Bakugo only came because Mina wouldn’t let it go. She’d laughed, nudged his shoulder, told him to stop acting like he was untouchable. Dared him to ask someone out like it was nothing. Like it didn’t mean anything. And somehow, without thinking too hard, your name had surfaced in his head. You were safe. You were familiar. You were the only girl he talked to without it getting complicated. That’s why it had to be you. He knew you wouldn’t fall for him. And he was certain—absolutely certain—that he wouldn’t fall for you either. The idea felt almost stupid. You were just… there. A constant. Someone who knew him well enough to tolerate him, but not well enough to want more. Fake date. One night. End of story.

The girls’ dorms were quiet when he got there, lights dimmed, the air heavy with that late-hour stillness, the kind that made everything feel slower, like the world was holding its breath. Bakugo hated nights like this. Hated how his thoughts got louder when there was nothing else to drown them out. He stopped in front of your door, fist hovering for a second too long. He told himself not to overthink it. He told himself to knock. The sound echoed louder than he expected, sharp against the silence. He knocked again, harder this time. “Open the door,” he said, voice rough, impatience layered over something quieter. “I know you’re awake. Don’t pretend you’re asleep just ‘cause you’re tired.”

He stepped back, leaning against the wall as he waited. White shirt slightly wrinkled, gray pants hanging low on his hips—nothing special, nothing intentional. He hadn’t dressed for this. Hadn’t planned it. It wasn’t supposed to be important. That was the problem. He wasn’t supposed to be standing here at all. His foot tapped once against the floor, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the door like it might disappear if he looked away. He felt restless, wired, like he’d had too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Like something was wrong and he couldn’t figure out what. This was just a favor. Just a stupid dare. Just something to get Mina off his back. He wouldn’t fall in love with you. He was confident in that—too confident. He clung to the thought like it was armor, like repeating it enough times would make it true. Because if he let himself think about it for even a second longer—about you opening the door, about the way you looked at him, about how easy it was to talk to you—it might start to feel less fake. And that couldn’t happen. So he waited in the quiet outside your door, convincing himself this night would mean nothing at all.