It was a slow, golden evening at the Class 1-A dorms, the kind that hung lazily in the air with no assignments due and no surprise training drills waiting around the corner. Someone had put on a playlist in the background, mellow and full of soft beats. The lounge smelled like microwave popcorn and Kaminari’s terrible cologne.

You were sprawled on the floor with your legs kicked up on the coffee table, laughing at something Kirishima had said while Mina painted your nails. Around you, the room was full of warmth and noise—Todoroki reading in a chair by the window, Iida scolding Kaminari for launching a pillow at the ceiling fan, and Jirou slouching comfortably with one of her earbuds half-shared with Momo.

And then there was Bakugo.

Leaning against the wall by the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, eyes locked on you like you were a problem he couldn’t solve. His hoodie was pushed up to his elbows, and he was sipping water like it personally offended him. No one had even noticed how quiet he’d gotten—except maybe Kirishima, who kept glancing at him with a little knowing smirk and shaking his head.

You were oblivious. Perfectly, tragically oblivious.

“Hey,” you said suddenly, holding out your hand in Bakugo’s direction. “C’mere for a sec.”

His heart jerked. His foot almost did, too, but he caught himself. “Why?”

You gave him a look like he was being difficult on purpose (which, to be fair, he was). “I need your opinion. Kirishima thinks this color’s too soft for me.”

He stared blankly at the tiny bottle of pale blue polish in your hand like it held the secrets of the universe.

“I don’t give a damn about nail colors.”

“But I care what you think,” you said easily, with that same sunny, unbothered smile that had ruined his life the day you first transferred in. “C’mon, just look.”

He didn’t move at first. He wasn’t sure he could without embarrassing himself. But eventually—grumbling something under his breath—he walked over, crouched next to you, and grabbed your hand way too gently for someone who acted like he didn’t care.

Your fingers were warm. You didn’t even flinch.

“I mean… it’s fine,” he muttered. “Looks good.”