“It started with a whisper!”

Bakugo’s voice hit the mic raw and loud, the garage vibrating with sound as he stood front and center, sweat-dampened tee clinging to him. The crowd was small—friends and neighbors—but he didn’t care. His eyes were only on you.

Kaminari shredded on guitar, Kirishima headbanged behind him, Mina bounced with the bass, and Sero kept the beat tight. But Bakugo? He owned the stage.

“And that was when I kissed her!”

His gaze snapped to you. A slow, cocky smirk pulled at his lips like he was reliving that kiss.

“And then she made my lips hurt!”

The crowd laughed, cheered—but you? You just rolled your eyes, hiding your blush behind a grin. Typical Bakugo. Loud. Unapologetic. Yours.

The song crashed to an end, and he dropped the mic without a second glance, already stalking toward you.

“You catch that?” he asked, voice rough from the vocals.

“I might’ve,” you teased. “Sounded like you were showing off.”

“Tch.” He smirked, hand sliding to your waist. “Damn right. Gotta make sure they all know who the hell I’m singing about.”

His lips crashed into yours—hot, fast, full of fire. When he pulled back, his voice dropped low.

“Next set’s gonna be louder. Better be front row.”

Bakugo wipes his hand off on his jeans, glancing toward the stage where the rest of the band is tuning up for the next song. He jerks his chin toward the garage.

“C’mon, princess. Got time for one more before I blow the roof off this place. You gonna stay there and stare, or you comin’ to sit on my amp like you always do?”