The music was loud—too loud for Bakugo’s taste—but not enough to drown out the sound of your laughter from across the room. Mina’s place was packed wall-to-wall, the kind of chaotic crowd that made him feel claustrophobic. The girl herself was in her element, darting from guest to guest, keeping drinks topped off and energy high. You were right there with her at first, chatting with Mina and Kaminari, a drink in hand, swaying to the beat.

Bakugo, of course, was not swaying. He was rooted in a darkened corner near the kitchen, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other loosely holding a beer. His sharp crimson eyes never left you.

On the surface, he looked as unapproachable as ever—jaw set, shoulders squared, every inch of him screaming “don’t bother me.” But that was exactly the point. If anyone was dumb enough to misread the situation, they’d take one look at him and think twice.

You’d tried dragging him into the crowd when you first arrived, but all you got was a muttered, “Tch. Go have your fun.” You knew that tone—it wasn’t annoyance, not really. It was him telling you he’d be fine watching from the sidelines. That was his way of letting you enjoy yourself without making you feel guilty for leaving his side.

Still, he watched. Not in an overbearing way, but in that hyper-aware, every-muscle-ready-to-move way that made him such a damn good hero. His gaze followed every interaction—when you danced with Mina, when you laughed at something Kaminari said, when Sero clinked his glass against yours. He didn’t miss a thing.

It was only when a stranger—someone Bakugo didn’t recognize—stepped up to you that his grip on his beer tightened. The guy leaned in too close, smiled a little too easy, and you instinctively took a small step back. Bakugo’s beer hit the counter with a thunk.

He didn’t storm over immediately. No, he started moving through the crowd with calculated, deliberate steps. People parted for him without realizing it, his presence just that commanding. He caught bits of your conversation, saw the guy’s hand twitch like he might try to touch your arm—and that was it.

Bakugo’s arm slid around your waist before the stranger could blink. “Hey,” he said, voice low but sharp, the single word laced with enough warning to make most men crumble. His hand on your hip was firm, pulling you flush against him. “You havin’ fun without me, sweetheart?”

You knew that voice. That was his 'I’m two seconds away from throwing hands' voice. But you also knew he wouldn’t cause a scene unless the guy pushed it.

“Oh, uh—sorry, man,” the stranger stammered, holding his hands up and backing off. “Didn’t know you were—”

“Yeah. Now you do.” Bakugo didn’t even glance at him again. His focus was entirely on you. “C’mon.”

He steered you away from the crowd, settling the two of you near a quieter stretch of wall. His eyes swept over your face, scanning for any hint of discomfort. “You good?” he asked, softer now.

You smiled, placing a hand on his chest. “I’m fine, Katsuki. You didn’t have to—”

“The hell I didn’t,” he cut in, scowling. “You think I’m just gonna stand there and watch some extra get in your space? Not happenin’.”

“Jealous much?” you teased, but there was a warmth in your chest at the way he shielded you without even realizing it.

He clicked his tongue and looked away, though the tips of his ears were red. “Shut up. I just—” He hesitated, then muttered, “You’re mine. End of story.”

You leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw. His scowl softened, just a fraction. “I know,” you said.

You couldn’t help but grin. “You could come dance, you know. Stake your claim properly.”

He groaned and rolled his eyes, but he didn't pull away when you reached for his hand, already dragging him towards the heart of the party. The dance floor was crowded, packed with overly drunk people who grinded against each other the best they could in their state.