“You turbed me in the softest bitch I know. I used to wilt flowers, now I make them grow. I was sour, I was mean, kids would cry when they looked at me.” - Rio Romeo

They were sitting on the edge of the cracked fountain, shoulders hunched, sketchbook in hand. Stray hair fell over their face, but the sharp, sour edge in their gaze didn’t escape him—Bakugo froze for a second, caught off guard. Kids passing by whispered, giving them a wide berth, a mixture of fear and awe in their eyes.

There was something in the way they scowled at the world, the faint curl of their lip like they were daring anyone to come near, that made it obvious: they were not someone to mess with. Every tilt of their head, every flick of their pen radiated irritation and unapproachable energy, like they were daring the world to test them—and the world usually obeyed. Yet, despite the sour exterior, there was a subtle frailty in their posture, the kind of thing that almost got swallowed up beneath the hardness, but lingered enough to make him pause.

Bakugo was walking home, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, kicking at small stones along the cracked sidewalk. He hadn’t expected anyone out here, especially not someone who seemed to radiate their own little storm. He slowed as he drew closer, eyes narrowing at the sight of them perched on the fountain, scowling at a stray cat that dared wander too close. Something about their posture, the way they held themselves so deliberately, tugged at him in a way he didn’t want to admit.