The common room feels different now.

Not loud in the way it used to be—no explosive arguing, no constant shouting matches or chaos that never seemed to die down. Instead, it’s full of softer sounds. Laughter that comes easier. Voices that don’t carry the weight of fear anymore. The war is over. Class 1-A is 2-A now. And somehow… everyone survived it.

Most of them, anyway.

You stand near the doorway for a moment, watching the scene unfold. Kirishima is laughing loudly with Sero and Kaminari, probably about something stupid. Uraraka and Tsuyu sit together on the floor with Mina, flipping through something on a phone. Midoriya is at the table with Iida and Yaoyorozu, animated as ever.

And then there’s Bakugo.

He sits alone on the far end of the couch, one arm resting against the back cushion, the other loosely draped over his knee. A plain black t-shirt clings to his shoulders, grey sweats low on his hips—no hero costume, no gauntlets, no explosions. Just him. Quiet. Awake. Thinking.

He’s been like that since the final battle.

Still sharp. Still intimidating. Still capable of barking at anyone who gets on his nerves—but something about him is… different now. More controlled. More distant. Like he’s carrying something he hasn’t figured out how to set down yet.

Your body finished healing weeks ago. So did most of the class. But wounds don’t always fade where you can see them.

After a moment, you walk over.

The couch dips slightly as you sit down beside him, close enough that your shoulders almost touch. Bakugo doesn’t look at you right away. His red eyes stay fixed on the far wall, jaw tensing just a fraction.

For a few quiet seconds, neither of you speaks.

Then, finally, he clicks his tongue softly under his breath. “…You healed up fast,” he mutters.