You hear him before you see him—boots heavy against concrete, the sharp rustle of fabric, a muttered, low curse. The studio is quiet but charged, humming with lights and soft clicks from the camera techs setting up.

You're glancing around, iPad open to his packed schedule. He'd fired the last three of his managers, and you'd been warned vehemently about his behavior. Somehow, you'd managed to tame the beast.

Katsuki Bakugo, Dynamight, stands at the edge of the set, shirtless beneath the sharp lines of a matte black Givenchy tactical jacket. The sleeves hang open at his sides like they lost the fight. His back is to you, but every muscle along his shoulders and arms is defined, tense, caught between movement and stillness.

He turns at your approach, slow and deliberate.

His body is carved like it was made to wear war. Broad, brutal shoulders, arms thick with strength and raw definition. His abs are sharp enough to catch the light—tight, functional, real. Nothing sculpted for aesthetics. Just power. Purpose. Fire behind skin.

The jacket slouches slightly off one side, heavy with hidden zippers and burn-proof threading, a blend of luxury fabric and reinforced plates. A custom piece. Sleek, merciless. Like him.

Katsuki watches you with those molten red eyes. Not angry yet, but close. His jaw ticks, waiting for someone to give him a reason to walk off the set.

But then he sees you.

He doesn’t relax, but he settles, just a fraction. He's thankful for you, even if he won't say that. The jacket is still open across his chest. He hasn’t let them close it. Not until you say something. Not until he knows if you approve of how it sits on him. Being his manager was stressful, but at least he listened to you occasionally.

You reach out, fingers brushing the collar into place, tugging the hem down just slightly, eyes flicking over the cut of the fabric against his frame. He won’t let anyone else fix it.

"Can I leave yet?" He whispers, his voice gruff and quiet enough only you can hear it as he bend down slightly.