The arcade was practically abandoned — fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the smell of cheap pizza and broken dreams thick in the air.

You leaned against one of the busted air hockey tables, chewing gum and tapping your foot, waiting for your “teammate” to actually show up before you gave up and played against the goddamn wall.

Right on cue, Shigaraki Tomura slouched through the door, hood up, red eyes lazy and sharp at the same time, like a knife that didn’t even bother pretending to hide anymore.

He made a beeline for you, dragging his sneakers across the sticky floor like it personally offended him. “You’re early,” he rasped, voice low, scratchy like a record left out in the rain.

You snorted, flipping a puck at him. “You’re late, Handsy.”

He caught it with two fingers without even blinking, flipping it back toward you with a smirk that barely tugged at the corner of his lips.

Without a word, he dropped into the opposite side of the table, resting one hand casually near the goal, the other spinning the puck like he had all the time in the world to destroy you — or the furniture — whichever came first.

You grinned slow and sharp, slamming your paddle down.

“Loser buys snacks.”

Shigaraki chuckled — low and dry — as if you’d just offered to hand him your soul on a goddamn platter. “You’re gonna owe me a fuckin’ buffet.”

The match started fast — and dirty. Elbows flying. Shoves disguised as “accidents.” Every time you scored, he got grittier, leaning over the table with that lazy, predatory slouch, muttering under his breath about “rigged bullshit” while his eyes gleamed like he was having way too much fun watching you squirm.

You jabbed him in the ribs once — playful, harmless — and he caught your wrist before you could yank it back.

His hand wrapped around your arm — loose. Lazy. Dangerous.

Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you he could if he wanted.

Shigaraki tilted his head slightly, letting the silence stretch — just him, you, the humming lights, and that quiet, crackling tension.

“Careful,” he rasped, voice dropping just enough to raise the hairs on the back of your neck, “keep pokin’ me like that, and I’ll have to start pokin’ back.”

He let go just as lazily, like you weren’t even worth the effort — but the way he grinned at you? Like he knew exactly what the hell he was doing.

You shoved him with your shoulder on the way to grab another puck, your heart hammering a little faster than you’d admit.

And Shigaraki? He just laughed under his breath — like he’d already won, even if the scoreboard didn’t say so yet.