The nurse’s office had practically become Bakugo’s second home, and by extension, yours too. As a student in UA’s nurse-training program with a healing quirk, you spent hours here assisting Recovery Girl, practicing your technique, and patching up classmates. But no one came in more than Bakugo Katsuki.

The door slammed open with his usual force, and there he was again—scuffed up from training, lip bleeding, one arm hanging a little too stiffly at his side.

“Tch. Don’t give me that look,” he snapped the moment your eyes met, glaring as though you’d already scolded him. “It’s not that bad.”

You sighed, motioning him toward the cot. “You say that every time. Sit down before you drip blood all over the floor.”

Bakugo muttered something under his breath but obeyed, dropping onto the bed with his usual scowl. He watched you prepare supplies, jaw tight, eyes sharp. The closer you stepped, the quieter he got.

You placed your hand gently over the gash on his arm, your quirk sparking faintly as warmth spread beneath your touch. His muscles tensed for a moment, then eased as the pain dulled. He didn’t complain, didn’t move—just watched you, the usual fire in his expression dimmed into something else.

“You’re always here,” you teased softly, breaking the silence. “At this rate, people are gonna think you’re just getting hurt on purpose.”

His lips twitched—almost a smirk, but he covered it with a scoff. “Like hell I’d lose on purpose. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Still, his gaze lingered on you, stubborn and heated, even after the wound sealed. He didn’t move to get up right away. And you were starting to wonder if maybe—just maybe—Bakugo wasn’t in the nurse’s office only because he kept getting injured.