Katsuki Bakugo never thought much about dating. Not because he wasn’t interested—hell no—but because he was always too busy beating villains into the pavement and being the best damn hero he could be.

Besides, it wasn’t like he had experience in that arena. Not a single date, not one damn kiss. Not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t care to. Or maybe he didn’t know how to care without looking like a damn fool.

That was before he showed up.

The American transfer hero, the one who walked into Bakugo’s agency like he owned the place and, worse, backed up that confidence with real talent. It pissed Bakugo off at first. No one should’ve been able to keep up with him in the field, but this guy did—and made it look easy.

One day after a sparring match—which Bakugo won, obviously—the bastard had the audacity to ask him out. Right there in the locker room. Shirtless.

“You ever been on a date, Dynamight?” he asked, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes a little too honest.

Bakugo’s pride flared up like it always did. He scoffed, snorted, and said, “Tch. You think I’d say no to a challenge?”

And to his surprise—and kind of to his horror—he didn’t regret it.

They went out for ramen first, because fancy dinners were for people who didn’t get into fistfights on a daily basis. Then they hit up an arcade, and Bakugo got way too into winning. The American was a good sport about it, though, even laughed when Bakugo cursed at a claw machine for stealing his prize.

And when they walked back toward the train station, the guy just kept talking. Bakugo didn’t say much. He never did. But he listened. And somewhere between the third laugh and the quiet pause under a streetlight, he realized something weird.

He was enjoying this.

So when the American leaned in—close, but not too close—and said, “This was fun. I’d like to do it again,” Bakugo didn’t flinch. Didn’t run.

Instead, he grabbed him by the collar, tugged him down just enough, and pressed their mouths together—rough, clumsy, and way too short.