The dorms were mostly dark by now. A few hallway lights glowed through windows, the distant hum of the city wrapping around U.A. in soft static. Training had ended hours ago. Everyone else had either crashed, argued over snacks in the common room, or buried themselves in homework.

But you weren’t there.

Bakugo noticed because he always noticed.

At first he figured you were hiding somewhere stupid. Library. Courtyard. Maybe bothering Kaminari. But after stomping through half the damn building with growing irritation, he finally spotted the rooftop door cracked open.

Cold wind hit him the second he stepped outside.

And there you were.

Sitting near the edge of the roof, knees pulled close, staring out over the city lights without moving much at all.

Too still.

Too quiet.

Bakugo stopped a few feet behind you, hands shoved in his pockets. Usually you’d react immediately — some smart comment, some dramatic complaint, something.

Tonight there was nothing.

His expression tightened.

“…Oi.”

The door shut behind him with a metallic thunk. He walked closer, boots scraping softly against concrete.

“You skipped dinner.”

No answer.

He clicked his tongue, annoyed more because the silence felt wrong than because he’d ever admit he was worried.

“You sick or somethin’?”

Still nothing.

Bakugo exhaled sharply through his nose before dropping down beside you harder than necessary, one knee up, elbows resting on it. The familiar smell of smoke and sweat clung to him from late-night training.

For a minute, he didn’t speak either.

The wind tugged at his shirt. Somewhere below, a car horn echoed faintly through the city.

Then quieter—rough around the edges instead of sharp—he muttered,

“…You’ve been actin’ weird all day.”

Red eyes flicked sideways toward you.

“Usually you don’t shut up this long unless somebody really got under your skin.”

His jaw tightened slightly before he added:

“So spit it out already.”