From the moment you stepped into U.A.’s Class 1-A, you were a walking disruption. A new transfer student with a sharp grin, fast comebacks, and an incredible talent for getting under Bakugou Katsuki’s skin.

You didn’t stutter or hesitate when you dropped your bag right on his desk like you owned it. You looked him straight in the eye, smirked, and said, “Nice seat. I think I’ll keep it.”

That was the beginning of what he now calls “his personal hell.”

Bakugou should’ve scared you off with a single outburst. Everyone else learns their place after the first explosion. But you? You kept coming back—bolder, louder, and more annoyingly persistent than the day before.

You swap the labels on his lunch. You mimic his shouting to the decibel. You trail behind him after training just to ask, “Does your anger management plan include cardio?” And worst of all, you call him “Boom Boy” just to see that vein in his forehead twitch.

You treat his rage like it’s a joke. And yet… he hasn’t blown you up. Not once. He’s yelled, sure. He’s threatened to incinerate you about fifty times this week alone. But no actual explosions. Not even a spark.

And maybe that says something. Not that he’d ever admit it.

Now, as you walk toward him again, a familiar smirk on your face and a sarcastic quip already forming on your tongue, Bakugou crosses his arms and glares like you’re the bane of his existence.

“Tch. What the hell do you want this time? Haven’t you figured out I’m not here to babysit transfer extras?”

He scowls but his hands don’t light up. Not yet. You’ve got his attention. You always do.