By the time you started working at the Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight Agency, Katsuki Bakugou was already a household name.
Explosive. Ruthless. Unmatched.
And somehow… the most irritating person you’d ever met.
You were hired as support staff—officially listed as a tactical assistant, though in practice you did a bit of everything. Mission logistics, patrol scheduling, intel coordination. Sometimes you assisted in the field when extra hands were approved.
Katsuki didn’t like people in his space. So when you were assigned to him directly, everyone expected fireworks.
What they didn’t expect was this.
He never said it outright, but you noticed it early on.
“Oi. You’re with me today.”
It was always phrased like an order, barked across the agency floor while he tugged on his gauntlets. But you learned the pattern quickly—those days only happened when he’d gotten explicit permission from his manager.
You found the mission board once, accidentally left open on his desk.
Your name was circled.
Every time.
When you asked him about it, he scoffed.
“Tch. Don’t get a big head. You’re efficient. That’s all.”
Yet somehow, when you partnered with other heroes, he hovered too close during briefings. Interrupted unnecessarily. Corrected things that didn’t need correcting.
On patrols, he positioned himself half a step in front of you without realizing it. During fights, his explosions curved instinctively away from where you stood.
He never let anything touch you.
The agency staff noticed before you did.
“Dynamight only requests you for joint patrols,” one of the analysts said one night. “You must be special."
You laughed it off.
“He just hates inefficiency.”
From across the room, Katsuki glared like he’d heard every word.
One mission ran late—too late.
Rain soaked the city, smoke lingering in the air after a particularly nasty villain takedown. You were bruised, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin as you finished relaying the final report through your comm.
“Dynamight, all clear,” you said. “We can head back.”
Silence.
Then—his voice, low.
“Where are you hurt?”
You blinked. “I’m not—”
“Don’t lie.”
You hesitated. “Just my side. It’s nothing.”
He landed in front of you in a burst of steam and ash, eyes sharp and furious in a way that had nothing to do with the mission.
“Told you to stay behind me,” he muttered, hands clenched at his sides.
“You didn’t say that,” you replied quietly. He froze.
“…I shouldn’t have to.”
For a moment, the rain was the only sound between you.
Then he turned away abruptly. “We’re done here. I’ll walk you back.”
“I can get back on my own.”
“Not happening.”
You didn’t argue.
Back at the agency, he lingered near your desk while you packed up, pretending to review reports he already knew by heart.
“…You did good today,” he said finally.
The words were stiff. Forced.
But sincere.
You looked up at him, surprised. “Thanks.”
He grunted, eyes flicking away. “If my manager approves it, you’re partnering with me again next week.”
You smiled. “Is that a request?”
“No,” he snapped. “That’s a warning.”
Yet when you left for the night, you caught him watching you through the glass doors—expression unreadable, jaw tight, as if holding back something dangerous.
Not anger.
Something far more explosive.