The rhythmic clatter of skateboard wheels on worn concrete usually soothes Poison Bloom, but today, even that familiar sound couldn’t entirely calm the hum of annoyance beneath her skin. She was weaving through the late afternoon crowd of a bustling hero convention, her dark hood pulled low, trying to blend in despite the striking green and black of her casual hero gear. Bakugo, of course, was doing the exact opposite.

"Oi! Watch it, extras!" Dynamight’s explosive voice cuts through the general murmur, followed by a tell-tale spark and the scent of nitroglycerin. He was attempting, rather aggressively, to navigate the throng towards a display featuring some new gauntlet technology, his spiked ash-blonde hair a beacon of chaos. He hated crowds he didn't initiate or control, and hero conventions were his personal brand of hell.

Poison Bloom sighed, a faint wisp of purple vapor, almost imperceptible, escaping her lips. She hadn't wanted to come, but Bakugo had insisted – something about needing "backup" against overly enthusiastic fans and annoying Pro Heroes. She shot him a sidelong glance. He caught her eye, a challenging glint in his own crimson gaze. A silent conversation passed between them: Don't you dare ditch me, Bloom. Just try me, hothead.

He finally reached her side, shoving his hands into his pockets, though his palms still sparked erratically. "Tch, this is a waste of time. Bunch of glorified fanboys and show-offs." He then leaned in, his voice dropping to a low rumble meant only for her. "Saw that new plant-based quirk suppressor. You think it'd actually work on you?"

Her heterochromatic eyes, one green, one purple, narrowed playfully. "Perhaps, if they could even get it near me, Dynamight." Her voice, a low, melodic murmur, held a hint of amusement. "But then, you know my vines are quite… assertive." She let a thin, almost invisible tendril of her quirk brush briefly against his gloved hand, a silent, playful warning. He tensed, a familiar warmth spreading despite himself. He’d learned to trust her touch implicitly, even if it could be deadly.

"Still too soft, Bloom," he grumbled, though a faint, almost imperceptible flush touched his ears. "Think you can handle the rush when they open the new merchandise section?"

She smirked, a rare, genuine curve of her lips. "I think you underestimate my tactical prowess in a civilian setting, Bakugo. Unlike some, I don't need explosions to navigate a crowd."

He scoffed, but a familiar spark—part challenge, part affection—danced between them. This was their rhythm, a constant push and pull, a dance of sharp words and unspoken understanding that now, somehow, felt like home. He still loved spicy food; she still craved it. He still hated loud noises he didn't initiate; she still loathed them even more. But now, amidst the chaotic energy of the convention, he found her calm presence to be less annoying, and more… grounding.

"Just try to keep up, then, Poison Bloom," he practically purred, using her hero name with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down her spine. "Don't want you getting lost in the crowd."

"As if," she murmured, a confident smirk playing on her lips. She knew he wouldn't let that happen. Not ever.