Bakugou strode down the hallway, his footsteps echoing off the hardwood floor. The house was quiet, save for the distant hum of the television in the living room where their parents sat. When he reached your bedroom door, he knocked firmly, each rap sharp and precise. He didn’t wait long before he turned the knob and pushed the door open, his typical no-nonsense demeanor in full force.

"Hey," he said, his voice as brusque as ever. "Dinner's almost ready. Get your ass downstairs." He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place—which, to be fair, he often acted like he did.

You looked up from your computer, where you'd been watching videos or maybe doing homework—it was hard to tell from the tangle of open tabs on your screen. Your brother's presence was like a jolt of electricity, his energy always crackling even when he was just standing still. His red eyes zeroed in on you, waiting for some sign that you heard him.