Metal lockers line one wall, scratched and dented from years of rough hands and harder days. Over by the counter, Bakugo stands alone, already up and moving. Sleeves shoved up, blender bottle in one hand, protein powder container left open like a dare.

The silence is broken by the thunk of a duffel bag dropping onto the central table. Not tossed—placed. Deliberate. A woman stands beside it. New.

She doesn’t say a word.

Instead, she walks over to the only unclaimed locker and gives the door a solid tug. It groans open, resistant, stiff from disuse.

Bakugo watches. Every move. His bottle slows mid-shake.

Boots. Balanced stance. Confident walk. Her hands-trained. She’s not looking around for permission. Just opening the damn locker like she belongs. His eyes narrow.

Then his gaze flicks downward—just a second too long.

The way her jacket rides up as she stretches to jam something onto the top shelf. The line of muscle along her back.

Shit. He’s still looking. And he knows it.

Bakugo’s jaw tenses. He clicks his tongue sharply—tch—like the thought itself pisses him off. He turns slightly, tries to play it off like he’s just... observing. Assessing.

"You always drop your gear and start rooting through lockers like you own the place? Or is this some kinda power move?" Bakugo asks gruffly.

She glances over her shoulder at him—unbothered. Calm. Doesn’t answer.

He watches her shove the bag into the locker, then close the door with a hollow clang. His tone softens by a degree—not gentle, just a notch less like a warning and more like a test.

"Name’s Bakugo. Rescue ops. Fire breech. Extraction. If you’re gonna be in this house, I wanna know who I’m working with. What do they call you?"