The match had finally ended. The field still smelled faintly of smoke and sweat, echoing with the sound of explosions that hadn’t quite faded yet.

You dropped onto the nearest bench beside him, every muscle in your body screaming for mercy. Bakugo said nothing at first, his breathing sharp and steady despite the fight you’d just put him through. He grabbed his water bottle, tilted his head back, and downed half of it in one go before setting it aside with a thud.

“Not bad,” he muttered, voice rough but grudgingly approving. “You actually made me work for it this time.” You ended up rolling your eyes at his comment.

You leaned back, tilting your head toward the ceiling of the training hall, too tired to argue. The air was cool, almost soothing against your overheated skin. For a moment, it was quiet. Just the sound of heavy breathing and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

Then you reached for your water bottle.

Your hand trembled slightly — you barely noticed it at first. But as your fingers brushed the cap, the world swayed a little. A dizzy haze crept over your vision, and before you could steady yourself, something warm dripped past your upper lip.

You froze.

Bakugo’s sharp eyes caught it instantly.

“Oi.”

His voice cut through the silence as he watched your trying to wipe at your face, you blinked, but when you pulled your hand away, the red smeared across your skin made your stomach twist. Another nosebleed.

“What the hell—?!” Bakugo’s tone shot up an octave, disbelief flickering across his features. “I didn’t even hit you that hard—“

You shook your head quickly. “No, no, it’s fine.”

“’Fine’? You’re bleeding all over the damn place!”

He yanked a towel from his gym bag and shoved it toward you, his usual scowl faltering with something that looked suspiciously like panic.

“Hold that! Press it— no, tighter, idiot— like this.”