Archive of Our Own

It all started with a flyer.

Well, technically, it started with a requirement—our first-year seminar professor had reminded everyone, again, that we needed at least one extracurricular before midterms. “Clubs build teamwork, discipline, and community engagement,” he’d said, which basically translated to: Pick something already or I’ll assign you to the Chess Club.

I wouldn’t have minded the Chess Club, honestly. But Ochaco made a face so dramatic you’d think the suggestion had personally insulted her ancestors.

“No offense to pawns and bishops,” she’d said as we walked out of class, “but if I have to spend two hours a week in silence moving pieces around, I might explode.”

I laughed. “So, we’re looking for something more... exciting?”

“Something fun,” she grinned, bumping her shoulder into mine. “And preferably not math based.”

So, for the next three days, our search began.

We hit every table at the club fair. We tried the volunteer orgs, the environmental groups, even the fencing team—though that was mostly because the guy in the mask looked cool, and I’m weak to aesthetic weapons.

But nothing clicked. Not until that third afternoon when we passed the bulletin board outside the student center and saw a flyer scrawled in neon marker and glitter paint.

LOOKING FOR DANCE CLUB MANAGERS!
No experience required. Good vibes only. Must love loud music, flexible schedules, and people who treat choreography like religion.

Ochaco’s eyes lit up.

“Dance club?” she said, tilting her head.

I blinked. “You dance?”

“Not at all,” she said cheerfully. “But they’re looking for managers. Not dancers. And we are extremely qualified for that.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the truth was… she wasn’t wrong. We were organized, pretty good at logistics after a year of RA-assigned dorm duties, and honestly? I could use a break from all the stress of major coursework.

So we went to the info session.

And, well. That’s where things started to spiral.

The club met in a window-lined studio in the rec building, mirrors on all sides, hardwood floors gleaming. When we stepped inside, music was blasting—some kind of K-pop remix—and a boy with black hair and half his shirt tucked in was doing flips I didn’t even know were possible outside of an anime.

A girl with bright pink box braids looked up and waved us over, practically yelling over the bass. “Hey! You the new manager applicants?”

Ochaco beamed. “That’s us!”

I, being me, gave a small bow. “I’m Izuku Midoriya. This is Ochaco Uraraka. We saw the flyer.”

Pink braids looked us up and down like she was trying to X-ray our souls. “You ever run logistics for a performance team?”

“Uh... no,” I admitted. “But we’re really organized. I’ve got spreadsheets for almost everything, and I’m good at scheduling. And Ochaco—”

“Knows how to deal with dramatic personalities,” she said brightly, raising a hand like she was in court. “We dorm with theater majors.”

That made pink braids laugh. “Good enough. I’m Mina, club president-slash-lead choreographer. Welcome to Dance Club. You’re hired.”

Just like that.

I expected a form to fill out. A meeting. A second interview.

Instead, we were tossed into chaos.

Within minutes, someone named Kaminari tripped over a speaker cable and nearly face-planted into a mirror. Someone else yelled about the music being too slow. There were glittery water bottles everywhere. And on the whiteboard near the front, I saw three lists: Routines, Song Cutoffs, and Costume Drama.

...We were going to need more spreadsheets.

Ochaco looked thrilled.

I felt the nervous flutter of something unfamiliar—excitement, maybe? Or the thrill of diving into the unknown.

All I knew was this: I hadn’t expected the Dance Club to be the thing that pulled us in.

But somehow, it felt like exactly where we were supposed to be.

We didn’t stay long after meeting Mina. She gave us a quick rundown of the studio rules—no food on the dance floor, wipe down the mirrors if you smudge them, and don’t touch the speaker settings unless you want to start a war. Then she jotted something down on a neon pink post-it and slapped it into my hand.

“Come back Saturday at noon,” she said. “That’s when everyone shows up. We’ve got a full rehearsal, so you’ll meet the rest of the crew then. Try not to be late—it’s chaos when they’re all together.”

I nodded like my life depended on it. “We’ll be there.”

“Good.” She grinned, sharp and sunny. “Bring water. And maybe snacks. People get feral after the second hour.”

Ochaco gave her a quick salute. “Snacks, noted.”

We left the studio a few minutes later, the bass still thudding behind us like a heartbeat. The second we were outside, the world went quiet again, only the muffled buzz of campus life filling the air. It felt like we’d stepped out of a tornado.

I glanced at Ochaco as we walked back toward the dorms. She had that look on her face again—the one she always wore when she was hiding excitement behind forced calm.

“So,” I said, nudging her with my elbow, “still glad we didn’t go with Chess Club?”

She laughed. “I mean, it’s hard to compare ‘quiet board game’ with ‘club run by human glitter bombs.’”

“That’s fair.”

Our dorm building was on the quieter edge of campus—older, but charming in a creaky-wooden-floor kind of way. We climbed the stairs to our room on the third floor, dodging a laundry cart and a tired-looking music major dragging a cello case behind them.

Once inside, Ochaco collapsed dramatically onto her bed, arms flung out wide.

“That was so much,” she said, still grinning. “But also kind of perfect?”

I kicked off my shoes and dropped into my desk chair, spinning lazily. “I think we just got conscripted into a dance army.”

“Not the worst army to be in.”

Our room was small but cozy. Twin beds on either side, desks crammed with textbooks and half-finished projects. My side had a neat stack of notebooks and a whiteboard calendar pinned above my desk—color-coded to within an inch of its life. Ochaco’s side had sticky notes plastered all over the wall, along with a tiny cactus named Dave. We’d been roommates since the first week of college and best friends even before that, from the minute we met during orientation and she offered to help me carry all five of my suitcases up the stairs.

She rolled over to face me, chin propped on her arms. “You know, I thought we’d end up doing something chill. Like Book Club. Or maybe that gardening thing.”

“We killed a succulent last month.”

She made a face. “Okay, you killed it. I told you it didn’t need daily watering.”

“I was trying to be nurturing,” I muttered.

Ochaco snorted, then went quiet for a moment, watching the ceiling. “That Mina girl was cute.”

I blinked. “Huh?”

“Mina,” she repeated, a little slower. “Pink braids. Sparkly boots. Did a backflip while holding a smoothie.”

“Oh—yeah. She was definitely... vibrant.”

Ochaco sat up, eyes glinting. “Vibrant? Izu. Come on. She’s gorgeous.”

I shrugged, trying not to let my face heat up. “She’s definitely got presence.”

“And legs for days,” she added dreamily.

I coughed. “Well, you’ll get to see them in action again Saturday.”

“I might die,” she said, deadpan, then flopped back down again. “Can you imagine being surrounded by a bunch of talented, sweaty, possibly shirtless dancers every weekend?”

I wasn’t sure if that was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t answer. Instead, I reached for my laptop and opened a new spreadsheet.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Making a list of things we’ll need to organize for a dance team,” I said. “Costume orders, rehearsal schedules, prop storage. If we’re doing this, I want to be ready.”

Ochaco smiled fondly. “You’re such a nerd.”

“And you’re just now realizing this?”

“No,” she said, flopping her pillow over her face. “I’ve known since the day you labeled your socks by color and season.”

“Some people appreciate efficiency.”

“Some people appreciate not being roasted alive by a group of dance majors.”

I chuckled and leaned back in my chair, already halfway through outlining a checklist.

Saturday was going to be a whirlwind.

But for some reason, I wasn’t dreading it.

In fact… I kind of couldn’t wait.

-

Maybe it was the nerves, or maybe it was the fact that I’d actually ironed my shirt (twice), but by the time we reached the studio, I was buzzing with the kind of energy I usually reserved for final exams or surprise presentations.

Ochaco looked more excited than nervous, which was comforting. She’d tied her hair up and was practically bouncing in her sneakers, snack bag in hand like it was a sacred offering.

“They’re gonna love us,” she said confidently as we reached the doors. “We’ve got snacks, punctuality, and good attitudes.”

“And color-coded spreadsheets,” I muttered, clutching my laptop like a lifeline. “Hopefully they respect that.”

She grinned at me. “If they don’t, they’re not our people.”

Inside, the studio was alive.

Music pulsed from speakers mounted along the walls—fast, punchy, the kind of beat that made your blood want to move. Through the mirror-lined room, dancers stretched, practiced footwork, or lounged in little clusters. Some were already dripping with sweat, others mid-laugh, and the energy in the space was electric.

Mina caught sight of us instantly. Her pink braids were tied back today, looped in a way that made them bounce with every step.

“Manager babies!” she sang, practically skipping over. “Right on time!”

“We brought snacks,” Ochaco said, holding up the bag.

“And backup spreadsheets,” I added, slightly breathless from the nerves.

Mina clasped her hands to her chest like we’d brought her a birthday present. “Ugh, marry me.”

Ochaco gave her a dazzling smile. “You’re cute, but I need at least three dates and a proper confession.”

Mina winked and spun on her heel. “Fair. Come on, meet the chaos.”

We barely made it five steps before a voice called out from across the studio—sharp, low, and unmistakably irritated.

“Oi, Mina, you said we were starting five minutes ago.”

Standing near the center of the room, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel, was a guy I recognized immediately—even if I hadn’t already spent an embarrassing amount of time glancing at him on campus.

Katsuki Bakugou.

I’d seen him around before—tall, broad-shouldered, constantly moving like he was ready to punch the air if it got too quiet. His hair was a mess of golden blond spikes, damp from warmups, and his tank top clung in a way that was definitely not helping me focus.

He scowled in our direction as Mina waved us forward.

“New managers,” she said breezily. “Be nice.”

“Tch.” Bakugou gave us a once-over that felt like being scanned and judged simultaneously. “We’ll see if they last.”

I opened my mouth to say something—maybe a polite hello or a “Nice to meet you”—but the words stuck somewhere behind my tongue.

Ochaco didn’t seem fazed. “Charming,” she whispered to me behind her smile.

Then another voice chimed in, high and singsong. “You didn’t say they were cute, Mina!”

From behind Bakugou, a girl stepped out, spinning lazily on one foot. Pale skin, short skirt over fishnets, long sleeves with thumbholes, and blonde hair pulled into two messy space buns that bounced with each step. Her grin was wide and a little wicked.

“I’m Himiko,” she said, locking eyes with Ochaco first. “You’re adorable.”

Ochaco flushed. “Oh. Um. Thanks. You’re—” She cleared her throat. “You’re really pretty.”

Himiko lit up like a kid at a candy store. “You can say that again.”

“I’m Izuku,” I managed to blurt out. “And this is Ochaco. We’re, uh… here to help.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “You’re here to not get in the way.”

“Kats,” Mina warned, then added in a stage whisper, “He gets grouchy when he stretches too hard. Don’t take it personally.”

I did not, in fact, take it personally. Not when I was actively trying not to stare at his arms.

Himiko leaned into Bakugou’s side, draping herself over his shoulder. “Don’t be so mean, Katsuki. You’ll scare away the new blood.” She looked at Ochaco again. “You are staying, right?”

Ochaco nodded, possibly a little too quickly. “Definitely.”

“Good,” Himiko purred, twirling away.

“They’re partners,” Mina whispered beside us. “Himiko and Bakugou. Don’t let the chaos fool you, they’re scary good when they’re on the floor together.”

She led us further in, motioning toward the sound booth in the corner where a girl with purple-tipped hair was adjusting dials and tapping her foot to the beat.

“That’s Jirou—music queen, playlist curator, rhythm enforcer.”

Jirou gave a quick nod, barely glancing up from her setup. “Hey.”

“Hi,” I said, trying to sound casual.

“She’s in charge of our sanity,” Mina added. “Mostly by blasting music that keeps people from killing each other.”

A few other members wandered over—Kaminari, who was charmingly hyper; Shoji, who looked intimidating until he offered to carry our snack bag; and a tall, sleepy-looking guy named Sero who fist-bumped us with no explanation.

The whole team was a whirlwind of personalities, inside jokes, and loud opinions about choreography.

But beneath the chaos, it worked. There was a rhythm to the madness. A beat that held them together.

And somehow, by the time rehearsal started, Ochaco and I were already moving with it—helping Mina take attendance, handing out water bottles, and keeping kaminari from tripping over the aux cord for the third time.

Across the studio, Bakugou and Himiko stepped into position as the music shifted. The change in atmosphere was instant. Their movements were sharp and fluid, like they didn’t even need to think to stay in sync—spins, footwork, subtle lifts—every part of it screamed chemistry and history.

They weren’t just dance partners. They fit.

Himiko spun toward him, laughing as he caught her waist and dipped her with a rough grace that somehow still looked effortless. The way she looked at him, and the easy smirk he gave in return, made something inside my chest tighten.

Ochaco must’ve felt it too, because she gave a small sigh beside me.

“They’re so good,” she said softly. “Like... too good.”

“Yeah,” I murmured.

We stood in silence for a few beats, watching as the two of them moved together like they were born for it.

Then Ochaco spoke again, her voice quieter. “They’ve gotta be dating, right?”

The question hung in the air.

I hesitated, then nodded, forcing a small smile. “I mean… yeah. That kind of connection doesn’t come out of nowhere.”

She hummed. “Shame.”

“Yeah,” I said again, trying not to think about how Katsuki had looked back at Himiko during that last spin—like she was the only person in the room.

Ochaco bumped her shoulder into mine gently, like a consolation.

“We’re totally still gonna rock this manager thing, though.”

I smiled, even if it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Of course.”

We turned back to the clipboard, pretending the flutter in our chests was just leftover adrenaline.

And tried not to think too hard about the way disappointment kind of ached.

Being a dance team manager was... a lot.

Like, I knew what I signed up for—kind of—but no amount of spreadsheets could’ve prepared me for just how chaotic and constantly moving everything was. Between organizing practice times around twenty different class schedules, arranging transportation for the first competition, and making sure someone (Sero) didn’t forget their costume bag again, the job felt like juggling flaming swords on a unicycle.

Luckily, Ochaco and I made a good team.

She handled communication like a pro—group chats, follow-ups, and her very polite but very effective “use your calendar app or I will schedule you for 6 a.m. yoga” threats.

I, naturally, lived inside Excel.

We set up shared sheets with tabs for everything—routine assignments, attendance, costumes, music timing, and a horrifyingly long list of “rehearsal injuries” that ranged from sprained ankles to “Denki headbutted the mirror while trying to body roll.”

Still, for all the chaos, it was fun. Exhausting. Rewarding. And definitely never boring.

One of the weirder parts of the job was getting to know all the interwoven relationships within the team.

Take Kaminari, for example.

I was sitting cross-legged on the studio floor one afternoon, inputting attendance while stretching my legs, when I noticed Kaminari leaning on the wall next to Jirou’s station. He was trying to look casual, tossing a water bottle between his hands, but his smile was way too shiny to be subtle.

“So... what’re you doing after rehearsal?” he asked, voice low and (he thought) smooth.

“Going home,” Jirou said flatly, not even glancing away from the soundboard.

“I could walk with you.”

“You could,” she said, reaching up to adjust a dial. “But don’t.”

He blinked, stunned for a second, then laughed like she hadn’t just crushed him under a piano.

I glanced up from my laptop. “Are they… dating?”

Mina, who’d flopped beside me to take a water break, snorted so hard she nearly choked.

“Oh my god,” she wheezed. “No. Denki wishes.”

Kaminari looked over then, raising both hands in mock innocence. “Hey! I don’t wish! I just appreciate art when I see it.”

Jirou turned around slowly. “Appreciate from a safe distance.”

“See what I deal with?” Mina grinned, nudging my arm. “He’d flirt with the whole team if it wasn’t a big no-no.”

“There’s a rule?” Ochaco asked, sliding down next to us with her own clipboard.

Mina nodded. “Yeah. Technically not enforced by, like, the school, but we made a pact a couple years ago—no dating within the team. It gets messy. The last time two people dated mid-season, they broke up right before finals and refused to dance together. It wrecked the pyramid formation.”

“Yikes,” I muttered.

“It was a disaster,” Mina said, eyes wide. “We had to swap in Hitoshi, and he doesn’t do lifts.”

“It makes sense,” Ochaco agreed. “I mean, you don’t want personal drama messing with the performance. Still...” She glanced across the studio.

Bakugou and Himiko were going through footwork drills at the far end of the room, trading sharp movements and casual banter. Himiko swayed into his space like she belonged there; he shoved her back without missing a beat.

“You guys made that rule after those two started dating, huh?” Ochaco said, chewing the end of her pen. “Too late to stop it?”

Mina paused. Blinked. And then, spectacularly, spit out her water.

“Wait—what?”

Ochaco looked confused. “Bakugou and Himiko. They’re dating, right?”

Mina slapped a hand to her mouth, still laughing. “Oh my god, you thought—? No! No, absolutely not! Kats is, like, violently gay.”

I blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Extremely. Painfully. His gayness is an unstoppable force of nature.” Mina leaned forward like she was telling a secret. “He and Himiko just work well together because they both like hitting people and don’t believe in personal space.”

Across the studio, Bakugou shouted “Move your damn foot faster!” at Himiko, who grinned and flipped him off.

I stared. “Okay, that… makes more sense now.”

“I mean, not that she isn’t hot,” Ochaco mumbled, cheeks pink.

Mina grinned. “Right? She’s wild. I’m immune by now, but I support your struggle.”

I felt a weird tangle of relief and embarrassment twist up in my chest. Relief because… yeah, maybe I’d been nursing a quiet crush on Bakugou since he glared at me across the studio that first day. And embarrassment because I’d just assumed things without bothering to ask.

Ochaco nudged me with her shoulder. “So. Bakugou’s single, huh?”

Mina waggled her brows. “Why? You interested?”

My face turned scarlet. “I—I mean, I—”

“Izuku’s bi,” Ochaco offered helpfully.

“Best news I’ve heard all day,” Mina declared.

I buried my face in my clipboard. “I regret all of this.”

Despite the minor emotional whiplash, things settled into a rhythm. A weird, wonderful, wildly dysfunctional rhythm.

-

Todoroki’s apartment was suspiciously clean for a college student.

Like, unsettlingly clean.

His little off-campus studio had all the personality of a minimalist design catalog—white walls, a gray couch that looked barely used, one (1) abstract painting on the wall, and a single succulent on the windowsill that I suspected he watered with a timer. The only real signs of life were the mismatched mugs and textbooks scattered on the coffee table between the four of us.

"I don’t know how you live like this," Ochaco muttered as she sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through her planner. "It’s like an Airbnb with trust issues."

Shoto didn’t even look up from the tea he was pouring. “I like symmetry.”

“You like sterile environments,” Iida said from the armchair, already halfway through reorganizing our class notes by subject and due date. “And honestly, we should all be grateful. I came over once and found Midoriya using a sock as a coaster.”

“That was one time,” I groaned. “And it was clean!”

They ignored me.

We’d all been friends since orientation week—Shoto with his blunt honesty, Iida with his rules and over-preparedness, Ochaco with her humor, and me with my anxiety and color-coded pens. It worked.

It had become our unspoken ritual: tea at Todoroki’s apartment every couple of weekends. Usually to cram for exams, but tonight was a rare calm one—just catching up before another busy week.

“So how’s the dance club going?” Iida asked, sitting forward like he was preparing to take notes.

Ochaco perked up immediately. “Chaotic. Loud. The most fun I’ve had in ages.”

“It’s intense,” I admitted. “More than I thought it’d be. Scheduling rehearsals is like playing 4D chess against fate.”

“We have a spreadsheet,” Ochaco said proudly.

“With tabs,” I added.

Iida gave us an approving nod. “I commend your organizational efforts. A well-maintained extracurricular is the backbone of a productive academic experience.”

Shoto sipped his tea. “Are they still throwing each other across the room for practice?”

Ochaco laughed. “Yeah. It’s a lot of dramatic lifts and yelling. Himiko nearly kicked someone in the throat last week and didn’t even blink.”

I nodded. “Honestly? Kind of impressive.”

“She and Bakugou are terrifying in sync,” she said, then paused. “Also, we thought they were dating.”

Iida looked up sharply. “They’re not?”

“Nope,” Ochaco said, popping the “p” with a grin. “Turns out Bakugou is extremely gay.”

Shoto blinked slowly. “Oh. That explains... a lot.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You suspected?”

“He stares at guys the same way Kaminari stares at his reflection.”

That made Ochaco snort. “You know he kind of reminds me of you, Sho.”

“In what way?”

“The deadpan. The simmering intensity. The ‘I don’t believe in smiling unless someone’s dying’ vibe.”

Shoto considered that, then gave the barest nod. “Fair.”

Iida cleared his throat. “And how is the dynamic between the two of you and the rest of the club?”

I shrugged. “Better now. We’ve been helping organize groupings for routines—figuring out who works well with who, what clashes personality-wise.”

Ochaco flipped her planner around to show a page covered in doodled arrows and scribbled names. “We’ve been lowkey running compatibility charts.”

“I call it choreographic chemistry,” I added.

“I call it matchmaking,” she said, smug.

“It’s not matchmaking,” I said immediately, cheeks warm.

Iida adjusted his glasses. “Given the earlier conversation, I find it curious you’re denying that.”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I glanced at the mug in my hand like it might save me.

Shoto broke the silence. “So. You like him.”

My head shot up. “Wh—what?”

“Bakugou,” he said evenly. “You like him.”

I stared. Iida blinked. Ochaco looked way too entertained.

“I—I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Shoto said. “You’ve brought him up five times since we got here.”

Ochaco leaned in with a smirk. “He’s not wrong.”

“I—okay—fine,” I muttered. “Maybe I have a little crush. He’s just… hot. In a rude, glaring, ‘I can throw you across the room with one arm’ kind of way.”

“So your type,” Shoto said, without inflection.

Iida looked vaguely alarmed. “Should we be concerned?”

“No,” Ochaco said immediately. “It’s harmless. Right now.”

“And you?” Shoto asked, looking at her.

Ochaco raised both hands like she was surrendering. “I’m emotionally compromised by Himiko Toga, okay? She winked at me while holding a chair like a weapon.”

Iida sighed. “I fear for both of your emotional well-being.”

“You say that,” she said, “but you’d fold in five seconds if someone with eyeliner and strong thighs gave you a compliment.”

Iida opened his mouth, paused, then visibly decided not to respond.

I laughed, easing into the moment.

Because even if it was all messy and probably doomed and just a little bit confusing... it felt good to talk about it. To admit, just a little, that I was curious. Interested. Maybe hopeful.

-

My legs were jelly. My brain was soup.

My soul had just barely survived a two-hour seminar presentation complete with malfunctioning slides, an accidentally duplicated chart, and one student who asked a “devil’s advocate” question that made our entire group visibly twitch.

I wanted nothing more than to faceplant into my pillow and not move for three to five business days.

I trudged up the stairs to our dorm room, unlocked the door with the last ounce of willpower I had left—and was immediately met with a shriek.

“I CAN’T BREATHE.”

I flinched so hard I nearly dropped my bag.

Ochaco was sprawled starfish-style on her bed, bright red from her ears down to her chest, both hands over her face as if shielding herself from the memory of something catastrophic.

Which meant only one thing.

I shut the door behind me and sighed. “Toga flirted with you, didn’t she?”

She let out a high-pitched whine. “I don’t KNOW. Maybe?? Yes. Absolutely. She was definitely flirting. I’m DYING.”

I dropped my bag beside my desk and peeled off my hoodie. “Okay, walk me through it. Slowly. Did she smile at you or did she Toga smile at you?”

“There’s a difference??”

“Yes. One is regular nice-person smiling, and the other is a flirty chaos gremlin energy that makes you question your moral compass.”

Ochaco groaned and pulled a pillow over her face. “Then it was definitely the second one.”

I sat down at my desk chair, spinning slightly to face her. “What happened?”

“She asked if I wanted to help her try on costumes,” she said from under the pillow. “And I said yes because I’m weak and also curious and also she called me ‘pretty girl’ under her breath.”

“Oh,” I said, my voice cracking a little in secondhand panic.

“AND THEN,” she said, bolting upright, “when I handed her the backup crop top, she looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘Do you think this would look better off?’”

I stared.

She stared.

We screamed.

“Did she MEAN it?” she demanded, shaking me slightly by the arm. “Or is she just like this?? Is she always like this?? Because I’m about to spiral and I need to know.”

I flailed. “I don’t know!! She flirts with everyone—but also, she doesn’t flirt flirt with everyone. That sounds personal. That sounds targeted.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Ochaco jumped off the bed and started pacing. “I don’t even know what I said in response. I think I choked and then made a weird seal noise.”

“Oh no.”

“Yeah.”

We both sat in silence for a second, letting the panic wash over us.

Then I asked, “Did anyone else notice?”

“Jirou looked away on purpose, so yes.”

I collapsed back into my chair. “We’re doomed.”

“I’m doomed,” she corrected. “You’re still maybe going to kiss Bakugou under dramatic lighting someday.”

“I’m barely brave enough to ask if he needs help with the supply list. Also, he kind of growled at Kaminari today because he played the wrong song for warmups. I'm not ready for that level of attention.”

Ochaco flopped back onto her bed. “We’re a mess.”

“A beautiful, emotionally compromised mess.”

We lay there in silence for a few beats. The room buzzed with post-crisis energy and mutual exhaustion.

Then she sat up and said, “Do you think I should text her?”

“Do you want to text her?”

She made a sound halfway between a groan and a squeak. “Yes. But what do I say?”

I smirked. “Start with something simple. Like, ‘Hey, great practice. Also, I am very gay and experiencing symptoms.’”

She threw a pillow at me.

“I’m being helpful!”

“You’re being a menace.”

We both laughed, and for the first time all day, the tension in my shoulders eased. My project was over. The day was done. And even though Ochaco was definitely spiraling, and I was definitely overanalyzing everything Katsuki ever said to me… I felt weirdly okay.

Because maybe this dance club wasn’t just turning out to be a fun extracurricular.

Maybe it was a little more than that.

The studio was unusually quiet.

When Ochaco and I walked in, the music wasn’t blasting. No one was arguing about playlist order or stealing someone else’s water bottle. Just the soft hum of the overhead lights and the distant thump-thump of someone stretching near the back.

Mina was sitting—very casually—on someone’s shoulders like it was the most normal thing in the world.

The someone, it turned out, was a massive redhead. Big arms. Bigger smile. His varsity football hoodie clung to a frame that could probably bench-press half the team and still have energy left to run laps.

“Hey manager babes!” Mina called, waving enthusiastically as she bounced slightly on his shoulders. “Come meet my emotional support linebacker!”

He looked up at her and chuckled before turning to us with a wide grin. “Name’s Eijirou Kirishima! I’ve heard a lot about you two.”

“You have?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” he said, gently setting Mina down like she weighed nothing. “Mina talks about the dance team like it’s a cult and you two are the new prophets or something.”

Ochaco laughed. “We’re just trying to keep Kaminari from getting electrocuted by the sound system.”

“Sounds like a full-time job,” Kirishima said with mock solemnity, then offered me a handshake so solid it nearly rattled my bones. “You’re Midoriya, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

He nodded. “Cool. If you ever need someone to help move stuff for showcases or, like, carry your stress, let me know.”

Mina looped her arm through his and grinned up at him. “He’s strong, polite, and drives a pickup. What more could a girl want?”

Ochaco raised an eyebrow. “World peace?”

“Meh,” Mina said, dismissively waving her hand. “I’ve got abs. That’s close enough.”

We were still laughing when a voice cut through the space like a sharp chord.

“Oi, Midoriya.”

I turned, immediately straightening. “Oh—uh. Yeah?”

Katsuki stood near the center of the room, towel slung over his shoulders, hair damp from warmups. His gaze flicked to me, intense as always. “Himiko’s out today. Sick or something. Come here—I need someone to run the new lift with.”

I blinked. “You want me to… help you?”

“Don’t overthink it,” he muttered. “You’re similar height, and I don’t have time to wait around. Just stand where I tell you and try not to fall on your ass.”

Ochaco gave me a look that said good luck surviving, but I was already halfway to him, my brain short-circuiting slightly.

Katsuki positioned me at his side and stepped close, adjusting my arm with a firm grip. His fingers were warm. His expression was focused, sharp, calculating. He moved my hand to his shoulder, stepped into my space like it belonged to him.

“This move starts with a dip and a grip under your ribcage,” he said, voice low. “You lock here—” he pressed his hand just above my hip, firm and steady “—and lean into me. No flinching.”

Too late.

I was absolutely flinching—internally, anyway. My face felt like it had burst into flames.

I nodded too quickly. “Right, yep. No flinching. Definitely fine.”

He gave me a look—half-annoyed, half-amused—then moved through the first motion, guiding me down and pulling me into a sweep that brought us almost chest to chest.

And just like that, we were close. Very close.

I could see the faint scar on his jaw, the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his lips twitched like he was trying not to grin—

Then he did grin.

Smirked, really.

And for a second, all the focused tension in his face melted into something more dangerous. Playful. Flirty.

“Well, well,” he murmured, eyes flicking to my flushed cheeks. “You turn that red for every lift, or is it just me—”

“Bakubro!”

We both jumped as Kirishima’s voice boomed across the studio.

I turned just in time to see him walking toward us, still cheerful, completely unaware of the tiny emotional implosion I was mid-way through having.

“Yo, I’m heading out! Got a group thing for class,” he said, reaching out to clap Katsuki hard on the back. “Don’t kill your stand-in, yeah?”

Katsuki rolled his shoulders, scowl flickering back into place. “Tch. He’s fine.”

I was not fine.

Kirishima waved at me. “Nice meeting you, Midoriya! Hope you survive!”

“Thanks,” I managed weakly, still trying to remember how breathing worked.

As he left, Katsuki exhaled through his nose and muttered, “He’s like a golden retriever with a gym membership.”

I didn’t answer. My brain was still stuck on the you turn that red for everyone, or just me? part.

Because holy crap, I really wasn’t fine.

I barely made it through the rest of rehearsal without combusting.

Katsuki didn’t say anything else—he just nodded once after we finished the lift and walked off to do some solo footwork drills like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t smirked at me like that. Like he hadn’t gotten that close and made a comment that was currently echoing through every corridor of my brain like a fire alarm.

"You turn that red for everyone, or just me?"

I replayed it at least six times during warmdowns. And again while refilling my water bottle. And definitely again as I stood by the door, waiting for Ochaco to finish wiping down the mirror panels.

She joined me with her tote bag slung over her shoulder, casually sipping from her strawberry protein shake. She didn’t say anything at first. Not until we got a few steps out the door and into the open air.

Then, in the most innocent tone possible, she asked, “So… how was that lift practice?”

I froze. “What?”

Her grin stretched wide. “You know, with Katsuki.”

“I—it was—it was fine,” I said, voice cracking halfway through like a rusty hinge. “Very normal. Practice. Helpful. For choreography.”

“So normal,” she said, nodding solemnly. “Totally not blushing like a cartoon character when he touched your waist.”

I groaned and covered my face with my hands. “Ochaco, please.”

“He flirted with you,” she sang.

“No, he didn’t.”

“He absolutely flirted with you.”

I squinted at her between my fingers. “You didn’t even hear what he said.”

“Oh, I didn’t need to,” she said brightly. “I saw the smirk. That was a ‘hey cutie, how’s your blood pressure?’ smirk.”

I made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a dying animal.

She bumped her shoulder against mine. “I’m just saying, maybe you’re not as invisible to him as you think.”

I shook my head. “He was probably just messing with me. I’m new. Easy to fluster. That’s not flirting, it’s just recreational torment.”

Ochaco gave me a Look™. “Izu. I watched Himiko flirt with me using murder metaphors. I know the difference between teasing and intentional emotional arson. That boy was lighting matches.”

I muttered, “Okay, but why though?”

She shrugged. “Maybe he likes you.”

I stared at her like she’d suggested I enter a volcano for fun.

“He doesn’t even talk to most people. He literally yells at Kaminari for breathing too loud.”

“Maybe he likes you,” she repeated with a smug little bounce. “Also, fun fact: I caught him staring at your notes last week when you were organizing the costume schedule.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh my god, you’re hopeless.”

I groaned again. “Why are you enjoying this so much?”

“Because it’s finally your turn,” she said, throwing her arm around my shoulder. “I’ve had to live in a state of constant Himiko-induced panic for the past 48 hours. You think I’m not gonna enjoy watching you get flustered by a hot, angry blond with strong arms and a smirk that could kill a man?”

“I didn’t ask him to look at me like that!”

“You also didn’t not enjoy it.”

“…Shut up.”

She cackled, absolutely delighted, and squeezed my shoulder affectionately.

But underneath all the teasing, there was a warmth in her voice when she said, “Hey. Jokes aside, I’m happy for you. Whatever this is, even if it’s just harmless crush territory—you deserve a little something good. Even if it comes with, like, 90% intimidation.”

I glanced over at her and smiled, embarrassed but thankful.

“…You too,” I said. “With Himiko. I mean. You’re both terrifying, but like… in a really cute way.”

She sighed dreamily. “She called me ‘sweetheart’ over text today.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

We both laughed as we crossed the quad, the campus lights flickering on in the distance.

Maybe we were both in over our heads.

It didn’t feel so scary when we had each other to land with.

I was not going to overthink it.

That was the plan. The whole plan.

I told myself that repeatedly as I reorganized the supply cabinet in the dance studio, pretending I wasn’t watching the door like I was waiting for someone. I was simply being helpful. Organized. Productive.

Not waiting for a certain dancer to show up.

Definitely not reliving the waist touch, flirty smirk, “just me?” moment on an infinite loop in my head.

Nope. Totally fine.

Then the door opened.

Katsuki Bakugou strode in with a duffel slung over one shoulder and a scowl that probably could’ve peeled paint if you stared too long. He wasn’t even in uniform yet—just gray joggers and a black tee that fit entirely too well for my blood pressure.

I immediately turned back to the cabinet.

Do not look. Do not engage. Do not burst into flames.

“Midoriya.”

Too late.

I turned slowly. “Hey. Hi. What’s up?”

He raised an eyebrow like I’d just barked instead of greeted him. “You always talk like that or just when I’m around?”

“Just nervous generally,” I said too fast, then winced. “Not nervous because—just—overall—life. You know.”

“Right.”

I wanted to curl up and die on the spot.

But instead of laughing or mocking me, he leaned against the counter next to the cabinet, arms crossed. His tone was casual, like we were just talking about the weather. Except every word still came with that rough edge, that sharpness that made everything he said sound like a challenge.

“So. Yesterday.”

I froze halfway through stacking a box of bandages. “What about it?”

“That lift. The one we ran.”

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, sorry again for almost falling during the second try—”

“Not what I meant.”

I blinked and looked up at him.

He was watching me. Carefully.

“Just figured you should know,” he said, voice low and cool, “I don’t ask random people to practice with me.”

“Oh.”

“But I asked you.”

“Oh.”

My face was already heating up. “Okay. Um. Thanks? Or—wait, is that a compliment?”

Katsuki shrugged, lips twitching like he was trying not to smirk again. “Take it how you want.”

And with that, he pushed off the counter and walked away, casually leaving me to melt into the tile floor like a dropped candle.

What did that even mean?!

Was he flirting?

Was this some power move?

Was this just how he spoke?

I flailed mentally for a good five minutes until the rest of the team started trickling in and I was forced to pretend I wasn’t still overheating.

We moved into warmups, and I did my best to focus on anything except the fact that Katsuki had quite literally cornered me just to drop a vague compliment and then walk away like it was no big deal.

What was I supposed to do with that?

I was still pondering that exact question when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.

Himiko was standing beside Katsuki as he stretched, her body angled toward him in a way that was very intentional. She leaned in to whisper something. His eyes narrowed. Then she turned her head—directly toward where Ochaco and I were standing near the speaker—and grinned.

She winked.

Katsuki didn’t look at me, but his jaw flexed slightly as if responding to whatever she’d said.

I grabbed my phone from the shelf beside the water bottles and texted Ochaco as casually as I could manage without looking suspicious.

me: i think toga and bakugou are talking about us
me: she just looked RIGHT at us
me: and she winked
me: why did she wink
me: why do i feel like a deer in gay headlights

Ochaco checked her phone mid-stretch and immediately glanced at me, eyes wide.

She typed back with alarming speed.

Ocha: oh my god
Ocha: THEYRE TOTALLY TALKING ABOUT US
Ocha: do you think it’s a setup??
Ocha: ARE WE BEING SHIPPED IRL
Ocha: is this karma for every time i said two people standing next to each other was canon

I choked on a laugh and looked away quickly.

This was getting out of hand.

There was no way they were talking about us… right?

By Thursday, I was convinced I was hallucinating.

Katsuki Bakugou had told me my shirt “looked better tucked in.” That would’ve seemed like a normal human observation—except he’d said it while walking past me with a towel slung over his shoulder, no context, no eye contact, and a smirk that didn’t belong in public spaces.

Two days before that, he asked me—casually, in front of two other people—if I lift. Not if I could lift, or had lifted something, but just… “Do you lift?” And then he looked me up and down and said, “Figured.”
Figured.

I haven’t stopped blushing since Tuesday.

And Ochaco wasn’t doing much better.

On Wednesday, Himiko offered her a sip of her smoothie—unprompted—and called her “sweetheart” when Ochaco tried to politely decline. Then today, Himiko had handed her a spare hoodie from the costume closet and casually said, “Try it on. I think you’d look hot in my clothes.”

Ochaco stumbled into a folding chair and knocked it over.

The worst part?

This wasn’t even an event. It was constant. A barrage of flirtation that had slowly eroded any mental stability we had left.

By the end of the week, we were shells of ourselves.

We barely made it through cleanup after Friday’s practice. I think I blacked out halfway through sweeping the corner behind the speaker stack. I remember Himiko saying something about “backstage kisses” and Ochaco squeaking. I remember Katsuki helping me lift a crate of costumes and letting his hand linger just a little longer than necessary.

Then we got home.

And we collapsed.

“I can’t do this anymore.” Ochaco dropped her tote, and flung herself face-first onto her bed.

I shut the door with my foot, leaned back against it, and slid down to the floor like someone had pulled the plug on my soul.

“I am not emotionally equipped to be flirted with this often,” I said.

“I am a gay puddle,” Ochaco mumbled into her blanket. “I don’t know what she wants from me. I don’t know what I want from me anymore.”

I stared at the ceiling like it might offer wisdom. “Do you think they’re messing with us? Like, just flirting for fun?”

Ochaco rolled onto her back, eyes wide. “You mean, like, recreational gay torment?”

“Exactly.”

She groaned. “But Himiko looks at me like she wants to kiss me and steal my wallet. It’s very confusing.”

“Katsuki keeps doing that half-smirk thing and walking away like he didn’t just flirt with me. Who does that?? Who says, ‘nice hands for someone who types so much’ and leaves the room?”

Ochaco sat up suddenly. “He said that?!”

“Yes! While I was fixing the sign-in sheet. I almost died.”

She covered her face and laughed so hard she fell back over.

I dragged myself to my bed and flopped onto my stomach. “What do we do, Ochaco?”

“Curl into ourselves like dying starfish and never love again?”

“Tempting.”

There was a long pause. The kind where neither of us wanted to say what we were both thinking.

Finally, she said, “What if they’re serious?”

I turned my head to look at her. “What if they’re not?”

We stared at each other from our beds.

“I like her,” Ochaco admitted quietly. “Like... I really like her.”

I nodded. “I like him too.”

More than I expected. More than I’d let myself admit.

She exhaled slowly. “If this is a joke, it’s a really mean one.”

I smiled faintly. “Then maybe we should just ask.”

She groaned. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“I know.”

She was quiet a moment, then mumbled, “Maybe we can make them suffer a little first.”

“Now you’re thinking like Himiko.”

Ochaco laughed again—tired but genuine—and threw a pillow at me. I caught it and held it to my chest like a shield.

We didn’t solve anything that night.

But we were honest. With each other, at least.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow we might have to be brave.

Or stupid.

Probably both.

-

Saturday came, and with it, a plan.

A very subtle, very delicate, totally normal and casual plan.

Ochaco and I were going to talk to Himiko and Katsuki. Separately. Just… feel things out. No confessions. No panic. Just polite, emotionally regulated inquiry into the possibility that they might, sort of, maybe, potentially like us back.

Easy.

Simple.

Foolproof.

We were idiots.

My opening came during a break between formations. Himiko was sprawled across a stack of mats, sipping from a pink water bottle covered in skull stickers, swinging her feet like she didn’t have a care in the world. I approached casually. Coolly. Like someone not about to interrogate the flirt queen of the apocalypse.

“Hey,” I said, voice cracking on the vowel.

She looked up, eyes sparkling. “Hey, pretty boy.”

Strike one.

I smiled awkwardly. “You, uh, seem really close with Ochaco.”

“Obviously,” she said, stretching her arms over her head with an unnecessarily flirty sigh. “She’s beautiful. And sweet. And nervous in the cutest way.”

I blinked. “Right, yeah, she’s great.”

“Tell her I said hi.” Himiko leaned closer, eyes narrowing playfully. “Unless you want to keep her all to yourself.”

I sputtered. “What? No! I—I don’t—that’s not what this is! I was just wondering if, like—”

“If I have a type?” she finished for me, grinning.

“I—sure. Let’s go with that.”

She tapped a finger to her chin dramatically. “Hmm. I do like girls with strong arms and better morals than me. But,” she added, flicking her gaze down and back up to me, “I also like soft-spoken boys who flinch when I wink.”

I absolutely flinched when she winked.

“See?” she giggled. “So easy.”

I retreated before I could make more vowel sounds.

Ochaco’s approach was smoother.

Allegedly.

She found Katsuki by the water jugs, toweling off after a run-through that left his hair damp and sticking to his forehead.

She leaned against the wall and offered a simple, “So. You and Izuku been practicing.”

Katsuki grunted. “He’s not terrible.”

“That’s practically romantic,” she teased.

He narrowed his eyes but didn’t deny it. “He takes it seriously. Pays attention. Doesn’t waste my time.”

“Wow,” she said. “You’re just throwing out compliments left and right now.”

Katsuki shrugged. “He’s a good partner.”

Then—casual, controlled, with the subtlety of a spy—Ochaco asked, “Think you’d ever ask him out?”

Katsuki looked at her like she was the insane one.

Then smirked.

“Why? You trying to warn me off?”

Ochaco blinked. “Wh—what? No!”

“Cause if you’re into him,” he said, “I’m pretty sure I could still win.”

She made a strangled noise and noped out of there fast.

By the end of rehearsal, nothing had been accomplished except for new trauma and excessive blushing.

Worse?

People had noticed.

“Hey, Hitoshi,” Jirou said, flipping through the clipboard at the sign-out table. “You in on the pool?”

Hitoshi blinked. “What pool?”

“The will-they-won’t-they, how-long-before-they-snap pool,” she said, motioning vaguely toward where Himiko had just stolen Ochaco’s pen with her teeth, and Izuku had dropped a stack of towels after Katsuki called him “useful” in a low, grumbly voice.

Mina looked up from stretching. “Put me down for two weeks. Tops.”

Sero nodded. “I give it a few more flirty insults before someone explodes.”

Later that night, we collapsed into the familiar safety of Todoroki’s apartment.

Todoroki opened the door, took one look at us—wild-haired, red-faced, emotionally ruined—and simply moved aside without asking questions.

Iida was already there, typing up notes with a highlighter tucked behind one ear. “Rough rehearsal?” he asked.

Ochaco flung herself onto the floor. “I want to die.”

“Please schedule it,” I mumbled, dragging myself in after her. “I want to cry with a spreadsheet.”

We recounted everything. The near interrogations. The failed subtleties. The winks. The compliments. The intentional smirks.

Todoroki made tea in silence and eventually said, “So you tried to be subtle with two people who have zero chill.”

“Yes,” I sighed.

“And expected clarity.”

“We hoped.”

“Fools.”

Iida looked distressed. “Have you considered—perhaps—being direct?”

I looked at him like he’d just suggested we perform heart surgery with safety scissors.

“I tried to ask,” Ochaco groaned, “and Bakugou basically challenged me to a duel for your affection.”

“Wait, what?” I turned to her. “He what?”

She pointed at me, deadpan. “You’re the main character now. I’m just the supporting gay.”

Todoroki passed her a mug. “You’ll get your spinoff.”

Ochaco groaned into her drink.

I stared into mine and quietly said, “We’re doomed.”

Iida looked genuinely confused. “Why not just ask them out?”

Ochaco and I spoke in unison.

“Because what if they say no?”

Todoroki blinked slowly. “You’re both suffering more not knowing.”

“…That’s fair,” I admitted.

But for now, we sat there, surrounded by tea, pity, and the creeping suspicion that we were one flirt away from total collapse.

-

By the following Friday, the flirting had become… weaponized.

Katsuki had adjusted my hoodie drawstrings for me—with eye contact. Himiko had complimented Ochaco’s laugh three times in one practice and then whispered something that made her turn the color of a strawberry.

We were no longer simply being flirted with.

We were being hunted.

So when Mina gleefully declared that the team would be having an "official bonding night" on Saturday, I knew two things immediately:

This was absolutely a trap.

We were going anyway.

Because we were fools. And maybe—maybe—we were also masochists.

The bar Mina picked was just off campus, dimly lit, pulsing with music, and already packed with what looked like the entire dance team. It was barely 8:30, and the dance floor was already a swirling mess of moving bodies, sequins, and chaotic laughter.

I spotted Kaminari and Sero trying to out-body-roll each other in a corner. Jirou was nodding along to the beat by the speaker, holding a drink and pretending not to be amused. Shoji was talking to two members from the jazz club who’d clearly joined in. Hitoshi was sitting at the back with a drink and his phone, probably keeping score of something.

It was loud. It was sweaty. It was so much.

Ochaco and I stood near the entrance for a second, taking it in.

She leaned close and shouted over the bass, “We should get a drink before they start making us do a group freestyle!”

“Agreed!”

We weaved our way toward the bar. I was too busy scanning the room to notice the moment we stepped up to the counter.

I tapped the bar lightly, flagging the bartender, when a voice cut in smoothly beside me.

“I’ll take care of that.”

I turned—and almost jumped.

Katsuki was right there.

In a black shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show off the muscles that should be illegal, his expression somewhere between “I hate crowds” and “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Before I could form a single syllable, Himiko popped up beside Ochaco with a grin that practically glowed in the bar lights.

“We’ll get theirs,” she said sweetly. “Something fruity and dangerous for these two.”

I blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“Oh, but we want to,” Katsuki interrupted, sliding a bill across the bar with one hand and brushing his fingers against mine with the other. “Consider it thanks.”

Ochaco, ever the brave one, said, “Thanks for what?”

“For looking that good tonight,” Katsuki said, looking right at me, eyes low and heavy.

My brain bluescreened.

Meanwhile, Himiko leaned her hip against the bar, eyes practically devouring Ochaco. “You wore pink,” she said, voice warm and syrupy. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Ochaco opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Himiko tilted her head. “No protest? I like that.”

The drinks were placed in front of us—two neon, fruity concoctions in glasses that looked deceptively innocent. Katsuki pushed one toward me, fingers brushing mine again.

“Try it,” he said. “Tell me if it’s your thing.”

I managed a nod. “Thanks,” I said weakly. “You didn’t have to, really—”

“I wanted to,” he said, and then smirked. “Unless you’re scared I’ll make it too strong for you.”

I choked on air.

Next to me, Ochaco was no better.

“I can pay you back—” she started, but Himiko leaned in, practically purring.

“Nope,” she said. “Consider it an appetizer.”

Ochaco went so red I thought her freckles might melt off.

Katsuki took a slow sip from his own drink, still watching me like he was trying to figure out exactly how many brain cells I had left. (Spoiler: none. They had left the building.)

I gripped my glass like a lifeline and somehow managed to gulp down half of it in one go.

It was dangerously fruity. Also? Possibly jet fuel.

Katsuki snorted. “Didn’t peg you for a chugger.”

“Didn’t peg you for a flirt,” I shot back before my brain could stop me.

His smirk widened.

“Oh?” he said. “Maybe you should.”

Next to us, Himiko was laughing softly as she leaned her head on Ochaco’s shoulder. “Let’s dance later,” she whispered, just loud enough for me to hear. “You owe me a spin after that outfit.”

Ochaco nodded too fast. “Okay.”

We were not okay.

We took our drinks and staggered off toward an empty booth before we died on the spot.

“We’re going to die,” I said the moment we sat down.

“I’m already dead,” Ochaco wheezed, still gripping her drink like it was the only thing tethering her to this plane of existence.

We sank into the booth cushions, both of us staring wide-eyed into the neon void of our cocktails. The bar around us pulsed with music and laughter, lights dancing across the floor like chaos in LED form. Dancers twisted and spun across the floor with effortless joy, the whole team blurring into a fever dream of rhythm and questionable decisions.

I finally managed to take a breath.

Ochaco didn’t speak for a moment. Then, slowly, she leaned in and nudged my side with her elbow. “Don’t look yet,” she said in a low voice. “But they’re watching us.”

I stiffened. “What?”

“I’m serious,” she whispered. “Back at the bar. They’re talking, but they haven’t stopped looking.”

I waited a beat—one beat, because patience had abandoned me weeks ago—and then glanced over my shoulder like I’d just remembered something casual and definitely not like I was about to combust.

Sure enough, at the bar…

Katsuki and Himiko stood close, drinks in hand, faces turned toward each other. But their eyes—their eyes were locked on us. Like they'd coordinated it. Like we were the most interesting thing in the room.

They were watching.

Deliberate. Calm. Intense.

My heart skipped like it forgot the choreography.

I whipped back around and slouched deeper into the booth, staring into my drink like it might offer holy guidance.

“Oh my god,” I whispered.

“I told you,” Ochaco said, not even trying to hide the way her voice pitched into panic. “They’re just standing there, Izu. Like we’re part of some weird villain origin story where they fall in love and kill us with smirks.”

“Why are they like this?”

Ochaco slumped sideways until her shoulder bumped mine. “If this ends with them dragging us onto the dance floor, I’m just going to scream ‘I’m gay!’ and hope that buys me time to escape.”

“You say that like you wouldn’t follow her willingly.”

“I’m a woman of contradictions.”

I groaned into my hands. “This is either the best night of my life or the beginning of the end.”

Ochaco sighed. “Honestly? I’m fine with both.”

It happened so fast, I almost missed it.

One second Ochaco and I were still recovering from the realization that Katsuki and Himiko were definitely watching us, and the next, Himiko was gliding across the room like she owned every beam of neon light touching her skin.

She didn’t approach—she descended.

“Hi, pretty,” she said, her voice as smooth as the rum in her half-finished drink. She was already leaning on the edge of our booth, her hips swaying gently in time with the beat, her eyes locked on Ochaco like she was the only person in the world. “I’ve waited so patiently. Come dance with me.”

Ochaco froze like a startled rabbit. “Wh—me?”

Himiko’s smile sharpened. “You’re the only one here worth chasing.”

I felt Ochaco twitch beside me. Her fingers tightened around her drink.

She tried to play it off, but her voice cracked slightly. “I—I’m not much of a dancer.”

“You don’t have to be.” Himiko reached out, wrapping her fingers around Ochaco’s wrist with a lightness that looked casual but felt planned. “I’ll do the dancing. You just have to let me spin you.”

Ochaco turned to me for help, but I was already out of commission. I gave her a helpless shrug and the tiniest thumbs-up.

She shot me a betrayed look.

Still, she didn’t resist when Himiko tugged her out of the booth. Her feet stumbled a little as she stood, but Himiko steadied her with a hand on her waist—lingering—and whispered something into her ear that made Ochaco audibly gasp.

Before I could even ask, they were gone—swept into the swirling crowd on the dance floor, Ochaco's pink top catching the light, Himiko’s dark silhouette pressed close behind her like a shadow with intentions.

And then, as if they'd choreographed it—

Katsuki slid into the booth.

Opposite the direction Himiko had gone. Like they’d planned to split us up. Divide and conquer.

He didn’t just sit down. He dropped into the booth like it belonged to him and like I did too. His thigh pressed up against mine, warm through his jeans. His arm lifted and draped across the back of the seat with casual purpose, forming a loose cage around my shoulders.

I was trapped.

And I was not okay.

“Hey,” he said, his voice pitched low to compete with the pulsing music. “That drink getting to you yet?”

It took me a second to realize he was talking about the one he bought me.

“I—uh,” I blinked. “No, I think I’m—”

“You’re pink again,” he said flatly.

“I’m not—” I started to say, but even I could hear the lie in my voice.

He turned his head, just enough to look down at me out of the corner of his eye. Close. Closer than he’d ever been. I could see the scar just beneath his cheekbone. The way his mouth tilted—not quite a smirk, but almost.

His fingers flexed along the top of the booth behind my neck. Not touching. Just close enough.

“I didn’t think you’d come tonight,” he said, voice softer now.

I managed a shaky breath. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “Figured you’d run out of excuses by now.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said slowly, “I’ve been making it obvious. And either you’re dense… or scared.”

My throat went dry. “Obvious… about what?”

He finally turned his whole body toward me, knee bumping mine again, this time intentionally. He looked relaxed, but I could see it—coiled tension in the way his hand hovered behind me, like he was holding himself back.

“That I like watching you turn pink,” he said simply. “That I like messing with you. And maybe I don’t wanna just mess with you.”

My breath caught in my chest.

His gaze dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second before flicking back up. “You gonna run away?”

I wanted to respond. I needed to respond.

But my brain had short-circuited. I was suddenly aware of everything—the way his knee still pressed into mine, the heat of his arm behind me, the look in his eyes that said he knew exactly what he was doing.

And then the worst realization of all hit me like a lightning bolt:

They totally planned this.

This whole thing. The drinks. The setup. Himiko pulling Ochaco onto the dance floor with a wink and no warning. Katsuki sliding in the second she was gone. Like they’d rehearsed it.

And if I weren’t currently short-circuiting, I’d almost be impressed.

But I couldn’t dwell on that now. Because he was still watching me.

Still waiting.

I let out a breath that sounded more like a wheeze. “I think I’m stuck.”

That almost-smirk on his face deepened, slow and smug. “Good.”

He leaned in just a little more—not enough to close the space, but enough to feel it. His voice dropped lower. “Guess I don’t need to say it twice, then.”

I still didn’t know if he was playing a game.

But in that moment?

I didn’t care.

Somewhere between song three and four, Katsuki grabbed my hand.

He didn’t ask—he just did it. His fingers laced with mine like it was the most natural thing in the world, tugging me out of the booth and onto the crowded, pulsing dance floor.

I barely had time to process what was happening before we were swallowed by lights, bodies, and bass that thumped so hard it rattled my spine.

“I—uh—” I started to say something entirely unhelpful.

He didn’t let me.

Katsuki spun around, pressing his back to me as he rolled his shoulders to the music. One hand still held mine. The other slid behind him to grab my hip and pull me in.

I swear, my soul left my body.

Katsuki Bakugou could move.

It wasn’t fair. Every sway of his hips, every shift of his weight, it all looked effortless. Like his body had been forged in rhythm. Meanwhile, I was just trying not to trip over my own feet or die of heatstroke.

I wasn’t bad, I could follow. But Katsuki danced like he meant it.

And he definitely meant it now.

Because the way he moved against me, the way he let his fingers graze my side, slide just a little too low—it was very much not PG.

I was still recovering from one particularly scandalous grind when a drink materialized in my hand. I didn’t even see who gave it to me—possibly Kaminari, who waved at me from across the floor with a neon bracelet and zero shame—but I drank half of it without thinking.

It was sweet, and strong enough to melt my teeth.

A few sips in, the buzz started to settle.

Everything got a little warmer. A little easier. My limbs loosened, my heartbeat settled into the music, and suddenly I wasn’t thinking about where to put my hands. I just moved.

Katsuki noticed.

He turned back toward me, chest to chest now, his breath hot against my cheek as he muttered, “There you go.”

I didn’t know if he meant the dancing or the way I looked at him like he was the only person in the world.

Either way, I didn’t care.

We kept moving. Pressed together, trading heat and tension, the kind of dancing that made my skin hum with something reckless. My hands found his waist. His slid over my back. Our faces were too close, our smiles too sharp. He tugged me closer.

I didn’t know how long we danced like that.

But eventually, he leaned in and said, “Come with me.”

And I did.

He took my hand again and pulled me off the dance floor, weaving through the press of bodies until we spilled into the dimly lit hallway near the restrooms—cooler, quieter, but still echoing with the beat.

He boxed me against the wall.

One hand on either side of my head. Leaned in, close. Breath hot. His eyes on mine, unreadable.

I couldn’t breathe.

He tilted his chin down slightly. “You done pretending?”

My voice caught in my throat.

So I didn’t answer with words.

I kissed him.

It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t smooth.

It was desperate and warm and messy, teeth knocking and mouths parting, the kind of kiss that slammed years of longing into a single reckless moment.

He didn’t hesitate.

His hand slid into my hair, gripping just tight enough to make my knees weak. He kissed me like he wanted to wreck me—and maybe he did.

I gasped into his mouth when he nipped my bottom lip. He growled, low and satisfied, and kissed me again harder.

We didn’t stop. Not for a long time.

My back was pressed to the wall. His body caged mine in. Every move was confident, precise, intentional. I was dizzy. Floating. Gone.

Ding.

I froze, my forehead pressed to his.

Another ding.

Reluctantly, I fished my phone out of my back pocket, squinting at the notification.

It was a message from Ochaco.

Ocha: don’t come back to the dorm tonight.
Ocha: this is not a warning. this is me doing you a favor. you’re welcome.

I blinked.

Katsuki raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

I looked up at him, lips kiss-bruised, and huffed a breathless laugh. “I’ve been kicked out.”

His eyes narrowed. “By who?”

“Himiko.”

He stared at me. And then, grinned.

“I knew she was planning something.”

I chuckled, still dazed. “She’s probably got a ‘do not disturb’ sign made of glitter and threat levels.”

Katsuki leaned back slightly, eyes still on me. “So what, you gonna wander the city all night like a stray?”

I shrugged. “Guess I’ll find a bench somewhere.”

He rolled his eyes, tugged me by the front of my shirt, and kissed me again—quick, rough, decisive.

Then he murmured against my lips, “You can come home with me.”

I froze.

He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you’re scared.”

I smiled. “Of you?”

“No,” he said, leaning in once more. “Of how much you want this.”

I kissed him again, soft and slow this time. Then whispered, “Lead the way.”

Turns out Katsuki didn’t live too far away, and it wasn’t long before he was kicking the door shut behind us the sound echoing in the quiet of his apartment.

He turned to face me, red eyes glinting in the dim light that spilled in from the hallway. We watched each other for a still moment. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He stepped closer, closing the distance until he was standing right in front of me. His hand came up to grip my chin, tilting my face to look at him. His thumb brushed over my lower lip. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke in a low voice.

“Last chance to back out, Izuku.”

His teeth grazed over the sensitive skin of my ear, sending a shiver running down my spine. He pulled back enough to look at me, his eyes searching mine waiting for a response. The air was charged, electric with tension. Maybe it was the alcohol that gave me the extra courage or maybe it was weeks of pining that did me in, but there was no way I was leaving this apartment now.

“And leave when its just getting good?”

Katsuki’s was quick to respond. In one swift motion, he crashed his lips against mine in a bruising kiss. His tongue pushed past my lips, claiming my mouth with a fervor that stole my breath away.

At the same time, his hands began to roam my body, gliding down my sides before they slid under the hem of my shirt, calloused fingers skimming over my back before dipping lower, teasing at my waistband.

He walked us backwards until my back hit the wall, pining me there. My hands rose to his chest on instinct, and I could feel the hard planes of is pecs just under his shirt—dancing really does build good muscle. His knee pressed between my legs, giving just enough pressure that made had me gasp into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, drinking it down like a man starved.

When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard, chests heaving. His eyes darkened as he looked at me, A smirk, slow and satisfied spread across his face.

“Fuck, you're so hot like this” he growled, his voice a low, rumble in his chest. His hips pressed harder against my own and I could feel dick hard against my thigh, although I was in similar shape.

“I’ve wanted you for a while now, but you just love playing hard to get, don’t you? Had me damn near sucking your dick in front of everyone on the team just to get your attention.”

He punctuated his words by rocking his hips forward, grinding his hard length against me. His eyes never left mine as he spoke.

My eyes widened at his words, here I thought he was playing me but was I really playing him? I could feel my face heating up just thinking about it.

Katsuki didn’t wait for a response; he pulled me forward off the wall and led me through the dimly lit apartment to his bedroom. Hands that were guiding me were quick to slide back under my shirt, pushing it up and off in one quick motion.

“You give or receive?” he asked, looking at me with that same smirk playing on his lips. I was taken back by the question, but he didn’t wait for an answer before leaning down, trailing hot kissed along my jaw, moving down my neck and sucking a mark there.

“Uh… either?” I answered dumbly. Having only been in one serious relationship with a girl and only hooking up with one or two guys before I have only ever bottomed but for this man? Id do just about anything he wanted.

Katsuki let out a short chuckle “You're versatile then?” It wasn’t phrased as a question; he pushed me back a few steps until I was sitting on the edge of his bed. He stood over me for a moment like he was examining a prize.

His hands slid down my sides and over my stomach before reaching my pants, popping the button and tugging the zipper down. Then to my absolute shock he sank to his knees in front of me, looking up at me with hooded eyes and a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“I'm gonna make you feel so fucking good, Baby” he promised in a low seductive purr that went straight to my already straining dick. He tugged my pants and underwear down in one go, letting them pool at my feet.

My immediate instinct was to be embarrassed with him now eye level with hard, aching cock but I didn’t have a moment t spare as he wrapped a hand around the base, giving a slow, teasing stroke.

He leaned in, his breath hot against my skin as he murmured, “You're fucking gorgeous, you know that?”

He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he wrapped his lips around the tip, his tongue swirling around the sensitive flesh. He sank down farther, inch by inch, until I hit the back of his throat.

I clenched my teeth as the sensation overwhelmed me, bringing my hands up to lace my fingers into his spikey blond hair. Katsuki’s hand slid up my thigh, squeezing the muscle there before moving to grip my ass, pulling me closer. He set a steady rhythm, bobbing his head up and down my length, taking me deeper each time until his nose pressed against my groin.

I groaned and tried to keep my eyes open. It might have been the slight buzz I still have but I’m pretty sure Katsuki was really just that good at blowjobs because I was already seconds away from cumming.

Katsuki pulled back, his hand stroking me as he caught his breath. He looked up at me, lips wrapped around my cock, his tongue flicking out to lick the underside. He brought his other hand up and pressed it over where I was gripping his hair, pushing down his own head making him take me deeper.

“God, your too much” I moaned as I gripped his hair harder, firmly guiding his head back down the length of me. When he gave no resistance, I started moving him with more urgency, giving small thrusts in time with his movements as I used his mouth.

Katsuki let out a muffled moan around my cock, his hand on my ass gripping tighter, fingers digging into my skin. His other hand slid up my thigh, raising up my stomach and pinching a nipple roughly.

I let out a gasp and my hips stuttered at the mix of sensations. I tugged Katsuki’s hair back to pull him off, but he stopped me, keeping his lips wrapped firmly around me.

“Katsuki, wait get-- I’m about!” I didn’t have time to finish my words as I cum hard, choking on a moan as I shuddered through the pleasure.

I was still coming down from the high when Katsuki’s mouth left my softening cock. Just as quickly he was straddling my waist and gripping my jaw with one hand to hold my mouth open, tilting my head back slightly so his face was directly above mine.

It took me to log to realize what he was doing before he opened his own mouth, letting the mixture of my cum and his spit drip down into my open mouth.

“Swallow” he said firmly, his voice was slightly hoarse as he spoke and I was quick to oblige, swallowing the mixture without a thought.

Katsuki smirked, giving me a wild look before lowering his head to lick into my mouth, kissing me messily. I could still taste my own fluids on is tongue, but I was finding it hard to find it anything but hot.

Katsuki pulled back from the kiss, his hand still gripping my jaw, holding me in place. His thumb brushed over my lower lip, whipping away the mess of spit and cum. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, a wicked glint in their depths.

“That was so fucking hot,” he growled, his voice rough. He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear as he spoke. “But we're not done yet, Izuku. Not even close.”

I let out a whine as he nipped my ear before trailing his lips down the column of my throat, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin. His hands slid down my back, grabbing handfuls of my ass, kneading roughly.

He pushed me back to lay flat on the bed, hovering over me with a predatory gleam in his eyes. His hand slid between my legs, fingers brushing against my sensitive, spent cock. I shuddered, hips jerking up slightly at the contact.

“Easy, baby” Katsuki murmured, a low, teasing lilt to his voice. “Gotta give you a minute to recover. Don't want to overstimulate you too much...”

My breath came out heavy as Katsuki sat above me. He leaned over and opened his nightstand, pulling out a bottle of lube.

“You’re awfully prepared” I muttered, then gave a gasp as his now lube coated hand circled my semi-hard cock giving it a few pumps.

Katsuki massaged a finger around my rim for a moment before pushing a single finger inside. I moaned and clenched around the digit, trying to relax. He pumped his finger slowly, steadily, letting me get used to the feeling.

“That's it, baby” Katsuki purred, his voice a low, seductive rumble. “Just relax and let me make you feel good. Gonna open you up real nice and slow, get you ready for my cock.”

He curled his finger inside me, searching for that special spot. When he found it, he rubbed against it firmly. I let out a keening moan, my hips lifting off the bed at the sudden intense pleasure shooting through me.

Katsuki added a second finger, then a third, stretching m open gradually. He scissors them inside. His palm pressed against my taint, applying delicious pressure. His eyes roamed over my prone form with hunger. I could see the front of his pants straining; the button having been undone at some point relieving some pressure.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against my chest, his tongue flicking over a nipple. “You're doing so good, baby” he murmured against my skin, his fingers never ceasing their movements.

I could feel myself nearing the edge again, that warmth pooling in my stomach when Katsuki abruptly pulled his fingers out. I let out a huff at the denial that turned into a gas when I felt the head of Katsuki’s cock slide over my abused hole.

Katsuki leaned down again and bit the shell of my ear “Needy, aren’t you? Or maybe you wish it was you getting to fuck me? You’d like that wouldn’t you, lay there all pretty for me while I ride you?” He bites my ear harder “maybe next time”

Katsuki's words sent shivers down my spine, cock twitching at the dirty talk. I can’t believe how bold Katsuki was being, how forward and filthy his words were. It was so unlike me to be on the receiving end of such brazen flirtation, but somehow, it only made me want Katsuki more.

I let out a low groan as Katsuki slowly pushes forward, his thick cock stretching me open inch by inch. I could feel every ridge, every vein of his length as it slides into me. It was almost too much, too intense, but I found myself wanting more.

Katsuki's hand slid down my chest, his fingers finding my nipple and pinching roughly. He rolled and tugged at the sensitive nub, sending sparks of pleasure-pain straight to my core. Katsuki's other hand gripped my hip, holding me in place as he continued his steady push forward.

“Fuck, baby” Katsuki growled, his voice strained with concentration. “You're so fucking tight.”

With one final thrust, Katsuki buried himself to the hilt, his hips pressing against mine. He stayed still for a moment, letting me adjust to the sudden fullness, the stretch of being so completely filled.

I could feel Katsuki's heart pounding against my own chest, could feel the heat radiating off his skin. I tilted his head up to look at Katsuki, my eyes hazy and unfocused with pleasure.

Katsuki's eyes were dark, his gaze intense as he stared down at me. He leaned in, his lips hovering just above mine in a teasing manner. I trembled beneath him, soft, needy whimpers falling from my kiss-swollen lips.

With a smirk, Katsuki slowly pulled out, until just the tip of his cock remained inside. Then, with a swift, powerful thrust, he slammed back in, setting a hard, fast pace. The room filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with cries of pleasure.

I brought my arms up to his shoulders, gripping them for dear life and definitely leaving a mark or two but I didn’t care at the moment as I moaned out Katsuki’s name like a broken record.

Katsuki brought a hand down to pump my neglected cock in time with his thrusts making me see stars as I barreled towards my second orgasm of the night. He leaned down, his teeth finding my throat, biting and sucking at the tender skin, surely leaving no spot uncovered. His hips snapped forward, driving into me with a force that rocked the bed beneath us.

“Fuck, Izuku” Katsuki growled against his skin, his voice ragged and harsh. “Gonna make you come on my cock. Gonna feel you squeeze me tight as you let go. Do it, baby. Come for me.”

“Please, please! I’m so--ah!” I cry out not able to string a full sentence together let alone figure out what I want in the moment.

Katsuki's thumb brushed over the sensitive head of my cock, smearing the pre-cum that leaked from the tip. His hips never faltered in their relentless rhythm, driving me closer and closer to the edge with each powerful thrust.

I let out a loud cry, my back arching off the bed as my orgasm crashed over me like a tidal wave. my cock pulsed and jerked in Katsuki's grip, hot ropes of cum painting my chest and stomach as I come undone. At the same time, I clamp down hard around Katsuki's driving cock, gripping him like a velvet vice.

Katsuki let out a guttural moan, his hips stuttering as his own climax triggered. He buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock throbbing and pulsing as he spilled himself inside.

Katsuki collapsed on top of me, his weight pressing me into the mattress. we were both panting, chests heaving as we tried to catch our breath. Katsuki's hand was still wrapped around my spent cock, gently stroking it as the last tremors of our shared orgasm faded away.

Katsuki lifted his head to look at me, his red eyes filled with a deep, satisfied gleam. A slow smirk spread across his face as he leaned down to capture my lips in a deep, sensual kiss. I could still faintly taste myself on his tongue as my body melted into the mattress.

He rolled his hips, his softening cock still nestled inside me. A shudder ran through me at the sensation, a soft whimper escaping my kiss-bruised lips. Katsuki just chuckled, a low, satisfied sound in his chest.

“We'll have to do that again sometime” he teased, his smirk widening into a grin.

“Yeah” I sighed out tiredly. But that was an understatement, he was sure he would be thinking about nothing but Katsuki's cock buried inside him for the forceable future.

Katsuki held me close as we both drifted off to sleep, our naked bodies entwined beneath the sheets. I could feel the sticky remnants of our sex cooling on my skin, but I was too sated, too content to care. my head rested on his chest, the soft, even sound of our breathing filling the quiet room.

-

The first thing I became aware of was pain.

Not the dramatic, life-threatening kind. Just the familiar dull, throbbing ache of too many drinks rattling around in my skull like a maraca. I groaned and rolled over, burying my face in a pillow that definitely wasn’t mine—it smelled faintly like cologne, clean laundry, and something warm and sharp that I couldn’t name but immediately recognized.

And then it hit me.

This was not my bed.

This wasn’t even my room.

I cracked one eye open and looked around, my brain sluggish but still functional enough to start stringing things together.

Simple walls. Black-out curtains. A sleek desk stacked with books and a very disciplined lack of clutter. Dumbbells in the corner. A hoodie hanging off a chair.

On the nightstand next to me, a glass of water, a neatly set pill, and a folded note.

I sat up, wincing as my brain sloshed in my skull, and reached for it.

Drink this. Take the pill. Try not to fall down the stairs.
—K.
P.S. It’s almost noon, dumbass.

I stared at the note for a long moment.

Then I smiled.

The memories came back in pieces. The bar. The dancing. The hallway. The wall. Katsuki.

I downed the water and the pill in record time, then ran a hand through my hair and groaned when I realized I looked like I’d been dragged through a rave and a hurricane.

I glanced around, searching for my shirt—and came up short.

Of course it was missing.

There were only so many conclusions to draw from that, and unfortunately, they were all true. We weren’t exactly keeping track of where our clothes were being thrown.

I spotted the black hoodie slung over the back of Katsuki’s desk chair and grabbed it without hesitation. It was soft, worn in a way that made me feel way too comfortable, and smelled exactly like him. When I pulled it over my head, it fit snug around my shoulders.

I stared at my reflection in the dark screen of his monitor for a second.

“…Mistake,” I mumbled, but I didn’t take it off.

Grabbing my phone, which had mercifully survived the night seeing that it was in fact just past noon, I opened the bedroom door as quietly as possible, trying to escape before I embarrassed myself further.

And immediately ran into someone’s chest.

I stumbled back a step—and looked up into the amused, all-too-familiar face of Eijirou Kirishima.

Who I did not know was Katsuki’s roommate.

He blinked at me. Once. Twice.

Then his gaze very deliberately traveled from my messy hair to my flushed face, down to the hoodie that was very obviously not mine, and the fact that I was still barefoot, holding my shoes in one hand as if I’d just escaped a crime scene.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Afternoon,” he said, far too casually for someone who just caught me sneaking out of his roommate’s bedroom.

“Uh,” I said, eloquently. “Hi. Yes. Um. Sorry—I didn’t know—”

Kirishima held up a hand, his grin slow and far too understanding. “You don’t have to explain anything, dude.”

I flailed. “I wasn’t— I mean we didn’t—okay, we did, but—”

He laughed, backing up a step and motioning down the hall. “Bathroom’s the second door on the left. Kitchen’s yours if you want coffee. Katsuki’ll be back in like an hour.”

“I should probably just—” I gestured vaguely toward the front door. Although I internally cringed at the gross mess I most definitely was.

He gave me another once-over and smirked. “Wanna leave before he gets back?”

“I’m trying to keep my dignity intact, yes.”

Kirishima grinned wider. “Bit late for that, you’re just lucky Mina dint come home with me last night. But hey—nice hoodie.”

I groaned into my hands and all but speed-walked toward the front door, Katsuki’s scent still clinging to me like a secret I wasn’t ready to let go of.

But my heart was lighter.

And I couldn’t stop smiling.

As soon as I stepped out of Katsuki’s apartment—still wearing his clothes, still carrying my shoes like a walk-of-shame goblin—I did what any mildly hungover, newly-deflowered disaster of a man would do.

I texted Ochaco.

me: hey
me: is it safe to come back or am i going to walk in on something traumatizing
Ocha: give me five minutes
me: ok
Ocha: ok
coast is clear
himiko left fifteen minutes ago with glitter on her cheek and zero regrets
me: same
Ocha: bring water. i can’t move.

I practically sprinted across campus, as much as I could while nursing my sore muscles anyways.

Shoes in one hand, heart hammering in my chest, Katsuki’s hoodie slightly too tight across my shoulders and probably broadcasting exactly where I’d spent the night. I ducked under trees, avoided the quad, and didn’t slow down until I was in front of our dorm, key halfway in the lock before I could overthink it.

I pushed the door open.

Ochaco was on her bed, wrapped in a blanket like a post-war survivor. Her hair was a mess. She had an ice pack on her forehead and a box of crackers in her lap.

She looked up.

I stepped inside, chest heaving slightly from my jog, hair windblown, obviously not in the same clothes I’d left in yesterday.

We both froze.

Glanced each other up and down.

And then—

Laughter.

Uncontrollable, body-shaking laughter.

Ochaco wheezed. “Is that his hoodie?!”

“I couldn’t find mine!” I gasped, tripping out of one shoe. “And your text said to not to come back!”

“Oh my god,” she cackled, rolling sideways on the couch, dropping the ice pack. “You look like someone just kissed the life out of you.”

I staggered in, collapsed next to her, and grabbed the box of crackers. “I feel like someone kissed the life out of me.”

“Yeah? Was it… good?” she asked, all mock innocence with a sparkle in her eye.

I covered my face. “It was so good. Like, terrifyingly good. Like I’m still not convinced I didn’t dream it, except I woke up in his bed with a note calling me a dumbass, so it must’ve been real.”

She snorted. “That’s peak Bakugou affection right there.”

I peeked through my fingers. “What about you?”

She tilted her head back with a dreamy sigh. “She took me dancing. And by ‘dancing,’ I mean she hypnotized me with her hips and then whispered things in my ear that should’ve required a permission slip.”

“Is that why you kicked me out?”

“She said she didn’t want to share the dorm’s emotional energy.”

“...What does that even mean?”

“I didn’t ask. I was too busy being held against a window and questioning my entire understanding of gravity.”

I stared at her. “You know we’re going to implode at rehearsal this week, right?”

“Oh, 100%,” she said with a cracker in her mouth. “The team probably already has a betting pool.”

“They do,” I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “I heard Jirou mention it. I think Shinsou’s tracking the odds.” I look back up at her “Do you think all dancers are sex gods? Or was the alcohol just making everything more intense?”

“No, I think it has to be a dancer thing because Himiko was doing things my hardcore lesbian heart could barely handle” she gave me a knowing smirk “Sex god?”

“You have no idea, I think he fucked me gay.” I deadpan

We both burst into laughter again before settling down.  We sat in silence for a minute, the chaos of the last twenty-four hours settling into something warm and quietly thrilling.

“I think I like him,” I said softly.

Ochaco nudged my shoulder. “I know I like her.”

I smiled.

All I could think of was how glad I was for that flyer.