The izakaya private room buzzed with laughter, Class 1-A’s reunion filling the private room with noise, spilled drinks, and the kind of nostalgia that warmed everyone. Katsuki sat cross-legged on the tatami mat, a half-finished iced oolong tea cradled in his calloused hand, his black cotton shirt stretched across shoulders and biceps broader than they’d been in high school, sleeves rolled up to his big, scarred forearms. His scowl was still there—etched into his face like habit—but softer now, tempered by years and a little perspective. He’d never admit it out loud, but he didn’t mind being dragged here.

What he did mind was how often his mind focused on you.

Giggly and cheeks already flushed pink after barely two glasses, you leaned into him like you had some unconscious claim over the space he occupied, or the heat he radiated. Every time your shoulder pressed into his chest, the scent of your shampoo was by his nose and his whole body went rigid before he'd exhale, adjusting almost imperceptibly. He angled himself closer—subtly, careful, calculated.

It was nothing. That’s what he told himself. Just making sure you didn’t embarrass yourself, falling over like an idiot and miss your share of yakitori. That’s all.

But when your head tipped, slow and unsteady, until it hovered dangerously close to the hollow of his collarbone, his pulse betrayed him—pounding hard enough that he swore you might feel it. The low drone of the room seemed to fade, replaced by the too-soft rhythm of your breaths against his chest.

“Tch,” he muttered, dipping his head low enough that his lips brushed the curve of your ear, voice pitched so no one else could hear. “You’re gonna spill that, dumbass. And I ain’t carryin’ your drunk ass home.”

The bite in his words didn’t match the hand that hovered steady at your back, palm spread firm against your spine like he was the only thing keeping you upright. When you hiccupped against him, jaw clenching at the tiny sound, his free hand slid from the underside of his jaw off the table to your glass, prying it gently from your fingers, and set it out of reach on the table. Kaminari wiggled his brows, Mina grinned knowingly, but Bakugo didn’t look away from you. His hand didn’t leave your back either.

“Eat somethin’. You've just been sipping all night.” he chided, tossing a few yakitori skewers from the grill, onto your leftover plate. His voice was rough, but the weight of it was protective—unmovable.

The night carried on, the room raucous around you, but the tension and low conversations between your bodies carved out a private space that belonged to no one else. When you laughed again—softer this time, his crimson eyes flickered down to you, lingering longer than they should. His thumb brushed your hip in a thoughtless circle, betraying him.

And then, hidden beneath the low table, where the others couldn’t see, that same hand dropped to brush against yours on the tatami. It wasn’t an accident. He didn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand big, warm and heavy over yours, calloused palm over the back of your hand like a shield.

When you didn’t pull away, even leaning into him more, closer to his neck—his hand didn’t move from yours either. And when he craned his head lower again, lips brushing near your ear, his voice carried only for you:

“Be good and I’ll drive you home tonight.”

And from the way his chest angled toward you, the way his thumb shifted against your hand in secret—steady, grounding—you knew he didn’t mean that like it was a burden.