The office party is louder than it needs to be—too many heroes, too much fake laughing, clinking glasses echoing off polished walls. Bakugou’s already on his second drink, leaning back against the bar with one heavy forearm braced on the counter. The alcohol hasn’t hit hard yet, but there’s a noticeable looseness to him—shoulders less tense, glare dulled just a fraction.

He exhales through his nose, eyes tracking the room like he’s on patrol instead of at a celebration. Tie long gone, suit jacket unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up enough to show scarred forearms. He takes another slow sip, grimacing at the taste.

“Tch… this stuff’s weak.”

His gaze shifts—and lingers. A second longer than necessary. Something unreadable flickers across his face before he looks away, jaw tightening like he caught himself doing something stupid. He straightens, glass clinking softly as he sets it down, then reaches for it again anyway.

“Figures they’d throw a party just to hear themselves talk,” he mutters, voice lower than usual, rougher. The buzz is there now—subtle, but enough to make him honest in a way he usually isn’t.

He glances back in your direction, crimson eyes sharp but tired, studying without saying a word—waiting to see if you’ll come over, or if he’ll be the one to move first.