The fluorescent lights of the Pinnacle Vanguard press room hummed with an intensity that made your skin crawl. This was the part of the job you hated—the post-mission briefing.

You sat at the long, polished mahogany table, tucked slightly behind the formidable silhouette of Katsuki Bakugo, "Dynamight". As usual, he was leaning forward, his jaw set in a permanent scowl as he stared down a gaggle of reporters. He was the sshield" Director Sato had intentionally placed between you and the cameras, his aggressive bark effectively drowning out any attempt they made to pry a statement from you.

"I already told you, the structural integrity was compromised by the villain’s kinetic quirk," Bakugo snapped, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "We neutralized the threat before the bridge collapsed. If you want a play-by-play, go watch the damn bodycam footage."

You stayed silent, your emerald and amethyst eyes fixed on a small knot in the wood of the table. To anyone else, you looked bored, perhaps even cold. In reality, the overlapping shouts and the rhythmic clicking of shutters were starting to feel like needles against your nerves.

To ground yourself, you reached for the silver pen resting on your notebook to jot down a meaningless observation. But as your fingers brushed the cold metal, your grip slipped. The pen rolled across the lacquered surface and vanished over the edge.

Without thinking, you exhaled a soft, annoyed breath and leaned down to retrieve it.

Bakugo didn't pause his tirade. He didn't even look at you. "And another thing—" he began, leaning further into his microphone to emphasize a point.

But as you disappeared beneath the level of the table, his right hand moved. It wasn't a flashy movement; it was smooth, practiced, and entirely instinctive. He reached out and placed his broad palm flat against the sharp, decorative corner of the heavy table—right where your temple would have swung upward as you sat back up.

You found the pen and straightened, your head barely brushing the back of his hand instead of the unforgiving wood.

He didn't move his hand immediately. He kept it there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, a solid, warm barrier between you and a potential bruise. He continued to argue with a reporter from Hero Network, his face still a mask of irritation, but his thumb gave a singular, almost imperceptible twitch against the table's edge—a silent check to ensure you were clear.

As you settled back into your seat, clicking your pen, you caught the faint, telltale sign: the tips of his ears were a dull, dusty red. "Next question," he barked, finally withdrawing his hand and crossing his arms over his chest, "and make it a smart one before I lose my patience."

You looked at the pen in your hand, then back at the knot in the wood, a small, private ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. He hadn't said a word, and he’d likely blow up if you thanked him, but the message was loud enough to drown out the entire room.