The warehouse mission had ended hours ago, but the memory of it clung to Y/N like smoke.
She sat on the edge of her dorm bed, staring at the floor, replaying every second — the trap, the pulse, the kiss, the heat. Bakugo's voice still echoed in her ears: "You think about me like that?" And her own answer, whispered in the dark: "I didn't know I did."
But now she knew.
And so did he.
There was no undoing it.
A knock at the door broke the silence.
Y/N stood quickly, heart already racing.
Bakugo stepped inside without waiting for permission. His hair was damp, his hoodie loose, and his eyes locked onto hers like he hadn't stopped thinking about her either.
"We need to talk," he said.
Y/N nodded. "Yeah."
He didn't sit. Just paced once, then turned to face her. "About what happened."
Y/N swallowed. "It wasn't just the villain's quirk."
Bakugo's jaw flexed. "No. It wasn't."
Silence stretched between them — not awkward, but heavy. Charged.
Y/N stepped closer. "So what now?"
Bakugo looked at them, eyes unreadable. "We keep it quiet."
Y/N blinked. "You want to hide it?"
He nodded. "For now."
Y/N hesitated. "Why?"
Bakugo's voice was low. "Because I don't want anyone messing with it. Not the class. Not the teachers. Not the press. This is ours."
Y/N's chest tightened.
He wasn't ashamed.
He was protective.
Y/N nodded slowly. "Okay. We keep it quiet."
Bakugo stepped closer, gaze softening just slightly. "But it's real."
Y/N smiled. "It's real."
He reached out, fingers brushing hers. Just for a second. Just enough.
Then he turned and left.
—
The next morning, everything felt different.
And yet — nothing looked different.
Bakugo was Bakugo: loud, sharp, explosive. He barked at Kaminari during drills, rolled his eyes at Midoriya's analysis, and nearly blew up a training dummy when it malfunctioned.
Y/N kept her distance.
Not too much.
Just enough.
Y/N laughed with Uraraka, sparred with Jirou, and answered Aizawa's questions with her usual calm. But every time Bakugo passed by, her pulse jumped. Every glance felt loaded. Every brush of shoulders felt like a secret.
And no one noticed.
Not yet.
—
That night, Y/N sat in the common room, curled up with a book. The others were scattered — Kirishima and Sero playing cards, Mina painting her nails, Midoriya scribbling notes in his journal.
Bakugo walked in, hoodie pulled low, hands in his pockets.
He didn't look at Y/N.
But he sat on the couch across from her.
Close.
Not close enough to raise suspicion.
Just close enough to feel.
Y/N's phone buzzed.
A message.
K: You good?
Y/N smiled faintly and typed back.
Y: Yeah. You?
K: Better now.
She glanced up.
Bakugo was watching them.
Just for a second.
Then he looked away.
—
Later, when the dorms had gone quiet, Y/N slipped out into the hallway. The moonlight spilled through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor.
Bakugo was waiting by the stairwell.
He didn't speak.
Just held out his hand.
Y/N took it.
They walked together — silent, steady — to the rooftop.
The city stretched out below them, glittering and vast. The wind tugged at their clothes, cool and clean.
Bakugo turned to them. "You sure about this?"
Y/N nodded. "I don't want anyone else in it."
He stepped closer. "Good."
They kissed — slow, quiet, hidden beneath the stars.
And for the first time, the silence felt safe.