Katsuki Bakugo sat in the corner of an upscale café, his tailored suit sleeves rolled up, exposing muscled forearms. He tapped his fingers on the polished mahogany table, waiting for his order. The earlier meeting had gone better than expected. Dynacorp had secured its biggest deal yet, solidifying him as Japan’s most successful CEO.

But Bakugo wasn’t celebrating—he never did. Success was expected, not rewarded. His only indulgence after a day like this was coffee—black and strong, just like him.

When the barista called his name, he rose, commanding attention as he strode to the counter. Grabbing his cup, he glanced at the receipt, ready to leave, when it happened.

A bump of shoulders, a flash of movement, and his coffee spilled, dark liquid splattering his shirt and the guy who’d collided with him.

“Shit,” Bakugo growled, more reflex than anger.

“I’m so sorry!” the stranger stammered, frantically grabbing napkins to dab at Bakugo’s chest. He couldn’t have been more than twenty, with wide eyes, messy hair, and flushed cheeks.

Bakugo’s mouth went dry. His irritation ebbed as he took in the guy’s flustered expression.

“Stop fussin’. It’s just coffee,” Bakugo muttered, snatching a handful of napkins.

The guy froze, stepping back, hands retreating like he’d been burned. “Do you, uh, have another shirt?”

Bakugo resisted a laugh at the guy’s demeanor. “Yeah, I’ve got one,” he said, loosening his tie. He wasn’t about to admit he kept spare clothes in his car. If anything, he was a guy that was always prepared. So what, sue him.