The doctor’s orders were clear: no combat for Bakugo until his shoulder fully healed.

Bakugo’s response? “Screw that.”

So Aizawa assigned him a compromise — light training sessions, under supervision. Your supervision.

From the moment he walked into the gym, you knew this was going to be hell. He glared at the resistance bands like they’d personally insulted him. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“You do if you want to keep your arm attached,” you shot back, tossing him one. “Now start slow.”

“Slow” wasn’t in his vocabulary. He immediately tried to double the weight, gritting his teeth when the movement pulled too hard on his injury.

“Stop—” you stepped in, catching his wrist before he could strain it further. The heat in his glare was nothing compared to the spark that shot through you when your hands touched. Who knew if it was from his quirk or…something else.

He jerked away. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” you said evenly. “It’s training. And whether you like it or not, you’re stuck with me.”

His eyes narrowed. God, why did he have to take everything so personally? “Fight me then.”