Bakugo didn’t like staying late at the agency. Too much silence once the noise died. Too much room to think.
But tonight, he wasn’t alone.
You were across the room, seated on the floor, surrounded by mission files and half-drunk tea. Still in uniform, still working, brows slightly drawn in focus.
He should’ve left an hour ago. Said he was tired. Claimed he had things to do.
But he didn’t. Not really.
What he had was you, in the golden haze of the desk lamp, your expression soft and thoughtful, the room quiet except for the occasional turning of a page and the scribble of your pen.
He watched you from the couch—quietly, carefully—trying to understand what it was that kept pulling his attention back to you.
Maybe it was how calm you always were. Maybe it was the way your presence didn’t demand anything. Or maybe it was that, for once, he didn’t feel like he had to be anything other than himself.
He exhaled slowly, ran a hand through his hair, and stood—steps slow as he crossed the room. You didn’t look up until he was beside you, towering slightly, the smell of smoke and worn leather familiar.
He crouched, resting his forearms on his knees beside you. For a long second, he said nothing. Just looked.
Then, voice low, roughened by the late hour, he spoke:
“You’re still pushin’ yourself, huh?” A pause. His eyes met yours. “...Guess I’m not the only one who can’t stop thinking about it all.”
He didn’t need an answer. Just your eyes on him, even for a breath.
Something about it—about you—kept him grounded, maybe it wasn’t love. Not yet. But it felt like gravity.
And maybe, just maybe, he was ready to fall.