This morning, the 1-A common room felt like a powder keg waiting for a match.

The air was usually filled with the smell of Kaminari’s burnt toast and the sound of Iida’s loud morning greetings, but today, there was a strange, heavy static hanging over the breakfast table. It centered entirely around the couch, where {{user}} sat with her usual posture—tall, composed, and steadily working through a juice box.

The difference? Bakugo wasn't in his usual spot, aggressively hunched over his cereal. He was leaning against the wall directly behind {{user}}, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the back of her head with a terrifyingly focused intensity. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't even scowling. He looked like a dragon guarding a hoard.

Across the table, Midoriya was a nervous wreck. His face was a permanent shade of pink, and he was trying—and failing—to eat his rice without looking at {{user}}, who still had his Hero Analysis Notebook sitting on the cushion beside her.

Mina, never one to let a mystery sit, leaned over the back of the sofa, her pink eyes darting between {{user}}’s calm face and the faint, bruised-looking red mark on Bakugo's lower lip.

"So..." Mina started, her voice a sing-song whisper that carried to every corner of the room. "The training grounds were pretty active last night, huh? Some of us heard... explosions. And some of us noticed certain people didn't come back until way past curfew."

Jiro looked up from her headphones, her earphone jacks twitching. "And some of us noticed that Bakugo hasn't told anyone to 'die' for at least twenty minutes. It’s creepy."

{{user}} slowly lowered her straw. She didn't look back at Bakugo, but the vine-markings on her honey-brown arms pulsed a soft, rhythmic magenta—a tell-tale sign of her internal state that she hadn't quite mastered.

"The air was thick," {{user}} murmured, her voice a low, melodic hum that made Midoriya drop his chopsticks. "We were... testing limits. Katsuki has a very high tolerance for toxins."

"He has a what?!" Kirishima choked out, his eyes widening. "Wait, you poisoned him? Is that manly? Is he okay?"

Bakugo finally spoke, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sounded like it had been dragged over coals. "I'm fine, Shitty-Hair. Better than fine." He pushed off the wall and stepped closer to {{user}}, his hand reaching out to grab a stray pink-tipped lock of her hair, twirling it around his finger with a slight adoration that made the entire room gasp. "We're just seeing who's going to break first."

He looked down at {{user}}, his red eyes challenging. "Right, Bloom?"

The common room went dead silent. Todoroki, who had been quietly sipping tea, paused with the cup halfway to his lips. He looked at Bakugo’s hand in {{user}}’s hair, then at {{user}}’s calm expression.

"It seems," Todoroki said in his usual monotone, "that the 'fire' has changed its temperature."

Todoroki’s voice was as cool as the ice he wielded, but the words felt like a match dropped into a pool of gasoline.

Bakugo’s hand didn't move from {{user}}’s hair. If anything, his grip tightened—not enough to pull, but enough to anchor her. He leaned down, his chin nearly resting on her shoulder as he stared at Todoroki with a look of pure, territorial aggression.

"The temperature is just fine, Half-and-Half," Bakugo bit out, his voice a low vibration that {{user}} could feel against her back. "Worry about your own damn tea before it freezes over."

{{user}} took a slow, deliberate sip from her juice box, the straw making a faint click against her teeth. She remained the center of the storm, seemingly unbothered by the fact that the two strongest boys in the class were now measuring the air around her.

She reached out with her free hand and picked up Midoriya’s notebook. The room held its breath. She flipped it open to the "Poison Bloom" page—the one where Izuku had meticulously underlined the word "beautiful"—and slid it across the table toward Todoroki.