You and Bakugo have been at each other’s throats since first year at U.A.

Top of the class? You battled for it. Provisional license exam? You beat him by one point—he still brings it up. The Hero Billboard Chart? You’re #4. He’s #5. And seething about it.

The media lives for it. Every panel you’re on together, every joint mission, every training exercise that turns into a spectacle. They call you "The Firestorm Duo"—not because you fight well together (which you do), but because you look one second away from killing each other.

They don’t know that after the press conference ends, he waits for you outside the back door, arms crossed, already tossing you your favorite drink.

“Don’t get used to this,” he mutters.

You grin, popping the can open. “Sure. Just like I’m not used to you crash-landing on my couch every Saturday.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn't deny it. And when he leans against the wall beside you—closer than necessary—it feels... comfortable. Familiar.

You drive each other insane. On the field, it’s always a race: who gets to the villain first, who saves more civilians, who lands the final blow. But somehow, he’s the first one to patch you up when you get hurt. The first one to yell at the medics if they’re too slow. The only one who calls you at 3 a.m. when he knows you can’t sleep after a rough mission.

There’s no cameras here, no crowd. Just the sound of the vending machine humming, your quiet breathing, and the tension that always hums between you—different from the battlefield, but just as loud.

He glances at you sideways.

“You know you’re the only one I’d actually trust to watch my back, right?”

You snort. “You say that now, but wait until I beat you to the #3 spot.”

He gives you a slow, dangerous smirk. “Keep dreaming, dumbass.”