(Sunday Morning — UA Dorm Kitchen)
Bakugo woke with his usual grumble—blinking against the sunlight slicing through the blinds like judgmental knives. It was Sunday. Which meant breakfast duty. Again.
He stretched. Sat up. Swung his feet over the edge of the bed like a soldier preparing for war.
Another morning, another round of sizzling pans and students who didn't know how to use a spatula properly.
As he made his way down the hall, half-expecting to find Aleasha curled up on the couch like she always was—reading, doodling, breathing too quietly—he paused.
The couch was empty.
His brow furrowed.
Maybe she finally realized her class has furniture too.
Still... something tugged. A weird flicker of absence. A puzzle piece missing, and he didn't know why that mattered. But it did.
He stepped into the kitchen—ready to claim territory—and froze.
Aleasha.
Standing there.
Hair loosely tied back in a soft, imperfect ponytail, strands of sun-colored blonde spilling down her shoulder in messy waves—like sunlight decided to be human. It was the kind of blonde that caught sparks in the morning light, familiar somehow… almost like a memory Denki had once worn without knowing why.
Her sleeves were rolled up, arms bare to the elbows in a way that made her look determined but delicate—bracing herself against the weight of eggs and emotion.
Golden brown eyes, warm but layered, scanned the bowl in front of her like she wasn't just cooking breakfast—she was defusing a bomb with a whisk.
Those eyes.
The kind of color that looked just like Denki's—if lightning could glow amber.
The kind of gaze that didn't flash like a storm… but hummed like voltage waiting for permission.
Aleasha stood with her hips tilted slightly toward the counter, one hand balancing the bowl, the other clutching the whisk with far more intensity than necessary.
The frying pan was already warm—steam kissing the air like she'd been there for longer than he realized.
Focused.
Quiet.
Trying.
Bakugo blinked from the doorway, and for once?
He didn't growl.
Didn't bark.
Because the scene in front of him wasn't something you interrupt with noise.
Instead—he just said:
"…You beat me to it."
Aleasha turned, blinking wide, cheeks flushing instantly. "Oh—yeah. I thought I'd try it. You always cook and I figured… maybe I could help. Or—uh, do it instead?"
She fumbled slightly with the whisk, voice dropping into something softer.
"I mean, I still feel kinda bad. For the food spill. And the fall. And the shirt sabotage. I owe you, like, breakfast times ten."
Bakugo stared for a long moment.
And he didn't know what got him more—
The fact that she remembered every accident.
Or the way her hands shook just slightly while trying to fix something that didn't need fixing.
Her profile was tired—but still so alive.
So familiar.
Like someone Denki might dream about without knowing why.
Like electricity that took human shape—but forgot how to charge.
Bakugo leaned against the counter.
Not annoyed.
Not explosive.
Just… calm.
Because around Aleasha?
That's what he always was.
And for the first time that morning?
Bakugo didn't dread the noise.
Because with her—
It was never noise.
It was calm.
It was… nice.
Bakugo leaned against the counter, watching Aleasha gently tap cracked eggs into the bowl with intense focus—her brow furrowed like each shell held a math equation. The tension in her shoulders was subtle but visible, like she'd armed herself for mistakes before they even happened.
He opened the drawer.
Pulled out his apron—black, crisp, slightly scorched near the pocket. The one he wore every morning. The one unofficially titled "Bakugo's Breakfast Armor."
Then—
Without saying anything, he walked over and held it out to her.
Aleasha blinked. Stared. Didn't take it right away.
"…You're giving me the apron?" she asked, voice small.
Bakugo shrugged. "You're taking point. You get the gear."
Aleasha reached out slowly, her fingers brushing the edge before stopping completely.
She didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just stared at the apron.
Bakugo tilted his head. "What?"
Aleasha's lips parted slightly. Her hands dropped to her sides. Her eyes softened—not out of confusion, but something older.
"It's just... weird. My mom used to wear one like this."
Her voice wasn't trembling, but it carried the kind of ache that came from remembering something you'd packed away for survival. Something you weren't sure you were allowed to miss.
Bakugo blinked once. His grip loosened.
"…You don't have to take it."
Aleasha shook her head.
"No. I want to."
She grabbed the apron, fingers brushing the burnt edge gently, reverently, like it held history she hadn't touched in a while. She looped it over her neck, tied it in the back with practiced ease, and stood straighter.
Bakugo watched her with a strange stillness.
The apron was big, but it somehow looked perfect.
Like she was made for morning light and borrowed calm.
"…You look ready now," he muttered.
Aleasha gave a small smile, hand resting against the apron's chest like it carried something else—something quiet.
"Yeah. I think I do."
The common room was quiet.
Sunlight slid through the windows like golden whispers, and the faint sizzle of eggs echoed from the kitchen. The scent of warmth—pepper, butter, and something Aleasha had lovingly over-seasoned—lingered in the air.
Bakugo stood by the counter, watching the skillet like a tactician.
Aleasha beside him, apron on, focused.
A quiet rhythm they didn't need words for.
Then—
The door opened.
Denki walked in.
Not from the hall. Not from his room.
From outside.
Shoes damp from morning dew. Hoodie zipped all the way up. Hands shoved deep into the pockets like he was bracing against invisible wind.
Bakugo blinked.
Denki didn't notice them at first.
His head hung a little too low.
His posture—deflated.
Eyes glassy.
Bags beneath them, deep and worn.
He always sat on his bench early.
Bakugo knew that.
He knew Denki liked the quiet before chaos.
But this morning? The quiet had clung to him.
The frown wasn't sleepy.
Wasn't grumpy.
It was weighted. Like something was pressing on him from inside. Like he'd been walking with sandbags in his chest.
And then—he looked up.
Saw Bakugo.
And like clockwork, the mask snapped into place.
Big grin.
Spark in his eyes.
Shoulders squared.
That, 'I'm totally fine, bro!'expression honed through trauma and practiced for survival.
"Yo!" Denki said cheerily, voice way too chipper. "Smells like breakfast exploded in a good way!"
Bakugo didn't speak immediately.
He watched.
Watched how Denki's grin didn't land.
Watched the twitch in his cheek.
The way his eyes flicked too fast between them.
The hand that trembled briefly before grabbing a cup.
Aleasha turned gently, brow creased.
Bakugo dried his hands, voice low.
"Didn't sleep?"
Denki shrugged, pouring water he didn't really want. "Nah, y'know. Just some voltage brain lag."
Too fast.
Aleasha watched him more carefully now.
Bakugo narrowed his eyes, not with suspicion—with understanding.
Because he'd seen that frown before.
He'd worn it himself.
And whatever Denki was carrying?
It was too heavy for spark jokes to hold.
Bakugo had been ready to speak.
Not yell.
Not explode.
Just… speak.
Because he saw the frown on Denki's face—the kind you don't hide behind bad jokes and voltage grins.
But then—
The Girls stormed in.
Like a glittered front line of joy and leftover sleepover energy.
Mina burst through first, followed by Jiro, oversized Picachew hoodie sleeves flapping.
Then Toga and Darkcreasa, laughing like they'd known each other for years.
Aleasha turned, startled, apron halfway flipped as she paused mid-stir.
Bakugo stepped back slightly, letting the whirlwind pass.
Then came Kirishima.
His door slid open with casual drama. Headband strapped on, sweat dotting his forehead, muscles loose and warm from early training.
And the moment Mina's eyes locked on him—
"KIRIIIIII!!!"
She launched. No hesitation. No brakes.
Kirishima's grin split wide as she crashed into him—arms around his neck, feet off the ground, laughter and love colliding at full velocity.
He kissed her without hesitation.
Soft. Firm. Home.
The room didn't gasp.
It smiled.
Even Toga clutched her heart. "Someone put sparkles on that moment."
Torū (somehow already invisible again) whispered, "That's going in my journal."
But over on the couch-
Denki didn't move.
Hands deep in his hoodie pockets.
Shoulders rounded.
Head dipped just enough to disguise the hollow flicker in his gaze.
His mask was fully engaged.
Big smile. Slight lean.
A casual sparkle that said, 'I'm fine. I'm good. Nothing's wrong.'
Bakugo saw through it.
But before he could step forward—
Jiro broke from the pack.
She rushed over, hoodie sleeves bouncing, wild hair caught up in sleepy sparkle energy.
"Denki! How was your night? Did you sleep okay? Did you eat? Did you forget to stretch again? Did you—?"
Denki chuckled—smooth.
Cool.
Unbothered.
"I'm great! Totally recharged. Zero volts of chaos. The bed was so cozy without your cold feet sneaking into my side of it."
Jiro blinked. "Liar."
He winked. "Adorable liar, though."
But his smile didn't reach his eyes.
Jiro saw it.
She always saw it.
Her hand rested gently against his sleeve. Her voice lowered.
"Denki. Are you sure?"
Denki's fingers twitched inside his pockets.
And still—he smiled.
"Course. Voltage royalty sleeps like a king, remember?"
Bakugo watched.
Chest tight.
Because this wasn't a mask built on vanity.
It was built on grief.
And the static behind it?
Was growing louder.