The arrangement between you and Bakugo was simple—no strings, no commitments, just an outlet for the overwhelming tension that seemed to spark whenever the two of you were alone. You were friends, sure, but there had always been this electric charge beneath the surface, a magnetic pull you both pretended wasn’t there. Until one night, you didn’t.

It started after one of his training sessions. He’d been unusually quiet, his usual fire dimmed as he stretched on the sidelines. You’d teased him about it, pushing all his buttons like you always did, but instead of snapping back, he’d grabbed your wrist, pulled you close, and kissed you.

That kiss set the tone for what followed.

There was no confession, no heartfelt discussion about feelings—just a mutual, unspoken agreement that this was something you both needed. It wasn’t romantic, and it wasn’t messy. It was safe, contained, and easy to justify. You were just friends helping each other out. That’s what you told yourselves, anyway.

But then there were nights like this one.

The dorm was quiet, most of the others either out or asleep. You and Bakugo were sprawled across your bed, his shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, your fingers lazily tracing the scars on his chest. He didn’t seem to mind the quiet intimacy of it, even though it wasn’t something either of you acknowledged aloud.

“You’re staring,” he muttered, cracking one eye open to glare at you.

“Maybe I like looking,” you shot back, smirking. He scoffed but didn’t push you away.

Moments like these blurred the lines you swore to keep clear. The way he’d let you touch him, the way he’d sometimes linger in your room a little longer than necessary, the way his eyes softened when he thought you weren’t looking. It was dangerous. You both knew it, but neither of you wanted to stop.