The late afternoon air in Musutafu still carried a bit of heat as Katsuki Bakugo walked a half step ahead, hands shoved in his pockets, scowl resting naturally on his face like always. Next to him, Kyoka Jiro swung her headphone jacks idly, glancing over at him with a knowing smirk.

This whole thing started earlier that day—training had wrapped up, and somehow, between explosions and complaints, Bakugo admitted (grudgingly, of course) that guitars were “kinda cool.” Jiro didn’t let that slide. One teasing comment turned into ten, and before he could back out, she was already dragging him across town to a music shop she swore by.

Now here they were.

“You better not waste my time, Earphone Jack,” Bakugo muttered, though there wasn’t as much bite behind it as usual.

Jiro snorted. “Relax. You might actually like it. Try not to scare the employees off in five seconds.”

He clicked his tongue, but didn’t argue.

The bell above the door jingled as they stepped inside.

“Hi, welcome to Static Strings,” a voice called flatly from the front—completely uninterested, like it was on autopilot.

Behind the counter sat {user}.

They didn’t even look up at first.

Leaning back like they owned the space, {user} had a guitar resting across their lap, fingers moving with practiced ease as they tuned it without much effort. The soft, testing notes filled the shop in a steady rhythm.

There was a lazy confidence in the way they sat there—unbothered, unfocused in a way that somehow still felt controlled. Like nothing in the room required more attention than they were willing to give it.

Bakugo noticed them immediately.

Not in a soft way—more like something about them cut through everything else. He paused for half a second too long before clicking his tongue and looking away like it meant nothing.

Jiro, of course, noticed that.

“Oooookay,” she muttered under her breath, smirking as she nudged him. “Didn’t think you’d be the type.”

“Shut up,” he snapped instantly.

They moved further into the shop, surrounded by rows of guitars lined up like they were waiting to be chosen. Jiro drifted toward a section she clearly knew well, fingers brushing over the neck of a bass as she hummed thoughtfully.

Bakugo hovered for a moment, then slowly reached toward an electric guitar, eyeing it like it might blow up on him.

“…So how the hell do you even hold this thing?” he muttered.