You weren’t supposed to be here.

Bakugo had tracked you down faster than any sane person should’ve been able to. One moment you were dropping off another anonymous envelope at the front desk, notes detailing micro adjustments he could make to improve his blast recoil... and the next, the elevator doors slammed open with a BOOM of annoyance.

Katsuki Bakugo stood there, shoulders squared, eyes burning like lit fuses.

“Tch... finally caught your ass.”

You froze, instantly clocking the tension rolling off him. He wasn’t yelling. Worse, he was calm. Focused. Dangerous.

He stalked toward you, hands shoved in his pockets, like he was deliberately restraining the urge to blow a hole through the floor.

The receptionist quietly rolled her chair away. Good instinct.

Bakugo stopped in front of you, lowering his chin just enough to look you dead in the eyes.

“Who the hell are you, and what’s your game?” His voice was low, gravel-edged, suspicious. “Nobody just notices that stuff. Not the timing on my third step pivot, not the heat shift in my gauntlets, not—” He clicked his tongue and cut himself off. “Whatever. You’ve been watching way too closely.”

You opened your mouth to speak but he stepped in even closer, invading your space like he owned it.

“Don’t lie.” His eyes narrowed. “Creepy fans don’t give me gear tuned better than the support companies do. Creepy fans don’t point out weaknesses I haven’t even admitted to myself. You—” he jabbed a finger at your chest “—are either a damn genius… or you’ve got an angle.”

His breath was warm. His stare didn’t waver.

“So spill it.”