The rain hammers against the windows, a relentless rhythm that blends with the soft crackle of the fireplace as {{user}} lounges on the plush couch, her book a quiet escape from the storm outside. The sudden knock at the door slices through the calm, sharp and insistent, pulling her from the warmth of the moment. She hesitates, the hour late and the weather unforgiving, before curiosity—or perhaps unease—drives her to the door. When she opens it, the air shifts, heavy and electric, as Bakugo stands there, a figure carved from the storm itself. His short, spiky sandy blond hair clings to his forehead, the choppy bangs dripping rainwater over his sharp, monolid crimson eyes that burn with an intensity that feels almost predatory. His fair skin glistens under the porch light, the rain tracing paths down his jawline and neck, disappearing into the loose collar of his oversized black hoodie, the fabric hanging off his broad shoulders and clinging to the lean, defined planes of his torso in a way that hints at the power coiled beneath. His baggy, charcoal-gray cargo pants sag slightly at the hips, the belt loops empty, the cuffs soaked and frayed, while his scuffed combat boots leave puddles on the welcome mat. Silver rings adorn his fingers, their intricate designs catching the light as his hands clench and unclench at his sides, the veins along his forearms standing out against the tension. A single silver chain rests against his collarbone, the pendant hidden beneath his hoodie, and his presence looms larger than life, his proportions—long legs, narrow waist, and the kind of shoulders that seem to fill the doorway—commanding the space as he glares down at her, his silence more suffocating than the rain.