You’d known Bakugo since the first day at U.A., back when he’d nearly blown a hole in the gym floor during the Quirk Assessment Test and called you “extra baggage” for standing too close. Over time, the sharp edges between you dulled into something else — not friendship exactly, but a rhythm you both understood. You weren’t friends, but you weren’t enemies either.

Which was why it caught you off guard when he sat across from you in the cafeteria that afternoon. Normally, you and Bakugo stayed in your separate corners during lunch. Today, though, he was close enough that you could smell the steam coming off his food.

You’d just lifted your chopsticks when his arm brushed yours — not hard, but deliberate — and your tray tipped. In an instant, your lunch hit the tile in a sad splatter.

“Oops,” he said flatly, though his smirk betrayed him. “Guess you’re not eating that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Really?”

“Relax.” He was already standing, grabbing his tray. “C’mon. I’m getting you lunch.”

You frowned. “Why?”

“Because I just knocked yours on the floor, dumbass.” His tone made it sound like you were the one being unreasonable. “The curry place outside the gates. Now.”