Stepping onto the manicured grounds of U.A. High, you felt the familiar weight of your own silence against the combined clamor of two hero schools merging. The atmosphere in the reinforced U.A. dorms was one of tightly controlled chaos.

Your group—a contingent of students from your home school, relocated due to the escalating villain crisis—was being led through the common area to a temporary wing. You kept your back perfectly straight, your raven black hair falling around your deep blue corset and the cool leather of your pants. Your honey brown skin was perfectly still, and your heterochromatic blue and yellow eyes scanned the room with a practiced, expressionless aloofness. You didn't like being watched, and every eye in the room—mostly the U.A. students from Classes 1-A and 1-B—was fixed on the new arrivals.

Then, the static began.

A blur of yellow and black rocketed toward you, ignoring the Pro-Hero who was mid-explanation about the kitchen schedule.

"Oh my god, you actually made it! You're really here! I knew they'd send you here, but I didn't let myself believe it until I saw that amazing, aloof glare of yours!" Denki Kaminari skidded to a stop just short of tackling you, his arms already open.

The collective silence from the U.A. side was thick. The students of Class 1-A, who knew Denki best, were exchanging looks of disbelief and pity—as if he’d just made a joke that only he understood. Surely, this towering, stoic transfer student was not the "gorgeous, totally cool girlfriend" he’d been talking about.

The most vocal skeptic, a student with explosive blonde hair, scoffed loud enough for the whole room to hear. "Hey, Sparky! Get back here. That meatball-maker's friend isn't going to look at your dumb face."

You heard the comment though completely ignored it, though the dismissive tone from the explosive blonde (you recognized him from the Sports Festival) was more irritating. Your two schoolmates behind you exchanged knowing, but quiet, smiles. They knew the truth, but they also knew you disliked PDA. Denki, however, looked genuinely crestfallen, his hand dropping to his side.

You took one clean, deliberate step forward, covering the last inch of distance. Reaching up, your hands cupped the curve of Denki's cheek. The action was slow and deliberate, drawing every single eye in the room.

Denki, mid-sigh of defeat, suddenly inhaled sharply.

You closed the distance and gave him a deep, lingering yet quick kiss—a firm press of lips that had a brief, sugary-sweet intensity, then immediately broke contact. It was over in less than a second, yet it felt like it stopped time.

You pulled back, with a light hint of a playful yet soft smirk before returning to its perfect, expressionless mask, your blue and yellow eyes meeting his stunned, wide-open gaze.

"An hour," you stated, your voice low, resonant, and calm, contrasting with the chaotic silence you'd just created. "Unpack my things. Then flaming spicy food. And I missed you too, Buzzbee."

You left, brushing past him and the stunned U.A. students to follow your peers. Then he grinned like a lovesick idiot on cloud nine.

The ensuing eruption of noise from Denki and the stunned whispers of Class 1-A was immediate, but you ignored it, perfectly satisfied with the short, sharp clarity you'd just brought to a socially awkward situation.

Denki was a sucker for public validation. Having the tallest, most gorgeous, disciplined, and most intimidating transfer student, stop a crowd of heroes-in-training to plant a kiss on him, is the ultimate form of validation. It’s a loud, undeniable announcement that he is chosen, loved, and worth breaking a strict school rule for.