buzzing anxiety quiet. You swallow the sudden lump in your throat. 

After a moment, you say, “...Okay.” 

Your voice is softer than you’d like it to be. It embarrasses you.

You wonder if the people he saves as Dynamight feel this way. So relieved that it feels like you could float, like Uravity. 

“Good,” he says, and there’s a quiet lull. “My PR team’s gonna be in contact with you tomorrow. Call or message me if—if anything changes.” 

“Okay,” you repeat. Your heartbeat is no longer so loud. You can hear the rustle of his clothes as he shifts on the other end of the line. “Goodnight?”

“Night,” he says, and hangs up. 

In the morning, as you’re leaving your apartment for work, you get that call from his PR team. His manager introduces herself as Ikeda. 

“I’m sure Bakugou’s given you a brief, inadequate explanation of the situation,” she says dryly, and you let out a surprised laugh. She continues, “Before we go any further, do you have any questions about or have any concerns for your immediate physical safety?”

“I—no?” Alarm creeps into your voice. “Should I be concerned?”

Her tone shifts from brisk and business-like to something more sympathetic. “Your privacy has been violated, so it’s very understandable if you’re feeling unsafe. Many pro heroes’ family and friends feel this way when similar situations occur, and many pro heroes feel this way too. I’m here to tell you that we can assign security to you, effective immediately, if you feel their presence is necessary or even if it would ease your mind. It’s protocol. 

“However, none of the pictures in circulation reveal your face or any distinguishing characteristics, so my team and I aren’t too worried at this point, and we feel you shouldn’t be either. But again, if you have any questions, please ask. I would like you to make informed decisions.”

“Thank you. I’m feeling… okay,” you say, though truly, you’re overwhelmed and trying to process. You picture people in suits following you around work and grimace. “And I’ll pass on the security, if that’s okay.” 

“That’s fine.”

“And I don’t have any questions so far.”

“Alright. And if you change your mind, contact me at this number. Someone will always answer.” Ikeda pauses. “Alert us, please, if something comes up, even though you may feel compelled to alert Dynamight instead.”

You’re confused. Why wouldn’t you tell Bakugou? “Can I ask why?”

“He has a history of responding to perceived threats with… overwhelming force. Even if the threat doesn’t warrant it.” Ikeda mutters something you don’t quite catch, but it doesn’t sound complimentary. 

You imagine Bakugou showing up at your apartment, or at work, and absolutely destroying some paparazzo for taking pictures of you, or something. You wince. 

“...I’ll do that,” you tell Ikeda. “Um, I’m sorry to cut this conversation short, but I’m going to have to run soon. I need to get to work.”

“Oh! No, no, sorry to hold you up. One more thing. Actually, two. First, can you meet me and my team at the agency after work today? We need to hammer out some details to help us navigate how to proceed moving forward.”

“Sure.”

“Wonderful! Just give your name to the front desk and they’ll take care of the rest. Thanks for being flexible. The second thing is about your soulmate situation.”

You feel yourself tense up, shoulders creeping up to your ears. Bakugou had told her? Who else had he told? 

“Are you and Bakugou planning on going public about it any time soon?” she asks. “I can’t get a peep about it out of him. Hoping you’d throw me some crumbs.”

“Uh, no,” you say. Why on earth would she think you’d go public about it? Not only would you likely receive unwanted commentary on your soulmate pairing being one-sided, but you’d also be exposed to general public scrutiny. Just these pet store pictures freak you out. Maybe you and Bakugou are… friendly now, friends maybe, but it’s not worth it.

“Not planning on it,” you say firmly.

Ikeda sighs. “Right. Well, we’ll plan for it when the time comes. But that’s a conversation for another time. Thanks for your time. I’ll see you later today.”

You say goodbye, and you begin your commute to work feeling like you’d just been hit by a car. Ikeda had thrown so many things at you in one phone call that you’re struggling to wrap your head around it all. You’re also paranoid that you’ll somehow be recognized; you find yourself jumpy and self-conscious on the train, walking through the streets to your office building.

What’s worse is that despite your efforts you’re late for work, which throws your whole day off. You’re so out of it worrying about the pictures and the meeting with Ikeda later today that your boss calls you into her office to ask what’s wrong. 

By the time the end of the work day rolls around, you’re exhausted, mentally and emotionally. The last thing you want to do is meet with Bakugou’s PR people. You want to go home, crawl into bed, and sleep until you have to get up for work again tomorrow. Maybe you’d call out.

But you told Bakugou’s manager that you’d be at the agency. So you go.

When you approach the receptionist desk, you make eye contact with one of the girls working it. You remember her from last time, and she seems to recognize you too. 

“Hi,” you say, banishing the semi-permanent frown you’d been wearing all day and summoning up a feeble smile. It’s not her fault you’re having a bad day. “I’m here to see—”

“Dynamight, right?” she says brightly. 

“Oh, uh—”

“He’s waiting for you on the third floor. Take a left out of the elevator, and it’s the first room on the right. Let me get the elevator for you. You need access to use it.”

You follow her until you’re standing in the elevator, biting your tongue, knowing the time to correct her has long passed. She takes in your expression after tapping her card against the sensor in the elevator and furrows her brows. 

“Would you like me to show you the way?”

“No, I’m okay, I think I can find it,” you say hurriedly, rearranging your expression to a more neutral one. “Thanks anyway.”         

“You’re welcome! Have a good one!” she says, stepping out right before the elevator door closes. 

You stare at the floor numbers lighting up above you. Maybe she meant Bakugou’s team is waiting for you. 

You follow the receptionist’s directions—you really should get her name the next time you see her—and tentatively knock on the door. It opens almost immediately, and you look up and up to meet Kirishima’s gaze. You startle. What’s he doing here?

He smiles at you, oblivious to your confusion. This close, you can see that his teeth are sharp and his eyes are red, like and unlike Bakugou’s. They’re kind as they take you in.

“Nice to see you again!” Kirishima says, gesturing you in and closing the door behind you. “Wish it was in better circumstances, though.”

He studies your face, concern crossing his own. “Are you okay? How’re you holding up?” 

“I’m—I’m still up, I guess,” you say, smiling weakly.

Kirishima reaches up and pats you on the shoulder. “We’ll fix things, don’t worry. C’mon, take a seat anywhere.”

“Thanks,” you say, and follow him deeper into the room.

The room’s set up like a typical conference room, with a long table at its center with chairs circling it. A screen is at the far end of the room, and standing next to it is a tall woman in a sharp business suit, tapping away at a tablet. 

Bakugou is leaning against one of the walls, arms crossed. He’s in joggers and a plain shirt, just like Kirishima, and it makes you think they’d just wrapped up their workday too. His lights flare erratically; one moment, they’re dim and close to his skin, and the next they’re bright and flickering like a flame. It’s both distracting and mesmerizing. 

Bakugou glances at you briefly, a quick up and down, before looking at the woman. 

“Hey. Let’s get this shit going,” Bakugou tells her.

The woman tears her eyes away from the tablet, mouth set in an annoyed slash, but then she sees you. Her expression smooths out. 

“Oh! You’re here. Yes, let’s get started.” She gives you a big smile. “I’m Ikeda. We spoke on the phone.” 

“Nice to meet you in person,” you tell her. “Thanks for the call. I appreciate the info you gave me.”

Kirishima sits on one side of the table, opposite where Bakugou’s standing, and closer to Ikeda. You choose a seat not quite across from Kirishima, and you have to pass by Bakugou to get to it. As you settle into your chair, you get that prickly awareness you feel whenever he’s around. But it’s comforting, having him at your back, in this room with two people you don’t know very well.

“It’ll just be the four of us today,” Ikeda says, “and the meeting should be brief. I know you’ve had a long day.” She looks at you sympathetically.

She taps at something on her tablet, and images appear on the screen behind her. 

“Here are all the images taken that day that we were able to compile. Our team has contacted all websites and individuals hosting these images and requested their removal. We’ve also taken steps to request deindexing of these images from search engines. This should slow any further spread of the images, but as you know, it’s impossible to scrub images completely once they hit the internet. And there’s the matter of the gossip magazines that’ve posted articles.”

The images on the screen switch to the articles you’ve avoided searching. Their headlines are blatant clickbait, speculating about the nature of your relationship with Bakugou and fanning the flames of jealousy generated by his fans.  

You avert your eyes. You don’t even want to know what Bakugou’s thinking. 

“As such,” Ikeda continues, “my team has determined that our best bet is to lean into the theory circulating that you’re an agency employee assisting Bakugou with a task.”

Kirishima blinks. “Will that really work? What would Bakugou have needed help with?”

“They were in a pet shop, and they were photographed carrying items for cats. We’ll release some social media posts stating that Bakugou was purchasing them for a pet.” 

“I’m not getting a cat,” Bakugou growls. 

“You don’t have to,” Ikeda says. “It’s just a cover story.”

“But how long would Bakugou have to keep up the cover?” you ask. All eyes in the room turn to you, and you grip your chair’s armrest reflexively, responding to the sudden attention. 

You clear your throat. “I mean, cats are a long-time commitment. Lots of them live for fifteen plus years, sometimes twenty… It’d look weird if you say you’ve gotten a cat but then never mention it again, right?” 

You glance at Bakugou to gauge his reaction, and he looks like he’s bitten a lemon. 

Ikeda sighs, rubbing her temples. “Maybe we can say the items were a present for a friend. We’ll have to think about this further.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, feeling bad. “I didn’t mean to shoot down your idea. I’m fostering some kittens right now and the logistics of caring for them are on the brain. Maybe your idea’ll work. I doubt anyone would care enough to check if Bakugou’s telling the truth.”

Ikeda’s eyes sharpen. “I’ve never fostered any animals, so correct me if I’m wrong, but—fostering means you take care of an animal for a specific length of time, right? But you don’t keep them?”

“Yes,” you say slowly. You make eye contact with Kirishima, trying to see if he knows where she’s going with this, but he looks as confused as you feel. 

You offer, “I’m only fostering them until they get adopted.”

“That’s great! We’ll use that, then,” Ikeda says, putting her hands on her hips. 

“Wait, I think I missed something,” Kirishima says, furrowing his brow. “What’re we doing, exactly?”

“We’ll frame things so that Bakugou’s fostering some cats. That’s why he was buying those things at the store, and he was getting assistance from an agency employee. We can acquire some cats Bakugou can take pictures and videos with for social media. Then, in a couple weeks, we can announce Bakugou’s fostering is complete and plug some cat adoption organizations while we’re at it. What do we think?”

“Shit sounds stupid,” Bakugou says, and you can almost hear the sneer in his voice. You haven’t heard that in a long time. 

“I like it!” Kirishima says. Out of the corner of your eye, to your left, you see Bakugou step forward. He plants his hands on the table, glaring at Kirishima.

“No,” Bakugou says, baring his teeth.

Kirishima frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “C’mon, Bakugou. It’d be good press for you. Boost your image! Everyone loves baby animals! And it’d be a good way to support local organizations. We can turn this situation into a positive!” 

“That’s dumb as fuck. Let’s just sue the assholes who took those pictures and wrote those articles and move on.”

Ikeda rubs her temples. “That’s not how it works, Bakugou. You were in a public space, so photography of you is valid, and the images don’t damage your reputation. Pursuing legal action isn’t an option.”

You’ve been quiet during this exchange, and you’re hoping to keep it that way. If you could become one with your chair or sink through the floor, you would. But, as if sensing your reluctance to participate in the conversation, Ikeda looks at you and asks, “What do you think? Feel free to weigh in.”

“Um, I don’t think I should… It’s a decision that’ll affect your agency’s business, isn’t it? So…”

“Fuck that,” Bakugou tells you. He’s looking at you, and you blink at him, startled. “Tell me what you think.”

Kirishima leans forward, catching your attention. “Don’t worry too much! Just be honest. You’re involved in this too, and we wanna hear if you have any opinions.” 

You worry at your bottom lip. “Okay… Well it seems like a decent idea. Better than the first suggestion, probably. I don’t mind if the story is that I’m an agency employee. And…” 

You tilt your head back to look up at Bakugou. He’s gravitated closer from where he’d been standing a couple chairs down. He’s standing nearly next to you. 

“If it’ll make things easier, we can use my foster kittens. Maybe featuring them will get them adopted faster,” you say. Tentatively, you smile, tilting your head. “Free my furniture from their evil clutches faster?”

Bakugou gazes down at you for a long moment, eyes narrowed. You look back at him, waiting. He turns away. 

“Whatever. Fine,” he says.

“Great!” Ikeda says, smoothly inserting herself back into the conversation. “I’ll take care of the details. I’ll send some paperwork along to you digitally. Then all you two need to do is take a couple pictures and videos of Bakugou with the cats. Please have them ready by the end of the week!”

Chapter Text

In retrospect, you’re not sure what possessed you to offer up your kittens for Ikeda’s plan. 

Actually, you do know what possessed you: the urge to resolve things as quickly as possible and your impulse to be helpful. But somehow, your brain didn’t connect the dots between offering up your kittens for a PR scheme and Bakugou’s presence in your apartment. 

You watch as Bakugou stands in the middle of your living room, looking disgruntled as Mikan tries to climb his way up his pants. You know it can’t be pleasant, those claw pinpricks up his leg. You just hope Bakugou doesn’t do something horrible like try to kick Mikan off; pro-hero or not, you’d fight him. 

“So this is the dumb one,” Bakugou says, reaching out to grab the orange kitten. 

You make a face. 

“No kitten insults allowed in my house,” you tell him. 

He rolls his eyes. After struggling a little with Mikan, those claws hooked into his pants tightly, he manages to pull the cat off of himself. He holds the kitten like he’s never held one before in his life. He probably hasn’t, is your guess. 

Mikan, of course, begins to purr. Bakugou stares down at him. 

“Thought it was just sound,” Bakugou mutters. “Didn’t know you could feel it. S’like a little motor.” 

The purring, he means, you realize. Of the friends and family you’ve had over since fostering the kittens, Mikan always gravitates towards the people who don’t really like cats. It’s mysterious and a little hilarious. 

Suppressing a smile, you say, “Some cats purr real quiet, you can only tell if you’re really close. Mikan’s a loud purrer.” 

Bakugou looks up, making eye contact with you. You’re not sure what he sees in your expression, but he looks away. 

“...Let’s get this over with,” Bakugou says, adjusting his grip on Mikan. 

“Sure,” you say. “Should we use your phone or mine?” 

“Yours. Send ‘em directly to Umeboshi.” 

You furrow your brow. Who the hell? “Umeboshi…?”

“Yeah. She came up with this idea, she’s gonna deal with all the crap details.”

A lightbulb goes off for you. “Are you talking about Ikeda?” you say incredulously. 

He gives you a look, like you’re dumb for not knowing what he’s talking about immediately. You give him a look right back. 

“You call her Umeboshi?”

“Yeah.” A smug little expression crosses his face. “She’s salty and sour.”

He’s such a menace. You suspect, if she is as salty and sour as Bakugou claims, she’s that way because she has to deal with his attitude all the time. Prickly and pushy and grumpy. 

“Right,” you say. “Do you have a preference for what you want your background to be? Like what part of my apartment do you wanna take the pictures in?”

“S’your apartment. I don’t care.”

You should’ve known better than to ask. “Okay. Let’s maybe move over to this corner, where there’s more sunlight and the background’s slightly nicer.” 

You take Mikan from Bakugou. To your chagrin, the kitten immediately goes from limp and relaxed to squirmy; you struggle to keep a hold on him as you walk over to the spot you’d suggested. 

“You’ll probably want to sit on the ground, let the kittens get to know you first,” you say, turning to him. “You know Mikan, he’s the orange purrer. Yuzu is the other orange boy. Natsu’s the tortie. After a bit, I’ll start taking some test pictures.” 

Bakugou gives you a scornful look.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he says, but he sits gingerly, trying not to squish Natsu, who’d snuck up on him, or Mikan, who’d wriggled out of your hands to investigate Bakugou now that he’s closer to the ground. 

You kneel on the floor so you’re at eye-level with them, opening up your phone’s camera app.

“Act natural,” you tell Bakugou, and he scowls. You bite back a grin. 

He’s soon surrounded by all the kittens; even Yuzu’d come out to see what all the fuss is about. They sniff him, investigating. Mikan climbs into Bakugou’s lap, tries to gnaw at his fingers. Natsu makes his way up the back of his shirt like a ladder. All the while, you snap some photos, trying to get some good shots. You try to take pictures that minimize any self-identifying items you have, like photographs you’ve hung up in frames. 

As you swipe through your camera roll, reviewing the pictures you've taken, you notice that Bakugou, annoyingly, doesn’t have any bad angles. Even with the gremlin face he’s giving you—or the kittens—in half the shots. 

After a few moments, you pause and say, “Do you want to, like, pose? Smile maybe? Act like you’re voluntarily fostering these cats until they find good homes to actually sell Ikeda’s story?”

Bakugou glowers at you. “Just take the damn pictures.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you tell him. He narrows his eyes at you, dangerous. 

You give him an innocent smile and raise your phone, doing as you’re bid. You record a couple video clips too.

As you move around the room a little to get different angles, mindlessly tapping at the button on your screen, your mind strays to other thoughts. 

You thought you’d be awkward, or nervous, somehow, about Bakugou being in your apartment. In your space. It’s something that you never imagined happening, and yet—he’s here, in front of you, playing with your cats.

What’s more, the dynamic that has naturally developed between the two of you via texts infuses your interactions. 

Before Ikeda’s plan, you and Bakugou had been texting pretty often, you thought. But it’s nothing compared to what the past couple days have been like. 

At first, it was a back and forth about logistics, setting a date for the photo shoot and deciding on your apartment as the location for convenience and the kittens’ comfort. You’d given him your address, alongside several emojis to express your exaggerated displeasure:

You: 😒🤨

You: 😩😠

Bakugou: You’re so goddamn annoying. Quit it

You: ☹️

But even after the details were hammered out, you found yourself reaching for his message thread at least once a day, sending him pictures of meals you cooked—

Bakugou: Fucking keep it up so you don’t kick the bucket 

— keeping him updated on your workplace drama—

Bakugou: Your coworker sounds like a moron

—and asking about how his day went, about Kirishima, about what Bakugou likes doing when he’s not being a pro-hero. 

Bakugou: Fine

Bakugou: He’s the same, stop asking 

Bakugou: Why’re you asking, nosy

You: I’ll just ask Kirishima about your hobbies, then, next time I see him 🙄

Bakugou: Mountain climbing and shit

You: See, was that hard  

You: Mountain climbing, really?

The other day, staring at a text he’d just sent, you’d been surprised. You found yourself thinking about how much you look forward to his messages. How often you realize you’re having fun, talking to him. 

You understand now that he’s teasing, when he calls you names. His words are gruff because he doesn’t take time to mince words; he just says whatever’s on his mind. It’s something you admire, even. Not many people are as honest as he is. 

Staring at Bakugou through your phone’s camera, you’re hit with an inexplicable pang of fondness. He may be a little bit of an asshole, but he really is someone you’re growing to like as a person. 

A few more minutes pass by where you’re distracted, and the pictures you’re taking have gotten sloppy, hurried. And you can tell that he’s getting more and more impatient with the entire photoshoot. So you’re not surprised when he announces, “I’m done.”

As Bakugou stands, he sheds several kittens. They zoom around the room, infused with the random, hyper energy they sometimes get that you’ll never understand. 

You sigh, rocking back onto your heels and standing with a quiet groan. 

“Would you mind helping me catch them all so I can put them in my spare room?” you ask. “That way, they won’t try to escape when you open the door to leave.” 

“Fine,” Bakugou says, grabbing Yuzu as he passes by and juggling him awkwardly as the kitten tries to escape, meowing in protest. 

Between the two of you, you manage to catch Mikan and Yuzu and deposit them in your spare room without much fuss. You step into the room to toss a couple treats onto their cat tree so the both of them don’t try to make a run for it when you open the door. While they’re distracted, you slip back out of the room. 

You find Bakugou standing right outside the door, grimacing, Natsu on his shoulder. 

You snicker. 

“Get ‘er off me,” he grumbles. He reaches up to try to lift her off, but she’s stuck fast on his shirt. Her claw gets tangled in a thread. 

Laughing, you step forward and move his hands away. As you gently unhook the kitten’s claws from his shirt, your fingers brush against his neck. His lights have been so muted today, laying close to his skin, that it surprises you a little when they brighten for a split second. You figure you startled him and murmur an apology that he grunts at.

“C’mon sweetheart,” you say, smiling as Natsu takes a swipe at Bakugou’s hair when you pull her into your arms. “That’s no place for a kitten.” 

You quickly open the door, gently tossing her into the room, and close it. 

You turn, and find yourself somehow a little closer to Bakugou than you thought. You’re close enough that you can see details, like the cat fur stuck to his black shirt. His blond eyelashes, the swell of his biceps against his shirt’s fabric. 

He’s looking at you, unreadable. His attention makes your thoughts fizz out, and your brain struggles, reaching for words. You’re flustered, and you’re not sure why. It’s the proximity, you think. You try to inch back to give him some room, but your back’s to the door.

“Do they still work?” Bakugou asks. 

You blink, trying to get your bearings. “Do what still work?”

He jerks his head towards your living room. “The plastic shit for your couch.”

“Oh!” You brighten. “Yeah, the protectors are working beautifully! I was worried the cats would figure out a way around them after a couple days, but they’re still clueless.”

A little shy, you say, “Thanks again for them.”

Bakugou stuffs his hands in his pockets, looking smug. “S’ugly, but it’s better than the shitty setup you had before.”

You laugh. “No arguments there.”

The longer the two of you stand in your hallway, the more in your head you get. And you know you’re overthinking, but you can’t help it. If you’re not thinking of the distance between you, too close, you’re feeling bad about your hosting abilities. You’d been so caught up about him being in your apartment that you’d just let him in, didn’t even offer him water or tea or anything, and ordered him around. Made him corral your cats for you. 

Biting your bottom lip, you say, “Hey… I feel bad that you came out here just to take pictures. Do you want to stay for lunch?”

Bakugou looks at you for a moment, then shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t have any place to be.”

“Any preference for takeout? Or we can go to a restaurant in the neighborhood.”

He shakes his head, looking annoyed. “Can’t chance getting photographed together again so soon.”

“Oh. Right.” You feel a little dumb for forgetting the whole reason he’s here in your apartment. “Takeout then? I can call and then go pick it up.”

He gets that grouchy look you’re beginning to become familiar with and doesn’t answer. Instead, he brushes past you, striding over to your kitchen and pulling your fridge open. You’re bewildered, following him belatedly. 

He scans your fridge, then turns to look at you. The look on his face is so incredulous, it’s a little funny.

“Why don’t you have any shit in here?” Bakugou demands.

“I do have shit in there!” you say defensively. “I just haven’t had time to go grocery shopping, so I’m a little low on stuff.” 

“What’re you eating for meals then?”

“I grab something on the way to work for breakfast. There are protein bars and ramen in the break room at work, so sometimes I eat that. Dinner has been takeout recently, but I’m going grocery shopping this weekend!”

With every word you say, you see him get increasingly incensed. 

“Stop judging me!” you tell him, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Get your life together, then,” Bakugou says, snarky. He begins to rummage through your fridge, pulling out some things and setting them onto the counter. 

You draw closer, frowning. “What’re you doing?”

“Gonna cook something.” He glares at you, as if daring you to protest. “Too much takeout’s bad for you. You’ll die prematurely at this rate.”

You blink, raising a brow. “I didn’t know you could cook.” 

He levels you with another judgmental look. “Don’t tell me you can’t cook.”

“I can! I just… don’t like to do it often. Too much work and then you have to clean up after…”

“Sounds like laziness to me,” he mutters. “Excuses.” 

“Hey!”

You watch as he pulls certain drawers and cabinets open, searching for your cutting boards, pans, spices. Part of you knows you should be stopping him. He’s a guest in your home; he shouldn’t be cooking. And it’s weird that he’s stomping around your kitchen like he pays rent here. 

But the other part of you is curious. You’d never have guessed this side of Bakugou existed. He doesn’t seem like the type to be a good cook; you half-imagined his diet consisted of protein powder and painfully under-seasoned chicken breast. You want to see what he makes out of your admittedly sad fridge ingredients. 

“What’re you looking for?” you murmur, and his gaze slides over to you. He tells you. You grab the things he hasn’t found yet and bring them to him, lingering beside him as he washes his hands and then some vegetables. 

You glance at his face. His eyes are focused, his mouth set in a neutral line. He looks more relaxed now than he has the entire time he’s been in your apartment. You watch his hands as he chops greens, precise and controlled. 

“When’d you learn how to cook?” you ask.

“As a kid. Growing up. Cooked with my dad.” 

“Oh!” You imagine a young Bakugou, cooking alongside his father. The image is strangely charming. You wonder if he takes after his dad in looks, or personality, or both. Or neither?

A few moments pass, and you lean against the counter, feeling a little self-conscious that you’re hovering. You’re not sure what to do with yourself.

“You need any help?” you ask.

He turns and squints at you. 

“Make the rice,” he tells you, “and keep your little nose out of my cooking.” 

“You’re so rude,” you say, but go do what he’s asked.  

The meal is simple, and it doesn’t take long to prep. As he works with the ingredients, you keep trying to sneak bites of things here and there. He bats you away when he catches you; you make a game of it. How many things can you snack on before he finishes cooking?

“Enough,” Bakugou snaps, finally. He sets the knife down, wipes his hands on a towel. He turns and it surprises you. He crowds you against the counter and plants his palms down on it on either side of you, caging you. 

Your heart thumps loudly in your chest, surprising you. Your eyes widen. 

He leans forward, into your space, eyes glinting. This close, you can smell his body wash, or aftershave, or cologne—whatever it is, it’s nice. 

“Y’wanna eat lunch or not?” he demands, and your gaze flickers to meet his.

You nod. A moment passes, and despite the tension, you have the urge to bite back a ridiculous smile. 

You know you’re supposed to feel intimidated. Maybe it’s because you’re home, where you’re most comfortable. Maybe it’s because you just watched Bakugou handle the kittens with gentle hands, despite the accidental scratches they gave him or the grouchy things he had to say to them. But you’re not intimidated at all. You’re not sure when you stopped feeling apprehensive about him. 

And riling him up is fun. He reacts so candidly, never holding back. 

Now you’re fighting off the urge to laugh. You have some survival instinct. 

Something about your expression must give you away, that you’re not fazed at all, because Bakugou narrows his eyes and his mouth twists into a scowl.

“Stop being a brat,” he says, but there’s no heat to it, and he steps back, drops his arms, freeing you.

“Okay, okay,” you say, penitent. You turn away to hide the smile that breaks onto your lips. 

“It’s delicious,” you tell him. “I’m impressed.”

“Y’should be,” he says, “Didn’t have shit to work with.” But his lights are soft around him, and somehow, you can tell that he’s pleased.

Chapter Text

Ikeda tells you that two of the pictures—only two!—you took of Bakugou are viable and that one of the videos is passable. It’s a little harsh, in your opinion, especially considering who your subject was. 

She also asks you for the name of the organization you used to foster the kittens. You tell her the organization name, and, a little sheepishly, that the adoption and foster program’s called Save the Meow Meows. It makes her laugh. 

“Next time, try to get Dynamight to smile, okay?” she says after her laughter dissolves into a grin, audible even over the phone. “He looks like he’s being held hostage in 90% of these.”

“I know. I tried, but you know how he is.” It takes a half-second for the entirety of her words to process. You blink. “Wait, next time?”

“Well, yeah!” she says, sounding amused. “This first post we just put up on Dynamight’s socials is already doing well, and your pictures with him at the pet store are in the rearview mirror. Who knew that people would like them so much? No accounting for taste, I suppose.” 

Well. You knew, the moment you saw Bakugou pick up Mikan. There’s one photo in particular that didn't make it to Dynamight’s social media because Mikan’s mid-motion in it, but something about Bakugou’s expression… You’ll never tell him, but the two of them together make such a pretty picture that you favorited it on your phone. 

You try to pay attention as Ikeda continues, “A couple more posts should suffice, so we need more photos with him in different clothes, maybe in a different spot in your apartment, individual shots with each kitten… and definitely better expressions. Only makes sense, right?”

“Right…”

“You can go ahead and let him know about the additional shoots; you did a great job of coordinating things between you. And good job wrangling him so far! Keep up the good work! ”

“Thanks,” you say, after a pause, to the dial tone. You wonder if Bakugou knows how much Ikeda dislikes him. 

Grimacing, you type out a message and send Bakugou the bad news. 

You: Hey. Just finished talking to Ikeda. She says we need to take more pictures 🙏

Not a minute passes before your phone begins vibrating in your hand. You eye it like it’s a snake and answer hesitantly. 

“…Hello?”

“What’dya mean, more pictures?” Bakugou snaps. 

“Literally, there are no other meanings for that statement.”

“Call her back and tell her to fuck off.”

“Bakugou,” you sigh in exasperation. “I’m not gonna tell her to fuck off. Also, she’s your PR person. If you have complaints, shouldn’t you tell her directly?”

“The fifty pictures you took weren’t enough?” he demands.

“She says we need to take pictures of you wearing different clothes, in different spots in my apartment, so it’s clear they happened on different days. She also says you need solos with each of the kittens. And that you need to smile.” 

Quietly, you mutter away from the receiver, “Like I told you to.”

Bakugou must have the ears of a bat because his tone lowers, dangerous. “What’d you say, brat? Come and say that to my face.”

“Make me,” you say immediately, then close your eyes, feeling embarrassed. He really does bring out an unfortunately childish side of you. 

The line goes silent. 

You wait, wondering if you pissed him off. 

“Text me when you’re free this week,” he says abruptly. “I’ll come by for the damn pictures.”

He hangs up before you can reply. 

Bakugou: I’m outside. 

Standing from your couch, you walk over to your front door and pull it open.

“Hey,” you tell him, but you stop in confusion when you notice he has a duffle bag in one hand and a reusable bag, the kind you’d put groceries in, in the other. His expression is pinched when your eyes meet.

“Here,” Bakugou says, and shoves the reusable bag at you. You automatically grab at the handles and make a sound when he lets go; it’s heavy. 

“Gotta reschedule the dumb photos. I was called in for work,” he says. 

Bakugou steps back, clearly moving to leave, and you grab his wrist.  

“Hold on,” you say. You let your hand fall from him and raise the reusable bag. “What is this?”

“Nutrients instead of the garbage you usually have. Be grateful,” he tells you, baring his teeth in a mean smile. You make a face at him, instinctively, and the mean fades from his smile, shifting to an amused twist of his lips. He looks at you as if he’s going to say something more. He doesn’t. 

Bakugou turns and makes his way down the hallway. 

You stare at his back, then duck your head to look at the contents of the bag. 

There are several bentos in there, stacked neatly, easily a week’s worth of lunches. The ones at the top have sticky notes on them, labeled with a number and what looks like a list of ingredients. 

When it finally clicks what you’re holding, your eyes widen. 

You shove your feet into some slides, grabbing another shoe to hold your door open, and chase Bakugou down the hallway, lugging the bag with you.

“Bakugou, wait,” you call, catching up to him where he’s waiting at the elevator, duffle bag on the ground. 

He turns to look at you, eyes narrowed. You come to an abrupt halt in front of him and try to give him the bag back. 

Bakugou crosses his arms, a refusal. “The fuck are you doing?”

“I can’t accept this,” you say. “It’s so much food! And was probably a lot of work to make!”

“S’why you should shut up and keep it,” he growls. “Go back.”

You scrabble about for a more convincing argument. “You should keep it. You’re going to work, right? You need lunch!”

“Already got lunch. This shit’s just because I made extra meal prepping this week,” Bakugou says.

Your mouth opens, and you furrow your brow, looking down at the bag. Uncertain, now.

“If you don’t want it, toss it,” he tells you, rolling his eyes.

“I can’t do that,” you gasp, just as the elevator arrives and opens. 

One of your neighbors, coming back from walking her dog, blinks at the both of you from inside the elevator. 

You quickly step closer to where Bakugou’s standing so she can pass. Bakugou picks up his duffle bag so it isn’t in the way, and you exchange greeting smiles with your neighbor as she slips by. Her big dog stops to sniff at the bag you’re holding, no doubt detecting the food, but your neighbor tugs at the leash and away.

Feeling self-conscious now that you have an audience, even if she is getting further down the hall, you turn back to Bakugou. He’s looking at you already, an exasperated expression on his face.

“Stop being stubborn,” he says, mouth a downward slash. “Gotta go. Eat that shit or don’t. I don’t care.”

He steps into the elevator and jabs the button for the ground floor. He’s gone before you can come up with a response.

You stack the bentos in your fridge, taking care not to jostle them more than you had during your jog down the hallway. As you place the last one inside, you trace the edge of its lid thoughtfully.  

You weren’t sure, at first, why these bentos bothered you, why your first reaction was to try to give them back. But the longer you sit on it, the more clarity you have. 

You feel a little guilty, that Bakugou keeps doing things for you, giving you things. The feeling has been building, especially over the past couple weeks since you’ve been messaging him, talking to him. You talk to him nearly every day. You’ve learned he prefers phone calls to texts—not surprising, considering how brief his messages usually are. He’s become part of your routine, and you find yourself feeling like something’s missing when a day passes without a snarky message from him or a phone call where you update him on the kittens, despite his claims of disinterest. 

You don’t want him to think that you only want him around because he gives you things and does stuff for you. You hope nothing about you gives that impression. 

You’re not sure how to tell him this. It makes your stomach swoop, just thinking about bringing it up. Because you know you’ll have to tell him what you just realized: that you like him for who he is. That you like him in your life. That he doesn’t have to earn your time or attention or—or forgiveness with things or by doing things. 

At work the next day, you sit and eat in the break room for the first time in several weeks, nearly crying over your first bite of a bento. It’s so good.

You figured out the numbers on the sticky notes indicate the order in which you should eat the bentos. Even though the ingredients are listed on the notes, you’d been tempted to crack open each bento to see what you’ll be eating later in the week. But so far, you’ve been able to control yourself. It’s kind of nice. Like a little surprise to look forward to each day. 

You finger today’s sticky note, taking in the words crossing it. For some reason, you’d assumed Bakugou would have messy, wild handwriting. But the kanji are precise, neat. You wonder what he’s doing right now.

The break room door opens, and you look up to see a colleague from a different department.

“Hey!” he greets you, crossing the room to fill his water bottle at the fill station. He turns to face you as he waits, and you panic internally, struggling to remember his name. Sato? Suzuki? 

“Surprised to see you in here,” he remarks. “Usually you eat in your office.”

“Yeah!” you say. You had no idea he took so much notice of where you ate. When were you first introduced? A couple months back? You feel worse about not remembering his name. 

You give him a smile, hoping the guilt isn’t on your face. “Just felt like a change of pace today.”

“That bento looks good! Do you like to cook?” he asks.

“Oh! No, a friend made it for me.” Your smile shifts into something more genuine. “He said I’ve been eating garbage, so. His attempt at trying to make sure I don’t die prematurely, I guess.”

“Oh, gotcha,” Sato or Suzuki or something else entirely says, tone shifting, and he picks up his now-full water bottle and twists the cap back on. 

“Well, enjoy your lunch!” he says, waving goodbye as he leaves the break room. 

You stare at the closing door for a brief moment before shaking your head. You need to find out that guy’s name before you see him again. He totally clocked you for not recognizing him, because what was that weird look on his face as he left? You decide to ask your team—discreetly!—what his name is after your lunch break.

When you’re finished eating, you snap a picture of the empty bento and send it to Bakugou.

You: Thank you for the food! 🙏

You: You know, if you ever change your mind about the hero thing, I think you’d get a job as a chef, easy

After a moment, you decide to send another message. You want to bring up the thoughts you’d had the other day, about how you don’t want him to feel compelled to keep doing things for you, but you feel like it’s a conversation better had in-person. Or on the phone, at least. 

It takes you several minutes of deleting and drafting before you settle on something inadequate. 

You: Sorry I was so weird about it yesterday 

Standing abruptly, too chicken to wait to see if he replies, you clean up your area and get back to work. 

It’s at the end of the work day, on the train, when you check your messages again. A text from Bakugou is waiting for you in your inbox, and you’re definitely not nervous when you tap on it to read it.

Bakugou: Better be sorry. Next time, don’t be a brat about it

You exhale, huffing a laugh, relieved. You type out a response.

You: Yes, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight sir 

He doesn’t reply. One thing about Bakugou is that he leaves his read receipts on—intentionally, you suspect, because it’s just like him to make sure you know he’s ignoring you, even through texts. It makes you grin.

The week passes, and you find yourself staring at a pile of empty bento boxes, hands on your hips.

You: Hey, when can I return the bento boxes? Washed them and everything!!

Bakugou: I’d fuckin’ hope so 

You: 😒

You: Should I drop them off at your agency? 

Bakugou: No, bring ‘em to my place

He sends you an address.

A part of you is a little relieved he’d suggested you not bring them to his agency. Thinking about it, going there to drop off a bag of empty bento boxes feels a little too… revealing. That people might see that you have the kind of relationship where he makes you lunch. You don’t want to cause trouble, especially since the pet store fiasco is just starting to fade from people’s memories. 

You: 👍

“Hi.” You feel a little out of place, standing in the hallway outside Bakugou’s apartment. You hold up the bag of bento boxes. “I brought the goods.”

Mentally, you’re kicking yourself. You’re always saying such dumb shit in front of him. 

Bakugou’s gives you a deadpan look, an I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that look. 

“Well don’t just stand there,” he says, and moves back to give you some room.

You step past the threshold, and he closes the door behind you. He grabs the bag from you and heads deeper into his apartment. Hurriedly, you toe off your shoes and follow him.

He’s gone into his kitchen, you realize, and he has a cabinet open, where he’s placing the bento boxes inside, one by one. He meets your gaze as he’s putting one away, and while maintaining eye contact with you, he opens one of them and makes a show of inspecting it for cleanliness.

“Very funny,” you say dryly. 

Bakugou barks out a laugh and you smile, despite yourself.

As he continues to put away the boxes, you take a moment to glance around his kitchen while he’s busy.

It’s big. It has some fancy-looking appliances you wouldn’t typically find in a home kitchen. The stove looks top-of-the-line, and you see an impressive-looking knife set displayed on the counter. There’s even a stand mixer in one corner. You wonder if Bakugou bakes. 

“Y’want water, tea?” he asks, closing the cabinet and turning to you.

“Oh, water’s fine, thanks,” you say. You’re chagrined; even Bakugou’s a better host than you are.

You lean your side against one of the counters, watching as he grabs a pair of glasses and fills them up. 

He’s the most dressed down you’ve ever seen him, in a faded shirt and worn pants that he easily could’ve slept in. His hair is nearly flat, falling in relaxed strands, softening him. All his edges are blunted, here, in his apartment.

You murmur a thank you as he gives you your water, and you subtly study his face as he drains his glass. He leans a hip against the counter. 

He looks a little tired, slight bags under his eyes. The way he’s holding himself is relaxed, but his shoulders slant, droop in a way you haven’t seen before. When he leans over to place his cup in the sink, his shirt lifts a little, exposing a glimpse of skin and the lip of his boxers rising above the waistband of his pants. His lights are gentle swirls around him, bathing him in a soft glow. 

He’s handsome, it dawns on you. The thought flusters you, and heat begins to rise to your cheeks. 

What the hell? You’ve seen him in casual clothes; you’ve seen him in his hero suit. Objectively, people are more attractive when put together, right? Presentable. There’s nothing about him, now, that you should find attractive. He’s just some guy, standing in his kitchen.

But Bakugou in his off mode, at home, does something to you. It’s like wires rearrange in your head, and you can’t stop looking at him. 

“Hey,” you say—anything to leave this train of thought behind, because nope. “Thanks again for the food. This week was the best I’ve eaten, like ever.”

“You’re damn right it was,” he says, and you roll your eyes, smiling. 

“Alright, alright, Mr. Ego. I did want to talk about something else, too, while I’m here. If you have a minute.” By the time you’re finished talking, a serious note you’re unable to help has crept into your voice. 

An expression you’re unable to decipher flickers across his face. Bakugou crosses his arms. “Spit it out.”

You put your glass down on the counter, fiddling with it. Stalling, you realize. 

“I want you to know… you don’t have to do all this for me, okay?” you say, glancing up at him. 

His eyes narrow. 

You continue, hurriedly, to clarify. “I mean, like buying me the couch protectors, or making me lunches. I appreciate it all, I do.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Bakugou says, a little growl on the end of his sentence. 

“I just don’t want you thinking you need to do these things for me,” you say, voice faltering, quieting. “Even if you don’t cook me another meal, or buy me a single thing, ever, that’s fine with me.” 

Please understand, you will to him, watching him. Your thoughts feel clumsy, your words clumsier, like it’s a monumental effort just to string two sentences together. You can’t find the words to tell him what you mean: that you think he’s funny when he quips at you and that you know he’s observant, thoughtful. That you like talking to him, spending time with him. It’s enough.

Maybe you have found the words, but you can’t say them aloud just yet. Not yet.

“I know I don’t need to do shit. I only do shit I wanna do,” Bakugou says gruffly.

You open your mouth to argue, to try again to make sure he understands you, but he interrupts, puts a hand on your head. He’s a little rough, but his hand is warm. Reassuring. There’s a softness in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. You could fall into them, like this. 

“You think too much,” he tells you, but peering into his face—you think he’s heard you, loud and clear. 

You do think too much, you acknowledge on the train ride home. 

You’d left his apartment soon after your conversation; he’d needed to get ready for work. But your thoughts still buzz with him. 

You think about how the shape of your life has changed with him in it, within just a couple weeks. You think about the fact that he’s your soulmate but you’re not his, how this is something that can’t be changed, no matter how well you get to know Bakugou and how well he gets to know you. It’s been a long time since this—that you can see his lights but he can’t see yours—bothered you. You thought you’d accepted it, moved on from it. 

It really, really bothers you.

Chapter Text

Musutafu’s streets are just waking up around you, stores barely opening and the roads devoid of many cars. It’s early, so it isn’t crowded just yet. You spot a couple teenagers on their way to school across the road. You cross paths with a few harried-looking adults clearly in the middle of their commutes to work. But people are far and few between, and the sky is still the palest blue, barely tinged by the sun’s yellow rays, so you enjoy the peace alongside your morning drink. 

You’re glad that for today, at least, you’re not joining the ranks of those in routine. You have a different agenda today: you’re on your way to Bakugou and Kirishima’s agency. 

As you come to a stop just outside the building, out of the way of foot traffic, you pull out your phone and dial Bakugou’s number, humming a little under your breath as you wait. He picks up after a single ring.

“What?” he snaps, sharp and quick, and you’re taken aback at his tone. 

“Oh, um. It’s me,” you say hesitantly. Maybe you’ve caught him at a bad time? 

Tension colors his voice as he says, “What’s wrong?”

“What? Oh—nothing’s wrong!” It is pretty rare for you to call him so early in the day. Usually, your phone calls are in the evenings. Maybe the deviation from the norm is throwing him off and that’s why it feels like he’s on edge. “I was just wondering, are you at your agency right now?”

“Why?”

But he just sounds so terse, and his words are clipped, like he’s half a mind somewhere else. Your excitement fizzles out, like a sparkler running out of fuel, and you’re left feeling like an annoyance, a bother. 

“Sorry… you sound busy. I’ll just message you later,” you say. 

“The fuck? Just—”

You hear Bakugou exhale deeply, though it’s faint, as if he’s pulled the phone away from his face. 

Voice even, he says, “It’s fine. What is it?” 

You look down at the sidewalk, scuffing the pavement with your shoe. Maybe it was a bad idea, coming here. 

“No, it’s nothing.” You glance at the drinks carrier in your hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Just spit it out,” Bakugou says, and you can practically hear his gritted teeth. “And don’t you hang up.”

Suddenly, you hear your name being called. You raise your head, looking around. Grateful for the distraction, you turn. 

It’s Kirishima, in civilian clothes, and he’s coming out of the agency, jogging up to you with a grin on his face. “Hey, I thought that was you! What’re you doing here?”

He notices the phone at your ear, and his eyes widen. 

“Oh!” He lowers his voice, looking apologetic. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were on the phone.”

“Gotta go,” you say quickly into the receiver. Bakugou’s voice peaks across your phone’s speaker, as if he’d shouted something, but you hit the end call button before you can hear what he has to say. 

As you put your phone in your pocket, you bite your bottom lip. You really hope Bakugou didn’t hear Kirishima. You want to slink away before he figures out you’re here. 

“All good. I was just wrapping it up,” you tell Kirishima. 

He hesitates for a moment, considering you, before nodding and flashing you a grin. “It’s good to see you! How’ve you been?” 

You smile back instinctively, feeling yourself relax. There’s just something about Kirishima that makes you feel at ease. 

“Good!” you tell him. “Work’s been okay, can’t complain, and the kittens have tons of adoption queries! I’ve been excited for them to find their forever homes.”

“That’s great! I’ve seen the pictures you took of them and Bakugou. They look so soft.” He holds his hands up, cupped, as if to call to mind a soft kitten nestled there. 

You laugh. “They are! But how’ve you been? It’s been a while, and I can never get Bakugou to tell me how you are beyond ‘He’s the same,’ which is very unhelpful.”

Kirishima grins. “He’s always been like that. Uncooperative! I think he does it on purpose. But he’s not wrong—I’ve been good! Same old, same old.”

His eyes slide down to the drinks carrier in your hand. One of the cups, clearly yours, is empty. The other is full, still warm.

“Is that for him? Are you here to visit?” Kirishima asks, eyes bright.

“Oh, um!” You falter. You could lie and say it’s for a coworker or something. But you’re not exactly in work attire. Maybe you could say the barista’d made a mistake on your first order so now you had two after they’d remade it? Whatever—you’d make something up, even if you feel bad about lying to Kirishima. You really should get going, anyhow. You’ve lingered too long already. 

“Hey!” 

You stiffen as you hear your name called for the second time in the span of ten minutes. Except this time, the voice is a familiar rasp that’s furious. Heated. A glance behind you confirms who it is: Bakugou, coming out the agency doors, a thunderous expression on his face. 

His eyes lock with yours.

You panic.

You turn to Kirishima, shoving the carrier into his arms, saying, “That’s for you, actually, congratulations! Gotta go, bye!”

“Wait—” Kirishima starts, but you’re gone, you book it, heading in literally any other direction as long as it puts distance between you and Bakugou.

“What the fuck!” you hear Bakugou snarl behind you, and you speed up, gulping. 

You have the presence of mind to be conscientious of attracting unwanted attention, so even though it slows you down, you swerve into an empty alleyway that you know leads out into a quieter street. You chance a quick glance behind you, praying you got away. 

To your relief, Bakugou’s nowhere in sight. You slow your pace a little, sighing. 

You turn back to face forward, but you slam into something—someone. 

“Big fuckin’ mistake, brat,” you hear Bakugou’s voice rasp in your ear just as you feel an arm wrap around your waist and you’re suddenly shooting up, up into the air, the crackle of combustion muffling the strangled scream you let out. 

You clutch onto Bakugou, holding on for dear life as he angles towards the roof of the building to your left. 

Once your feet are on the ground, he releases his grip on you, only to get in your face, crimson eyes blazing.

“Why the fuck were you running?”

“I don’t know!” you exclaim. Your hands are up in front of you, held up defensively. He’s so close they’re almost pressed against his chest. “I panicked, I don’t know. You ran after me!”

“Only because you ran first!” he snarls. 

“What was I supposed to do? Stop?” 

“Yes, fuck! You’re so—” He makes a choked sound of anger and runs a hand down his face, covering his mouth. 

Fuck, he’s right. You don’t know what you were thinking. You just—you really didn’t want to see him so soon after that conversation on the phone. But it was a really dumb move to run away, and just recalling Kirishima’s face as you took off makes you want to pull out a shovel, dig, and lie down in the hole you’d made.

Bakugou’s arms are crossed tightly over his chest, biceps bulging, and he’s scowling ferociously. He isn’t even in his hero suit, just in joggers and a shirt, but that does nothing to diminish the enormity of his presence. You have a little more respect for the villains in this district, for having the courage to still attempt crime when Bakugou’s around. 

You inhale deeply, then reach out and touch his arm. “M’sorry. I was dumb. I shouldn’t have run.”

Bakugou grunts, looking down at your hand and away. You retract your hand quickly, hoping he wasn’t bothered by the gesture. He looks back at you and shakes his head. 

“You can say sorry by telling me what the hell you’re doing here and why you called me.”

You feel your cheeks warm and close your eyes briefly. You really don’t want to tell him why you came here. But there’s no getting out of this; you literally have nowhere to go. 

“I… I got you coffee,” you admit. “You mentioned that one place on the corner last time we talked, so. I wanted to surprise you!” 

He’s just been looking so tired, recently. You recall the slope of his shoulders the last time you saw him, in his apartment—weary. Like a heavy weight rested upon them. 

You rub your arm and continue, “But you sounded so annoyed on the phone, I figured you were busy. Didn’t want to keep bothering you.”

He regards you with an unreadable expression. You try to maintain eye contact, but it’s hard. You wish you could tell what he’s thinking. 

“Dumbass,” he says, finally, dropping his arms to his sides. “Sounds like someone made stupid assumptions and then ran away, like a loser.”

You frown, eyes sliding away, but don’t protest. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry.” 

He rolls his eyes and reaches out a hand, flicks your forehead. You put a hand to the spot, making a face at him, and he gives you a mean little grin that makes you want to pinch him. 

In the early morning sun, his lights are soft, blending with the warm hues that gild the world around you. Gold mixes with orange, and the ebb and flow of color lulls you with its familiarity. 

You’re conscious of your body relaxing. You didn’t realize how tense you were. 

After a beat, Bakugou asks, “Don’t you have work?”

“Nope,” you say, and smile a little. “I requested the day off! I needed it.”

Now that you have the chance to look at him, he doesn’t look any more rested than the other day. Worse, maybe. You can see that the shadows under his eyes have deepened, that there’s a furrow in his brow that wasn’t there the last time you saw him. Your hand is reaching up, fingertips lightly brushing against the skin under his eyes before you know what you’re doing. 

“You look like you need a day off too,” you tell him. “Take care of yourself, okay? Let me know if I can do anything for you.” 

He stares at you for a long moment. You gaze back at him. 

You want him to know that you mean it. You want to be there for him. Bakugou doesn’t talk about work often, and when he does, he paints things in broad strokes, no details. But you get the sense that he’s busy with something, and it’s weighing on him. 

Even if there’s nothing you can do about his workload, you want him to know that he can lean on you, if he wants. Whatever that’s worth. 

Bakugou reaches out an arm to you. He telegraphs his movements and gives you plenty of time to step away. 

You don’t, curious to see what he’ll do. 

He wraps a hand around your head and pulls you against him. Surprised, you stumble a bit, a hand coming up to grasp at his shirt for balance. His hand slides down your head to the back of your neck, coming to a rest there. 

He’s gentle with you, despite the initial jostling. You catch a whisper of whatever that scent is, his body wash, his cologne, and inhale. He’s so warm against you. 

“You’re so fucking dumb,” he growls, and you can feel the reverberation of his words against your face, your chest—everywhere you’re touching. “Don’t pull this running shit again, y’hear me? And no more squirreliness.”

“Yes, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight,” you say, voice muffled against his chest. 

Bakugou huffs a startled laugh, raspy, and you grin against him. Part of you wonders what would happen if you looked up, tilted your face towards him. 

But you don’t. He lets you go. The moment passes. 

“C’mere, I’m taking us down.” He walks to the edge of the roof, and you go to him. “And if Shitty Hair drank my coffee, you’re getting me another one.”

You laugh. “That’s fair.”

He guides your hands to grip him so you’re secure when he brings you both down off the roof, and just as his arm comes around to brace you against him, a thought occurs to you.

“Is it okay if I come by again? Bring you coffee sometimes?”

Bakugou pauses, looking down into your face. He’s so close, pressed against you. It’s necessary for the descent down, but you suddenly wish you’d brought this up later. It’s too hard to think, this close to him. 

“The hell? Don’t needa ask my permission for that shit. Why wouldn’t it be okay.”

You make a face at him. “Won’t people start to notice? If I start coming by to see you? Like your employees, or more people randomly taking pictures.”

His expression grows stormy. 

“I’ve been involved in the hiring processes of all my agency’s employees. No dumbasses are gonna work for me,” he says. 

While you’re reeling from this revelation that Bakugou’s a control freak who manages the impossible, because who has that kind of time on top of being a pro-hero, Bakugou continues. 

“They got better things to do than gossip. And know better, too.” His expression darkens further. 

“If they don’t, they’ll be looking for another job faster than they can press that damn button to take a goddamn picture.”

You shiver at the look on his face. You believe him. 

So coffee becomes a regular thing. Bakugou gets around your concern of paparazzi or random people taking your picture at the agency’s entrance by giving you a pass that lets you enter through the secured and patrolled back entrance. You’re careful to make sure no one follows you, still a little paranoid. 

“Is this allowed?” you ask as he presses the key card into your hand.

Bakugou rolls his eyes.

“I own the damn place,” he tells you.

It’s indicative of how much you like your soulmate that at least twice a week you wake up an extra thirty minutes in the morning to get his coffee and drop it off at the agency before heading into work yourself. You aren’t always able to give it to him personally, sometimes just having to leave it with the front desk receptionist whose name you finally find out is Takahashi. 

“Call me Aiko,” she says with a bright smile. She’s a sweet girl.

But most of the time, Bakugou makes an appearance around the time you arrive. He usually spends a couple minutes with you, asks about the kittens in a roundabout way, demands to know what you’re eating for lunch that day if he hadn’t pre-prepared bentos for you that week. 

The first time you bring a smoothie for Kirishima from the same place, attempting to hand it to Bakugou to pass along, he makes a face.

“The hell is this?”

“It’s a smoothie for Kirishima,” you say. You gesture for him to take it, but he curls his lip at it.

“He doesn’t want this shit. Just take it with you.”

“What?” you say, furrowing your brow. “How would you know?”

“He’s got one of those fancy-fuck blenders at home. Don’t waste your money on ‘im,” Bakugou says, rolling his eyes. 

“Oh,” you say, crestfallen, frowning down at the cup in your hand. You rub your thumb up and down its side, spreading around the condensation that’s built up on it. 

“I just wanted to do something nice for him, because he’s always so nice to me,” you say quietly. Sighing, you move to put the smoothie back into the drinks carrier the cafe had given you. Maybe Kirishima would like coffee? You’ll try to bring him coffee next time. 

You don’t notice the flash of emotions that cross Bakugou’s face. He makes a disgusted sound and snatches the cup from you. 

“Fine! I’ll give him your stupid smoothie. Now go or you’ll be late for work.”

He stomps off before you get a chance to say goodbye, and you’re left standing there, bewildered.

One day, a Saturday, you linger at the receptionist counter, and ask Aiko if Bakugou’s busy, or if he’s available for a quick chat.

“If you don’t know, no worries,” you say as she tilts her head. 

She glances at the protein shake in your hand that’s very much not for you. You’re not sure how Bakugou can drink these things; he’d let you sip from it once and you made the ugliest face at the taste. He’d laughed at you. 

“I’m not familiar with Dynamight’s schedule, but his manager is! Let me call him and double check for you,” she says, picking up the phone and pressing a button on it before you can protest.

“Hi!” she says into the phone. “I have Dynamight’s P1 here in the lobby, and we were wondering if he’s available for a quick meeting?” 

P1? You eye her. What does that stand for? You make a mental note to ask later.

There’s a quiet moment as she listens to the reply, and then a longer pause as she’s seemingly put on hold.

You wince, thinking about the inconvenience you’re being. You really should’ve just waited until after Bakugou’s done with work today to talk to him. You could drink the shake yourself, even though personally you think it tastes like dirt. 

“Okay! Thanks so much!” Aiko says into the phone, and then she hangs up. She raises her gaze to yours.

“Dynamight’s actually mid-workout right now! His manager says that you should come up to the third floor, and Dynamight will be in the second gym. The room numbers are next to the doors.”

“Oh! Okay, thank you for your help.” You pause. “Do you mind swiping the elevator for me again? Sorry to make you walk over.”

She blinks at you. “I was told you have a key card?”

“Yes? But I just use it to get inside from the back entrance.”

“May I have a look?”

You hand it over. She taps a couple keys on the keyboard and taps it against a scanner. Glancing at the screen, she smiles and hands the card back to you.

“That card’s high clearance!” she tells you. “You have access to most things in the building, like the elevator, the break rooms, the gym… And if you have any trouble getting into other areas, I’m sure Dynamight can adjust your access!”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” you say hurriedly. “Thank you, Aiko. I can take it from here.”

She waves as you scurry over to the elevator, scan the card, and push the button for the third floor. 

You stare at the key card in your hand like it’ll bite you. What on earth was Bakugou thinking when he gave this to you? What if you lose it? 

This thought prompts you to store the key card in your wallet, instead of chucking it carelessly into your pocket like you have been for the past two weeks. You’d almost washed it with your laundry a couple days ago.

After some poking around, you find the second gym Aiko had mentioned. You dither at the entrance for a moment, unsure whether to knock or not—but that’s weird, right? Who knocks on the door to a gym? You shake your head and walk through the doors.

Bakugou’s back’s to you. He’s at a piece of equipment, hanging onto a bar intended for pull ups. He’s in the middle of pulling himself up, biceps and lat muscles taut against the sweat-soaked shirt he’s wearing. He lowers himself slowly, and repeats the motion, every movement intentional and clean. 

A little frisson of attraction runs through you, and you swallow. Sometimes you forget just how handsome he is. 

Your eyes shift away from admiring him to the mirrors spanning the far wall, and you find that he’s watching you in them. 

Your eyes meet, and your heartbeat picks up. You feel warmth rise to your cheeks. Had he noticed you looking at him? God, you hope not. 

He drops, reaching for a towel laying on a nearby bench to wipe his face. 

You breathe in and exhale. After regaining as much of your composure as you can, you walk towards him. It’s easier to push away the flustered feelings once you remember why you’ve come to see Bakugou today. 

When you reach his side, he raises an eyebrow at you. You hold up the shake in your hand.

He ignores it. His eyes immediately narrow, zeroed in on your face. “What’s wrong?”

Startled, you furrow your brows. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say, pushing the shake at him. 

Bakugou takes it, but he raises his free hand, reaches up, and pinches your cheek. 

“Ow,” you say, and he lets go. 

“Don’t lie,” he says, and your eyes widen. You’re not sure how he’s able to tell you’re upset when you’ve tried your best to cover it up. 

You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. “Can you go back to working out? I didn’t mean to interrupt. I promise I’ll tell you when you’re all done. And don’t rush.”

Bakugou scoffs. “Don’t needa tell me that shit. I don’t rush.”

But he seems to accept your promise. He places the shake down onto the bench, and you sit beside it as he returns to his sets. 

You get lost in his rhythm, eyes watching but mind elsewhere. You miss his entire cooldown and don’t even realize he’s finished until he’s stepping up next to you, tilting your chin up to look at him.

“Alright, enough,” he says. The crimson of his eyes is so bright under these lights. He’s flushed with exertion, sweaty. 

He’s such a comfort to see. You resist the urge to press your face into his hand. 

“What’re you thinking,” Bakugou says as he draws his hand back.

Nothing you want him knowing, at least of your thoughts of him from the past minute. You give him what your promise owes, instead, tell him what’s got you feeling so off kilter. 

“Yuzu was adopted today,” you say softly, looking down at your hands.

After a moment, Bakugou moves the shake aside and drops onto the bench next to you. He’s radiating warmth like a furnace, and he grabs a fresh towel from his bag to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck, his face, his arms. He waits.

“I didn’t think I’d be so sad,” you tell him. You feel a sting in your eyes and will yourself not to cry. Ridiculous. 

Bakugou flexes his hands. Looks at you. 

“Well, what’d you expect? You had the fleabag—”

“Bakugou.”

“—furball for months. You got attached.” He glances at the slope of your shoulders, the downward tilt of your head. The unhappy curve of your lips. “They good people, the extras who got ‘im?”

“Yeah. This guy and his fiance adopted him. They fell in love with him, and as they should! Yuzu’s such a sweet boy. They sent me videos of him, and he was purring up a storm.” 

You get a little teary-eyed once more. You’ll never get to hold Yuzu as he purrs ever again. 

Bakugou sighs and shifts in his seat so his shoulder rests against yours. 

“You did good,” Bakugou tells you when you look at him. “You took care of ‘im until it was time for him to go, and you made it easy for him to find a place to go. You did good.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

You close the sliver of space between you until he’s a line of warmth all along your side, from shoulder to hip to knee. Slowly, watching him for any signs of displeasure, you nudge your hand against his. He watches you. You take the leap and thread your fingers through his. His hand is so big around yours. 

His hand squeezes yours softly. 

Sighing, you lean against him and let your eyes drift closed for a moment.

The next few minutes pass, just like this. Your pounding heart slows. It’s hard not to imagine that his hand in yours, a kindness, means something other than friendship. Hard not to want it to mean more. You really, really like your soulmate. 

You push those thoughts away and try to empty your mind; you don’t want to ruin this.

“Um, Dynamight, sir?” 

At the sound of a stranger’s voice cutting the silence, you startle, eyes shooting open. You sit up. You drop Bakugou’s hand. 

At the gym doors, a teenage girl stands, fiddling with her fingers. She’s doing her best not to look at either of you. 

Bakugou narrows his eyes at her, growling, “What?”

She shrinks back a little, then stiffens, ramrod straight. She says, “I’m here for patrol! Red Riot told me to come get you.”

Bakugou squints, giving her a mean look. “Go get suited up, kid. And tell Red Riot to fuck off.”

The kid squeaks out a reply, but it’s so high-pitched you can’t tell what it could possibly be, and she scurries off, the door closing behind her. 

“Who was that?” you ask after a moment, willing the heat in your cheeks to subside.

Bakugou runs his hands through his hair. He picks up the protein shake and sips from it before replying. 

“A dumbass UA intern Ei picked up.”

You squint at him. “Don’t be mean, Bakugou. Picking on teenagers is super lame.” 

He huffs. You tilt your head.

“Do you not like her?” you ask.

“...She’s got guts,” he says. “Potential or whatever. Saw her at the Sports Festival. It’s UA’s yearly event—”

“Oh, I know what that is,” you say. “Who doesn’t? I remember seeing the one from your second year. Looked fun.”

He scowls. “S’not fun. It’s a competition.”

“Competitions can be fun, Bakugou,” you say, rolling your eyes. A thought occurs to you, and you perch on the edge of your seat. 

“Well, maybe not for you, especially that year,” you say, the glimmers of a smile teasing your lips. “Since Pro-Hero Shouto demolished you.”

He lunges for you, but you’re ready for it, and you take off towards the far side of the room that’s free of equipment, laughing.

Bakugou catches you embarrassingly quick, lifting you up off your feet from behind, effortless. He really is so strong. 

“What’d I tell you about running?” he growls, and you shiver. 

“Not to do it,” you say, trying to act unaffected despite being a little breathless. He sets you down, a hand sliding down to circle your wrist, as if he thinks you’ll run again. 

You make a face at him. You add, “Don’t tell me what to do.” 

Bakugou gets this glint in his eyes that you’re sure spells trouble. Prickles of anticipation rise in you and you get the urge to hold your breath. 

But before he can say anything, the door opens. This time, it’s Kirishima standing in the doorframe. His eyes immediately catch on the pair of you, and you step away from Bakugou, feeling like you’d been caught with a hand in the cookie jar for the second time in the span of ten minutes. 

Kirishima grins and says, “Bakugou, stop flirting and get suited up! We gotta get going.”

Bakugou’s lights flare up around him, a true lightshow, and he spins on his heel and points at Kirishima.

“Quiet, Shitty Hair. Go wait with the kid.”

You’re glad Bakugou’s facing away from you, and that you’re mostly hidden behind him, because you’re sure your expression is embarrassingly honest. Flirting? Have you been flirting? More importantly—has Bakugou been flirting back?

“The kid’s right here!” Kirishima pushes the door open a little wider to reveal their intern, standing behind him, looking as if she’s trying to become one with the floor. Turning back to Bakugou, Kirishima puts his hands on his hips.

“We’re waiting on you, bud, so get a move on!” Kirishima chides. 

Bakugou growls, walks over to the bench to grab his things and the protein shake, and stalks towards the door. 

He halts mid-step. He turns halfway to look at you.

“I’m off at six today,” he says. 

“Okay?” you say. It’s good info to know, you suppose, since his schedule is rather erratic. You’re not sure why Bakugou’s shared it with you, though. 

Instead of clarifying, Bakugou resumes his march towards the door and pushes Kirishima out of the way with a hand on his face. Kirishima sputters, tripping backwards.

You cover your mouth to cover up your laugh as the door closes behind them. Their friendship really is so endearing. You’re glad Bakugou has such a wonderful friend. 

You’re home, clicking mindlessly around your computer, when an old urge arises.

You find yourself opening up a new tab, searching, like you’re thirteen again, trying to figure out why you can see Bakugou’s lights but he can’t see yours. 

But the articles tell you the same thing they’d told you those years ago. Soul-lights are an under-researched phenomenon and poorly understood; it’s been difficult to obtain empirical research that explains the exact nature of soul-lights—why soulmates exist and how they work. It’s worse, now, that with every generation they’re becoming rarer and rarer. 

Because only soulmates can see each others’ lights, descriptions of lights are subjective. Furthermore, descriptions of the nature of the relationships are subjective. No two soulmate relationships are the same. And though there have been instances of unrequited soulmate relationships, of those relationships, understandably, no one’s come forward to participate in interview-style studies for researchers to pick apart and analyze. At least not in any studies that you’ve been able to find. 

You close out your tabs, feeling frustrated. What does it matter? You’re running yourself in circles for no reason. Isn’t it enough that Bakugou’s in your life? That you’re happy he’s in it? Bringing up old dreams is pointless. 

Eerily, as if Bakugou somehow knew you’ve been thinking about him, your phone rings, his contact popping up on your phone. You pick up.

“Hey!”

“Hey,” he says. “D’you eat yet?”

You glance at the time on your phone guiltily. It’s a little past six. You have work tomorrow, so you really should get a move on if you want to make dinner and eat at a decent time.

“Not yet,” you say, and Bakugou grunts.

“Keep an ear out for the door,” he says.

“Oh?” You perk up a little. “Are you coming over?”

Bakugou exhales, and it crackles the line. “Can’t. Staying a little longer at the agency.”

“Oh.” You try not to feel disappointed. “Okay. You eat too, yeah? And don’t stay too long. Or I’ll text Kirishima and tell him to kick you out.”

He snorts. “Like he could. And you don’t have his number.”

“How would you know?” you ask. You hear the doorbell ring and a couple knocks at your front door echo through your apartment. 

“If it’s not you, who’s at my door right now?” you ask suspiciously. 

“Go find out,” Bakugou says and hangs up. 

You pull the phone away from your face and squint at it. The doorbell rings again. 

You hurry to the door. Upon opening it, you find a food delivery person standing there with takeout in his hands. Understanding dawns in your head as he says your name and you confirm.

“Thank you,” you say, taking the food from him. He nods and jogs back down the hallway.

You close the door and gaze down at the food in your hands. You can already tell from the smell that it’s from your favorite takeout place. 

The food is good, as it always is. But it would’ve been better if Bakugou had been here, eating it with you.

Chapter Text

You hum to yourself as warm, soapy water runs over the dishes you’re washing, over your hands. Rinse, place on rack, reach for another plate, utensil, or cup. The motions are soothingly repetitive, normally enough to set your mind adrift if not for the soft ambient noises of another person working coming from behind you. 

You’d made dinner and are doing the dishes so Bakugou can rest. Not work more, especially off the clock. 

You glance over at him briefly. He’s sitting at your kitchen table, laptop in front of him, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed at the screen. He’s in a comfortable-looking shirt and joggers, a combo he’s usually in after patrols. 

You want to press your finger in-between his brows, smooth the lines that’ve formed there. You’re sure that when age catches up with Bakugou, the first wrinkles that’ll form will be there. 

You think about teasing him about it, but high-pitched meows interrupt your thoughts. You glance down as Mikan rubs his face and body across your shins. Natsu looks on from a couple feet away, but her eyes are focused on you.

“Dinner time, huh?” you say to Mikan, who meows back as if saying duh. 

“Bakugou, do you have a sec? Do you mind feeding the cats, please?” you call over your shoulder. 

You hear a grunt and the soft shuffle of the slippers you’d bought for him against the floor as he heads toward the cabinet containing the food and bowls. 

Mikan immediately abandons you and gallops over to Bakugou, the volume of his meows increasing. Natsu follows her brother at a more sedate pace.

“Yeah, yeah, pipe down pipsqueak,” Bakugou mutters. 

He grabs the magnetic key on your fridge to unlock the child lock securing the cabinet closed. Two or three weeks into fostering the kittens, Mikan had found his way into the cabinet where you store their treats and food. He’d been so bloated from all he’d eaten that you’d panicked-called your foster org contact in case you needed to take him to the vet.

Safe to say, you learned your lesson. The internet told you child locks were the solution, so child locks you got. 

You hear Bakugou curse quietly, and when you look over, Mikan’s in one of Bakugou’s hands, no doubt caught in an attempt to jump up onto the counter—or up Bakugou’s leg. 

“Get over there, puffball. Wait a goddamn minute.” Bakugou sets Mikan down next to Natsu. He turns back to the half-filled bowls and continues scooping wet food into them from the cans he’s collected from the cabinet. Mikan continues to make a nuisance of himself, winding around Bakugou’s legs, and even Natsu joins in as the sound of the spoon against their bowls fills them with impatience.

You return to your task, a small smile on your face as you grab a pan to wash. 

Last week, after the two of you had finished taking pictures for one of the last kitten photoshoots Ikeda had requested, the two of you had dinner. You’d convinced Bakugou to order in, since both of you had come from work and just the thought of cooking—or having Bakugou cook—bummed you out. You both deserved a break.

You didn’t think he’d been paying attention when you’d fed the cats that day, but the next time he came over around dinner time, he’d surprised you by intercepting you on your way to feed them. 

“Go sit,” he’d said, grabbing you by the shoulders and shoving you towards the living room. You’d looked back at him, bewildered. 

“I got it,” he’d told you. 

Seeing Bakugou with them now, kneeling down to nudge Mikan away from Natsu’s bowl, is sweet. It makes you think of the day he’d followed you into that pet store, how you couldn’t picture Bakugou having a pet, that Bakugou couldn’t be soft, gentle. 

Bakugou looks up at you suddenly, eyes narrowed, catching you looking at him. 

You smile, then make a face at him. He scowls, looking away. Glancing down, he strokes a hand down Natsu’s back.

Still smiling, you turn back to the sink. You were really wrong about him.

You’ll miss the cats so much. Both Mikan and Natsu had foster requests after the latest pictures went up. They’re scheduled for meet-and-greets soon. You’ll miss seeing Bakugou like this, with them. 

After shutting off the water and drying your hands, you head over to the living room and collapse on the couch, sighing deeply. 

“Bakugou,” you say. “Come sit with me. Natsu’s almost done eating, so it’s okay.” 

If you didn’t watch them, Mikan would inevitably try to eat Natsu’s portion, despite clearly being full. 

Bakugou straightens up from his crouch and gives you a look. You’d say you’ve gotten good at predicting when you can boss him around a little and when you need to be on your best behavior—or risk cheek pinches or suffocating headlocks. 

But these days, his energy’s been all over the place, and he’s hard to predict. 

You don’t mind too much either way. You like that he’s so physical with you, now. It’s like something’s relaxed between the two of you in the past couple weeks. 

Bakugou snags his laptop off the kitchen table and sits beside you, crowding you against the couch end until you’re laughing, shoving at him to make room. 

He snickers and lets up, giving you some space. You lean into his side a little as he opens up his laptop, pulling up some text-heavy files. You glance at them, curious, but he nudges you away.

“These files’re classified, nosy,” he tells you. “No looking.”

You sit back, tilting your head.

“Should you be working on this even when you’re not at the agency?” you ask. “You‘ve been working a lot recently.”

“S’important. Can’t wait,” he mutters, already distracted. 

You shift in your seat so your back’s to the couch arm, crossing your legs beneath you, and study him as you feel his attention shift, as he loses himself in those paragraphs. 

Bakugou takes his job super seriously—it’s one of the things you admire about him. And work’s work. But you know he’s put in a full day already. This is definitely too much, even for a pro hero, isn’t it? 

Natsu jumps up into your lap, a purring ball of fur. You stroke her fur, long motions down her back, and feel your eyes begin to droop. 

You want to ask Kirishima about their workloads recently, maybe ask Kirishima to keep an eye out for him, even though you know Bakugou’d hate it. Because is this normal? You really need to get Kirishima’s number, next time you see him. 

Nestling your side against the back of the couch, you yawn. Your blinks slow. The last thing you see before you drift off is the side of Bakugou’s face, lit by his laptop screen and the warm light of your lamps, the orange-gold of his soul-lights. 

“Hey.” Bakugou’s voice is a little rough, as if he hasn’t spoken for a while. You feel a touch against your cheek. 

As you slowly regain awareness, you blink your eyes open to see Bakugou sitting in front of you, on the couch, with his jacket on. His laptop’s gone, packed away. 

You must’ve fallen asleep. You wonder how long it’s been. 

“Don’t sleep here,” Bakugou tells you. His eyes are so dark in the dim lighting, the sharp red of them mellow in the lamplight. “You’re back’s gonna kill you. Go get ready for bed and go sleep in it.”

“Mm… what time is it?” you ask, sitting up.

“S’almost one in the morning.”

“How’re you gonna get home?” You yawn, covering your mouth. “The trains have stopped. Sleep here.”

He puts his hand on your head, musses your hair. “I get in early. I’ll take a cab.”

It might be because it’s the last thing you thought of before falling asleep, or maybe it’s because it’s the thing you’ve been thinking about every time you see him, but the words slip out as you look into his face. 

“Bakugou… M’worried about you,” you say. “You work so much. Can’t you take a break or a day off?” 

“The bad guys don’t take days off,” he tells you. His hand slips from your head as he turns to grab his bag. “Now go to bed. I’m headed out.”

“But—” 

“Knock it off.” There’s a sense of finality to his tone, an edge to his voice, that you've never heard before. “It’s hero work—you wouldn’t get it.” 

You’re wide awake now. You’re not sure what expression you’re making. You’re not sure what you’re feeling as you look at him, but your stomach’s in knots. 

Bakugou narrows his eyes at you. “I mean it. Get off the couch and get moving. And don’t bring coffee tomorrow—I have a meeting with another agency.”

He gives you one last look before heading out the door.

You go through the motions of getting ready for bed—brushing your teeth, washing your face, changing clothes.

But once you’re in bed, under the covers, sleep is nowhere to be found. 

You feel bad about it, but you’re a little relieved when work’s so busy that you don’t see Bakugou for a few days. He must be busy too, as even your messages to each other have petered out.

Since that night, you’ve been turning his words over in your head, endlessly, like worrying at a loose thread. What he’d said really bothers you. How dismissive he was really bothers you. 

You’ve always been aware that there’s a part of his life, hero work, that you’re completely in the dark about. When you’re together, it never comes up in conversation unless you ask about it, and what he tells you is surface level. And you know that there are things about it that you don’t understand.

You just—you want him to take care of himself. And maybe you want to know that part of him too. The part of him that’s Dynamight. You want to know all of him, and you wonder if that’s in the cards. 

One thing you do know is that you want to talk to him about this. You’re uneasy, because it feels like such a small thing, but… There are too many things that’ve gone unsaid between you, already. Maybe it’s time to open up. 

You know you’ve pushed yourself too hard this week when you find yourself feeling achy, a headache pressing down on you like a physical weight, near the end of your workday. 

When you knock on your boss’s door to ask her a question about a project you’re working on, she takes one look at your miserable face and says, “Go home. Take some time off. I know you have some saved up.”

She doesn’t have to say that twice. You’re out the door in record time. 

You’re pretty sure you’re coming down with the flu, or a cold. So as soon as you step out onto the sidewalk, you begin walking to the nearest pharmacy, knowing you’re out of ibuprofen and any cold meds. 

It’s a little too early for students to be out of school yet or for fellow office workers to be headed home, so the streets are less busy than usual—a relief. You don’t have the energy to put up with endlessly bumping into people, pushing against crowds. You spot a couple heroes on patrol across the street, some visiting tourists walking past you. 

It begins to drizzle, and you curse, increasing your pace and trying to hurry. 

Before long, the drizzle turns into a steady downpour. You see other people caught unsuspecting in the rain dart for shelter or continue on their way, undeterred. 

Groaning, you duck under a nearby business’s overhang. You close your eyes, trying to think past the throbbing in your temples. Should you continue on to the pharmacy and hope they sell umbrellas so you can make the trek to the train station and back home? Or should you not bother and just head straight home? 

The latter option is feeling more and more appealing as the seconds pass. You sneeze, covering your face with your arm. 

“Excuse me…”

You open your eyes, your gaze falling upon a teenage girl in front of you. She’s in an electric blue hero suit, bright against the gloomy day.

She’s so familiar-looking. You squint at her, trying to place her. 

“Oh! You’re Dynamight and Red Riot’s intern, right?” you say. 

She smiles broadly. “Yes! You remembered me! Hello!” 

Mustering up a smile in return despite the pounding in your head, you say, “I’m sorry we weren’t introduced then, though I know you and Red Riot were in a hurry to get going.”

You give her your name, and she grins at you, pushing at the bangs across her forehead dripping water into her face. 

“I’m Tachibana Yui! Or, I mean, Pulsar! It’s nice to properly meet you!” She hesitates, then bites her lip. 

“What is it?” you ask.

“What? Oh!” Tachibana blinks rapidly, looking flustered. “You’re just… a lot different than I imagined you’d be.”

“Oh?” You wonder why she would be imagining what you’re like in the first place. Then you remember what she’d interrupted the first time you’d crossed paths and make a face. 

“Not in a bad way!” she says quickly, glancing nervously at your expression. “Just—I thought, because of how Dynamight is, you’d be—scarier.”

You blink. Then you bring a hand up to your face to hide a smile.

“Is Bakugou that awful? I’ll tell him to be nicer to you.”

“No, no!” Tachibana waves her hands. “Please don’t! He’s not bad at all, really, when you get used to him. He’s just intimidating is all.”

She’s not wrong. But she seems so earnest, and sweet, that you can’t help but want to tease her a little bit before you part ways. The steady pour beyond the overhang shows no signs of letting up, and you’re already resigned to heading straight home while you have the energy. 

“Hmm.” You give her a doubtful look, knowing she might interpret it as skepticism. 

Her brows come together. “I mean it! Actually, since I started at the agency, I’ve really improved my quirk! Dynamight comes to the training room when I’m practicing sometimes, and he gives me some really good advice. My teachers have even commented on my improvement!”

“Okay, okay, I believe you,” you say, laughing softly. “I’m glad he’s being a proper mentor. Please be patient with him.”

“I—”

“Hey, kid, what’s—”

You jump a little and turn as a woman emerges from the rain from behind you. She’s also in hero gear, long hair plastered to her head. She spots you. 

“Oh!” she says, startled.

“Hi,” you tell her, and introduce yourself. She does the same, and you find out she’s Ueno Rina, Shieldmaiden. She’s a sidekick at Bakugou and Kirishima’s agency. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m the hold up. We got to chatting, and I distracted her. Are you on patrol together?”

“Please, it’s no trouble. Pulsar knows protocol, and she knows better than to wander off for so long without a check-in.” Ueno gives Tachibana a look, and Tachibana ducks her head, like a scolded puppy. 

Ueno shakes her head and meets your eyes. She furrows her brows.

“Are you alright? You don’t look well.”

You shake your head, giving her a smile you hope is reassuring. “I’m fine. I actually was on my way home from work, but the rain got me. It doesn’t look like it’s going to let up any time soon, so I won’t keep the two of you any longer.”

“Wait, please!” Ueno says. “Could we—”

Ueno’s comm beeps, and she gives it a frustrated look. 

“Please feel free to answer,” you say. “I’ll wait, don’t worry.”

Nodding, she steps away. 

Tachibana touches your arm, and you look at her. 

“I’m sorry to hold you up. I didn’t realize you weren’t feeling well. Can I get you anything? There’s a pharmacy around the corner!”

“Thank you, Tachibana. That’s really nice of you, but I should be okay once I get some sleep.”

“Are you sure?” She frowns. “Shieldmaiden’s right… you don’t look too good.”

“Thanks,” you laugh, and she waves her hands in front of her. 

“No, I mean—”

“You’re being teased, kid,” Ueno says, returning. She shifts to face you. “Can we escort you to where you’re headed?”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” you say, frowning. “I know you’re on patrol, and I’m sure I’ve already taken up too much of your time. Go ahead and finish up your route! I’ll be fine.”

“We don’t mind,” Ueno says, crossing her arms.

“Please,” you say firmly. “I insist.” 

Ueno’s comm beeps again, and she apologizes before glancing at it quickly. You wait patiently.

“Okay,” Ueno relents. “C’mon kid, let’s go.”

“What?” Tachibana startles. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Move it.”

Tachibana casts a worried glance at you, and you smile reassuringly. 

“Thank you both for being so kind,” you tell them. “Please hurry so you can get back to the agency and dry off.”

Ueno inclines her head. “Thank you. It was nice meeting you, and take care.”

“Bye!” Tachibana chirps. “Please dry off thoroughly when you get home!” 

You wave and watch as the two of them disappear into the rain. Once they’re safely out of sight, you lean back against the building behind you and cover your eyes with your hands. 

That interaction sucked all the energy from you, as pleasant as it was. Just the thought of ducking out into that rain and heading to the station makes something shrivel up inside you. Maybe you’ll get a cab, in just a minute. Once you’ve caught your breath. 

Your phone chimes, indicating a message, and you ignore it. Blocking out the lights from surrounding stores, the headlights of passing cars, helps your headache a little. Every so often, passersby walk past, the sound of the rain against the nylon of their umbrellas mixing with the sounds of traffic. 

“You need to check your damn phone,” a voice says, alarmingly close, and you jump, eyes shooting open and your hands falling from your face. 

For a second, you think maybe you’d fallen asleep, because there’s no way Bakugou’s standing in front of you, looking irritated in casual clothes, a wet umbrella dangling from one hand. 

But then you get the urge to sneeze, bringing your arm up to catch it in the crook of your elbow. 

Blearily, you ask, “What’re you doing here?”

“Rescuing you, idiot,” Bakugou says. 

He studies you for a moment, then sets the umbrella on the ground. He shrugs out of the rain jacket he’s wearing and drapes it over you, pulling the hood up onto your head. It smells like his laundry detergent, and like him. It’s warm from his body heat, and you’re unable to resist the urge to pull it tightly around you. 

You furrow your brows. “Wait, how’d you know I was here? Why aren’t you at work?” 

Bakugou scowls. “This ain’t twenty questions, brat. Let’s go.”

He puts an arm on your back, pulling you forward. Just before the both of you step out into the rain, he opens the umbrella above the two of you. 

“Where are we going?” you ask, just to spite him. You’ll pry an answer to your previous questions out of him later, when you’re feeling less like roadkill. You’re walking so closely together that your shoulders are pressed against each other, and it’s a little hard to think clearly.

“My car,” he says, leading you to where it’s parked and opening up the passenger side for you to get in. 

Once he closes the door, it’s startlingly quiet except for the pitter patter of rain against the windshield, the top of the car. You watch as Bakugou rounds the front of the car and gets in on the driver’s side, shoving the wet umbrella into a sleeve before tossing it in the back. 

“You got wet,” you say, frowning. You reach out and touch his left shoulder, soaked through. The rain’s crept down the sleeve of his shirt and spilled out onto his chest. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Bakugou says. He gives you a sharp look.

“Dumbass. What were you doing hanging around outside in the rain.”

“Hey,” you say, and you want to tell him that he’s being unfair, that you didn’t know it would rain, but suddenly you’re so exhausted. It’s like the strings that’ve been holding you up have been cut. 

Bakugou reaches over and cups your cheek, moves it to press his palm against your forehead. Normally, you find his touch almost too warm—he’s lukewarm to your skin, now. 

“You got meds at home?” he asks. 

“No… was gonna buy some.”

Bakugou clicks his tongue and starts the car. “I’m gonna buy you some. Just wait in here while I get ‘em.”

You don’t even have the energy to argue.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

You must fall asleep, because the next thing you know, Bakugou’s shaking you awake.

“Hey. We’re at your place. I know it’s tough, but you gotta wake up.”

You make a sound that’s embarrassingly close to a whine, and Bakugou snorts. 

“If you don’t want your neighbors to see me carrying you out of this car and all the way up to your apartment, you needa get your ass moving,” he says. 

You scrunch up your face, ignoring his quiet huff of amusement. You must be doing a really good job at hiding your feelings for him because if he thinks that’s a threat…

“Okay, okay,” you say, and your voice is rough, like you’d been sleeping for hours instead of the minutes it would’ve taken to get home. 

If someone had asked you how you got from his car and into your apartment, you couldn’t have told them. Time’s a little funny, and you recognize you might be getting worse. Chills wrack your body, and you feel hot and cold at the same time. Eventually, you realize you’re standing in the middle of your kitchen, swaying a little, just watching as Bakugou rummages around.

He grabs a cup, fills it with water, and hands it to you alongside a couple pills he retrieves from the pharmacy bag he’d brought up with him. 

“Drink this,” he tells you. You obey, meek as a lamb. 

“Y’should change out of your work clothes and get straight to bed,” Bakugou says, watching you closely as you shuffle towards your bedroom.

“I will,” you tell him, but then stop.

“What?” he asks as you turn back around.

“The cats,” you say, stepping forward even as your feet drag. “I gotta feed them and clean their litter boxes. Can’t just knock out.”

“I’ll take care of the damn cats,” Bakugou growls, putting his hands on your shoulders and turning you around. He gives you a little push. “Go.”

You catch the sleeve of his shirt before he can move away. Looking up into his face, that grumpy expression, you hesitate for a moment before deciding not to overthink it, and you hug him. 

His arms come around you, a reflexive reciprocation, and all your aches and pains fall away for a moment as you breathe in the man wrapped around you. 

“Thank you, Bakugou,” you say into his chest. The words aren’t enough to express what you’re feeling right now. It’s been a long while since you’ve had someone you feel comfortable depending on like this—someone you want to depend on. The disconcerted, agitated feeling you’ve been holding with you since you’d last seen him, his dismissal of your concern for him, seems silly and inconsequential now. 

You nearly tell him how you feel, then and there. Soul-lights and soulmates be damned. All the things he says, all the things he does for you—it has to mean something. 

But something stops you. Not yet. You want to tell him when you’re clear-headed. 

So you step back and let your arms fall from around him, turning around and heading to your room, conscious of his eyes on you. 

You sleep for a long time. 

Fuzzily, you remember waking up to your dark bedroom—hands on you, helping you sit up. Bakugou’s gruff voice, words indecipherable. A glass of water and some medicine. Tossing and turning, alternating between being too warm and feeling chilled. Then blissful nothing.

When you wake once more, the sun is barely peeking through your window curtains. That pale light indicative of dawn, the hush blanketing your apartment, tells you it’s early. Early enough that even the kittens aren’t begging for breakfast yet. 

That thought pushes you out of bed, despite the congestion in your nose. You feel half-dead, so you make yourself brush your teeth and wash your face before leaving your room to feed the cats. 

You nearly scream when you see a figure on your couch, covered in what you recognize as one of your spare blankets. 

It’s Bakugou, you realize, as you draw nearer and see the reassuring mix of orange and gold gilding him. 

He looks younger, asleep. The crease between his brows from frowning is gone, the curve of his mouth relaxed. Like this, all that forceful energy and strong personality tucked away, he’s sweet-looking and soft. You want to tuck the memory of him like this in your pocket, keep it close to you. 

You make to move away, to slip into the room you keep the kittens in, but maybe you make a sound, or maybe your attention on Bakugou is enough to rouse him into consciousness. He wakes, transitioning from sleep into wakefulness with a sharp immediacy that startles you a little.

His eyes find yours, and he sits up, stretching his back out.

“How’re you feeling?” Bakugou asks, voice sleep-rough and raspy. 

“Not as bad as yesterday,” you tell him. “Stuffy nose and still a little tired, but okay.” 

He stands and starts folding the blanket he’d been using. 

“Sit here. M’gonna make breakfast.” 

“Don’t you have work?” you ask. 

“Going in later today,” he says, and he points to the couch and gives you a look. 

You shake your head. “Gotta feed the cats. I wanna see them.”

Bakugou frowns, like he’s about to argue, but you make your way towards the kitchen before he can say anything else, and he follows you. 

“I kinda remember you waking me to give me medicine,” you say as you begin pulling out the cats’ bowls and food. “Have you been here since you picked me up? You’ll get sick, Bakugou. Maybe you should keep your distance from me.” 

Bakugou sets your donabe down onto the counter and looks at you. 

“Don’t worry about dumb shit like that. My body’s not weak like yours,” he says, the corners of his mouth tilting up into a mean little smirk when you make a congested sound of offense. 

“Went to the agency to take care of some things after you fell asleep. Came back to give you your meds and feed the cats.” Bakugou measures out some rice into a bowl and begins washing it. “How hungry’re you?”

“Not very,” you admit. “Just want something simple.” 

Bakugou grunts an acknowledgement. “Hurry and feed your furballs so you can come and eat. I’ll make you okayu.”

After breakfast, you insist on Bakugou using your bathroom to get ready for work. He’d brought an overnight bag so he could head straight to the agency where he’d planned to shower and change, and you refuse to settle down until he gives in. 

You haven’t had a roommate in a long time, and it’s been a while since you’ve had a partner you’ve shared your space with. 

So it’s a strangely intimate feeling, hearing Bakugou in your shower, imagining him taking in the shampoo you use, adjusting the showerhead for his height. Watching him gather his things as he gets ready to leave for work. 

“What’re you doing?” he asks when you follow him to the door. “I’ll lock the door behind me. Go back to the couch or your bed.” 

“Just wanted to say bye,” you say, voice a little gross and nasally from the congestion. It makes you grimace and bury your face into the blanket you’d wrapped around yourself, the blanket he’d folded and left on the couch. 

Bakugou looks at you for a moment, then puts his hand on your head. 

“Get some rest,” he tells you. “Text me.”

Despite Bakugou’s teasing words about his immune system being better than yours, it still is just the flu, or a cold. You recover quickly and are back to work sooner than you’d like, though Bakugou likes it even less.

Bakugou: Why’re they making a sick person come to work. 

You: Bakugou… I’m all better now. 

Bakugou: Fuck that. I heard you cough on the phone yesterday.

You: I was just clearing my throat!!!

Bakugou: Bullshit.

He doesn’t comment on the fact that prior to you getting sick your messages to each other had waned. You’re not sure if he even noticed, and looking back on it now, you feel a little childish for overreacting to something he probably said offhandedly. 

Still, you haven’t seen Bakugou in person since being sick. The closest you can manage is the occasional video call, and even then, Bakugou looks so tired that you feel guilty and keep things short. You hope that whatever he’s dealing with at work wraps itself up soon.

One day, during your lunch break, you get a couple messages from Bakugou.

Bakugou: Hey. I’ll be out of town for a mission. Won’t have access to my phone.

Bakugou: Don’t forget to eat real food. And sleep. Stop watching that reality show before bed.

You: But it’s so good! I’ll tell you who gets eliminated when you come back!!

You: When will you be back btw? 

You: Hello lol

You: Bakugou?

Chapter Text

“And you haven’t heard from Bakugou?”

“I haven’t.” Kirishima wrings his hands as you nod and look away, trying to hide your expression. In other circumstances, the sight of such a big man—fiery red hair, sharp teeth, muscles and all—fretting in such a way would’ve been funny. Sweet. But as it is, your worry shadows everything.

The first couple of days after Bakugou falls off the grid, you’re a little annoyed. He couldn’t have spared a minute to reply before leaving? Or at least given you an estimate about when he’d be back? Given you a heads up at all?

But a couple days quickly turn into a week, and you begin to worry. Is this normal? Can you call his agency to ask? Or would that be inappropriate, you butting your head into hero business? 

You don’t know if you’re being irrational or if you’re being overbearing when you and Bakugou are just friends. Unrequited soulmates don’t count. You have no real claim to knowledge regarding his whereabouts, his movements. You’re just friends. 

But friends can worry about their friends. That’s totally normal. So you figure—it wouldn’t hurt to ask. Just one call.

“Hi Aiko. I was just wondering…” You hesitate. “You know how Bakugou—Dynamight is away on a mission right now? Would you happen to know when he’ll be back?”

“I’m sorry.” Even over the phone, her regret comes clear through. “I don’t have high enough clearance to know that info. And even if I did, it’s agency policy not to share that kind of information.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry,” you tell her, forcing a cheerful tone. You gnaw at your lip, feeling a little lost. What now?

“But I’m sure Red Riot would know!” she says, just as you make up your mind to say your goodbyes and hang up. “Would you like to schedule a meeting with him?”

You immediately perk up.

“Yes, please!” 

Kirishima touches your shoulder. He says, “I think Bakugou’s been instructed to go dark for this mission.”

You look up into his earnest eyes.

“None of our friends have heard from him either,” he tells you. 

“Oh.” The ball of anxiety that’s been sitting on your chest like a weight lightens just a little. So it’s not just you. 

But is that a bad thing? No one’s heard from him?

The weight returns. 

“Is it normal for him to take missions like this?” you ask. “You guys are used to it?”

Kirishima frowns, looking conflicted. “No… These longer missions are usually reconnaissance or stealth missions, and Bakugou’s quirk doesn’t really mix well with them. But there might be other reasons for him to go dark.”

“I see,” you say, gaze falling to the ground as frustration swells in you. 

You’re so clueless about the hero profession. You don’t know what’s normal, how you should be feeling. If the relative calm Kirishima’s exuding is something you should mimic or if the calm’s due to his familiarity with situations like this. And it’s your own fault. Because in the months you’ve spent learning Bakugou, you could’ve asked about all this. About what he does and what’s to be expected. But you didn’t. 

“Look, please don’t worry.” Kirishima ducks his head to look you in the eye. “Bakugou’s really, really good at what we do. He wouldn’t want you to stress over him being gone.”

“Right,” you say, summoning a weak smile. 

“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything,” Kirishima promises.

“Thanks Kirishima,” you say. 

“Call me Kiri, if you’re comfortable with it!” he says, grinning. “And send me pics of Mikan and Natsu. Bakugou’s stingy about sharing them.” 

Laughing, you agree. 

You: I finally got Kirishima’s number! Remembered to ask him while stopping by the agency this morning 😌

You send a picture you’d taken—Kirishima grinning in the background with the smoothie you’d gotten him, and you throwing up a peace sign at the camera. 

Smiling a little, you imagine Bakugou’s reaction upon seeing the picture, seeing your message. He has no right calling you squirrely when he’s so weird about you being friendly with Kirishima. You’re not sure, but if you could hazard a guess, you think it’s because he’s uncomfortable with mixing friend groups. Which you can understand—sometimes it just doesn’t work, or it’s awkward to facilitate. But still. 

You admit that it’s fun getting reactions out of Bakugou, that sometimes you do things on purpose. You miss messing with him. 

Your messages finish sending, finally. But just like the other texts you’ve sent over the past few days, there’s no indication that they’ve been delivered. 

Your smile fades. 

“Hey, what’s up?”

Your head jerks up from your phone as you meet your friend’s eyes. Feeling strangely guilty, you set it down on the table in front of you as she settles back into her seat. 

Mitsuru raises an eyebrow at you. “You’ve been glued to that thing today. You expecting  to hear from someone?”

“Kind of,” you say, then make a face. “Or, I guess, not really. I’m not sure.” 

“The most convoluted answer,” she says, snorting. “Here, pick something from the dessert menu while I flag down that server. You can tell me what’s up with you while we eat.”

Sighing, you take the menu from her. 

Mitsuru’s sharp as a tack in general, but she’s also known you since middle school. It’s not often you wish you could hide things from her, but this time might be one of them. 

You haven’t told anyone about reconnecting with Bakugou. Not Mitsuru, or any of your other friends. You hadn’t even noticed you’d kept your friendship with Bakugou to yourself until recently. You’re not sure why. It’s not like you’re actively hiding it. It’s just… how it’s turned out. 

Okay, maybe you’ve been hiding it a little from Mitsuru specifically. But it’s because she knows him from your time at Aldera. She’d witnessed how mean he was to you, had gotten into verbal scuffles with him, defending you, until you’d asked her to stop.

So. You know that she doesn’t have a good impression of Bakugou. Even after all these years, when she sees ads or merch of him, she rolls her eyes. 

But you do want to talk to someone about it, about him, if only to get some objectivity about your worry. And Mitsuru, with her frank, realistic outlook on the world, is perfect for the job. 

So you tell her about it—an abbreviated, edited version of it. About this friend you’d gotten to know over the past couple months. The “business trip” he’d gone on with little notice and no heads up about when he’d be back. That’s you’re worried because you haven’t heard from him. 

Hiding details—that it’s Bakugou, that the trip is a hero mission—makes you shift in your seat, a stone in your stomach. But you’re scared of what Mitsuru would say. What she’d think if she knew. She’d only ever seen the cruel child he’d been. 

Mitsuru gives you a look when you finally fall silent. She plays with her nails, painted to look like glass, haloed like cat’s eyes, then lifts a hand to wrap a strand of black hair around her finger. 

“This friend of yours,” she says. “It’s Dynamight, isn’t it.” 

Your eyes widen. You choke on the water you’d been sipping. 

“What? Why would you—”

Mitsuru watches as you stumble over your words, mind racing as you try to figure out what to say. She sighs. 

“It’s okay. You don’t have to confirm anything if it’ll get you into trouble or something. But I’ve had my suspicions since I saw those promotional pics he took with those kittens. They’re the ones you’re fostering, right?”

Fuck. You should’ve thought of that. Mitsuru was the first to meet them, all those months ago.

“And then there was that noise on social media about Dynamight at that fancy pet store you were excited to try out a couple months back. Don’t think I wouldn’t recognize the back of your little head,” Mitsuru says, eyes narrowed at you. 

You stare at her for a long moment, scrambling for things to say to deny it. She’s cool, eyes steady.

You cover your face with a hand. 

“You can’t tell anyone,” you say, letting your hand fall, and she scoffs. 

“Who do you think I am,” she says. 

“You’re the only one I’ve told about him.” 

Mitsuru raises a brow. She crosses her arms over her chest. “I appreciate you confiding in me, I do, but… I remember that little shit did to you when we were in junior high. What the hell are you thinking?”

You wince. “I know how it sounds. But he really has changed, Mitsuru. He’s not that little kid anymore. That bully. People grow up.”

Mitsuru’s mouth remains downturned, eyes distrustful. 

“We really did meet months ago,” you say. “And within the first five minutes of conversation, he apologized. I wasn’t ready for it then, but… But since then, we’ve spent time together. Gotten to know each other. And he’s only ever been kind to me.” 

You find that your words catch in your throat, an unexpected wave of emotion flowing through you. Fiddling with your fingers, you say quietly, “We’re friends now.”

You raise your eyes to meet Mitsuru’s. 

Her expression has changed, softened a little. She reaches over and rubs your arm up and down briskly.

“Hey,” she says. “You don’t have to justify anything or feel any type of way about being friends with him given your history. I trust your judgement. I’m just worried, is all.”

“I get it,” you say. “He really was an asshole as a kid. But he’s a better person now. Promise.” 

You feel your words with a certainty you didn’t have months ago. The Bakugou you know, who cares deeply for his friends, who’s always honest, who admits his mistakes, who puts so much effort and care into his job, helping people, protecting people—he’s a good person. One of the best people in your life. 

Mitsuru leans back into her chair. She inhales deeply, exhales. She says, “Just one more thing. I… I know you say he’s your soulmate, that you can see his lights—”

Your breath catches. You know she doesn’t mean anything by it. But her doubt hurts. It echoes yours, feeds into an insecurity that’s only just tempered by the reassuring flicker of orange and gold when you see Bakugou.  

“—but I remember how unkind he was when he told you it’s not a mutual thing. I don’t know if you’ve already resolved that with him, but… I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

“I know.” You tap your foot against hers under the table. “Thank you. Really. And we… haven’t talked about it yet. It hasn’t come up.” 

“Why not?”

You shrug, looking away. Prickles of discomfort race up and down your arms. You should talk about it. But. What if it changes things between you? 

Mitsuru studies you for a long moment, then sighs. “All right. All right. But as your friend, I reserve the right to yell at him the second he fucks up. Just letting you know.” 

You snort, tension releasing. “Yes, yes.”

“And you gotta introduce us. Re-introduce us.” 

“I will!” 

Mitsuru reaches over and pinches you in the arm. You whine.

She grins. “Okay, now tell me how the cats got tangled up in being promotional material for Super Explosion Guy blah blah blah. I can be nosy now that you’ve said something.”

You laugh. “His hero name is one of the funniest things about him, isn’t it? So it started because of that pet shop…”

Natsu, your sweet girl, is finally adopted. The paperwork is finalized, Bakugou’s PR people and the foster organization wrap up all loose ends, and you say goodbye. 

It’s quieter, once she’s gone. Lonelier. She was never a noisy cat, but she would always curl up in your lap whenever you’d read or watch something on the couch. Make biscuits on you when you’d drape a blanket over your legs. She was the cuddliest of the three. 

Mikan’s lost both his playmates, and you try to make up for it with extra play time and mental stimulation via things like treat puzzles. You’re glad you still have him. You don’t know what you’ll do when he leaves you too. He’s so big now. 

To distract yourself, you sign up for a cooking class. It’s just one lesson, two and a half hours. You want to feel out the chef instructor, the vibes of doing something like this, before investing in other packages where more lessons are offered over the course of several weeks. 

It’s surprisingly really fun. You’d gone in worried about your knife skills, about keeping up with the instructor. But you shouldn’t have because everyone is super nice and encouraging. The instructor is attentive, patient. And what you make ends up being surprisingly delicious. 

Mitsuru comes over for dinner the next night and you prepare it for her. It’s a hit. 

“How’s pilates been?” you ask, and Mitsuru groans, reclining further into the couch and patting her belly.

“A nightmare,” she says. “I didn’t think it’d be so tough. You’d think two decades of playing sports and generally being active would help. It does in some ways, but not really. You know, I got the shakes yesterday? We were doing an exercise on the reformer and my leg kept shaking, like I had no control over it. It was so embarrassing, jeez. I was at the front of the room, too.” 

You laugh, imagining it, then shake your head. “If you think it’s hard, there’s no hope for me.”

She turns her head to look at you, eyes brightening. “Are you interested? Forget everything I said. It’s amazing. Life-changing. So fun. Easy, even. Come join.” 

Laughing, you push her away as she smacks your leg in enthusiasm. 

“Have you tried pilates?” you ask Kirishima as he finishes taking a big sip of the smoothie you’d gotten him. He’s just wrapped up a workout, and you’re visiting on your lunch break. 

“No,” he says, tilting his head. “My friend Mina does classes at a studio, though, if you’re interested.” 

“I’m definitely not,” you say. You give him a quick rundown of the conversation you had with Mitsuru, adding, “It just got me thinking about maybe joining a gym or picking up something easy I can do consistently. When I moved to this neighborhood two years ago, I canceled my old membership because of the distance. But with how much I’m chained to my desk at work, I figure I should find a new gym.” 

“If you’re down, I can get you started with a couple workouts here at our agency’s gym until you find something you like,” Kirishima tells you. “I know some gyms in this area, so if you want, I’d be happy to help you look, too!” 

You smile up at him. 

“That’d be great, Kiri, thank you! You sure helping me with workouts won’t interfere with your schedule?” 

“We’ll work it out, don’t worry.” He grins at you, giving you a look as if to say, Did you catch that? Did you get it? 

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m going to ignore that. That’s terrible.” 

“Aww.” Kirishima ducks his head. 

You shake yours. “But really, thank you. For the gym stuff and just for being so nice in general.” 

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we? Always happy to help a friend.” 

You smile. You open your mouth, then hesitate.

You like Kirishima, think you can become even better friends with time. Still, you’re conscious that you haven’t known him long. That the topics of your conversations have been everyday, casual ones.

But lately, certain heavier thoughts have been plaguing you. Despite keeping busy at work, indulging your interests, investing in your other relationships, you can’t stop thinking about Bakugou. It’s been two weeks now. 

Before, Bakugou being a pro hero meant that every once in a while you’d see him on the news if a villain altercation was serious enough to get covered. It meant seeing him in uniform on the streets during patrol, discreetly waving at him as you passed by on your way to and from work. 

Now it means struggling with not knowing where he is, when he’ll be back, if he’s safe. When you’ll see him again and if he’s okay.

How do heroes, especially ones who grow up together as classmates like those attending UA or Shiketsu, handle all these feelings? How do their—their friends, their families, and their partners manage the fear and uncertainty? 

You know you’re not doing a good job of it.

Looking up into Kirishima’s friendly face, those bright eyes and comforting smile, you take a little leap. 

“Can I ask you a question? A kind of serious one.” 

“Anything!” Kirishima says. He gestures for you to sit on a nearby bench, taking a seat next to you after you’re settled. 

“What’s up?” he asks. 

You take a deep breath and decide to just go for it. 

“How do you deal with it? The worry, the… all these terrible feelings when your friends are risking their lives fighting people or going off on these long missions?” You have to stop yourself there, worried that if you keep going, you won’t be able to stop; all of these feelings you’ve been grappling with will just come rushing out. 

Kirishima’s gaze softens, understanding. His mouth sets into a thoughtful line as he considers your question. 

“It never stops being tough,” he says slowly. “Simple patrols can turn into fights, or chases, or rescues all the time. Other heroes with more specialized quirks and jobs can be put into even more danger than us regular heroes, depending. I went to school with people who told us the risks, and we faced them. Even earlier than we should’ve.”  

For a moment, the planes of his face fall into a weariness, a seriousness you’d never seen on him before. That lovely light in his eyes dims, just a little. 

He meets your gaze. “And we still stayed on with the job. For lots of us, helping people, keeping people safe, it’s worth all of it. But for our family, partners, who’re civilians, it’s hard.” 

“So it never gets easy? You just have to live with it?” you ask quietly, that burden settling heavy in your heart.

“I don’t know about easy. But. For me, uh. I don’t know if this’ll be helpful at all, but, um, I try to stay in the present. I used to always be thinking about what ifs or things that hadn’t happened—yet, I thought, and worked myself up. Still do sometimes. But one of my former teachers told me that that’s no way to live your life. Miss out on so much doing that.”

You can relate.

Kirishima tilts his head, thinking for a moment. 

“Oh! And of course there are, like, mental health professionals and support groups I can connect you to. If you want! Lots of heroes see someone regularly, and so do their family members or partners,” he says. 

“I’d like that,” you tell him. 

He smiles at you, reaches out to pat your hand. “Talking about it helps. Having community helps me most, personally. Friends who have my back, family who care. So. If you need someone. I’m always here, okay? I got you.”

An open hand, so readily offered. 

A little lump rises in your throat. These people you’ve met—Bakugou, Kiri, Pulsar, Shieldmaiden—really are heroes. They’re such good people. 

“Thanks, Kiri,” you say with a wobbly smile. 

The days continue to pass, and you try to stay balanced, focused. Some days you succeed, and others you don’t. 

A new restaurant near your work opens up, specializing in your favorite cuisine, and you and a coworker head out to try it. 

You’re waiting for the light to change for the crossing, chatting with your coworker, when a flicker of orange catches your eye. 

You raise your head, your coworker’s voice receding into the background as you slowly scan the streets for what’d caught your attention. 

There. That orange and gold is unmistakable. Your breath catches. 

“Bakugou,” you say, and—his name feels like it’s ripped out of you, a compulsion. The vowels and consonants are lost to the bustle of city life, but his name remains, a question on your tongue. 

You nearly start forward, stepping into the street, before remembering yourself. It’s so hard to resist the urge to run after him, cars be damned, what your coworker would think be damned. But you hold yourself still, tense. Eyes locked on the man walking further and further away from you.

It’s him, right? If he wasn’t wearing a hoodie, you’d be able to tell for sure by his hair, his build. But the hoodie obscures the lines of his body. This far away, you can no longer make out any flashes of orange and gold.

The wait for this pedestrian crossing is so fucking long. You’re going to file a complaint to—to someone, to whomever is in charge of this shit. Fuck. 

Biting your lip, you watch as his figure disappears around the corner. 

“What’d you say?” your coworker asks, jostling you. 

You blink, feeling a little out of body, dazed. Your coworker peers into your face, concerned. 

“You good?” 

“I—yeah. I’m fine.” Forget about lunch. You need to check your phone. 

But before you can do so, your coworker grabs your elbow, propelling you forward. “Hey, the light’s changing, c’mon.”

Maybe you imagined it. Maybe it wasn’t him. 

The second you got the chance, you checked your phone. But there were no messages from Bakugou waiting for you, none from Kiri. Just a couple from Mitsuru, one from your mom, another from a coworker asking you to pick something up from the restaurant for them. 

Maybe you’re losing it.

You sigh, stroking down the length of Mikan’s back, eyes watching but not perceiving the show you’d put on. 

He’d text you if he were back in town, right? Kiri would give you a heads up. So it was your wishful thinking earlier, your imagination. 

You miss him. It’s been almost three weeks. You’ve thought about reaching out to the groups Kiri recommended to you, but you always chicken out at the last minute, phone in hand, number undialed. 

Kiri’d said that heroes’ family or partners go to these things. He hadn’t mentioned friends. Would it be weird to show up just as a hero’s friend? Would telling them he’s your soulmate help justify it? 

But no, because. What would you even say? Hi, I’m a hero’s friend. Yeah, just friends. Well, no, technically he’s also my soulmate. What do I mean by technically? Well, he’s mine but I’m not his. So yeah. 

Even the thought of admitting that to strangers makes you nauseous. 

And what if you slip and say his name? You don’t want people to know you’re talking about Bakugou. You’re not sure you’re allowed to say he’s on a mission. You’re still not sure you want people outside your personal lives aware that you know each other, are friends. 

You pick Mikan up, lifting him to eye level, and bury your face in his side. That nice cat smell envelops you for a nice moment. 

He squirms out of your grip, jumping to the floor. Giving you a look, he begins washing his fur with his tongue. 

You slump into the couch, defeated.

Bright and early, the next morning finds you at the agency in workout clothes. 

All night, you’d tossed and turned, mind busy. You’d fallen into a fitful sleep around 2 AM, only to wake up again around 5 AM. At that point, you gave up and decided that maybe if you tired your body out, your mind would shut up and let you rest. At the very least, you’re grateful it’s a Saturday and you don’t have to come in to work. 

Flashing a quick smile and wave to the front desk, you use your access card to head up to the gym. The halls are quiet, and the few people using the gym are people you don’t know. 

You slip on some headphones and get to work. 

Truthfully, you shouldn’t be mooching off Kiri’s—and Bakugou’s—generosity. But you’ve really enjoyed the workouts you’ve had with Kiri this past week. He designed a workout routine for you and demonstrated the exercises you’ve been doing. He’s encouraging, and he knows just how far to push you. He really has a way with people. It’s made you less motivated to seek out your own gym. You’ve been spoiled. 

You’ll look into the gyms Kiri recommended later today, you resolve. After a nap. The workout’s done its job. You clean up the machine you’d been using and head out. 

You’re mid-yawn, eyes squinted and watering, so you don’t catch that someone’s trying to enter the gym at the same time as you’re exiting until it’s too late. 

“Oh, sorry,” you say, quickly wiping at your eyes, embarrassed. When they’re clear, you look up, then freeze. 

“Bakugou!” 

Bakugou grunts. Says your name in greeting. His eyes quickly scan you up and down before coming to rest on your face. 

You’re warm, very aware that you’re still a little sweaty. You hope you don’t smell. You want to hug him so badly, but you’re too nervous. You’re self-conscious, shy. You don’t know what’s gotten into you. 

He looks tired, eyes weary. His hair’s grown out a little, longer than you’re used to seeing on him. A bandage rests right below his scar, stark against his skin. 

The little details don’t matter. You’re so happy to see him. You’re smiling, not realizing it. 

When Bakugou doesn’t say anything more, you ask, “When did you get back?”

He hesitates for a second, looks at the wall next to you, then back at you. 

“A couple days ago,” he says shortly. 

You pause. 

“A couple days ago?” you repeat. A feeling you can’t quite name begins to creep up the back of your neck. It’s not a nice feeling. “Oh. Did you, I mean, were there a lot of post-mission things you needed to do?”

“Yeah. A bunch of annoying bullshit.” 

You make a sympathetic sound. There, you tell yourself silently. He had reasons for not giving you a heads up that he’s been back. The world doesn’t revolve around you. 

“What’re you doing here?” he asks. 

The gym’s doors open behind you as someone exits, and Bakugou puts a hand on the small of your back, pulling you to the side and out of the way. 

His hand on your back, even through your clothes, is warm. 

It takes you a second to reply. “Kiri said it’d be okay if I use the agency’s gyms until I find my own. I hope that’s okay.”

“S’fine,” he says. 

His hand’s still on your back. He’s standing so close to you, just looking at you. At your face, darting down your body, as if committing you to memory. As if it’s something you won’t notice. You don’t mind at all. You can’t take your eyes off him either. 

But—

“I—sorry, I gotta ask, it’s bothering me,” you say. “I hear that you’ve been busy, but. A quick, ‘Hey I’m back, I’m fine’ message would’ve been appreciated, y’know? If you were allowed. Was it that you weren’t allowed to tell non-heroes that you’re back?”

Bakugou’s hand falls away from you. He exhales deeply and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“No. Just didn’t have time to talk to you.”

Something sharp and unpleasant rises as a slow wave in you. You remind yourself that busy is busy, and some things aren’t in his control. 

But—it’s been days. If it really was him you saw the other day, out in the city, it’s been at least four days. And it looks like he was heading into the gym before you bumped into him.

Frowning, you shift your gym bag to your other hand, bowing your head. “Bakugou. You were gone a long time, and I had no idea what was happening with you. I feel like you could’ve shot me a quick message.”

“I told you I was gonna be on a mission,” he says, furrowing his brows. 

“Yeah, but you didn’t say when you’d be back, or if it’d be dangerous, or anything except just that,” you say, voice rising a little at the end. 

Inhaling deeply, you force yourself to breathe, speak normally. “Neither Kiri nor the agency could tell me anything. It sucked, Bakugou. I just wanna know what’s going on.” 

Bakugou scowls. 

“Look, I told you I’ve been busy,” he says. “I just got back, give me a fucking second. And I can’t always tell you shit just because it’s inconvenient for you not to know.”

The gym doors open once more, another person leaving, and you become hyper aware that you’re having this conversation in public. Suddenly, you don’t want to be having this conversation anymore. 

“You’re right,” you say evenly. “Sorry for overstepping. I’ll let you get to your workout.”

You move to get past him, and he steps in front of you. You stop just short of touching, your hands tightening into fists. The strap of your bag digs into the meat of your hand.

“Fuck,” Bakugou says. “You’re not getting it. Stop taking shit personally. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

You look at him. Shaking your head, you say, “You know what? I’m done here. Bye.”

“We’re not done with shit,” Bakugou says.

“Well I’m done, so back off.”

“Not until—”

“Look, Bakugou,” you say, voice trembling. Shit. You don’t want him to think you’re crying, because you’re not. You’re just so mad. “I’m really fucking upset right now. And the shit you’re saying’s just making things worse. Let’s table this. Let me go.”

He stares at you for a long moment. You stare back at him defiantly. 

“Fine,” he growls.

“Great,” you say. 

You turn on your heel and leave.

Your mind is empty the entire train ride home. 

Distantly, you recognize that your back and neck ache from the tension you’re carrying, but it’s impossible to relax. You feel a little separate from your body, like you’re watching yourself move through the actions of getting off at your stop and walking back to your apartment. 

Once you’re home, you throw yourself into a hot shower, hoping to jar yourself out of the mood you’re in. But even after it, you’re still tense, still aching. 

You try to take a nap. But your body only remembers conflict; the normally satisfying ache and tiredness post-workout is nowhere to be found. You’re wide awake. 

The anger rears its head once more. Why doesn’t he get it? That you were worried, that you wanted him to communicate as much as he could, as soon as he could. 

You understand that he can’t tell you certain things because of the nature of his work. You just want him to think of you, of how you’d feel, of how you felt. 

Then it’s like a switch flipping, and you’re just. Sad. What a dumb thing to argue over. Such a small thing. Did you overreact? Did you mess things up because you’re overthinking things?

But how would he feel, if you did the same thing to him? Just—fucked off to some place without telling him where or when you’d be back? And when you did get back, not let him know until it’s been days? 

Maybe he wouldn’t care. Maybe it’s that you care too much, too much to be right for the relationship you have with him. 

Sleep finds you, eventually. You’re grateful.