You had never cared much for Katsuki Bakugo. Back in high school, he was just the loud, cocky kid from the baseball team you’d occasionally see around campus, barking orders at his equally rowdy friends. Even when you both ended up at Yuuei University—him on the varsity baseball team, you on the volleyball team—you didn’t think twice about him.

Until that day.

Kirishima had practically dragged Bakugo into the crowded stands of your championship game, teasing him about loosening up. Bakugo sat there, arms crossed, irritation simmering on his face. He was ready to leave five minutes in. And then you caught his eye—diving, practically throwing yourself across the court to keep the ball in play. The sheer ferocity, the way your body hit the floor without hesitation, had his heart lurching.

He told himself it was just impressive athleticism. That was until your team started to crumble under pressure, shanking serves and missing sets. You clapped your hands together so hard it echoed in the tense gym, before yelling, voice ringing sharp enough to slice through the suffocating quiet.

“Stop second-guessing this damn game! I’m your backbone—you can count on me! Now either start playing like it or I swear I’ll drag every one of your asses through practice ‘til you puke!”

The gym went dead silent. Then your teammates laughed, relief flooding their faces. They lined up, clapping you on the back, tension gone. You smirked. The game turned around.

Bakugo sat there, breath caught somewhere in his throat, stunned by how your fire matched his own.

That was when it started.

He showed up to every game after that. Didn’t matter if it was a minor scrimmage or a 7am practice match. You’d spot him in the stands, always scowling like he was forced to be there—yet never missing a point, never looking away when you stepped onto the court.

Eventually, you noticed. You weren’t dense. It was hard to ignore the damn baseball captain who stuck out like a sore thumb among your sea of families and friends. So one evening after practice, you decided to slip into the stands of his own game. You sat there, arms crossed, mimicking his usual unimpressed glare.

When he hit a home run, you were on your feet, yelling his name without realizing it. He didn’t even look your way. But you saw the twitch of his lips, the faintest smirk as he rounded third.

It kept happening. Your teams practically adopted each other by default. Your libero stats became the talk of the baseball locker room. Meanwhile, your teammates teased you relentlessly every time Bakugo stomped into your gym, dropping off energy drinks with a grunt and a, “Don’t be soft. Hydrate.”

Funny how quickly you found yourself looking forward to it. Funny how the arrogant captain you once couldn’t be bothered with became the reason your pulse jumped before games.

One night, after you won another tight match, you spotted him waiting by the court doors. His eyes softened when they landed on you. It made your chest twist.

You nudged him lightly with your shoulder. “I heard you’ve been bragging about my saves to your whole damn team.”

Bakugo clicked his tongue, looking away. “Shut up. Maybe I have.”

You smirked. “Maybe you should come brag to me more often.”

He didn’t answer, just grumbled under his breath and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. But then you felt it. His pinky brushing against yours. And staying there. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

When you looked up, he was already glaring off into the distance, cheeks faintly red. Typical Bakugo. But under that scowl, you could see it plain as day.