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The afternoon sun dips low over the pond behind their apartment, painting the water in shades of orange and gold. Bakugou leans against the wooden fence, arms crossed, watching Tsuyu kneel at the edge, her green hair falling over her shoulders, her toes bare in the cool grass.
A small green frog hops onto a lily pad, then misjudges its leap, tumbling toward the water. Before it can splash down, Tsuyu’s tongue flicks out, quick as lightning, and catches it gently. She sets it back on the pad, whispering something soft that makes the frog croak once, as if in thanks.
He finds himself thinking back to years ago — back when they were still at UA, when this same pond had been just a murky spot in the woods behind the training grounds.
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The frog slipped from Bakugou's grasp with a slick plop—just as it always did. He wiped his hands on his pants, gritting his teeth against the damp smear left behind. "Stupid fucking thing," he muttered, glaring at the pond's murky edge where the creature had vanished. His reflection scowled back at him, distorted by ripples.
Tsuyu's shadow stretched across the water before she did, her footsteps silent on the muddy bank. She crouched beside him, elbows resting on her knees, fingers dangling just above the surface. A dragonfly skimmed past, its wings catching the light. She didn't speak.
Bakugou flexed his fingers, still slick with pond scum. He could feel her watching, not with pity, but with that quiet intensity that made his skin prickle. "What?" he snapped, louder than he meant to.
The frog resurfaced with a soft croak, its bulbous eyes fixed on Tsuyu's outstretched hand. She didn't move, didn't even breathe too hard. Bakugou held his own breath without meaning to.
"Like this," she said finally, voice low and steady. Her fingers curled slightly, palm up, as if offering something invisible. The frog hesitated, then hopped onto her skin with unsettling trust. Bakugou's stomach twisted—not with disgust, but with something hotter and harder to name.
He wiped his hands on his pants again. "Show-off," he grumbled, but his usual bite was dulled by the way she cradled the creature, her thumb brushing its speckled back like it was something precious.
The afternoon sun caught the sweat at her temple, the faint tremble in her own fingers she thought he wouldn't notice.
When she extended the frog toward him, Bakugou's pulse kicked. Her eyes were darker up close, the green of deep water where the light barely reached. "Your turn," she said, and for once, he didn't have a comeback ready.
The frog twitched, its cold toes prickling against his palm when he finally held it. It was lighter than he expected, its heartbeat rapid against his calloused skin. Tsuyu's fingers lingered for half a second as she pulled away—warm, rough from training, nothing like the smooth dampness of the creature between them.
A breeze stirred the reeds, carrying the scent of wet earth and her shampoo, something faintly citrus or alor vera something. Bakugou swallowed hard. "Still a stupid fucking thing," he muttered, but his grip was careful, almost reverent. The frog didn't struggle.
Tsuyu smiled then, not her usual placid curve, but something smaller, private. "Kero," she said, softer than the sound deserved, and Bakugou felt something in his chest give way, like a door he hadn't known was locked.
The frog's throat pulsed against his thumb, its skin shifting between slick and dry in uneven patches. Bakugou exhaled through his nose, forcing his fingers to loosen just enough—not that the damned thing would appreciate his restraint.
Across the pond, a heron took flight, its wings cutting the air with a sound like wet canvas being torn.
"You're getting better," Tsuyu observed, shifting her weight to bump her shoulder against his. The contact was fleeting, but it left a brand hotter than any of his explosions ever had. Bakugou scowled, but didn't shrug her off.
Dusk was settling now, painting the water in streaks of gold and violet. The frog twitched once more before leaping back into the pond with a decisive plop. Bakugou's hand stayed suspended for a heartbeat too long, fingers still curled around the ghost of its weight. Tsuyu's laughter was quiet, a ripple across the surface of everything he thought he understood.
"You're thinking too hard," she said, plucking a blade of grass to twirl between her fingers. It was an observation, not an accusation, like she could see the gears turning behind his clenched jaw.
Bakugou flexed his empty hand, scowling at the way his skin still tingled. "Shut up," he growled, but there was no heat in it. The words tasted strange, like he'd bitten into something unexpectedly sweet.
Fireflies began to blink awake around them, their light catching in Tsuyu's wide eyes when she turned to face him fully. "Tomorrow," she said simply, as if that single word could hold all the things neither of them would say aloud.
Bakugou's fingers dug into the damp earth beneath him. He should’ve scoffed, should’ve told her he didn’t need lessons in patience from someone who croaked like a damn pond ornament. But the way her knee pressed against his in the gathering dark kept his mouth shut.
The frog’s final croak echoed across the water, deeper now with the evening settling in. Tsuyu tilted her head, listening to something Bakugou couldn’t hear, maybe the distant murmur of classmates returning to the dorms, maybe the way his breath hitched when she didn’t pull away.
"Still hate frogs," he lied through his teeth, watching her mouth quirk at the corner. The truth sat heavy on his tongue, bitter and sweet all at once: he’d come back tomorrow. And the day after. And every day she waited by the water with that infuriating, endless calm.
Mosquitoes hummed near his ear, but Tsuyu’s hand flicked out faster than he could blink, plucking one from the air between them. She examined it with detached curiosity before releasing it unharmed—her mercy as effortless as her cruelty could be when pressed. Bakugou’s stomach tightened at the duality.
When she stood, her shadow fell across his lap, long and lean in the fading light. For a wild second, he thought she might offer him a hand up.
Instead, she tugged a leaf from his hair—must’ve gotten stuck when he’d lunged for the frog earlier—and let it flutter to the ground between them. The casual intimacy of the act burned worse than any of his own explosions ever had.
Distant voices called Tsuyu’s name from the path back to campus, but she didn’t turn toward them immediately. Bakugou could see the exact moment she decided to leave—her shoulders squared, her toes pressing into the mud for purchase—and something primal in him bristled at being the one left sitting in the dark.
But then she paused, just once, just long enough to glance back over her shoulder with an expression that carved straight through his ribs.
The fireflies cast flickering shadows across her face as she walked away, their glow catching on the frayed edges of her sleeve where he’d accidentally singed it during drills last week.
Bakugou’s palms itched with the memory of her elbow knocking against his when she’d stolen his last riceball, how she hadn’t even flinched at the sparks crackling in his grip afterward. He crushed a handful of reeds between his fingers, their sap bitter and green.
By the time he stood, the pond had gone still again, swallowing the last traces of their afternoon.
Somewhere in the cattails, a frog croaked—maybe the same one, maybe another—and Bakugou found himself listening for the exact pitch of Tsuyu’s answering chuckle even though she was halfway up the hill by now. His boots sank deeper into the mud than hers had, leaving jagged prints where hers had been nearly weightless.
The leaf she’d plucked from his hair still lay where it fell, its edges just beginning to curl in the evening damp. Bakugou crouched to pick it up, turning it between his knuckles before shoving it into his pocket with more care than he’d ever admit.
Above him, the first stars blinked awake, indifferent to the way his pulse jumped when a distant "kero" carried on the wind.
-----
"I don’t need anyone," Bakugou had once said — loud, proud, and stupid — not long after that afternoon at the UA pond. He’d been standing in the training ground, face flushed with anger after a drill where he’d refused to work with anyone.
Tsuyu had been nearby, tying her boots, and she’d just looked at him with those calm, big eyes and said, "Maybe not yet, Bakugou-chan. But everyone needs someone eventually."
He’d snapped at her then, called her a slimy frog who didn’t know anything. She’d just shrugged and gone about her business.
Now, watching her smile at the frog in their own pond, behind the apartment they share, years after UA, he feels something tight in his chest — not anger, but something warmer. Something that makes his spiky hair feel a little less sharp, his jaw a little less clenched.
She stands up, brushing grass off her knees, and turns to him. "You’ve been staring," she says, a small smile playing at her lips. "Ribbit."
"So what if I have?" He pushes off the fence, shoving his hands in his pockets. He still keeps that leaf sometimes — pressed between the pages of his training journal, a small, dried reminder of how far they’ve come. "You’re being weird with the frogs again."
Tsuyu walks over to him, her bare feet silent on the grass. "They’re just little guys," she says. "They need someone to look out for them." She pauses, looking up at him. "Kinda like how you look out for me."
Bakugou’s face heats up. "I don’t — I’m your partner. It’s my job."
"Is it?" She tilts her head. "What about when you make me spicy ramen when I’m sad? Or when you fix my tongue gauntlet at 2 AM because it broke during a mission? Or when you stay up with me watching frog documentaries even though you say they’re ‘boring as hell’?"
He opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. She’s right. All of it.
They stand there for a minute, the only sounds the croaking of frogs and the rustle of wind in the trees. The sun dips lower, and Bakugou notices Tsuyu shiver — she’s always cold when the sun goes down.
Without thinking, he takes off his hoodie and hands it to her. She blinks, then pulls it over her head — it’s too big, swallowing her small frame, and the hood falls over her eyes. He reaches out and pushes it back, his fingers brushing against her forehead.
"You’re not just my partner," he says, his voice quiet enough that only she can hear. He hates how vulnerable he sounds, but he can’t stop. "You’re… I don’t know. The one who’s always there. Even when I’m being an idiot."
Tsuyu’s smile widens. She takes his hand, lacing her fingers through his, her hand is small and cool in his big, calloused one. "You’re my companion, Bakugou-chan," she says simply. "The one who makes every day better. Even when you’re being a spiky idiot."
He snorts, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. "Yeah, well. You’re my companion too, frog girl. Don’t get used to it."
But they both know he’s lying. He got used to it a long time ago, the feeling of her next to him, the sound of her voice, the way she sees through his anger to the person underneath.
They walk back toward the apartment, hands still clasped, as the last of the sun disappears below the horizon. The frogs continue to croak, a gentle symphony for their quiet walk home.
"I don’t need anyone," he thinks again. But this time, it’s not a statement of pride. It’s a reminder of how wrong he used to be.
Because with Tsuyu by his side, he doesn’t just need someone. He has someone. And that’s more than enough.