The party is already burning hot by the time you walk in.

Kirishima’s frat has a reputation—music that rattles the windows, floors sticky with spilled liquor, walls trembling with the weight of too many quirks going off at once. Strobe lights cut the room into jagged pieces of color: neon blues that sting the eye, reds that paint everything sharp and dangerous, violet flashes that make sweat gleam like glass. The air tastes like smoke, sugar, and recklessness.

Mina hooks her arm through yours the second you step inside, shrieking over the bass about how “unfairly hot” you look tonight. She’s been gassing you up since you left the dorm—your outfit, your hair, the way you carried yourself like you already owned the night. She wasn’t wrong. People are already staring. Heads turn. Conversations hiccup. It’s the kind of entrance that could kill a weaker man.

And two of the strongest—as they'd call themself—notice at once.

Monoma sees you first, leaning against the staircase railing, posture immaculate despite the chaos, coat still buttoned like he walked out of a magazine instead of into a frat house. He doesn’t come to parties like this—too crude, too sloppy—but tonight, he’s here. And the second his gaze snags on you, his mind stalls.

You look dangerous in the strobe light. Careless. The way the curve of your mouth caught between laughter and something sharper. It’s enough to make him forget his drink, forget his plan, forget the name Bakugo spat earlier in the week when bragging about how he’d noticed you too.

Bakugo notices the second Monoma moves.

He’s already prowling the other side of the room, hair a mess of sharp edges, sweat shining on his collarbone like he just came out of a fight. His red eyes are restless, violent, searching—and then they land on you. Something inside him snaps taut. The sight of Monoma leaning forward like he’s about to make the first move? That’s all it takes.

The crowd parts for him without meaning to. He cuts through them like a detonation wave, each step radiating intent. Students glance, tense, move. Monoma notices—jaw tightens, shoulders square. Too late. Bakugo’s already halfway there.

And then— You feel it.

That double-edged gravity of two sets of eyes dragging the world toward you. You glance up from your drink, mouth glossed, distracted—just in time to see both of them arrive.

At the same time.

Monoma’s voice slips in first, smooth as glass, low enough to thread under the music. “You don’t seem like the kind of girl who settles for whatever’s in that cup,” he says, tone confident, just shy of intimate. “Let me get you something cleaner.” He’s already half-smiling, gaze sharp, like he knows exactly how this scene will play out.

Except Bakugo’s already cutting him off.

“Don’t waste your time,” he growls, voice rough enough to bite through the bass. He doesn’t even look at Monoma, eyes locked on you like you’re the only thing in the room worth acknowledging. “That shit tastes like watered-down piss. You want something real? Come with me.” There’s no question in his tone. It’s a demand wrapped like an offer.

They’re close now—too close, both of them hovering on either side of you, heat radiating, the tension between them sharp enough to slice. The music pulses, bodies shift around you, and still—this space belongs to the three of you alone.

Monoma leans in slightly, smile knife-edged. “What he means is—you deserve better. Not something rough. Something refined. Something intentional.” His eyes flicker toward Bakugo with disdain before settling back on you, softer, hungrier.

Bakugo snorts, teeth flashing like a warning. “Don’t let him talk circles at you. He’s full of shit. I don’t do refined. I do better. And you’re coming with me.”

Two voices. Two wills. Both burning, clashing, colliding—right here, right now, over you.

The music doesn’t matter. The party doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’ve become the center of gravity in a room that can barely hold the weight of two egos colliding.