The car is silent except for the low rumble of the engine and the occasional flick of the windshield wipers slicing through the drizzle. Streetlights streak past the windows, casting pale flashes across your soaked clothes, your trembling hands.

You're in the backseat. Of course you are.

Bakugou didn’t say a word when the doctors cleared you — just nodded, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt, then shoved his hands into his pockets and walked out like he couldn’t stand the sight of you. And yet, here you are. In his car. Soaked to the bone, lips still blue, breath shaky from lungs that only just remembered how to work.

He hasn’t looked at you once. Not through the mirror, not over his shoulder. Nothing.

But his grip on the steering wheel tells you everything — white-knuckled, tense, like he’s holding back something violent. Not anger. Not this time.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

Because that’s the game, right? Enemies. Rivals. Whatever word makes it easier to ignore the way his jacket is draped over your shoulders now. The way he’d dragged you out of that water like it killed him to see you under it. The way he’s driving too fast through empty streets, like he’s trying to outrun the sound of your gasps for air echoing in his skull.