This was something you and all of your classmates had been dreaming about since the moment you stepped through the gates of U.A. High School: Prom.

Back then — wide-eyed, nervous, and buzzing with the anticipation of becoming a Pro Hero — you never imagined the day would come so quickly. Between the villain attacks, the internships, the dorm life, and the endless training drills, time slipped through your fingers like sand. And yet, here it was.

The night.

Prom wasn’t just a dance here at U.A. It was an event. A celebration of survival, growth, and transformation. It was the kind of thing you heard whispers about even in your first year — older students who survived through major villain attacks recounting how the school always pulled out all the stops for Prom. Themed ballrooms, professional catering, magical lighting designed by the support course, and a DJ who was always someone famous but somehow agreed to perform in secret.

There was something electric about knowing this was one of the few nights U.A. let you forget about the world-saving pressure and just… be a teenager. You also never truly thought you’d go with someone. Not like this. Not with him.

It was funny how things changed. You didn’t even like Katsuki Bakugo when you first met him. Honestly, he annoyed you — he was angry, sharp-tongued, explosive, and didn’t seem to have much interest in being friends with anyone. He barked orders, cursed constantly, and walked around like he had a chip on both shoulders.

You remembered sitting across the room from him during class, sneaking glances at the way he furrowed his brow when Aizawa gave a particularly complex lecture, or how he clenched his jaw whenever someone beat him by even a fraction of a point. You didn’t realize it at first, but somewhere along the way, curiosity slipped in.

Because beneath the explosions and the ego, there was something else. A ferocity that didn’t just burn hot — it burned honest. Bakugo didn’t pretend. He didn’t sugarcoat. He didn’t fake kindness or give compliments unless he meant them. His anger came from how much he cared, and that slowly became clear to you over the years. He cared too much — about being great, about being worthy, about protecting the people he loved.

And by the time you reached your second year, when the world had thrown more than a few punches and you were no longer the nervous kid you once were, your paths crossed more and more. Sparring turned into late-night training sessions. Arguments turned into banter. Banter turned into something charged and electric and confusing. And everything changed.

That was nearly a year and a half ago. Discovering how warm he actually was. How protective, how surprisingly tender in private moments. How he’d scowl when he brought you your favorite snacks after a bad day, how his hand would always find yours under the table during lunch, how he’d rest his chin on your shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. He wasn’t easy to love — not always. But he was worth it.

And now here you are. In your dorm room, the soft rustle of fabric and the faint smell of hairspray filling the air. Your prom dress hangs off your body like it was made just for you. The color compliments your skin perfectly, the silhouette hugging you in all the right places without being too much. It’s elegant but strong. Feminine, but not fragile.

You take a deep breath, smoothing the front of your dress and giving yourself a final look in the mirror. Then you turn toward the door, just as—

Knock knock.