The hallways of U.A. High were quieter than usual as Y/N crossed the main corridor toward the training room. Morning light filtered through the tall windows, dust motes dancing in the beams. But the soft glow did nothing to warm the chill in Y/N's chest. Every step echoed with the memory of yesterday's city patrol—reports, cameras, questions. The press had been merciless. The public had been hungry. And now the fallout was all around them.
Y/N's phone buzzed in their pocket. A message from Mina: "You two on TV again. Interview at twelve. You ready?" Y/N paused, fingers tight around the device. "Ready" felt like a lie. "Can't do this," she texted back. Moment later, a reply: "You don't have to do it alone." Y/N exhaled and locked the phone. she slipped it into their bag as Bakugo came into view.
He leaned against the doorway of the training room, arms crossed, eyes hidden by the shadow of his bangs. His uniform was crisp, hair still damp from an early shower. Y/N's heart stuttered at the sight—how he always looked ready to explode into action. But today his posture was different: slumped shoulders, restlessness buried beneath the usual storm.
"Don't run," Bakugo said, voice low.
Y/N stopped. Met his eyes. "Going in," they said quietly.
Bakugo pushed off the wall. "I'll be right behind you."
They entered the training room together, and Aizawa lifted his gaze from the clipboard. His eyes were sharp, tired. "Good morning," he said.
Y/N swallowed. "Good morning, Sir."
Bakugo only grunted.
Aizawa held up a hand. "No drills today. Instead, a mandatory media debrief and psychological check-in. Headmaster Nezu insisted. Sponsors are calling. Interviews scheduled back-to-back."
A low groan echoed in the room. Y/N's stomach knotted. Bakugo's jaw twitched. "You made this mess," he muttered under his breath, loud enough for Aizawa to catch.
Aizawa's eyes flicked to Bakugo. "We're all responsible now. Hero work includes the spotlight." He tapped his clipboard. "You two report to the conference room at nine, then therapy with Recovery Girl at eleven. Don't be late."
Y/N nodded. Bakugo said nothing.
After they left the room, Y/N exhaled. "Therapy?"
Bakugo rolled his eyes. "As if I need a babysitter."
Y/N reached for his arm. "We need this."
He squeezed their hand. "Yeah."
—
The conference room smelled of polished wood and stale coffee. Rows of chairs faced a long table where three media coordinators sat, laptops open, calculators out. Posters of promotional events and press schedules lined the walls, each emblazoned with Y/N and Bakugo's faces side by side. A sign by the door read "Persistence, Protection, Partnership."
Y/N took a seat next to Bakugo. He loomed over the chair like a volcano. Between them, Mina settled with a bright grin and far too much enthusiasm. "Morning, guys! Ready to shine?" She fluttered a stack of cue cards. "We've got talking points, soundbites, and—oh!—the adorable, teary reunion shot from last night." She tapped her tablet. "Insert that at interview three for maximum impact."
Y/N's cheeks burned. Bakugo's eyes narrowed. "Max impact," he repeated, deadpan.
Mina didn't miss a beat. "It'll go viral. Fans will eat it up."
Y/N glanced at the coordinators. Two of them typed furiously; the third watched Bakugo like he was a live wire. Y/N swallowed. "Can we skip to questions?"
The lead coordinator stood. "Of course. We'll run through three rounds of interviews today. On-camera, live stream, and then a featured article for the Hero Insider. You'll need to highlight teamwork, trust, and—most importantly—balance love and duty."
Bakugo's lip curled. "Balance is overrated."
Y/N squeezed his hand under the table. "Please. Just get through this."
Mina shot them a sympathetic look. "Breathe. You got this."
The first interview was a local news livestream. A young reporter with a bright smile held up a mic emblazoned with City 9's logo. "Mr. bakugo, Miss L/N, how does it feel to be the hottest new couple in hero in training circles?"
Bakugo's usual explosive tongue was muted. He crossed his arms. "We're heroes in training. That's what we do."
Y/N added with a calm nod, "We're grateful for the support, but our focus is on saving lives." her voice wavered only slightly.
The cameras panned to reaction tweets floating on the screen: "Relationship goals!""Real power couple.""Can't wait for the merch!" Y/N forced a smile as the reporter pressed on, asking about the simulation fiasco. They answered with rehearsed clarity: "Every choice was made to protect civilians." Bakugo threw in one firm, "End of story."
When the broadcast ended, Mina was waiting with water bottles. "Bam. Done."
Y/N exhaled, muscles unknotted. Bakugo stood stiffly. "Next?"
"We have a podcast," the coordinator began. The room felt smaller now. Cameras gone, but walls close. Voices hollow. Y/N's heart pounded. Bakugo sat down slowly. "Let's make this quick."
They moved through the questions like fluid—easy on trust, light on romance, heavy on hero talk. Every answer chipped away at their energy reserves. Each question about love felt like a punch to the gut under Bakugo's ribs. Each mention of teamwork reminded Y/N how fragile balance felt.
By the time they rose from the table, the clock read ten fifty-five.
Recovery Girl's office was just down the hall—a small room with pastel walls, stacked journals, and the scent of lavender. Recovery Girl sat behind her desk, a gentle smile on her lined face. "Hello, dears. Please, have a seat."
Y/N and Bakugo exchanged a look, then sank into the chairs. Y/N's legs shook; Bakugo's hands clenched the arms of his chair.
Recovery Girl folded her hands. "I hear you've been under quite a spotlight." She addressed Y/N first. "How are you feeling?"
Y/N hesitated. "Exhausted. Like… like I can't speak anymore."
Recovery Girl nodded. "Public attention can be a heavy burden. Especially when it's new. And intense. And focused on your relationship." She turned to Bakugo. "And you? How do you handle the glare?"
Bakugo's gaze flicked to the window. "I handle problems. I don't sit around thinking about feelings."
Recovery Girl's eyes were kind but firm. "You can do both. Your quirk and your heart—they both require attention. Neglect one, and the other falters." She slid a journal toward Y/N. "Try writing. Tonight, list everything you're afraid to say out loud."
Y/N opened the journal. The blank page felt like a promise. "Okay."
Bakugo watched. Recovery Girl smiled. "Therapy success can't be measured in one session. Keep coming back. Speak when you can. Rest when you need."
After they left, the hallway felt vast. Y/N cradled the journal to her chest. Bakugo fell into step beside her.
"You okay?" he asked.
Y/N nodded. "Better than this morning."
Bakugo's brow softened. "Good."
—
Training that afternoon was a blur of motion and noise. The press had gotten wind of the Recovery Girl session; a few intrepid reporters lurked at the entrance, cameras rolling. Aizawa barked at them to leave. The door slammed. Y/N and Bakugo moved through sparring drills with classmates, muscles and reflexes taking over. But beneath the motion was static—tension, exhaustion, the hum of too many eyes.
At the end of practice, as they wiped sweat from their brows, Kirishima clapped Bakugo on the back. "You guys doing okay?" he asked.
Bakugo glanced at Y/N. "We're fine."
Y/N managed a nod. Kirishima pressed on, "You know we've got your back, right?"
Y/N smiled tiredly. "Thanks."
Kirishima gave them a thumbs-up. "Anytime."
They left the field together, share a rare moment of camaraderie. But the stress lingered, a weight in Y/N's chest and a knot in Bakugo's gut.
—
That evening, the rooftop was empty when Y/N climbed the stairs. Stars blinked overhead, silent witnesses. Y/N sank to the ledge, journal open in their lap. Words spilled onto the page: fear of exposure, pressure to perform, longing for simple mornings without cameras.
Bakugo appeared in the doorway, silhouette crisp against the glow of the city. He walked over, hands in pockets, then sat beside Y/N.
"I saw you writing," he said.
Y/N closed the journal. "It helps."
Bakugo studied her profile. "You write about us?"
Y/N swallowed. "Some. About everything."
He reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from their face. "Good."
Y/N's throat tightened. "I'm scared."
Bakugo's fingers curled around theirs. "Me too."
They leaned together, the journal resting between them, pages fluttering in the breeze.
"I don't want to lose who we are," Y/N whispered.
Bakugo's thumb stroked their hand. "You won't. We'll fight every headline."
Y/N looked up. "Promise?"
He smiled, fierce and soft. "Promise."
They sat under the stars, a pair of heroes and a pair of hearts, bracing for the aftershock—and ready to weather it side by side.