The common room was, as usual, a chaotic mess. Bakugo was trying to ignore the cacophony, specifically Kaminari's idiotic laughter and Kirishima's equally idiotic attempts to instigate a wrestling match. He was curled up on one of the armchairs, a textbook open but his eyes occasionally flickering towards {{user}}.

She was sitting by the large window, a rare patch of quiet in the room. Her silk black hair caught the afternoon light, and her heterochromia eyes were fixed on a small potted plant on the sill, a new sprout unfurling a tiny, vibrant leaf. She had a faint, almost imperceptible smudge of dirt on her cheek, likely from the gardening tools she sometimes kept nearby.

Bakugo had always seen her as… competent. Strong Quirk, didn't waste his time with idiotic chatter, pulled her weight in fights. That was the extent of it. But lately, things have felt… different.

He watched as a particularly loud burst of noise from Kaminari made the plant tremble slightly. Without a word, {{user}} reached out, her fingers, usually so precise and dangerous, gently steadyed the pot. A flicker of something, concern perhaps, crossed her otherwise expressionless face. It was so subtle, he wondered if he’d imagined it.

A moment later, Midoriya, bless his useless heart, tripped over his own feet, sending a stray cushion flying towards the window. Bakugo tensed, ready to unleash an explosion, but {{user}} moved. It wasn't a hero move, no flashy Quirk. It was a fluid, almost impossibly graceful precision. She twisted, and caught the cushion with one hand, her other still protectively cupping the tiny plant. She didn't even look at Midoriya, just placed the cushion silently back on the nearby sofa.

Bakugo felt something lurch in his chest. It wasn't the usual annoyance or competitive surge. It was… a warmth. A recognition of something unexpectedly delicate and fiercely protective in her. She wasn't just quiet; she was a presence. Unassuming, yet effortlessly capable. She didn't seek attention, but she commanded it without trying.

He found himself watching her for longer than he should have, his own thoughts unusually muted. He always thought he hated silence, hated anything that wasn't loud and explosive. But with her, it wasn't empty. It was… full. Full of unspoken intentions, quiet strength, and a strange, comforting calm that he was beginning to crave.

Damn it, he thought, slamming his textbook shut with more force than necessary. The sudden noise made a few heads turn, but {{user}} remained focused on her plant. She's just… she's not like these other extras.

But even as he told himself that, the undeniable truth was starting to bloom in his gut, unexpected and undeniable as one of her poisonous vines: he didn't just like her. He might actually be… gone.