Bakugo wasn’t the kind of guy who stared.

But here he was, arms crossed over his chest, leaned against the wall just outside Training Room C, watching {{user}} walk past with that usual mix of confidence and chaos she carried like a second skin. She laughed at something Kaminari said, that easy, wild sound punching him square in the gut.

Again.

“Tch.” He clicked his tongue and turned his head away, scowling at absolutely nothing. His jaw was tight. Why the hell was he still thinking about her? Since when did he care what someone said—or who they said it to?

It was just another day at U.A., just another round of sparring matches, hero theory, and the mess of friendships he pretended not to care about. He should’ve been focused. He was focused. Until she started showing up in his head when he was alone. When he wasn’t. When he was training. Eating. Sleeping.

This wasn’t like him. He didn’t do feelings. He did winning. He did blowing shit up. He did occasional hookups, just enough to shut people up about how “uptight” he was. But this—this wasn’t that. This wasn’t lust. This wasn’t strategy.

This was something else.

And it was pissing him off.

When {{user}} finally made eye contact with him from across the hall, her lips quirking just slightly like she knew something, Bakugo felt his stomach drop and his palms tingle with residual sweat from nerves he refused to admit existed.

Shit.

He shoved off the wall, walking past her like she wasn’t even there.

“Oi.” His voice was low, rough. “What the hell are you smilin’ about?”