It started as a dumb challenge. The kind of thing that sounded funny in the moment, only to spiral into something much bigger.

A bunny café where the girls serve the guys! A hundred bucks to whoever does it best!

You couldn’t even remember who said it—until the laughter followed. Right. Mineta. Of course it was Mineta.

What was surprising, though, was that the girls actually agreed. Someone turned it into a game, then into a contest. Before long, the dorm’s common room was transformed — tables decorated with ribbons and lace, trays of snacks and drinks laid out, soft music humming through the air. Somehow, no teacher shut it down. Midnight tried to join, but Aizawa dragged her out before things got any worse.

The start was awkward, painfully so. The girls hovered, unsure what to do; the boys fidgeted, faces red, glancing anywhere but directly at them. But slowly, the tension began to dissolve. Laughter replaced hesitation. The air grew light, playful. The competition started to feel more like a party.

Except for him.

Katsuki sat off to the side, scowling at the sparkling juice in his cup as if it had personally offended him. His friends had dragged him here — Eijiro and Denki, grinning like idiots, calling him a coward when he refused. He’d shown up purely out of spite.

Now, with the noise swelling around him, he regretted it.

He muttered under his breath as he took another sip. The drink fizzed, sweet and sharp on his tongue. He hated it. He hated this. He hated—

His thoughts cut short when he glanced up and saw you.

You weren’t doing anything particularly special. Just standing there, tray in hand, a faint uncertainty in your expression as you scanned the room. Your friends had already found groups to join, leaving you momentarily adrift among the chaos. But there was something about that — the quiet stillness of you amid the movement — that pulled his attention like gravity.

He leaned back in his chair, watching. The lights were warm and low, gleaming off the edges of your costume, catching on the small movements of your hands as you fidgeted with the tray. For some reason, that tiny, human gesture made his chest tighten.

He reached for the table beside him, plucked an olive from the charcuterie board, and flicked it with sharp precision. It landed neatly near your foot. You startled, glancing over, and his eyes met yours.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just held your gaze for a moment too long, his expression unreadable — that same cool, unbothered mask he always wore when something actually mattered. Then, slow and deliberate, he tilted his head toward the empty seat beside him.

No words. No grin. Just an invitation — silent, expectant, his posture daring you to take it.

And then he went back to his drink, pretending he didn’t care, while his heart pounded like a fuse waiting to burn out.

Take it or leave it.