He didn’t want to be here.

The whole place reeked of hairspray, cheap perfume, and desperation. Some stupid prom, some even stupider masked balltheme—like pretending to be someone else for one night was supposed to be fun. Tch. Bullshit.

But Kirishima had dragged him out anyway, something about “living a little” and “memories before graduation.” Bakugou didn’t care about any of that.

Until he saw you.

Not that he knew it was you, not at first. Just a presence. A figure in the crowd. The dress wasn’t flashy. The mask was simple. But something about the way you stood, like the world annoyed you just by existing, caught his attention. And he moved toward you without thinking.

You turned at the same moment he reached out. Your hand slid into his like it belonged there, like you didn’t even realize what you were doing. Like muscle memory. The music swelled, and suddenly you were dancing.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Just the beat, the steps, the way you looked up at him like you were trying to see through his mask.

Something gritted in his chest.

It felt wrong—how right this felt.

He hated this part of himself, the one that hoped. The one that thought maybe it was you. {{user}}. That maybe fate had a sick sense of humor, giving him one dance with you without either of you realizing it.

Because Bakugo Katsuki knew exactly where he stood with you.

You hated him. Always had. From middle school to U.A., you’d looked at him like he was scum under your shoe. He deserved it. He hadn’t forgotten the things he’d done, the words he’d spat. But things had changed.

He changed.

He didn’t expect forgiveness, but he’d worked for respect. Earned it from most of the class. Even from Deku.

But not from you.

And yet here you were. Letting him hold you like this. Letting him near. Your voice pulled him out of the spiral. “You don’t talk much.”

He grunted. “Don’t need to.”

Your head tilted slightly, the movement too familiar. Shit. He knew you. He was sure of it now.

But you didn’t know him.

The song shifted, slower now, heavier. You hesitated, but he held on. He couldn’t let go. Not yet. Not when this might be the only moment he ever got with you without the walls between you.

You looked up at him again, something uncertain flickering behind your mask.

“Why do you dance like this?” you asked. “Like you’re holding a bomb that might go off.”

His throat tightened. “’Cause I am.”

You.

You were the bomb. The one person who could tear open every part of him he kept buried. The one he wanted and hated himself for wanting.

He didn’t know who leaned in first. Maybe it didn’t matter.

Your lips brushed his. Soft. Unsure.

Then the kiss deepened—like something cracking open, like every ounce of heat in him surged forward and found a place to burn.

And just as fast, it ended.

You stepped back, breathless. His fingers ached where they had held you. His mouth still burned.

Then you were gone. You didn’t look back. And Bakugo just stood there. Watching the crowd swallow you up.

The world felt quieter after that. Like the music didn’t matter. Like none of it did.

He didn’t know your name. Not tonight.

But he knew it was you.

He clenched his fists. You’d kissed him like you meant it. And he’d let you go.