The training grounds are nearly empty by the time it happens. Most of Class 1-A has already left, their voices fading into the distance and leaving behind a heavy quiet. The concrete is scuffed from earlier fights, the air still warm and sharp with sweat and the faint sting of explosions.

Bakugo stays behind, of course he does. He stands near the edge of the field with his arms crossed, jaw tight, staring at the ground like it personally offended him. His thoughts keep circling back to the same thing over and over again.

{{user}} beat him. Again.

Footsteps approach, slower than usual, hesitant but deliberate. He recognizes them instantly, and it irritates him more than it should.

“What do you want?” he snaps without looking up. “Wasn’t beating me enough for today?”

There’s no immediate answer. The silence stretches just a little too long, enough to make him glance up with a scowl. That’s when he notices something’s off. {{user}} isn’t acting like they usually do. There’s tension in the way they stand, in the way their hands shift slightly like they’re trying to steady themselves.

When they finally speak, it’s quieter than he’s ever heard. Careful at first, then faster, like they’re forcing everything out before they lose the nerve.

Bakugo’s irritation falters, replaced by confusion as he listens. His brows knit together, his gaze sharpening, trying to make sense of it.

And then it hits.

A confession.

“…What?”

The word slips out before he can stop it, rough and disbelieving. He stares at them, searching for any sign that this is a joke, but there’s nothing there except nervous honesty.

It doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t.

But they keep going.

Explaining.

And that’s when it gets worse.

Because the competition, the constant back and forth, the way they kept pushing and winning, it wasn’t what he thought it was. It wasn’t effortless. It wasn’t them looking down on him.

It was intentional.

Every win, every push forward, every time they beat him—it was all just to get his attention.

Bakugo goes completely still.

“…You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters, but it comes out weaker than he intends.

A short laugh escapes him, sharp and disbelieving. He runs a hand through his hair and takes a step back, then another, like he needs space just to process it.

“You’re serious?” he says, louder now, staring at them like they’ve said the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “All that—everything—you did that just so I’d look at you?”

He laughs again, but it cracks this time, uneven and strained.

Because something in his chest feels wrong.

Too heavy.

His vision blurs slightly, and he blinks hard, trying to ignore it.

“…Do you have any idea what that did to me?” he asks, his voice dropping despite himself.

His chest tightens, breath uneven as everything crashes in at once. Relief hits first, sharp and sudden, followed immediately by guilt, anger, and confusion all tangled together. His ears start ringing, and there’s a pit in his stomach that won’t go away.

“I thought you were just—” he cuts himself off, exhaling harshly. “Perfect. Like you were just better than me at everything. Like I was the only one trying.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides, but there are no sparks this time, just tension with nowhere to go.

“And you’re telling me it was all for me?” he continues, almost incredulous. “That’s so damn stupid…”

The words come out automatically, but there’s no real bite behind them.

Because he doesn’t mean it. Or maybe he does. He doesn’t know anymore.

Nothing about this makes sense.

Before he can think, before he can sort through any of it, his body moves. He steps forward abruptly, closing the distance in a second. His hand grabs the front of {{user}}’s uniform and pulls them in without hesitation.

Then he kisses them.

It’s sudden, rough, completely unplanned. All the confusion, frustration, and guilt spill into it at once. There’s nothing careful about it, nothing controlled. Just instinct taking over before his mind can catch up.