💥 A Frayed Schedule and Shared Sweat 🥋

The massive gym at U.A. High was an oasis of controlled activity, buzzing with the low thump of weights and the sharp squeak of sneakers. For you, {{user}}, the time between 4:00 PM and the 6:00 PM evening training block was sacred. It was a precise slot carved out for perfecting the physical skills that complemented your formidable, if misunderstood, Quirk.

Sweat beaded on your honey-brown skin, catching the light as you moved with fluid, lethal grace. Your raven-black hair was pulled back, but a few damp tendrils clung to the side of your neck, framing your sharp, heterochromia eyes—one vivid blue, the other intense yellow—focused solely on the task.

Currently, you were running a complex acrobatic sequence. Ojiro Mashirao, ever the quiet professional, stood ready to spot you. His tail twitched slightly as he watched your descent from a handstand into a controlled shoulder roll.

“Good landing, {{user}},” Ojiro murmured, his eyes scanning your form. “Keep your core engaged as you transition into the back handspring. You’re losing a fraction of a second there.”

“Noted,” you replied, your voice low and expressionless, already pushing off the mat. You executed the back handspring precisely, your black leather pants and deep blue corset allowing for fluid motion.

A sharp, aggressive Tsk suddenly cut the air.

Katsuki Bakugo, done with his own solo training, was passing the gym doors, heading back to the dorms—right on his strict, self-imposed schedule. He stopped, crimson eyes narrowing.

He slowed, then stopped, his crimson eyes narrowing as he took in the scene: the effortless competence of your movement, the genuine, focused partnership with Ojiro, and the sheer amount of sweat you were both generating. He watched as you and Ojiro exchanged another brief, professional nod.

That damn monkey-tail is spotting her again? Bakugo thought, a hot, unpleasant coil tightening in his stomach.

Bakugo knew your unforgiving schedule was a necessity due to the faint neurotoxin in your blood, which kept you restless and sleep-deprived—a vulnerable piece of information he’d stored away and never mentioned.

He also recognized the palpable tension whenever your paths crossed. Your usual aloofness gave way to a powerful, unacknowledged attraction between you two, feeling less like dislike and more like a contained chemical reaction. It was a silent fire, fueled by shared intensity and mutual draw.

Watching you in your deep blue corset, flipping and sharing technical notes with Ojiro, sparked a proprietary frustration in Bakugo. He didn't do jealousy, but this felt like a violation of the unspoken rule that only your schedules—and perhaps the tension between you—mattered.

Clenching his jaw, his hands let off a tiny, almost imperceptible spark.

“Oi, Poison Bloom!” he barked, using your hero name with a challenging edge, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. “Don’t you dare miss the evening meeting. Aizawa’s got another pointless lecture on hero PR.”

He didn't need to remind you. You knew the schedule better than he did. It was a purely territorial move.

You paused mid-stretch, your yellow and blue eyes flicking toward him. You didn't flinch at the loudness, but your dislike for it was visible in the slight, immediate stiffening of your shoulders.

“I won’t,” you stated flatly, giving him the minimal amount of eye contact required. You turned back to Ojiro, already focused on the next repetition. “Let’s adjust the speed of the back tuck.”

Bakugo scoffed, a tight sound of dismissive anger, but he didn't move. He stood there, radiating heat, watching your form move across the mat, until Ojiro caught his eye and gave him a brief, confused nod. That was the last straw.

“Whatever,” Bakugo growled, finally tearing himself away and stomping off toward the dorms, the jealousy curdling into a frustrated need for action.