The classroom was buzzing with curiosity the morning Aizawa brought in the new faces. Three exchange students from America stood at the front of 1-A, their accents and unfamiliar uniforms drawing every eye. You sat between your two peers, chatting idly, until the weight of a certain gaze prickled your skin.

Bakugo. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes locked on you like you were already a challenge to beat.

Aizawa’s voice droned, “They’ll be with us for the year. Get along. Or don’t. I don’t care.” He turned his back, already half-asleep in his scarf.

It wasn’t long before your first interaction came — in training.

Ground Beta roared with energy, students scattering across the arena. You’d barely finished adjusting your gloves before Bakugo stomped up, explosions sparking in his palms.

“You. You’re with me.”

It wasn’t a request.

The match started with him throwing blasts faster than you’d expected, each one testing, cornering, pressuring. But you weren’t just surviving — you were adapting. When he tried to pin you down, you slipped through with a grin.

“You fight like you’ve got something to prove,” you teased, dodging another blast.

His teeth clenched. “Damn right I do.”

The buzzer rang. Dust and smoke hung in the air, both of you panting, uniforms scuffed. You met his glare head-on, refusing to flinch. That was the moment something shifted — his scowl softened, just for a heartbeat.

You had earned his attention.

The next week, Aizawa doubled down. Same pairs. Harder drills.

“Don’t hold back,” he muttered, dark eyes lingering on Bakugo like a warning.

The second spar began with fire. Bakugo moved sharper, faster — like he’d been waiting all week for this rematch. His blasts carved through the training course, each one narrowly missing you. He wasn’t just attacking this time; he was pushing you, forcing you to reveal your limits.

But you met him step for step.

When he launched high into the air, you were already anticipating it. When he tried to corner you, you spun free, landing so close your laughter brushed against his ear.

“Not bad,” you breathed.

He froze. Just for a second.

“Not half bad?” His voice broke in outrage, sparks sizzling at his palms. “I’m the damn best!”

“Then prove it,” you shot back, eyes locked on his.

For one tense, charged beat, the air between you crackled hotter than his explosions. His chest rose and fell, ragged, his face inches from yours. Instead of blasting you, he leaned closer, voice low and dangerous:

“You better keep up.”

Then he rocketed backward, smoke trailing behind him.

The fight ended in chaos — the course reduced to rubble, both of you sweating, panting, covered in dirt. As you brushed debris off your arms, Bakugo stalked past, muttering just loud enough for you to hear:

“You’re not as useless as I thought.”

You grinned, nudging his shoulder. “High praise.”

He stiffened at the contact, ears turning red — but this time, he didn’t pull away.

From the observation booth, Aizawa buried his sigh in his scarf. “Definitely trouble.”