The common room was unusually quiet for a Friday night. Most of Class 1-A had scattered — some to the city, others to the gym, and a few to the dorm kitchen where Mina was attempting to bake something that smelled suspiciously like burnt sugar and regret.
Y/N sat curled on the couch, nursing a bruised shoulder from training. The match earlier had been brutal — not with Bakugo this time, but with Todoroki, whose ice had caught her off guard. Her hoodie hung loose, hair damp from a rushed shower, and their thoughts were still tangled in the memory of yesterday's locked-room incident.
Bakugo hadn't spoken to her since.
Not a word. Not a glare. Not even a grunt.
Which was... unsettling.
He was never quiet. Not with her.
The elevator dinged, and Y/N glanced up.
Bakugo stepped out, towel slung around his neck, shirt clinging to his chest from sweat. His hair was damp, spiked in every direction, and his eyes locked onto Y/N instantly.
She looked away.
He didn't.
Instead, he walked straight over and dropped onto the couch beside them — not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel.
"You still sore?" he asked, voice low.
Y/N blinked. "From Todoroki? A little."
Bakugo nodded once. "You hesitated."
"I misread his angle."
"You hesitated," he repeated, sharper this time. "You don't do that."
Y/N turned to face him. "Why do you care?"
Bakugo's jaw flexed. "Because you're not weak. And I don't like seeing you act like you are."
The words hit harder than expected.
Y/N swallowed. "You think I'm weak?"
"No," he said, too quickly. "I think you're distracted."
Their eyes met.
The silence between them wasn't empty — it was charged. Like static before lightning. Like something waiting to ignite.
"You've been weird since Mina locked us in that closet," Y/N said quietly.
Bakugo didn't flinch. "You've been weird since you got here."
Y/N raised an eyebrow. "You always this charming?"
He leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing. "You always this mouthy?"
The air between them tightened.
Y/N didn't move. "Only when provoked."
Bakugo's gaze dropped — just for a second — to her lips. Then backed up.
"You provoke easy," he muttered.
Y/N's heart thudded.
Bakugo stood abruptly. "Come on."
"Where?"
"Training room. You need to fix that hesitation."
Y/N stared at him. "Now?"
He turned, already walking. "Unless you're scared."
Y/N stood, pulse racing. "You wish."
—
The training room was dim, lit only by the overhead fluorescents and the glow of Bakugo's palms as he warmed up. Y/N stretched, trying to ignore the way his shirt clung to his back, the way his muscles moved like coiled wire.
They faced each other.
"No quirks," Bakugo said. "Just reflex."
Y/N nodded.
He lunged first — fast, precise, brutal. Y/N dodged, blocked, countered. Their bodies moved in sync, like a dance choreographed by tension and instinct. Sweat slicked their skin, breath came fast, and every strike felt like a question.
Why do you care?
Why do I?
Bakugo pinned Y/N against the wall, forearm braced beside their head. His breath was hot, eyes locked onto theirs.
"You're not weak," he said again, voice rough. "But you're holding back."
Y/N's voice was barely a whisper. "So are you."
Bakugo didn't move.
Neither did Y/N.
The moment stretched — taut, electric.
Then he stepped back, eyes dark. "Fix it."
Y/N nodded, heart pounding.
They didn't speak again that night.
But something had shifted.
Not just tension.
Not just heat.
Something deeper.
Something dangerous.
And neither of them was ready to name it.