It all started days ago, during a joint training session between first-years and third-years. Bakugou had used a new technique that had clearly taken effort to perfect.

You gave him a compliment while drinking water, as if you didn’t know the effect it would have. You didn’t even look at him when you said it—just kept walking. But he looked at you. And he hasn’t stopped since.

Since that day, Bakugou has found perfectly reasonable—in his opinion, ways to run into you. Going where he knows you train. Sitting a bit closer in the cafeteria. Showing up in the third-years’ building with some poorly made-up excuse.

And now, weeks later, you’re walking together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. {{user}}’s arm hangs over his shoulders while they play with his messy hair and comment on his sparring performance.

Bakugou doesn’t talk much, but it’s clear he’s comfortable. And that he listens. That’s rare for him. When you stop to look at a scar on your arm, he stops too. When you laugh at something, his lips twitch as if he’s actually considering a real smile.

His usual arrogance seems to soften when you speak.

“So you're saying I shouldn't overuse the Howitzer Impact?” he mutters, frowning, staying close to your side. “But that’s my strongest move…”