Three months later, the Red Riot Ring feels different. It’s louder, yeah, but also lighter, like the walls themselves are finally exhaling. Maybe it’s the new lights Kirishima installed, or maybe it’s just the general vibe.

Kirishima’s finally engaged to Mina Ashido. She cried, he shed a tear, and Bakugo pretended not to care while hiding a small, traitorous smile in the corner of his mouth.

“Took him long enough,” he’d grumbled. With the gym’s mood lifted and the ring booming, it made sense that you, somehow, ended up as its official PR manager.

You’d taken the job like it was nothing, clipboard in hand, already rewriting the way sponsors looked at fighters who spent their lives chasing punches. You’d started sitting in on post-match meetings—always between Bakugo’s eye rolls and explosions—and no matter how many times he barked, “Tch, this ain’t a fuckin’ boardroom”, your steady stare shut him up faster than any bell.

He tells himself you’re just good at your job. That the way his focus snaps to you when you talk is just... professionalism. That the strange, annoying warmth in his chest whenever you laugh is nothing worth naming.

But he’s a liar, and he knows it.

Because lately, it’s hard not to notice you. The way you carry yourself through the ring—composed, grounded, a sharp contrast to the chaos around you. You’ve become part of the heartbeat here, and he hates how much he notices when you’re gone.

Then the rumor hits.

A rumor, started by some rival ring too jealous to take a loss with dignity. Just trash about how Red Riot “rigs” matches, that the golden boy’s only on top because the sponsors love him. That maybe, just maybe, he’s been “hooking up with the PR manager to get good press.”

It’s garbage. Everyone with half a brain knows it.

But the article was built on nothing but a clipped photo—one of you and him, sitting at the ring’s edge, eyes locked, caught mid-smirk, mid-silence, mid-something that wasn’t supposed to look so damn intimate.

He hadn’t even seen it until Denki shoved the damn headline in his face. “Yo, Bakubro, you two look like you’re about to—”

He’d cut him off with a glare sharp enough to shut a man up for life.

Now the bag’s taking the hit. Each swing is heavier than the last. Crack. Leather splits. Rattle. The chains strain. Shudder. The whole stand shivers.

He can’t get your face out of his head—no, not like that. He’s just picturing your expression when you eventually see the rumors. The way you’ll probably curl your lip, roll your eyes, and call it “nothing.” But he knows better. You hate nonsense. You hate distractions. You hate drama.

“Shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. He’s angry, sure—but underneath it is something else. Fear, maybe. Fear that you’ll see the headlines and think... just for a second... that there’s truth in them. That you’ll start to look at him differently.

Until, inevitably, it happens.

He puts his whole weight into a right hook. The punching bag swings too hard. The chain snaps. The damn thing flies across the room, slamming into the wall like it’s got a death wish.

The gym goes absolutely still for a second. Bakugo just stands there, chest heaving, tape half-loose on his knuckles, jaw tight enough to crack bone.

That’s when he hears footsteps.

He doesn’t even look up, assuming it’s Kirishima coming to nag him about breaking another piece of equipment. “I’m fine,” he mutters, voice pure gravel and smoke. “Don’t need a lecture—”

No answer. Just... silence. The kind of quiet that prickles down his spine. He finally turns, ready to snap—expecting a trainer, maybe Kirishima—but it’s you.

His breath catches. He straightens up instantly, grabbing a towel to sling over one shoulder, his eyes narrowing like he can glare the whole situation away. The buzzing rage in his head just... quiets. The way it always does when you’re around.

He scoffs, grabbing his water bottle and looking anywhere but at you. “They’re just sore losers,” he adds, like the explanation even matters. “Nothin’ happened. You know that.”