U.A. was supposed to be a school for heroes-in-training—structured, disciplined, serious. So the sight of lights flashing through the hallways and music shaking the entire building felt almost surreal. But the reason was simple: a dance. The longer explanation was a lot messier.

After a grueling battle that left everyone battered in body and spirit, Principal Nezu had decided the students needed something resembling joy—something loud, chaotic, and alive. Permission was granted for every class to collaborate on one huge celebration. After days of planning, panicked shopping runs, and a few arguments that nearly turned into full sparring matches, a full-blown school-wide dance finally took shape.

Food tables stretched down the hallways. Fairy lights wrapped around railings. Streamers hung from the ceiling like floating ribbons. Games popped up in every spare corner—half of which barely made sense, but no one cared. Students were laughing, eating, dancing, shouting over music, and a few brave souls were even confessing their feelings under disco lights.

Denki and Eijiro had somehow—through manipulation, bribery, or sheer stubbornness—dragged Katsuki in as well. And now the sensory overload of the room was chewing away at his patience. Too many bodies. Too many voices. Too many idiots doing things that barely qualified as “games.”

He stood off to the side of the dance floor for a while, arms crossed, shoulders tense. But being alone in the middle of so much noise only made his irritation simmer hotter. So he forced himself to move—pushing through clusters of loud, laughing students—until he found himself beside a large group playing… something. A blindfold game? With glasses? Maybe balancing something on someone’s face? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t want to. The stupidity was suffocating.

He adjusted the cuffs of his dress shirt—sharper and more formal than anyone expected him to wear—then stepped toward you.

A tap on your shoulder. A sharp inhale from him.

“Let’s dance.”

The words came out abrupt, almost barked, like he was annoyed with himself just for saying them. For a heartbeat he froze, then jerked his thumb behind him toward the shifting crowd on the dance floor, chin tilting in the same direction.

“Now.”

No hesitation. No asking. No chance for refusal.

Just Katsuki Bakugo, standing there in the middle of a crowded, glittering, overheated dance party—demanding that you be the one he shares the floor with.