Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mina throws herself across my lap like she's auditioning for a drama club I know she'd never join.

"Y/N, pleaasseee??" she whines, stretching the syllables like it'll somehow wear me down.

I don't even flinch. "Mina, I already told you." I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaustion already prickling behind my eyes. "I've got a ton of studying to do tonight. That quiz on Friday isn't going to magically imprint itself into my brain."

"But it's just one night!" she insists, kicking her heels like a toddler mid-tantrum. "You'll have the whole rest of the week to cram!"

I sigh. Deep, long-suffering, full of the knowledge that she's not going to let this go. She never does. And if I have to hear her beg for the next three hours, I might actually fail from stress alone.

"Fine," I say, shutting my laptop with a resigned flick of the wrist. The screen goes dark like it's judging me.

Mina lights up instantly. "I knew you'd come around!" She squeals and launches upright, squeezing me into a dramatic hug that nearly knocks the wind out of me. "You're the bestest best friend ever!!"

And just like that, she's gone, vanishing down the hallway with the energy of someone who didn't just beg for fifteen minutes straight.

I stare at my abandoned homework for a second, my stomach turning with guilt. I wasn't lying. I really do need to study. That quiz is no joke, and I'm already behind in half my classes. But when Mina wants something, she's a force of nature. And deep down, I know I could use the break.

"Guess I should start getting ready too," I mutter to no one in particular, pushing myself up off the couch.

Our apartment is small. Two bedrooms, one bath, and barely enough closet space to contain the hurricane of outfits we rotate through every week. But it's ours. Just off campus, close enough to walk to class but far enough that it still feels like an escape. We make it work.

The bathroom door is cracked open, light pouring out into the hall, and I can already hear the familiar thrum of early 2000s pop punk.

Avril's voice belts through the speaker. "He was a skater boy, she said see ya later boy..." And it takes me two seconds to realize we're in full prep mode.

Mina's got her pink hair twisted into two messy space buns, strands curling around her face in the kind of accidental perfection only she can pull off. She's halfway through her eyeliner, dancing in front of the mirror like she hasn't done it a hundred times before. Her outfit's already set. Black heeled boots, a laced corset-style top, and a tiny pink mini skirt that she definitely didn't buy with comfort in mind.

She clocks me in the mirror and immediately makes a face.

"You're really going like that?" she says, flicking her brush toward me like it's a weapon.

I glance down at my hoodie and jeans. "Yes? What's wrong with it?"

She gasps like I've just insulted her entire bloodline. "The big deal," she says, eyes wide with mock betrayal, "is that I need my bestie looking as hot as me. Equal hotness, Y/N. It's a balance. Besides..." Her voice trails off as she shrugs at the mirror, casually like it's no big deal. "He'll be there."

My stomach flips. I know exactly who she means.

Hanta Sero.

Cute. On the soccer team. In the same psych class. We've only had one real conversation. Something about an upcoming game, all smiles and shoulder shrugs. But he's always lingered a little too long in my peripheral vision. Tall, easygoing, and stupidly good at making people laugh.

He lives with Denki and Eijiro, plus one other mystery guy I've never met. Apparently, they throw the best parties. Loudest ones, too.

I must be biting the inside of my cheek, because Mina's eyes flash with triumph.

"Go raid my closet," she says, waving me off like she's done her part. "I've got something for you. Middle drawer."

I retreat to Mina's room and open the middle drawer like she said. It's chaos, but organized chaos. All glittery straps, lace trim, and fabrics that scream don't bend over too fast.

It takes a minute of sorting before I find something that feels right.

Short. Soft. Just revealing enough to count.

Something I wouldn't normally wear, but tonight... maybe I want to be noticed.

I hold it up to the light, debating. And then grab a few more pieces just in case. I mix and match, tugging fabric this way and that until something fits right. Feels good. Confident.

Sexy, but still me.

When I finally step out, Mina lets out a whistle.

"Okay, damn," she grins, eyes raking from head to toe. "Look at you."

I shrug, but my face is warm. "Is it too much?"

"Too much? Babe, it's perfect. You're going to kill him."

I don't ask who he is. Just roll my eyes.

But I can't help the small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth as I slide up beside her to finish getting ready. She ducks out to grab her earrings, and I knock out my makeup and curl my hair in record time.

"I'm ready!" I call once I'm done.

Mina's waiting in the kitchen when I walk out, leaning against the counter like she's been plotting something. When I glance down, I spot two shot glasses in her hands. Already filled.

"Seriously?" I say, raising a brow. "As if we're not gonna drink enough at the party?"

She just winks. "Tradition," she sings, handing me one.

I sniff it cautiously. Tequila. Of course. "Fine," I sigh, clinking the glass against hers. "Just one."

Famous last words.

"Just one" turns into three, then maybe a fourth. My nerves start to melt somewhere between the second and third, warmth curling beneath my skin like armor. The good kind. The kind that makes you brave enough to flirt, dance, maybe even talk to someone new.

It's a short walk to their place, off campus, a few blocks over, and the cold night air slaps me the second we step outside.

"Shit," I hiss, crossing my arms. "I should've grabbed a jacket."

Mina smirks. "Maybe he'll lend you his..."

I shove her playfully. "Shut up."

We round the corner just as the bass picks up. Deep, pulsing and loud enough to vibrate the sidewalk under our feet. The side gate to the house is cracked open, a flicker of firelight glowing from the backyard.

I catch a glimpse of the pit first, flames dancing high in the breeze, and around it, the start of the night. Our friends, their laughter already rising up into the dark.

And for the first time all week, something in my chest loosens.

"Hey guys!" Mina calls out, grinning wide. "Look who I dragged out of hiding!"

Kyoka glances up from her seat near the fire pit, her smile instant. "Y/N! I thought you were studying!"

Eijiro and Denki look over too, both wearing their soccer letterman jackets, matching grins lighting their faces.

"I was," I say, laughing as Mina nudges me forward. "But you know Mina doesn't take no for an answer."

"Glad you're here!" Eijiro pulls me into a quick hug, warm and familiar. "Feels like forever!"

"Yeah, well. School, homework, jobs," I sigh. "Ultimate broke college kid life."

"Right?" He laughs, and for a second his whole face shines. Like he means it. Like he's missed me too. But we all know about his not-so-secret thing for Mina, so I let it pass.

"How about we get a drink?" Mina suggests, already tugging me toward the house.

"No need to ask me twice."

Inside, the house is thick with heat and the unmistakable smell of college parties. Alcohol, perfume, sweat, stale beer. The kitchen's packed, bottles and mixers crowding every inch of counter space. A giant dispenser of bright red jungle juice sits at the far end, already dripping onto the tile.

We pour generous cups, the kind that would make a bartender nervous.

Mina takes a sip, then wrinkles her nose. "This shit is dangerous."

I nod, sipping carefully as we weave back outside. "Tastes like regret."

Back by the fire, someone new is talking to Eijiro and Denki. Except he's not new.

Hanta Sero. Letterman jacket slung half-off his shoulders, hair tied back in a loose half-up ponytail, a faint line of eyeliner smudged just right under his lashes.

He looks good.

I slow on instinct, a step of hesitation pulling at my feet, but Mina catches my arm without missing a beat. "Oh no you don't," she says low, dragging me the rest of the way.

Denki and Eijiro spot us, waving. Sero turns, and the second his eyes land on me, his whole face lights up.

"L/N! Hey!" he grins, all warm surprise and easy charm. "Hi."

I wave a little, shy but smiling. "Hi."

"Sorry about her," Mina says breezily. "She hasn't had much to drink yet, so she's still shy. Give it ten minutes—she's got the highest tolerance here."

I shoot her a look, then glance back at Sero. "Hi, Sero. You can call me Y/N. I really don't mind."

His brows lift. "Oh? In that case. Call me Hanta."

I start to laugh, but he steps closer, hand brushing lightly over my upper arm. The bare skin pricks with goosebumps even before the wind shifts.

"You cold?"

Before I can answer, he's already shrugging off his jacket and draping it over my shoulders like it's second nature. "Here. I was getting hot anyway."

His voice is casual, but his face turns away just slightly. Like he doesn't want me to see the pink rising in his cheeks.

God, he's cute.

I slip my arms into the sleeves, tugging the oversized jacket close. It's warm. I can smell his cologne.

"Thanks," I say softly, then glance up. "You look... good tonight. Really good."

That gets him. His ears turn red.

"Oh," he says, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. "You look really good too."

Before I can say anything else, I catch Mina's gaze over the firelight, her grin positively feral.

I shoot her a sharp don't look. She grins harder.

We make our way toward the fire, and Hanta naturally falls into step beside me. Our shoulders nearly brush. He doesn't move away.

His cologne hits again, subtle and warm, and it takes more effort than I want to admit not to lean into it.

The rest of the group shifts to make room. Denki's already mid-thought, eyes lighting up.

"Okay, settle it," he says, sloshing his drink dramatically. "One horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses. Which do you fight?"

Eijiro cracks his knuckles like he's been preparing for this moment all week. "Obviously the duck. One big target. You go for the neck. Easy."

Mina scoffs. "The duck can fly, idiot. You're gonna get dive-bombed by a fifty-foot death bird."

"Ladder," Eijiro says solemnly. "Ladders are manly. Duck doesn't expect it. You get the jump."

"Eiji." Kyoka lifts a brow. "A ladder won't help you when the duck uses its freakish nightmare beak to skewer you from the sky."

"I'm with Mina," she adds, crossing her arms. "The horses are small. Manageable. Just wear tall boots and you're good."

"Do any of you know horses?" Eijiro counters. "Even tiny ones will swarm. They'll coordinate. You'll get flanked and trampled and eaten alive."

"Eaten?" Denki gasps. "Tiny murder horses? Hell yeah. I'm fighting the duck. At least I know where the duck is."

"Dude," Mina says, eyes wide. "If they start eating my cereal, I'm leaving the country."

"They wouldn't eat your cereal," I say, sipping my drink. "They'd eat your plants first. Then your cereal. But the real danger is the nagging. A hundred tiny horses judging your life choices? No thanks."

Laughter ripples through the group.

Hanta leans back, taking another sip. "Okay, I think I'm with you guys. Give me the horses. It's all about planning. One duck, you get overwhelmed. Tiny horses, you funnel 'em."

I glance over, intrigued. "That only works if you're in an urban setting. You've got to corral them into a kill zone. But an open field? You're screwed. No chokepoints."

He hums. "True. What about weapons?"

"Harpoon gun," I say, like it's obvious. "For the duck. Horses? You just need a big enough boot."

Denki nearly chokes on his drink.

"A harpoon?!" he wheezes. "What the fuck kind of party did I walk into?!"

"The fun kind," Mina says, tossing a piece of popcorn at his face.

Denki snorts. "You're literally making a shopping list."

"One industrial fan, please," Eijiro adds, mock-formal. "To counteract inevitable splash damage."

I lift a brow. "Okay, but what about sound? Ducks are loud. A horse-sized duck quacking is acoustic warfare. A hundred tiny horses though? They'd probably neigh in unison. Adorable at first... until it isn't."

Mina gasps. "I take it back. I don't want to be present for 'adorable until it's not.'"

"Final votes?" Denki asks. "Still picking the giant duck."

"I'm team horses," Hanta says.

"Same," Eijiro chimes. Everyone stares at him.

Denki squints. "Weren't you the ladder guy? 'Go for the neck' guy?"

Eijiro shrugs. "I changed my mind. The horses are harder. More manly if I destroy them all." He flexes.

"Okay..." I drag out the word. "I'm sticking with the duck. I've got my fan. I've got harpoons. I'll be fine."

Mina nods. "I'm going horses."

We all stare at her.

"What?" she says. "They're cute. I'd just befriend them. Form an alliance. No bloodshed."

"Kyoka?" I glance across the fire. "You haven't voted."

She taps her chin, deadpan. "I abstain."

"You what?" Denki cries.

"You're all idiots," she says, grinning.

Mina collapses sideways onto her lap like the betrayal is too much to bear. The group bursts into mock outrage, voices overlapping in chaotic disbelief.

I laugh quietly, glancing down at my cup.

Empty.

"I'm grabbing another drink," I say, pushing off the log. "Be right back."

Inside, the kitchen's louder now. Warm and crowded and full of life. I squeeze past someone doing shots on the counter and pour another round of jungle juice. The sweet, artificial scent hits like a punch.

When I head down the hallway, I don't get far.

Someone barrels around the corner.

We collide. Hard.

My cup jerks, red liquid sloshing upward like a geyser. It hits square across a white shirt and the sleeve of a letterman jacket. It soaks in fast, spreading like a murder scene.

"Shit."

"Oi! Watch where the fuck you're going!"

The snarl hits before I even look up. His voice is low and sharp, rough enough to slice clean through the noise of the party. Beer sloshes in one hand. His other arm's outstretched like the stain physically offends him.

"You fucking spilled that garbage all over me!" he barks. "What the hell is your problem?!"

I stumble back, clutching my dripping cup, nearly empty now. My eyes snap to his. Furious and red, darting over my face like he's trying to place me.

Are you kidding me?

"Me?!" I snap. "You came around the corner like a damn battering ram!"

His jaw ticks. "Battering ram?! You were the one sprinting out of nowhere with your—your—crime scene juice!"

I hold up the cup. "It's jungle juice, not a fucking blood bag!"

He scoffs, yanking at the soaked hem of his shirt like it personally betrayed him. "You ruined my shirt!"

"Maybe don't dress like a discount bin mannequin if you can't handle a splash!"

He freezes. "Discount bin?! This shirt cost—"
He cuts himself off, fists clenched, jaw tight. "Whatever. You're buying me a new one."

I raise my chin. "Over my dead body. If anything, you owe me a refill. And dry socks."

The hallway goes quiet around us, like the crowd's noise fades into static. We're toe-to-toe, locked in a standoff neither of us called for.

He breaks first. Low, growling. "Watch where you're going next time."

Then he turns, shoulders squared, boots loud, and the group parts for him like he's Moses and rage is his Red Sea.

I'm left standing there, blinking, soaked, stunned.

What the fuck was that?

"Y/N?"

Mina's voice cuts through the hallway noise behind me. "You've been gone forever—"
She stops short. Her eyes widen the second she sees me, drink-stained and cradling the jacket like a casualty.

"Oh my God. What the hell happened?"

I exhale sharply, heat still prickling at my neck. "Some asshole came flying around the corner and slammed into me. My drink went everywhere. All over us, all over Hanta's jacket. And then he had the audacity to act like it was my fault."

Mina's jaw drops. "What a fucking asshole," she says immediately, already stepping closer, slipping into my corner the way she always does. "Come on. Bathroom. Let's fix this."

We weave through the crowd, shouldering past partygoers who don't notice how tightly I'm clutching the jacket or how sticky my hands are. The bathroom door shuts behind us like a dam sealing off the chaos.

Soap. Water. Paper towels.
The jungle juice clings like regret.

"No matter what I do, it won't come out," I mutter. My fingers are red from scrubbing. "I'm fucked."

Mina frowns, grabs a fresh wad of towels, and starts blotting gently at the sleeve. "You're not. He's gonna understand. You didn't do anything wrong."

I sigh, shoulders slumping. "I just... I promised I'd take care of it. And now—"

"He'll get it," she says softly, squeezing my arm. "You'll explain. He's not like that."

I nod, but the knot in my stomach only tightens.

By the time we step back into the night air, the music's louder again, the lights harsher. The jacket is folded in my arms, still damp, still ruined. Every step toward the fire pit feels heavier than it should.

"Hanta..." My voice catches.

He glances up from where he's perched near the fire. His eyes land on the jacket. Then on me.

"I'm so sorry," I blurt, moving quickly toward him. "Someone ran into me and I spilled my drink and I tried to fix it—really, I tried everything, but it just... it wouldn't come out and I'll replace it, I swear, or pay to get it cleaned or—"

"Y/N."

His voice is calm. Centered. Like always.

He stands slowly and meets me where I am. Doesn't even look at the jacket. His gaze stays steady on my face, like the rest doesn't matter.

"It's okay."

I shake my head. "It's not. You trusted me with it and I completely—"

"You cared enough to try." He says it plainly. Quiet, but sure. "That means more to me than anything you could've done to it."

He takes the jacket from my arms, lifts it with one hand, gives it a glance. Then throws it casually over his shoulder.

Like it's nothing. Like I didn't just spend the last half hour unraveling over it.

I blink, stunned. "You're seriously not mad?"

He smiles, soft, easy. And warm.

"Not even close," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "If anything, I kinda like it like this. Makes it look like it's got a story. Lived-in." His eyes meet mine again, lingering. "Reminds me of you."

My breath hitches.

He means it. Every word.

The warmth behind it lands heavy in my chest, too intimate to shake off. I look down for a second, flustered and unsure, and miss the way he's watching me until I glance back up and see it written all over his face.

Before I can figure out what to say, the moment shatters.

"Tch. You've gotta be kidding me."

A sharp voice cuts across the clearing like a blade, and I freeze.

I don't even need to turn to know who it is.

My stomach flips anyway.

He's leaning against the back of a chair near the fire pit, arms crossed over a new tank top so white it practically glows in the firelight. The fabric clings to him, clean and unbothered, like he couldn't wait to wipe the stain of me off his body. His hair flicks bright with every spark that kicks up, and his voice cuts sharper than any ember.

"She ruins your jacket," he mutters, eyes locked on Hanta like I'm not even there, "and you're sitting here grinning like a dumbass?"

The warmth in my chest vanishes like smoke. I blink once. Then again, slower. "Excuse me?"

He shifts his weight off the chair, still watching Hanta, but his next line is all for me. "What, you think you're cute now? Like staining his shit's some kind of flirting strategy?"

I stare. "Wow."

"Should be pissed," he goes on, like the whole world owes him a reaction. "You wrecked it."

"Maybe he's just not a total asshole," I shoot back, pulse thudding in my ears. "Wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

The group goes quiet, tension slinking in low and hot. Kyoka's gaze darts between us. Mina shifts beside me, alert now. Denki freezes halfway through opening another beer. Even the fire crackles quieter, like it knows a fuse just got lit.

Hanta rises a little from his slouch, posture still calm, but something behind it steadies. Ready. Not for a fight, not really. But enough to hold the line.

"Drop it," he says, even but firm. "It's not a big deal."

The other guy scoffs. "If you say so."

But he doesn't look at Hanta when he says it. He's still staring at me. Eyes sharp, expression unreadable, like he's trying to figure something out. Or like he already has.

The moment stretches too long before he finally turns, shoving off the chair and disappearing toward the house with heavy steps and a jaw so tight it looks carved from glass.

The fire suddenly feels hotter.

I let out a slow breath I didn't know I was holding, heart still thudding in my throat. My fingers twitch where they rest against my thigh. Hanta's voice is softer when it cuts through the silence.

"You okay?"

I nod automatically, though I'm not sure if it's a yes or a lie. My skin's still buzzing, prickled with leftover adrenaline. He just shrugs, easy and steady, like the moment didn't rattle him in the slightest.

"I'm gonna throw the jacket in my room real quick," he says gently. "Be right back, okay?"

"Yeah." My voice comes out thinner than I mean it to. "Okay."

He smiles once before heading back inside, his silhouette slipping into the shadows. The moment lingers even after he's gone.

Then Mina leans in, of course she does, her grin already forming.

"So?" she whispers, stage-whisper at best. "Besides, y'know... whatever that was. How'd it go?"

I blink at her. "Honestly?" I hug my arms around my torso. "Really well. He was... really understanding. Like, way nicer than I expected."

Her grin sharpens. "Sweet?"

My face flushes, and I shake my head before she can keep going. "Don't."

"Oh my God, I knew it. You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The Hanta-look."

"There's no such thing."

"There is," she insists, pointing straight at my face. "And it's written all over you. It's—"

"Y/N!" Denki shouts across the fire pit before she can finish. "I bet I could outdrink you tonight. I've been training."

"Training," I echo flatly.

"Every Thursday. Two shots, one breath mint, and a prayer."

Eijiro slaps a hand to his chest like he's swearing in. "I've been training too. My liver's built different now."

"Oh my God, yes!" Mina bounces on her heels. "I am so down. I want to drink until I don't remember that awkward ass tension from five seconds ago."

I lift my chin, smiling again despite the lingering tightness in my chest. "I'm not gonna say no to free alcohol."

"You never do," Eijiro says with a wink.

My smirk deepens. "You're on."

A voice cuts in smoothly behind me. "On for what?"

I turn. He's closer than I expected. Close enough to steal the breath right out of my chest. His cologne hits first, crisp and sharp, like he reapplied before stepping back outside. Clean. Confident. New.

"Denki and Eijiro think they can finally beat me at outdrinking," I say, angling toward him, the firelight catching the edge of my grin.

He chuckles, slow and low. "That so?"

I nod. "I told them they're on."

"Mina says you've got some kind of freakishly high tolerance," he says, giving me a once-over like he's still sizing that up. "But I dunno. You don't look like much of a threat."

I fake a gasp, hand to my chest. "Wow. Judging me already?"

He grins, and it softens the edge of his teasing. "Hey, I'm open to being proven wrong."

His gaze holds mine a second too long. Warm, lingering, curious.

"I'm rooting for you," he adds after a beat, voice dropping just enough that only I catch it. "But if you go too hard, I'm still cutting you off."

I arch a brow. "You gonna carry me to bed if I can't walk?"

That gets a laugh. "Only if you ask real nice."

The air tilts between us. Hot, humming, charged with something new.

And rising.

Chapter Text

The kitchen's a mess of open cabinets, mismatched shot glasses, and half a dozen liquor bottles lined up like we're about to summon something unholy.

Mina slams the freezer shut with her hip and holds up a bottle triumphantly. "Vodka or death!"

"I thought we were easing in," Eijiro says, already pouring.

Mina shrugs. "Life comes at you fast."

Denki counts out shot glasses like he's hosting. "One for everyone. Don't be cowards."

Kyoka glares. "If you measure my pour again, I'm throwing you out the window."

"I'm just saying—"

"No."

Mina taps a glass against mine. "Alright, first shot goes to the one who made the biggest entrance."

I groan. "I didn't even do anything."

"You drenched a man in crime scene punch," Kyoka reminds me, grinning.

"He ran into me!"

"Still counts," Denki says. "Drink up."

I tip my shot back without flinching. The vodka burns, sharp and mean, but I don't cough.

Hanta whistles low. "Okay, damn."

I glance at him, raising a brow. "What?"

"Nothing," he says, amused. "Just didn't expect you to handle that like it was water."

"She's got a high tolerance," Mina offers, all too innocent. "It's scary."

He eyes me. "Sure she does."

"Don't believe me?" I ask, pouring a second.

He lifts his hands. "Didn't say that."

"You implied it."

"I invited you to prove it."

The tension between us is new. Not hot yet, but sparking.

Kyoka leans across the counter. "Hanta, you're next."

"What for?"

"You doubted our girl," she says. "That's a punishable offense."

Hanta laughs and downs his shot with barely a wince, but his voice rasps faintly after. "Okay, maybe I deserved that."

"Everyone deserves it," Eijiro says. "We're doing full chaos tonight."

Mina grins wickedly. "Alright, new rule. If you've ever kissed someone at a party, take a shot."

Groans go up. Most of us reach for our glasses. Kyoka drains hers before anyone else can judge.

Denki smirks. "Does it count if it was during a game?"

"It counts more if it was during a game," Mina declares.

I glance at Hanta as I toss mine back. He catches it, the glance, and smiles a little too slow.

"No comment?" I ask.

"I plead the fifth," he says, voice low. "But I'm still drinking."

His shot disappears like it's nothing, and Kyoka narrows her eyes. "You're both suspicious already."

Mina practically beams. "And I am thrilled."

The music from the other room kicks louder. Bassy and warm, like the house is leaning into the night right along with us.

Eijiro calls out, "Alright! Next round: who's got a rule?"

Mina slaps the counter. "Me. If you've ever hooked up with someone you didn't know the name of—"

Kyoka chokes on air. "Mina."

"No judgment," she says sweetly. "Drink up."

Groans ripple through the group. There's a clatter of shot glasses, more than a few sideways glances. I drink without thinking. At this point, it feels like muscle memory.

The next one comes quick.

"Take a shot if you've ever thrown up at a party."

A few guilty drinks. Kyoka drinks like it's a war crime being admitted. Denki raises his hand solemnly. "In my defense, the shrimp was suspicious."

"Everything you eat is suspicious."

"Thank you."

Another bottle gets passed around. Too many hands. Too much noise. It's the kind of chaos that feels contagious, and none of us want the cure.

"Shot if you've ever left someone on read because you panicked."

I down mine before the sentence finishes.

"Shot if you've ever faked being into someone just to end the conversation."

A chorus of groans. Eijiro mutters something about a girl who sold essential oils. Denki says "Kyle" like it's a curse word. I drink, again.

Rapid fire. Fast and loose.

"Hooked up with someone from class."

"Cried in the bathroom of a party."

"Fell asleep in someone else's bed and didn't know whose house it was."

Everything's hazy now. Warm and messy and alive. No one's winning. No one's trying to. It's not about who's ahead; it's about who can still sit upright.

Mina raises her voice just enough to cut through the noise.

"Last one before we switch it up," she says. "Take a shot if you've ever wanted to kiss someone in this room."

Silence drops like a guillotine.

Kyoka groans immediately. "You always do this."

"It's fun."

Eijiro whistles low. "And mean."

Denki drinks first, casual as anything. "I love you guys."

Kyoka hesitates, mutters something under her breath, then drinks too. Eijiro shrugs and follows. Mina drinks with both eyebrows raised like she's daring someone to question her.

I don't flinch. Just knock mine back and set the glass down clean.

And then I feel it, the weight of Hanta's stare. Not dramatic. Not lingering. Just... steady. Like he's considering something and choosing not to say it.

Then he drinks, slow and unbothered.

No one calls it out. But the silence afterward hums.

Somewhere in the background, a door slams. Music swells.

Kyoka grabs the nearest bottle. "Okay, game change. I'm not emotionally stable enough for this one."

"Speak for yourself," Mina says, grinning.

Another round disappears. Then another.

Nobody's counting anymore. Nobody's winning, either.

Mina's rules get bolder. Denki keeps slurring his declarations like he's hosting the Olympics of bad decisions. Hanta's leaning closer with every drink, his grin growing lazier. Kyoka's still got venom in her sarcasm, but even she's swaying. Eijiro's flushed red from the neck up. Not embarrassed, just drunk enough to admit it.

Everything's loud. Bright. Blurry at the edges.

Someone turns up the music.

Someone else knocks over a cup and doesn't apologize.

And somehow, I'm still standing.

"Another round!" I bark, slamming my empty cup down like a gauntlet. "Don't even think about tapping out yet. I want full defeat."

There's a chorus of groans, dramatic and very real. Denki groans like he's been mortally wounded. Kyoka bangs her head softly against the cabinet. Mina groans, but with her whole chest.

"You're not human," Hanta mutters, blinking at me like I just violated several laws of physics. "You're a demon in mascara."

"Wrong again." I lift my next shot, grin sharp. "I'm a goddamn legend."

The vodka burns worse this time. Sharp and acidic, like my throat's been sanded down. I cough. Wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. Slam the cup anyway.

Kyoka's practically howling. "She's gonna drop dead."

"No she won't," Denki groans. "She feeds on chaos."

"She is chaos," Mina agrees, blinking through what looks like the start of a blackout.

"You just mad I'm better than all of you," I say, flipping my cup upside down with flair. "At literally everything."

Laughter explodes, messy and half-slurred. Mina's halfway to the floor. Kyoka's curled up against a cabinet. Eijiro, bless him, has collapsed against the fridge like he's praying to it. Hanta drags a hand through his hair like he's watching his life flash before his eyes.

"You've gotta be cheating," Mina says between wheezing breaths.

"Cheating?" I scoff. "You think I'm out here faking shots for bragging rights? You wound me."

"Honestly?" Eijiro mumbles from the fridge. "Yeah."

I flip him off. Kyoka claps. Denki's still groaning.

And through it all, I stay standing.

Barely, but I'm vertical. That's all that matters.

The group starts to fold, one by one. Mina slides down to the floor, Kyoka right behind her. Denki's muttering something about seeing the face of God. Hanta leans too hard on the counter and nearly misses it.

And then the laughter starts to die down. Just a little.

Because I can feel it.

That stare again.

Slow. Deliberate. Heavy enough to cut through the haze.

I don't even have to look to know who it is. But I do. I always do.

There. Across the room. Still leaning against the far counter like he owns it. The guy from earlier. Black tank. Arms crossed. That same unreadable look.

Not curious. Not impressed.

Just annoyed.

He doesn't flinch when I meet his eyes. Doesn't look away, either. He just stares like I'm noise. An inconvenience. Like I've done something wrong simply by existing within ten feet of him.

I raise my chin. Hold his gaze.

Then I lift my empty cup, slow and deliberate, and tip it toward him like a silent fuck you.

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not even a smirk.

Just a flicker of disdain. A subtle curl that says: You're not special. You're loud.

And I hate it. Hate how unbothered he looks. Hate the way he watches me like he's waiting for me to mess up. Like he wants it.

The burn in my chest spikes hotter than the vodka.

Mina nudges my elbow. "You alright?"

I snap my eyes back to her, plastering on a grin. "Perfect."

I toss my cup on the counter, shoulders squared, and step past the others toward the living room. Not because I'm tired, not because I'm drunk.

But because I refuse to let him be the last one watching.

"What was that all about?" Mina asks, one eyebrow arched, watching me way too closely.

"That's the guy I ran into earlier," I mutter, stepping past Kyoka, who's half-sprawled on the floor near Denki's feet. He and Eijiro are still bickering with Hanta about God knows what. Mina and I drift toward the couch, still standing, voices low.

Mina's mouth twitches like she's been holding something in all night. "You do know who that is, right?"

I narrow my eyes. "Yeah. Arrogant, gaslighting jerk who thinks the sun shines out of his ass."

She huffs a laugh, shaking her head. "That's Katsuki Bakugo. Captain of the soccer team. Practically a walking headline."

I freeze mid-sip. Nearly choke. "You're joking."

"Nope." She's full-on grinning now. "Half the school worships him. You? You're the first person I've ever seen talk to him like he's not made of gold-plated testosterone."

I blink. The image of him leaning in the kitchen flashes back. Arms crossed, eyes sharp, like he was waiting for me to fail. My stomach twists.

"Captain," I repeat, deadpan.

"And MVP last season. Scouts come to his games."

"Of course they do," I mutter. "God forbid the universe let a guy like that go unnoticed. Big ego and a fan club."

A voice cuts in behind me. Low. Rough. Way too close.

"Big ego, huh?"

I whip around fast enough to stumble. Bakugo stands in the doorway like he's been summoned by spite, arms crossed, expression lethal.

Mina's jaw drops. "Oh, shit." Then, stage-whispering with zero shame: "Live drama. Someone get popcorn."

She backs away immediately, a traitor in glitter heels, leaving me dead center in his line of fire.

Bakugo steps forward. Not stomping, not shouting, just heavy. Controlled. Dangerous.

"What the hell did you just say about me?" he says, voice sharp enough to draw blood. "You don't know a damn thing."

I stare him down. "I know enough."

The music doesn't even stop, but the vibe shifts. Heads turn. Voices quiet. Even Denki stops arguing mid-sentence.

Bakugo's eyes narrow. "Enough to run your mouth, apparently."

"Only takes a minute to clock an inflated ego."

His jaw ticks. "And it only takes a second to realize you're full of shit."

I laugh. Loud, on purpose. "God, you really are the Poster Boy."

The words hang there. Bold, stupid and irreversible.

And then the room erupts.

A few people cheer. Some repeat it, laughing like they've just found a new favorite insult. "Poster Boy! Poster Boy!"

Bakugo doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away.

He just stares at me like he's already plotting my downfall.

And I stare right back.

Because whatever this is, this tension, this challenge, this fire, I am not backing down.

Bakugo's face goes red.

Not with embarrassment. No, that would've been too easy. But with fury. His eyes narrow like he's trying to burn the floor beneath me, jaw flexing so hard it looks painful.

"What did you just—? Shut your damn mouth before I—" He stops himself, breath ragged, voice dropping an octave as he snarls, "Before I make you regret it."

The room erupts. Again.

Laughter breaks out around us, the chant of "Poster Boy!" gaining traction like it's already a campus meme. Someone from the kitchen whistles. A cup clatters against the wall. Chaos swells.

Before Bakugo can take another step forward, a smooth, amused voice cuts in.

"Whoa, whoa. Bakugo. Easy."

Hanta slides between us like it's nothing. Like Bakugo isn't seconds away from biting someone's head off. One hand lifted in lazy surrender, the other brushing my elbow. Casual, grounding.

"She called you Poster Boy," Hanta adds with a grin, turning his head just enough to shoot me a glance. "Honestly? Kinda catchy. You should trademark it."

The crowd loses it.

Bakugo's glare shifts immediately. "The hell are you laughing at, Sero? You think this is funny?!"

Hanta just shrugs, leaning against the back of a chair like they're in the middle of some normal roommate spat. "A little, yeah. You blowing a gasket over a nickname at a party? Classic. This is almost as good as when you threatened to burn my cereal."

"Wait—what?" I blink, suddenly thrown.

Bakugo groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Oh my god. Now she's confused?"

Hanta's grin grows. "Bakugo's the fourth roommate. The one you keep asking about. Mystery Door Number Four."

The words hit like a slap.

My stomach drops. "You've got to be kidding me."

The crowd senses the shift. They're already laughing before I can even finish the thought. I barely hear them over the pulse in my ears.

"All this time?" I ask, voice sharp. "I've been sitting in your kitchen, eating at your table, on your couch, and you—you were just behind the damn door?"

Bakugo grins now, and it's worse than the glare. Worse than the yelling.

Arms folded, chin raised, he looks like he's just won a bet. "Damn right. Every time you ran your mouth like you owned the place? That was my roof. My couch. My cereal."

I don't blink.

He steps forward, just close enough that only I can hear him over the laughter. "And now that you know? You don't get to hide anymore."

His voice is low. Confident. Dangerous.

"You're stuck with me. Every party. Every hangout. Every movie night. I'll be right there."

My chest tightens. Not from fear, not exactly. It's something else. Frustration. Irritation. Heat curling where it shouldn't.

Before I can bite back, Mina bursts in, arm slinging tight around my shoulders.

"Okay, Poster Boy, relax," she calls sweetly, shooting Bakugo a look like she's scolding a misbehaving dog. "You're acting like Y/N's some stray sneaking in for snacks."

Her grip tightens. Protective. Loud. On my side.

Bakugo scoffs. "She kinda is."

Mina ignores him completely. "You don't own the kitchen," she says firmly. "If anything, we put up with you."

A few people nod along. Someone echoes "Facts!" from the couch.

Bakugo rolls his eyes, jaw tense, like he's choosing not to argue for once. But he's still watching me. Always watching.

"Keep hiding behind your cheerleader," he mutters darkly. "Won't save you next time you open that mouth."

The chant picks up again.

"Poster Boy! Poster Boy!"

Mina grins, victorious. But I barely hear it.

Because Bakugo's still looking. Still standing there like he's waiting for the next round.

And me?

I'm still burning.

Not from the vodka.

Not from the embarrassment.

But from the fact that somehow, somehow, this arrogant, smug, insufferable asshole just became unavoidable.

And I already want to win whatever game he thinks we're playing.

Mina eventually drags me back into the crowd, the chants fading into background noise. But hours later, when the noise dies down and people are scattered between couches and spare blankets, the moment keeps replaying in my head like a song I don't remember liking, but still know every word to.

I slip into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the drying rack and filling it with tap water just to give my hands something to do. The music is muffled now, bass thumping low through the walls. My reflection stares back at me from the window above the sink, eyes tired, mouth pressed tight like I'm holding something in.

Behind me, a voice says, "Didn't think you'd still be standing after all that."

I jump, nearly spilling my drink.

Hanta leans against the doorway, all hoodie sleeves and lazy smiles, like he's been there long enough to decide whether or not to say something. His voice isn't teasing, it's soft. Warmer than I expected.

I lift the glass to my lips. "Shouldn't you be passed out by now?"

He shrugs, stepping inside. "Please. You think I'd let Denki take control of the aux while I'm unconscious? I've got a reputation."

I huff a quiet laugh. "A noble cause."

He leans casually against the counter beside me, one foot kicked up behind him. "But really... you okay?"

The question lands heavier than it should. Most people brush off Bakugo's explosions like weather. Unpredictable, inevitable, not worth bracing for. But Hanta asks like he actually wants to hear the answer.

I glance at my water. "Didn't expect him to be your roommate."

"Yeah. That's fair." He hops up onto the counter, settling in like he's done it a thousand times. His knee nudges mine. Light, accidental, but I feel it all the same. "He's... a lot. But once you get used to the yelling, he's not the worst."

I give him a skeptical look.

He grins. "Okay, fine. He's still the worst. But you learn to tune him out. Or throw things at him."

I snort. "How very healthy of you."

"What can I say? We're a house built on love and minor acts of violence."

His grin pulls one from me, too. Tired, but real. The kind that makes my cheeks ache after everything else tonight. When I glance at him again, his gaze is already on me, closer than I realized. His shoulder brushes mine again, deliberate this time.

I mean to look away.

I don't.

My eyes flick to his mouth, just for a second, just long enough for him to notice.

His smile shifts. Smaller now. Quieter. Like a dare whispered between breaths. He leans in, not quite touching, but close enough that I can smell the lemon from his last drink, feel the warmth of him sink into the space between us.

And then—

"Oi. What the hell are you two doing in here?"

I jolt back, glass sloshing over my hand. Hanta freezes like someone just snapped a wire, blinking once before lowering his gaze.

Bakugo stands in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp even in the dim light. He stalks toward the fridge, yanks it open like it insulted him, and grabs a water bottle without looking at either of us.

"Tch. Figures." He twists the cap off, takes a long drink, and then gestures vaguely at us with the bottle. "You two done flirting on my countertops or should I give you some mood lighting?"

The heat that rushes to my face is instant and unforgiving. Hanta clears his throat, suddenly very focused on peeling the label off his beer.

Bakugo doesn't wait for an answer. He mutters something under his breath and disappears down the hall again, footsteps fading into the thump of the living room speakers.

The silence left behind buzzes at the edges.

I set my glass down harder than I mean to. My pulse won't settle. Not from Bakugo's interruption, but from how close Hanta's face had been to mine. From how I hadn't pulled away.

"Guess that kinda killed the mood, huh?" Hanta says after a beat, rubbing the back of his neck.

I let out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. "Yeah. You could say that."

Neither of us moves. There's still something hanging there. Unspoken, suspended in the space he'd leaned into. But I don't reach for it. Not now. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Hanta finally slides off the counter, landing with a soft thud and standing just a little too close before stepping back. "We should probably head back before people start, you know... wondering."

"Right." I nod, even though my body doesn't feel like moving at all.

He pauses at the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, and glances back over his shoulder. The smile he gives me is softer than usual. Not teasing, not cocky. Just quiet. Real. "Hey... don't overthink it, okay? Bakugo's a pain, but he doesn't matter."

Something in my chest tugs sharply at that. A flutter, too quick to name, too loud to ignore.

I tighten my grip on the glass. "Yeah. Okay."

And then he's gone, swallowed back into the murmur of the party.

The kitchen feels colder without him.

I stand there for a long moment, heart still thudding too fast, the ghost of his closeness clinging to the air like static. I try to will the heat in my face to go away, but it lingers. All of it lingers. The brush of his knee, the curve of his smile, the weight of almost.

It replays in my head like something I shouldn't want.

Except I can't stop wanting it.

———

Morning comes like a personal attack. Too bright, too loud, and entirely uninvited. My head pulses with every sound. The fridge humming, a floorboard creaking upstairs, someone snoring across the room like their life depends on it.

Mina and I had crashed here after the party. Their party. Hanta, Eijiro, Denki—and Bakugo, who, as it turns out, is their mystery roommate.

That revelation had landed like a brick last night.

Now I'm wrapped in a borrowed blanket, curled up on the living room floor and surrounded by the wreckage. Solo cups toppled like dominos, confetti glued to the rug, a half-eaten slice of pizza clinging to the coffee table for dear life.

Mina is already in the kitchen, perched on the counter like some hungover fairy queen. Her pink hair's sticking out in five directions, but somehow, she still looks better than me. Probably because she's sipping her coffee like it's the nectar of the gods and she wasn't screaming "Poster Boy!" at 1 a.m.

"You look like death," she says cheerfully as I stumble in.

I collapse into a chair, clutching a glass of water like it might bring me back to life. "Thanks. Love the support."

She smirks behind her mug. "So... wanna tell me what happened in the kitchen last night?"

I blink. "What?"

"Oh, don't play innocent," she sings. "You disappeared, and then Hanta came back looking like someone who'd just heard a very interesting secret."

I nearly choke on my water.

She grins wider. "See? That face says everything."

"Nothing happened," I say too quickly.

"Right," she hums, unconvinced. "And yet, the way he sat down on the couch afterward? Arms crossed, staring at the floor, pretending not to be affected? That wasn't nothing."

My face burns. The almost-kiss flashes through my mind like a glitchy highlight reel. Shoulder-to-shoulder. That slow lean-in. His hand, so close to mine. The part where I didn't pull back.

"It wasn't..." I trail off, trying to find solid ground. "Mina, last night was literally the second time we've talked. I can't just... admit I like him. That would be insane."

She gasps, scandalized. "Oh my god. The little voice crack. Something almost happened!"

"Mina—"

"You are so bad at lying," she cackles, bouncing on the counter like she's watching a soap opera. "It was totally an almost kiss. Did he touch your hand? Did he tuck your hair behind your ear?"

"Mina!"

I bury my face in my arms, half-laughing, half-horrified. "It wasn't like that—he just..." I groan. "He smiled, okay?"

Her jaw drops in mock offense. "Just smiled? Babe. That smile had you over here sounding like you saw God."

I make a strangled noise.

"That is not 'just' anything," she says triumphantly, sipping her coffee. "Don't get me wrong. I know it's early. But chemistry like that? You don't fake that kind of thing. It shows up whether you're ready or not."

I stare down at the table. I want to argue. To say she's wrong. That it didn't mean anything.

But the memory of his voice, soft and close, "Don't overthink it,” slips past every one of my defenses.

"I..." My voice catches. I shake my head. "You're impossible."

"Impossible or right?" she says sweetly. Then, softer, she adds, "Look. If you're scared, that's fine. But don't run from something good just because it caught you off guard."

I nod, barely, and take another sip of water to stall the tightness in my throat.

Because the worst part?

She might be right.

Mina grins, victorious. "Fine. I'll let you off the hook. For now. But just remember—I saw it first."

I groan louder this time, slumping forward like that might shield me from the heat in my face. "Someone wake Denki up so I can suffer in peace."

No such luck.

Because instead of Denki, he walks in.

Hanta shuffles into the kitchen like he's still half-asleep, hair a mess, wearing a gray hoodie that hangs loose on his frame. There's a bleary half-smile on his face, unfairly cute for someone who probably didn't get more than three hours of sleep. He rubs at one eye and heads for the fridge without a word.

"Morning," he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.

Mina perks up like a cat spotting prey. "Well, well, well. Speak of the devil."

I shoot her a warning look. "Mina."

She just grins wider, eyes glinting.

Hanta pauses, orange juice carton in hand, and glances between us. His brow lifts, slow and suspicious, like he's walked in on something he wasn't supposed to hear. "Uh... did I miss something?"

"Nope!" I blurt. Way too fast, way too loud. "Nothing at all."

Mina's smirk turns downright wicked. "Oh, come on, Y/N. Don't be shy. We were just talking about you."

I nearly choke on air. "Mina!"

Hanta freezes mid-pour, eyes flicking toward me with interest, then sliding back to Mina. "Talking about me, huh?" A grin starts to tug at his mouth, lazy and amused. "Guess I should be flattered."

"I hate you," I mutter at Mina, face in my hands.

She kicks her feet against the cabinet like she's enjoying the drama. "Don't worry, I only said nice things." She tips her head toward Hanta with a faux-whisper. "Mostly."

He laughs, a soft, low sound that hits warmer than it should, and sets his glass on the counter. "Now I really wanna know."

"Nope," I say immediately, leveling her with a glare. "Absolutely not. Off limits. Drop it."

Mina lifts both hands like she's innocent. "Fine, fine. I'll behave."

She pauses.

Smiles.

And winks. "For now."

Hanta's eyes catch mine. Just for a second, but it's long enough. Something quiet passes between us. Playful. Curious. Charged.

Then he turns back to his glass, lifting it in a mock toast. "Guess I'll let it go this time."

My pulse jumps anyway.

Chapter Text

Mina doesn't even try to look innocent.

She drags me upstairs with too much purpose, waltzing into the room she crashed in, Eijiro's, and drops onto the bed like she owns it. Her grin is nuclear.

I stay standing.

"No," I say, already exhausted.

Mina blinks up at me, mock-offended. "No what?"

"Whatever you're about to say. No."

"Oh, babe." She kicks her feet against the mattress, eyes gleaming. "You really think you can play it cool after that?"

I cross my arms. "Nothing happened."

Her grin only widens. "Sure didn't look like nothing."

"It wasn't."

"But it looked like something."

I glare. "It wasn't."

Mina is still sitting on the edge of Eijiro's bed like she owns the place, legs swinging slightly, grin far too smug for nine in the morning.

"I'm just saying," she sings, "whatever that moment was in the kitchen last night? You are not as slick as you think."

"It wasn't a moment," I mutter, dropping onto the mattress. "It was awkward silence and poor spatial awareness."

"Oh please." She rolls her eyes. "You came back looking like you forgot how to operate your limbs."

"That's called being tired," I argue. "People get tired at parties."

"Not the way you were tired," she says, propping her chin in her hand. "That was a 'something nearly happened and now I don't know how to process it' tired."

I shoot her a look. "Nothing nearly happened."

She hums. "You're very passionate about that answer."

Because I have to be.

Before she can open her mouth again, the door creaks and that familiar weight of irritation fills the room.

"Tch. Why's this door even open?"

Bakugo steps in, clearly just grabbing something off Eijiro's desk. A cord, maybe his phone. Like this entire conversation is an inconvenience to his morning.

Mina lights up. "Good timing."

"Wasn't trying," he mutters.

"We're just unpacking last night," she adds, far too casual. "You know. The vibes."

I instantly stiffen. "We are not unpacking anything."

Bakugo glances between the two of us. "You talking about that weird freeze-frame shit that happened in the kitchen?"

My face heats. "It was nothing."

He scoffs. "Didn't look like nothing."

"Oh my god, not you too," I snap. "You walked in, made it uncomfortable, and then left. Congratulations."

"And you still looked like you got unplugged," he shoots back.

"At least I don't communicate exclusively through growling."

His jaw twitches. "Keep it up."

"Gladly."

Mina watches the whole exchange like it's premium entertainment. "So you did notice."

Bakugo grabs what he came for and turns toward the door. "Hard not to. You were both standing there like idiots."

I cross my arms. "Better than standing around eavesdropping."

He pauses, throwing me one last pointed look. "Don't flatter yourself. Just don't make my kitchen weird again."

Then he's gone.

Mina waits exactly two seconds before leaning in. "See? Not nothing."

I flop back onto the bed. "It was a non-event."

"A very loud, emotionally charged non-event."

"I hate you."

She beams. "You love me."

The stairs creak as Mina and I make our way down, the buzz of voices already floating up from the living room. It's not loud. More like a low hum, scratchy and slow. That kind of hungover energy where everyone's functioning, technically, but nobody wants to be vertical.

Mina nudges me with her shoulder. "You good?"

"I'm regretting every single shot we took," I mutter.

She grins. "So, business as usual."

The smell of burnt toast hits before we even round the corner. Eijiro's fault, probably.

The living room's a mess. Denki's sprawled on the floor with a game controller resting on his chest like a tombstone. Kyoka's perched on the arm of the couch, sipping water with the dead-eyed precision of someone who's just barely holding on. Hanta's lounging nearby, legs stretched long in front of him, his hair still damp from a shower, sleeves shoved to his elbows like he gave up on rolling them properly. He glances up when we appear, and something about the look lingers. Familiar. Measured.

But Bakugo's the one already watching.

He's leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw set tight like he's bracing for an argument that hasn't started yet. Eyes sharp, tracking me without subtlety.

I slow just a little when I spot him. Not enough to be obvious, just enough to feel it. He doesn't move. Doesn't say anything. But I can feel it.

Mina breaks off toward the couch. "Who burned the house down this time?"

"Not it," Denki mumbles from the floor.

Kyoka lifts her cup. "Toast's dead. Again."

"Eijiro?" Mina calls.

"Was a tactical miscalculation," comes the shout from the kitchen.

I cross the room and drop onto the floor near Hanta, dragging a pillow into my lap like a shield. The couch groans under shifting weight as Mina flops next to Kyoka.

Bakugo hasn't stopped staring.

I feel it in my skin. That prickling heat like standing too close to a fire you didn't ask for. I glance his way once, fast and pointed, just to acknowledge it.

"What," I say flatly, not even bothering to make it a question.

His mouth twitches, not quite a smirk. "You always take up that much space?"

I arch a brow. "You always this charming before noon?"

"Wasn't talking to you."

"Well, you're real shit at subtlety."

Hanta clears his throat, quiet and low beside me. Not laughing, not interrupting, just... present.

Bakugo pushes off the wall like he's done being still, stepping toward the coffee table with a sharpness that feels unnecessary. His eyes cut toward me as he passes, and for a second, it feels like a challenge. Like we're daring each other to say something worse.

He snatches a water bottle from the table, cracks the seal like it owes him money, and retreats to the edge of the couch. Doesn't sit, just stands there. Bristling. Waiting.

I turn back toward the pillow in my lap, fingers flexing slightly in the fabric. Hanta's voice pulls me sideways.

"You okay?" he asks under his breath, barely loud enough to register over the lo-fi buzzing from someone's phone.

I nod once. "Peachy."

He doesn't press.

Denki groans from the floor, breaking the spell. "Someone remind me to never drink with you guys again."

Mina hums. "We'll put it on your tombstone. Right under died as he lived: dramatically unprepared."

Kyoka snorts, reaching to ruffle his hair. He swats at her hand with a pathetic noise and rolls onto his side, face first into a couch cushion.

Eijiro reemerges from the kitchen triumphantly holding up a plate of what can only generously be called toast. One side is completely blackened. The other is... wet?

"Who wants breakfast?"

"Absolutely not," Kyoka says.

Mina fake-gags.

I shift slightly, leaning back on my hands, keeping my eyes away from where Bakugo looms at the edge of my vision like a bad idea.

He still hasn't stopped watching. But I don't give him the satisfaction of looking back.

Not yet.

Eijiro sets the plate down on the coffee table with too much optimism. "Okay, but what if we scraped the burnt parts?"

Denki lifts his head just enough to peer at the plate, then drops it again. "What if we didn't?"

"You're all cowards," Eijiro mutters, grabbing a piece for himself and taking a bite. His face contorts like he regrets it instantly, but he chews anyway, out of pride or stubbornness or both.

"Man of integrity," Hanta says with a small grin.

"Man with no taste buds," Kyoka adds.

Mina squints toward the kitchen. "Are there... edible options in there? Or did we collectively forget how to shop for groceries again?"

"Define edible," Eijiro mumbles through his pain.

Hanta shifts beside me, easy and familiar, arms looping around his knees as he leans back. "I could do a bagel run."

Mina perks up immediately. "With cream cheese?"

"Obviously."

"Sweetheart," she says, entirely serious, "you might be my favorite person."

"I thought that was me," Eijiro says.

"Eijiro, you made wet toast."

"Okay, yeah, fair."

Hanta stands slowly, stretching until his back cracks. "I'll be back in ten if the line's not insane."

"Text me if they have the strawberry spread!" Mina calls after him.

"Strawberry is mid," Denki mumbles into the couch cushion.

"You're mid."

"Your mom's mid."

Kyoka throws a throw pillow at his head without looking.

The front door clicks shut behind Hanta, and just like that, his spot beside me is empty. The space feels weird without him, like a buffer just got yanked. I adjust the pillow in my lap again, stubbornly avoiding the sharp-edged energy still radiating from a few feet away.

Bakugo hasn't moved. Still standing, still watching.

I finally glance his way, just once, just long enough to say without words: Do you have a problem?

His jaw ticks.

I don't wait for the answer.

Instead, I turn toward Eijiro. "Are we out of coffee, or is the kitchen just a war crime zone again?"

He wipes toast crumbs off his hands and shrugs. "There's some left. I think. Pretty sure Denki tried to make it and forgot to hit start."

Mina winces. "Brave of you to assume he hit any buttons at all."

I push to my feet with a groan, joints stiff from sitting on the floor too long. As I move toward the kitchen, I feel the weight of Bakugo's gaze follow me like a spotlight. I don't acknowledge it.

He doesn't deserve that much.

The kitchen's not much better than the living room. Dishes half-rinsed, a coffee mug with someone's name scrawled in permanent marker sitting abandoned by the sink. I flick the machine on, even though it's already brewed, just to have something to do with my hands.

Footsteps behind me.

I don't turn.

"Take a picture," I mutter, "it'll last longer."

Bakugo's voice is low. Close. "You always this mouthy after hangovers?"

"You always this insufferable before caffeine?"

A beat. The air tightens between us.

Then, quieter, “Guess some things don't change."

That pulls my gaze over. Aharp, deliberate. "And some people never learn how to shut up."

He huffs, barely audible, but it's not quite a laugh. More like static. That jagged irritation he wears like armor.

"Just say it," I bite out. "Whatever you're choking on."

"I'm not—" He cuts off, mouth tugging in frustration. "Forget it."

"Oh, trust me, I have."

That one lands. I see it in the flicker of something behind his eyes. Regret or resentment or maybe just the echo of everything we didn't say last time we spoke. I don't know. I don't care.

The coffee beeps.

I grab a mug, not mine, definitely Denki's, judging by the obnoxious glitter sticker, and pour a cup without offering him one.

He doesn't ask.

When I brush past him on my way out, I don't bump shoulders. I don't say anything.

But I feel him turn. Watch.

Just like before.

By the time I step back into the living room, coffee in hand, the dynamic's shifted.

Denki's sitting upright now, criss-cross on the floor, eyes half-open but functional. Kyoka's still got her spot on the arm of the couch, but she's leaned forward like she's finally plugged back in. Mina's scrolling on her phone with dangerous focus.

"Okay," she announces, "poll time. If we all woke up in a horror movie, who dies first?"

Denki raises a hand. "Me. Absolutely me."

"You say that like we wouldn't shove you toward the monster to buy time," Kyoka says.

"That's friendship," Eijiro nods solemnly.

I sink back down into the spot Hanta left open, cradling my mug like a lifeline. "Eijiro dies second. Tries to fight it. Full shonen protagonist energy. Fails immediately."

"I'd go out swinging," he says proudly.

Mina turns to Kyoka. "Okay but you're final girl, right?"

Kyoka shrugs. "I'm not running up the stairs, if that's what you're asking."

"You'd live out of spite alone," I mutter.

"Damn right I would."

"Wait," Denki says, blinking slowly, "if Kyoka's the final girl, does that make Hanta the love interest?"

There's a collective pause.

Eijiro whistles. "Ohhh. He'd definitely die tragically right before the climax."

Mina gasps. "Protecting someone. Probably—"

"Nope," I say quickly. "Don't even finish that sentence."

Kyoka raises an eyebrow. "Oh? Someone sounding defensive."

I take a sip of coffee like it's going to save me.

Bakugo hasn't said a word.

He’s still standing at the end of the couch, arms crossed like he’s daring someone to speak to him. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in daylight. Without a red Solo cup in his hand, without the sharp edge of party noise blurring the way he carries himself. And somehow, he feels even more out of place now.

He’s not part of the chaos. Not even close. Just watches it unfold like it’s something distant and strange. Like he hasn’t decided if he’s supposed to be part of this or if he’s already regretting showing up at all.

There’s tension in his stance. Not loud, not angry, but tight. Controlled. Like he’s bracing for something, or holding himself back from saying exactly what he’s thinking. I don’t know him. Not really. I only met him last night. But even now, something about him feels wired. Like he doesn’t quite know how to be still without it coming off as a threat.

He hasn’t said a word. But I can feel him watching everything. Watching me.

Eijiro catches my glance and gestures toward the kitchen. "Hey, Bakugo, there's still some toast left if you want a second breakfast."

Bakugo doesn't even blink. "I'd rather eat drywall."

Mina beams. "He's warming up. That was almost funny."

"I'm hilarious," he mutters.

"You're something," Kyoka says.

Denki perks up again. "Wait. New poll. Who would be the murderer if this was a slasher?"

"Bakugo," everyone says at once.

He scowls. "What the hell—"

Mina points. "Brooding. Mysterious. Rage issues."

"Sharp jawline," Denki adds.

"Gloves," Kyoka says.

Eijiro grins. "Definitely gloves."

Bakugo's eye twitches. "You all suck."

"Aw," Mina sings, "the killer's mad."

"Hope you like your epitaph," Kyoka smirks. "'Died doing what she loved: pushing Bakugo's buttons.'"

I snort before I can stop myself. Loud and real.

And that's what does it.

Bakugo's gaze cuts to me again, fast and vicious, but not angry. Not really. Just... sharp. Like he's reading something I didn't mean to show.

I look away.

Mina gasps. "Wait—wait, is that a smile?"

"It's not," he snaps.

"Guys," Denki whispers, fake-horrified, "he's becoming self-aware."

"I'm gonna kill all of you."

Kyoka raises her water like a toast. "Classic villain arc."

Eijiro claps him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, man. You'll get a redemption arc eventually."

Bakugo jerks away like the touch physically offended him.

I choke on my coffee.

No one notices. Or maybe they do and choose chaos anyway, because Mina claps her hands once and goes, "Okay, but if this was a movie, who's the comic relief?"

Denki raises his hand again. "Me. It's me. I'm the one who dies tripping over a broom."

"You're also the one who brought the broom," Kyoka says. "And the ghost."

"Out of curiosity."

"Of course."

Eijiro leans forward. "And who's the suspiciously quiet loner who ends up secretly saving everyone in the third act?"

Mina turns slowly toward Bakugo, eyes wide. "Oh my god. It is you."

"Nope," he says.

"Too late," Kyoka smirks. "It's canon now."

"You all need professional help."

Mina grins. "We've got you. Close enough."

I laugh again, this one smaller, less surprised. It's easy, falling into this rhythm. Even with the awkwardness. Even with him standing there like he's got a storm bottled in his chest and no idea what to do with it.

And still, I can feel it. The tension. The line we haven't crossed again. Not since Halloween. Not since everything shifted and slid and half-settled again.

He's not just watching anymore.

He's waiting.

But I don't look. Not yet.

The front door creaks open, followed by a gust of cold air and the sound of someone muttering under their breath. Heavy footfalls trail in. Then a loud, uneven thud.

"Okay, that was the bag," Hanta announces from the entryway. "Not me. I swear."

Mina pops up like she's been waiting for her cue. "Did you die? Did you get eggs? What's the damage?"

"Emotionally or financially?"

Denki grins. "Both."

Hanta kicks the door shut behind him, lifting the grocery bag like it weighs three times what it does. “Behold. One heroic survivor, back from the trenches.”

He drops the bag on the coffee table with flair. “Bagels acquired. Cream cheese secured. Eggs… questionable. I make no promises.”

He grins, peeling off his jacket like he didn’t just act like the errand nearly killed him. “Next time someone else braves the grocery gauntlet. I nearly got taken out by a dude in pajama pants and flip-flops.

"You volunteered," Kyoka points out.

"Under duress," he replies, stepping back into the living room. His eyes flick briefly toward me, a beat longer than necessary. "Hey."

I nod. "Hey."

It's quiet. Not awkward, just... unfamiliar. Like both of us are waiting to see what version of ourselves this will turn into.

Eijiro takes the bag from him and disappears into the kitchen without being asked.

"You survive your initiation?" Hanta says as he drops onto the floor beside me, legs stretched out in front of him.

"Define survive."

He grins, low and warm. "Did you throw anything?"

"Not yet."

"That's promising."

He leans back on his hands, mimicking my posture without meaning to. Our elbows don't touch. But they're close. It doesn't feel like a mistake.

Across the room, Mina clocks the shift instantly. Doesn't say anything, but her brows raise just slightly before she settles back in, the moment filed away for later.

Denki flops onto his back like the floor's given up supporting his spine. "We should do something. I'm bored."

"We're always doing something," Kyoka says.

"Yeah, but now I'm conscious and bored."

"That's your own fault," Mina says. "You peaked too early."

"Like toast boy over here," Kyoka adds, nodding toward Eijiro as he returns with a single blackened corner of bread hanging from his teeth.

He removes it carefully and grins. "New record: 92% inedible."

"Proud of you," Hanta says with a mock salute.

The laughter comes easy again, like it always does when the whole group's here. Or at least, the version of the group that fits. It's not often that all of us are in the same space. Not like this.

Not with him here too.

Bakugo still hasn't moved from his spot.

Still hasn't looked away, either.

And I still haven't looked back.

Not really.

"Alright," Eijiro says, rubbing his hands together. "Movie or card game?"

"I'm not moving," Kyoka warns.

"We'll build the game around you," Denki says solemnly.

Mina nods. "You're the sun. We revolve around your laziness."

Kyoka snorts. "Poetic."

Hanta leans closer, just enough to be heard over the noise. "If they start Uno, we run."

"That bad?" I ask.

"You'll see."

He doesn't explain. Just tips his head toward Mina like she's the source of all chaos in the known universe. Which, to be fair, isn't inaccurate.

Denki's already digging for cards. Kyoka groans. Eijiro cheers. Mina looks far too pleased with herself.

And Bakugo? Still hasn't moved.

Still standing at the edge of the couch, half in shadow, like he's waiting for a storm to break.

I don't know if he'll stay.

I don't want him to.

But I do know this: I'm not going to be the one to flinch first.

———

The lecture hall smells faintly like burnt espresso and lemon-scented cleaner. The kind that clings to old tile and settles into the corners no matter how many windows they crack. It's weirdly comforting. Like this building's always a little too awake for how early it is.

Mina and I step into the hall together, the hum of shuffling feet and yawns building around us. It's one of the bigger classrooms on campus, shaped like a faded auditorium. The seats slope downward toward the professor's desk and the oversized projector screen, rows curving slightly like a half-moon.

Most of the lights are off, just the dim ceiling fluorescents buzzing faintly overhead. The room's not full yet, but it's loud with the sounds of morning: laptops flipping open, coffee cups setting down too hard, someone cursing under their breath about a forgotten charger.

We climb toward our usual row near the middle. Mina tosses her bag onto a seat and flops down beside it, iced latte in hand. I follow, settling in without really noticing how stiff my shoulders feel until I sit.

The screen at the front flashes to life with the default desktop background. I open my notebook, more out of habit than intent, the empty page staring back at me.

Two days.

That's all it's been since that moment, that almost, with Hanta.

His fingers brushing mine. That pause. The look in his eyes like he might've said something if he hadn't caught himself. The heat of it still creeps up my neck whenever I let my mind drift.

"Wow," Mina says, her voice slicing through the fog in my head. "Staring down a blank page again? You must be feeling so productive."

I blink. Look at her.

She props her chin on her palm, squinting at me like I'm a science project she forgot was due today. Her straw clinks against the ice in her drink as she takes a sip, amused.

"Just zoning out," I say quickly, fingers twitching like I might pretend to type.

"Mmhm," she hums. "Except I know your faces. That's not zoning out. That's your 'if I ignore it long enough, maybe it won't be real' face."

Before I can respond, the rest of the group erupts behind us.

Denki stumbles in like he's being chased by time itself. His backpack's half-unzipped, earbuds dangling around his neck, and the moment he tries to slide into the seat beside us, it backfires. One strap catches, and his entire notebook spills out onto the floor.

"Jesus," Kyoka mutters, scooping it up before he can even flail for it. "You good?"

"Thriving," Denki wheezes. "I was almost late. Again. That smoothie line was criminal."

"You're criminal," she mutters, handing him the notebook anyway.

Eijiro appears next, all sunshine and caffeine, holding two coffees like he's been up since sunrise. He kicks Denki's foot out of the way as he drops into the seat beside him.

And then—

Hanta walks in.

He's not rushing. He never is. There's something about the way he moves. That calm kind of energy, like nothing ever phases him. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, phone in one hand, coffee in the other. He waves at someone across the lecture hall with an easy grin, laughter rolling out of him soft and warm, like it's always belonged in this space.

My breath stutters. Just a second. Just enough to notice.

Mina notices, too.

She leans in, lips barely moving. "You gonna keep pretending I don't know, or...?"

I don't look at her. I keep my eyes locked on the blinking cursor like it has answers I haven't earned.

"You don't know," I mutter.

"Oh, honey," she sighs, sipping from her straw. "I know enough."

I bury my face in my hand.

Kyoka slides into her seat on the other end, earbuds still in. Denki's already sprawled out like he's claiming territory. Eijiro's grinning at everyone. And Hanta?

He slides into the open seat beside me like it's always been his.

My pen hesitates just above the page. Ink already smudged on the side of my hand. I glance up, then back down. And somehow, without meaning to, the row we’ve always hovered near but never truly belonged to… finally feels like ours. Like something’s clicked into place.

We're a row now.

God help this professor.

The professor finally ambles down the steps toward the front of the lecture hall, fumbling with the projector remote like it personally wronged him. The room collectively exhales. Not quite a sigh, but close.

He mutters something about batteries and technology being a conspiracy before smacking the side of the console with the kind of dad energy that suggests this isn't the first time he's tried it.

The lights dim half a beat too early, and the screen flickers like it's unsure if it wants to participate. At the front of the room, a title slide finally sputters to life. “Cognitive Biases and Everyday Judgment." A few people groan. A few others type faster.

Mina leans over just slightly, iced latte balanced dangerously on her knee. She doesn't say anything, but the pointed glance she gives me says we're not done, just paused. I ignore it, setting my pen against the edge of my notebook like I might pretend to care about the material.

The professor clears his throat. "Alright, today we're diving into heuristics. Also known as the little gremlins living in your brain that make you misjudge just about everything."

A few people laugh. It's not funny, but we're all tired enough for anything to land.

"Anchoring bias, confirmation bias, fundamental attribution error..." He starts clicking through slides like he's on autopilot. "Also known as: why your roommate thinks every barista is in love with them."

Mina snorts. Denki cackles audibly two seats down. The professor doesn't flinch.

The lecture continues, but my focus doesn't.

I write half a bullet point before it drifts into a crooked arrow that turns into a cloud, then a spiral, then something that might've been a brain or a spider or a stress dream. It's hard to tell.

Because sitting next to me, elbow resting casually on the armrest we're definitely both claiming, hoodie sleeves pushed up, warm in a way that feels unfair, is Hanta.

And every time he shifts in his seat, every time he leans forward or exhales a laugh at one of the professor's sarcastic remarks, my attention derails completely.

His laugh, when it comes, isn't loud. It's low and soft and real. The kind of sound that curls around the edges of a moment and stays there. And I feel it. Like static, like something pulling at the edge of my focus and refusing to let go.

He catches me looking once. Just a flick of my eyes, and he meets it. Not surprised. Not smug. Just present, like he sees more than I mean to give away.

I look down fast, scrawling some nonsense about "availability bias in decision-making" that I definitely didn't process.

Beside me, his pen taps twice against his notebook before going still again. Casual. No pressure. Just... there.

At some point, Mina nudges my knee with hers. I don't even glance at her this time. I know what she's going to say later. I know the look. But right now, I can't do anything but let this weird, sparking tension settle into my bones like it belongs there.

By the time the professor dismisses us, a half-hearted, "Read the Kahneman chapter if you want to be paranoid about your own brain,” my page is a mess. Bullet points interrupted by spirals, half-thoughts, and a to-do list that includes "maybe stop thinking about Hanta" underlined three times.

Around us, the lecture hall dissolves into sound. Zippers. Squeaking chairs. Conversations that spike and vanish.

I move slower than usual. Gathering my things carefully. Purposefully.

But beside me, Hanta doesn't leave.

He glances over with that easy smile like he's got all the time in the world. "Psychology's wild, huh?" he says. "Who knew our brains were so dumb?"

I huff out a laugh before I can stop it. "Kind of explains a lot."

"Yeah?" His eyes flick toward mine again. "Anything in particular?"

I pause just long enough to give myself away.

He doesn't press, just offers a quiet, sideways grin that sits too warm on my skin.

Mina, behind me, makes a noise like she's dying of secondhand tension and stands up with enough force to rattle the row. "Right. I'm getting a donut. Anyone not confessing their deepest secrets wanna come?"

Denki cheers. Kyoka drags him by the collar. Eijiro says something about meeting up later for gym hours.

And I'm still sitting here, notebook full of bias and barely legible panic scribbles, next to the boy who's suddenly a lot harder to ignore than I planned for.

The hallway's a current of noise and bodies, backpacks clipping shoulders and voices overlapping like a wave that hasn't settled yet. The moment we step out, Mina latches onto my arm with purpose.

"Okay," she says, steering us to the side with too much force for someone five foot nothing. "You've been avoiding me for two days, and I'm over it."

I sigh. "Mina—"

"Nope." She cuts me off like it's muscle memory. "You think I don't notice how weird you get when Hanta's around? Like suddenly you forget how to exist without short-circuiting?"

I squint at her. "I do not short-circuit."

She raises a brow. "Right. So that wasn't you blinking like a corrupted video file when he sat next to you this morning?"

"That's where they've been sitting all week."

She smirks. "Exactly. They joined us. And you've been sitting very still ever since."

I tug my bag higher on my shoulder, trying to shake her off, literally and figuratively. "You're reading into things again."

"Mmhm." She hums like she doesn't believe me for a second. "I bet it wasn't a kiss, but I know something happened. Something moment-y."

"Mina—"

"I have sources."

God. Of course she does.

We push through the front doors into the sunlight. The warmth hits instantly. September-bright and dry. Everything outside buzzes. Speakers somewhere in the distance, lawn mowers trimming the quad, bikes zipping by too fast.

Mina's still talking, but her eyes are already on the rest of the group down the walkway. Kyoka perched on the library steps, Denki juggling two drinks like a risk he's proud of, and Eijiro doing jumping jacks for some reason.

Mina starts to pull away. "I'll let you off the hook for now, but I will get the full story eventually."

She pauses, then calls over her shoulder, "And if I find out you've been holding out on me—again—I'm dragging it out of you with force."

Then she's off, slipping into the group like she was never gone.

I stop. Exhale. Let my shoulders drop just slightly.

And that's when I walk directly into someone.

"Oh—shit, sorry," I mutter, stepping back fast.

A hand steadies me. Familiar, steady, warm.

"Careful," Hanta says.

My stomach flips before I can tell it not to. "Wasn't looking."

He grins. Not huge, just enough. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I say too fast.

His hand drops, but he doesn't step away. Falls right into pace like it's natural. Like he wasn't waiting a beat just now.

I glance at him. "Let me guess. Mina sent you to follow up?"

"She didn't have to," he says, sipping his coffee. "I could see it all the way from the stairs."

I groan. "God. Was I that obvious?"

He hums. "No, but she was. Looked like she was interrogating a government witness."

"She's worse than my boss at the store."

"Mine, too. Only I can't dock her pay."

That earns a real laugh from me, soft and surprised.

He looks over at that, and he holds it just a second too long.

Nothing about him feels pushy. Just curious. Warm. Like he's letting me come to my own conclusions.

"She's been grilling you?" I ask.

"Please. She practically has a permanent file on me."

He shifts his bag higher, his fingers brushing against mine for half a second in the movement. Not on purpose. I think.

I don't say anything, but my pulse kicks up again.

"She's got theories," he continues. "Wants to know who everyone's texting, who isn't texting, who's not making a move fast enough."

"She's dangerous."

"She's not wrong, though."

I glance over. His tone is casual, but something about it makes me feel like he's... maybe not just talking about Mina anymore.

We hit the walkway where the others are waiting. He slows slightly, just enough to keep the moment suspended.

"I like sitting with you," he says. Simple. Light.

I blink. "What?"

"In lecture," he clarifies. "Your row's better than where we used to sit. Less yawning. More... interesting distractions."

My face goes hot. I don't know what to do with that.

I glance over again, not meaning to. "You calling me a distraction?"

He shrugs, half-grinning. "You said it, not me."

"That's not what I said."

"Didn't not say it."

God, he's good at this. Whatever this is. This in-between thing where every comment feels just a little charged but not enough to call it flirting out loud. He never oversteps. Just gives space for whatever I might offer back.

I don't know if I like that or hate it.

I huff, shifting my bag again. "If I'm a distraction, then so are you."

He grins like I handed him something sharp and shiny. "That sounds like a challenge."

"It wasn't."

"Still taking it that way."

We reach the stretch where the path narrows under tall rows of trees, the noise of campus muffled by rustling leaves overhead. It feels quieter, like the world deliberately giving us space.

"Anyway," he says after a beat, "don't let Mina bug you too much. Whatever happened... or didn't..." He trails off deliberately, his grin crooked. "That's yours. Not hers."

My steps falter. I glance at him sharply, but his expression is unreadable again. Casual, light, but with that flicker in his eyes. Like he remembers too. Like he knows exactly what he's saying.

"You make it sound like there's something to tell," I say carefully.

He raises a brow, grin tugging wider. "Isn't there?"

The question lands heavier than it should. I swallow, searching for an answer, but nothing comes out.

Thankfully, the building finally looms into view ahead. I latch onto it like a lifeline.

"Well," I say quickly, adjusting my strap, "this is me."

He slows with me at the steps, gaze flicking to the door, then back to me. His grin softens into something quieter, almost gentle. "Guess I'll let you off the hook. For now."

I roll my eyes, though it's weak. "How generous."

"Don't worry," he says, stepping back, lifting his coffee in a little salute. "Mina'll pick up where I left off."

And then he's gone, slipping into the flow of students heading toward another building.

I stand there longer than I should, staring after him, before dragging myself inside.

My chest still feels too tight.

Two days later, and I still can't stop replaying it.

And now, I'm starting to think maybe he can't either.

———

By the time I drag myself back to the apartment, the sun's dipped low, painting the sky in streaks of gold and pink. My shoulders ache from the weight of my bag, my brain's fried from back-to-back classes, and all I want is to faceplant into the couch and forget I even exist.

But Mina's already there.

She's perched cross-legged with a textbook open in her lap and zero intention of reading it. A nail file twitches in one hand like a weapon. Her eyes light up the second the door clicks behind me.

"Well, well, well." She sets the file down with dramatic flair. "If it isn't my mysterious roommate, returning from her secret midday rendezvous."

I groan. "Please don't."

"Oh, I'm going to." She pats the cushion beside her like it's a throne. "Come on. Sit. Spill."

I toe off my shoes and beeline for the kitchen instead. "There's nothing to spill."

"Lies," she calls after me. "I saw you."

I freeze mid-fridge-grab. "...Saw me what?"

"Walking with Hanta. Looking very not platonic, if I may say so." Her voice follows me like a heat-seeking missile. "You two were all... close. And weirdly quiet. Suspicious."

I grab a soda just to give my hands something to do. "We were literally just walking to class."

Mina snorts. "Yeah, and I just accidentally watched an entire season of trash dating TV. Come on."

I lean against the counter and give her a look. "You're reading into things."

"Girl," she says flatly, "I invented reading into things. And I know what I saw."

I crack the can open and take a long sip, stalling. Mina's eyes don't move from me for a second. She's practically vibrating with smug curiosity.

"...He's nice," I say finally, voice neutral.

Her smile grows. "Nice," she echoes. "Sure. That's definitely the word I'd use for the way he was looking at you."

I narrow my eyes. "Mina."

"Relax," she says, lifting her hands in surrender. "I'm not pushing anything. Just... observing. I mean, come on. The guy's been orbiting you since like, day one."

"It's been three days."

"And yet!" She gestures broadly. "He walks you to class. He makes you laugh. You let him sit in your seat in psych lecture, which you never do."

I roll my eyes. "That was Denki's fault."

"Still counts." She grins. "I'm just saying. You seem... different around him."

"I barely know him," I protest, and it comes out sharper than I expect.

Mina notices. Her teasing pauses, just for a breath. "Hey. I know. I'm not saying it's a thing-thing."

"Good. Because it's not."

She nods. "Okay." Then, softer, "But you are thinking about it."

I don't answer.

She leans forward, propping her elbows on her knees. "Look. I'm not trying to play matchmaker. I just—" She hesitates. "I know the last few weeks have been... messy. And I guess it's just nice seeing you laugh with someone again. You know?"

That lands harder than I want it to.

I stare down at the can in my hand. The carbonation hisses quietly like it's trying to fill the silence for me.

Mina doesn't press. Just waits.

"I don't know what I feel," I admit eventually, voice low. "He's funny. And easy to be around. But it's all just..." I trail off. "New."

Mina nods like she gets it. "That's okay. It's allowed to be new. Doesn't have to mean anything yet."

I glance up. Her expression is gentler now. Still curious, still a little smug, but softened with real care underneath.

"And just so we're clear," she adds, "if something did happen between you two, I'd still be on your side. Always."

That hits me square in the chest.

"...Thanks," I mumble.

She grins again. "Sooo..."

"No," I say instantly, already predicting where she's headed.

"Not even a hint of what happened on that walk?"

I shake my head.

She presses her palms together like she's praying. "Please tell me he said something charming and vaguely inappropriate."

I toss a napkin at her. "Go do your reading."

She cackles, catching it midair. "You so like him."

"I don't."

"Mm-hmm." She sinks back into the couch, eyes sparkling. "Keep telling yourself that."

I roll my eyes, but even as I flop into the armchair, I can feel the heat creeping up my neck.

Mina doesn't say anything else, but she doesn't need to.

Because I am thinking about it.
And yeah...
Maybe that's what makes it feel so dangerous.

The apartment is quiet.

Mina's finally retreated to her room, humming to herself like she hadn't just spent the last hour poking every nerve I have. The glow from my phone screen is the only light in my room now, but I'm not really scrolling. Just staring. Watching the battery icon tick down while my thoughts keep looping.

Sleep doesn't come easy.

Every time I shut my eyes, it's like I can feel the echo of that walk again. The rhythm of our steps, the way his shoulder stayed just close enough to notice.

I bury my face in the pillow and groan into the fabric. It's not like I like him. I barely even know him. But the weird part, the part I can't shake, is how easy he makes it feel. Like we've been doing this longer than just a couple days. Like there's already some kind of rhythm.

I don't know what to call that.

I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling.

Maybe she's right. Maybe there is something here. Or maybe I'm just in my own head. Caught up in the quiet, reading into moments that weren't meant to mean anything. Hanta's... fun. He's flirty. Maybe that's just who he is.

Still. There's a part of me that keeps circling back. Not to the big what-ifs. Just... the small things. The glances. The grin. The fact that he hasn't tried to push for anything, even when he could have.

And that maybe, maybe, I didn't want him to pull away, even if I don't know what I'm doing.

The thought sticks longer than I mean for it to.

Sleep doesn't find me for a while. And when it finally does, it's shallow. Restless. My dreams are fragmented. Not about him exactly, but close enough that I wake with that same fluttering weight in my chest.

Like I missed something. Or like something might be starting.

And I don't know which one feels more dangerous.

Chapter Text

By Tuesday, I'm wrecked.

Sleep-deprived, under-caffeinated, and still trying to process everything that's shifted since Saturday. The party, the people, the guy who won't leave my head.

The campus is too bright. The breeze too loud. My coffee's already gone cold, and we haven't even made it to class yet.

Mina strolls beside me, somehow immune to the exhaustion that's dragging behind my eyes. She's humming something that doesn't match the mood of the morning, sunglasses perched like a crown, sipping a drink twice the size of her hand.

She glances at me sideways. "You look like you lost a fight with your own brain."

"I think I did," I mutter.

She grins. "Lemme guess. Spent all night thinking about him?"

I shoot her a look. "Who?"

"Oh, come on. Tall, charming, probably sleeps like a board—"

"Mina."

"—has a thing for making you smile when you're trying to be annoyed?"

My grip tightens on my cup just as a familiar voice interrupts from behind us.

"Talking about me already?"

I freeze.

We both glance back. Hanta's catching up to us with that same lopsided grin, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, backpack slung low. Denki's a step behind him, earbuds draped around his neck and already halfway into a story Eijiro and Kyoka are clearly not listening to.

Mina, of course, doesn't miss a beat. "Just saying Y/N never sleeps. Not naming names or anything."

Hanta lifts an eyebrow, eyes flicking over to me. "That true?"

I shrug, trying to look casual. "What college student does sleep?"

He chuckles, walking alongside us now. His arm brushes close enough to feel the heat of it, even if it doesn't touch. "Fair."

The conversation slips back into something lighter after that, the group's rhythm kicking in. Eijiro's telling Kyoka about a protein shake disaster, Denki's interrupting himself, and Mina is already texting while walking like a menace.

But Hanta stays close. Not hovering. Just there. Matching my pace. Shooting me a glance every so often like he's still figuring me out.

We reach the edge of the quad and Mina slows, spotting someone she knows across the way. She makes a finger-gun motion at me as she veers off. "Don't fall asleep on him, okay? He might start thinking you're boring."

I stare at her, horrified. "Stop."

Hanta laughs low under his breath. "She always like this?"

"You have no idea."

"Oh, I think I'm starting to." His grin tugs wider, a little softer now. "Guess she's just trying to look out for you."

The way he says it, kind and easy, it stays with me even after Denki starts shouting about a vending machine that ate his dollar.

When we reach the building, Hanta holds the door without thinking. The others pour in ahead, already arguing about which row to take.

I linger just a second too long, caught in that glance he gives me. It's not bold or heavy, just steady.

Then we follow the rest inside.

Tiered seating. Fluorescent lights. The faint scent of dry erase markers and someone's forgotten breakfast burrito. It's not glamorous, but it's familiar in the way new routines start to feel. A rhythm you're not ready to name yet, but feel anyway.

We walk in together, loud and uneven, still riding the energy from the morning. There's a stretch of open seats in the middle section, not too close to the front, not too far in the back, just enough space for all of us to slide in.

Eijiro takes the lead, dropping into a corner seat like it's always been his. Denki claims the next one without question. Kyoka settles beside him, earbuds loose around her fingers. I follow, slipping into the spot next to her.

Hanta sits beside me.

And Mina takes the seat at the end. Our whole group lined up, elbow to elbow, the row full with just us.

No one says it's ours.

But it's starting to feel that way.

The professor's not here yet, so the noise fills easily. Denki starts ranting about some wild theory he definitely made up mid-walk. Eijiro pretends to believe him just to see how long it'll last. Kyoka is already tearing it apart. Mina chimes in without looking up, flipping her pen between her fingers like she's above the argument but still enjoying it.

Hanta's quieter than the rest.

So am I.

He shifts, arm brushing mine, barely there. Just contact, just enough to notice. He doesn't apologize for it.

Neither do I.

My notebook's still closed.

I should open it.
I should join in.
I should be fine.

But his voice is still in my head from earlier. Casual, quiet, like he doesn't know how close he's already gotten.

I glance over. He's looking straight ahead.

But not for long.

Like he feels it. The pause, the weight. And turns just enough to catch my eye.

It's nothing. Just a glance.

But it lingers.

And I don't look away.

It's only the second time we've all sat like this. The same row, the same seats.

But something about it fits.

Something about it feels like it's going to matter.

And Hanta?

He hasn't smiled yet.

But he will.

"You guys," Denki groans, slumping dramatically across the table. "I was up 'til three finishing that assignment."

"You mean you started it at two," Kyoka says flatly, not even looking up.

Denki gasps, clutching his chest. "Wow. Betrayal."

"You deserve it," she mutters, flipping her notes.

Eijiro laughs under his breath. "You really do, man."

"Okay but if I pass, we all pass," Denki declares. "Right?"

"Nope," Eijiro grins. "That's not how that works."

Their banter spins out naturally, the row filling with the kind of easy noise that feels like it's been earned. We're only a month and a half into the semester, but somehow we've started falling into this rhythm. One shared row, one barely-contained chaos spiral, one growing group that doesn't quite feel new anymore.

Mina taps her nails against the table before dropping her phone with a soft clack. "So. Bonfire this weekend."

Eijiro perks up. "Oh, right—the quarry one?"

Mina nods. "Saturday night."

Kyoka sighs. "Great. Time for Denki to destroy another set of speakers."

"They weren't even mine last year," he says, feigning innocence.

Mina smirks. "Exactly."

I glance up from my notebook. "Is it the same one you went to last year?"

"Yep," she says, popping the p. "Different group back then, though. You bailed."

"I didn't bail," I protest. "I just... didn't go."

"You bailed," Mina says again, but with a grin. "Kyoka and Denki went together. I went with an old friend and that disaster crew. You stayed home and made pumpkin bread."

"Pumpkin bread slaps," Eijiro says helpfully.

"Thank you," I mutter.

"But this year," Mina says, looking far too pleased with herself, "you're coming."

I arch a brow. "Am I?"

"Yes," she says sweetly. "Because now you have no excuse. You know all of us, we're going, and if you ghost me again I will literally drag you there myself."

I try to focus on my page. "Depends how tired I am after work."

"Not a no," Denki points out.

"Not a yes," I shoot back.

Beside me, Hanta leans slightly forward. Just enough that I catch the low hum of his voice. "You'd like it."

I glance at him, and sure enough, he's already watching me. Elbow on the table. Fingers loose around his pen. That same small, unreadable smile tucked at the corner of his mouth.

"I know," I say quietly. "Maybe this year."

"Maybe's a start," he murmurs.

Something flutters at the edge of my ribs. I force my attention back to my notebook, pretending the scratch of ink matters more than the fact that his eyes haven't left me once.

Luckily, the professor walks in then, loud as ever, arms full of papers and some half-finished coffee. "Alright, chaos gremlins! Let's pretend we're learning something today."

The room settles. Barely. Our row shifts into quieter motion. Mina bumps my foot under the table just once, victorious, then opens her notes like she didn't just claim my weekend.

And Hanta?

Still watching.

Still smiling.

The lecture starts like all of them do. With the professor slapping a half-full coffee down on the desk like it's betrayed him.

"Alright," he calls without looking up. "Let's talk about trauma."

Denki makes a noise that sounds too close to a laugh for the topic. Kyoka kicks him under the table before he can say anything dumb.

The projector flickers to life. Bulleted text. Clinical terms. A stock photo of someone holding their head in their hands, too melodramatic to be real.

Tiered seating hums beneath soft fluorescent lighting. The smell of dry erase marker and old printer paper drifts in faintly from the front. Everything is too still. Too quiet.

The professor keeps lecturing, voice moving through familiar rhythms. Psychological stages. Developmental implications. The usual. I try to focus. I really do.

But the words blur. Slide off the edges of my attention and pool somewhere far away.

My notes are half-sentences and half-doodles, barely legible. I underline the same phrase twice, then three times, then abandon it entirely. My pen taps lightly against the page, fingers twitching. I'm not thinking about the slides.

Not even close.

Because every time Hanta shifts in his seat, stretching back lazily or leaning forward to whisper something to Denki, I feel it. Like static. Like gravity, too close and too constant to ignore.

And maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's just proximity.

But I don't think he's looked away once since I sat down.

I keep my face down, pretending I'm focused. My heart's louder than the professor.

The air shifts suddenly, a soft slide of paper against paper. Mina slides something folded across the table like it's a secret.

I glance down.

Still thinking about it?
—torn notebook paper, scribbled in pink ink, underlined twice.

My fingers freeze around my pen.

She doesn't look at me. Not directly. Just raises one brow like she already knows the answer.

I should crumple it. I should ignore her entirely.

Instead, I slide it back across the table and shake my head furiously.

Mina just smirks wider, victorious.

"Don't pass notes unless you're sharing with the class," the professor says sharply, not even turning around. "I taught eighth grade once. You're not subtle."

Denki snorts. Mina bites her lip to keep from laughing. Hanta leans forward and pretends to write something down, but his smile's too close to a laugh. Too crooked and knowing to be innocent.

And I?

I go still again.

Because that crooked smile isn't aimed at Mina.

It's aimed at me.

Hanta's grin fades slow, but the warmth of it stays.

I glance back at my notebook, try to force my pen into motion again.

The professor clicks to the next slide, like we didn't just derail for a full ten seconds. "As I was saying before your riveting interpersonal drama—" he side-eyes our row without shame— "—trauma responses often appear as behavioral shifts before they register consciously. That's your brain trying to keep you alive before it lets you process anything real."

Denki raises his hand. "So like... fight or flight?"

"Fight, flight, freeze, fawn," the professor lists off, ticking them on his fingers. "Though freeze is often the default in modern environments. You're not getting chased by tigers anymore. You're ignoring your essay deadline until it's too late and then blacking out mid-panic attack."

Kyoka snorts. "Sounds fake but okay."

He gestures at her with his coffee like she proved his point. "Thank you for illustrating dissociation in real time."

The slide behind him shows a table of long-term stress indicators. Emotional exhaustion. Hypervigilance. Physical symptoms. The font is too small. The bullet points are starting to blur again.

I blink a few times, willing myself to focus. The lights above buzz softly, a constant low whine that's just loud enough to notice once you're already annoyed.

The professor paces a little, warming to the topic. "Now. People love to categorize trauma like it's linear. Like the body can measure what's worse between abandonment and grief, violence and silence. But it's not a contest. It's not a timeline, either. It's a goddamn loop. Your nervous system doesn't care what caused it. It just cares that it happened."

Something in that line makes my throat catch. I underline it in my notes without meaning to. Then underline it again.

Beside me, Mina's drumming her fingers against her desk, already bored.

Kyoka's writing in crisp, sharp lines. She always takes perfect notes. Probably rewrites them after.

Denki's doodling. Something about it looks vaguely like Hanta with stars for eyes.

And Hanta—

He's close enough that when he exhales, I swear I feel it in my chest.

I steal a glance sideways.

He's leaned back in his chair just a little, ankles crossed, thumb idly spinning his pen against the desk. It clacks once before he stills it. The kind of movement that looks careless, but isn't.

His body reads loose, relaxed.

But his hand, the one closest to mine, doesn't move again.

He doesn't look at me this time.

But I get the sense he knows I'm watching.

The professor shifts topics. "You'll see this a lot when studying attachment theory, especially with early developmental impacts. Fight responses don't always look like aggression. Sometimes they look like control. Control freaks, perfectionists, hyper-achievers. Most of them are just trying to outrun something their nervous system hasn't let them feel."

Eijiro mutters under his breath, "Oh damn."

"Callout culture's wild," Denki whispers.

Hanta snorts. Kyoka hides a laugh behind her hand.

Mina leans in, whispering near my ear, "I'm gonna tell him you cried in Ratatouille."

I swat her with the edge of my notebook. She grins.

Somewhere in the front row, someone asks a question about neuroplasticity and long-term behavioral rewiring. The professor launches into a mini rant about mirror neurons and how the brain is both adaptive and relentless.

I don't catch most of it.

Because Hanta finally leans toward me, just slightly.

"You okay?" he says low enough that only I can hear.

I nod before I even think. "Yeah. Just—long week."

His eyes flick over my face, warm and steady. "Yeah. I get that."

I don't know what to say to that. So I don't say anything.

The professor dismisses us with five minutes left in the hour, probably out of pity, probably because he's tired of being perceived. "Same time next week. Readings are posted. Try not to get emotionally eviscerated before then."

Half the room is already packing up before he finishes talking.

Denki yawns loudly enough to earn a glare from Kyoka. Mina's shoving everything into her bag without organization. Eijiro's helping Denki untangle his laptop cord from the table leg.

And Hanta?

He waits for me.

He always does.

Eijiro stretches with a theatrical sigh, joints popping. "Bro, I thought my spine fused to the chair."

Denki snorts. "It did. You're never walking again."

"You'd miss me," Eijiro fires back, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

"Only a little."

Kyoka rolls her eyes, already tucking her earbuds around her neck. "You're both so loud. Every single time."

"When aren't people staring?" Denki grins, unbothered.

Mina leans toward me as we stand. "You're not bailing this year."

"I didn't bail. I had—" I pause. "I was busy."

Mina just arches a brow.

I sigh. "Okay. I bailed."

"Exactly. But not this time." She loops her arm through mine before I can protest. "It's practically law. First bonfire of the season? Mandatory."

"It's not mandatory."

"It is for you."

Kyoka snorts softly ahead of us as we funnel out into the hallway with the others. Denki and Eijiro are deep in some debate about whether lugging grocery bags up stairs counts as 'resistance training.' Kyoka doesn't look interested in weighing in.

That's when Hanta falls into step beside me. Smooth, quiet. Like he's always been there.

"You skipping again this year?" he asks, voice pitched low.

I glance over. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are sharp, watching.

"I haven't decided yet."

He hums. "Should come."

Mina perks up at that, grinning between us. "That's what I said."

"Bold of you to assume I listen to peer pressure," I mutter.

"I'm not your peer," Hanta says, feigning mock offense. "I'm an emotionally stable adult."

I bark a laugh. "You ate a Pop-Tart off the floor yesterday."

"It was still in the wrapper."

"He dropped it three times," Mina adds helpfully.

"I resent this entire conversation," he says, but he's smiling.

When we step outside, the sun hits warm and gold. There's a light breeze, and students are already sprawled across the quad. Music drifting from someone's speaker, the edge of autumn creeping into the air. Eijiro and Denki veer off toward the dining hall, still arguing. Kyoka trails after them with the weariness of someone who's heard this exact debate a hundred times.

Mina nudges me once and then peels off too, leaving me and Hanta alone on the path.

"You're headed this way, right?" he asks.

I nod, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Yeah."

"Cool. Me too."

We walk in step, quieter now. There's a calm to it. Or there would be, if my heart would stop tripping over itself every time his arm swings close to mine.

"Y'know," he says after a minute, "you really should come."

"To the bonfire?"

"Yeah." He kicks a pebble off the path with the toe of his shoe. "It's a thing. Big turnout, dumb games, too many snacks. You'll hate it."

"Sounds terrible," I say, but I don't mean it.

He glances sideways at me, mouth quirked. "Yeah. Still worth it, though."

When we reach the fork between buildings, he slows.

"This is me," he says, nodding toward the stairs. "Don't think too hard."

"About?"

"Everything."

It lands heavier than it should.

He grins once, then heads up the steps without waiting for a reply.

And I stand there for a moment longer than I should. I let the breeze pull at the edges of my jacket, notebook still clutched in my hand, unsure if the warmth in my chest is from the sun or from him.

The rest of the day blurs. Separate classes, separate buildings, but not separate lives.

Second class.
I slide into my usual seat and scroll through my messages while the professor loads the slides. Nothing new, but Mina's old reply still sits at the top of our thread.

You're coming to the bonfire. No debates.

I roll my eyes like she's here to see it.

It's quiet in this room. Low energy. Notes fill half a page before my brain wanders. I think about the look on Hanta's face earlier, half teasing, half something else, and it loops in my head longer than I'd like to admit.

Third class.
Colder. Bigger. A professor who talks like he's afraid of silence. I catch Denki's name mentioned two rows ahead, some other conversation I'm not part of, and it startles me for a second. Like a ripple from a different class sneaking in.

I write his name in my notes without realizing it.
Then scratch it out.

Focus, I tell myself. But I'm not good at pretending today.

Last class.
Better. The kind of better that means I don't check the clock every four minutes.

I pick a seat near the window and pull my hoodie sleeves over my hands. A kid a few seats over is watching soccer clips on his phone under the desk, barely pretending to take notes.

I glance down at my own page.
The word "bonfire" is written in the margin. Circled. Twice.

The professor dismisses us a few minutes early, and I pack up slowly, letting the room empty first.

No one from this morning is in these classes. We're not spread across campus on purpose, it just worked out that way. But even scattered, I can still feel them in the corners of my day. A passing mention. A mental note. A joke I wish I could text them without context.

We're not a named group or anything. But we sit in the same row. We walk together. We orbit.

And somewhere in all this quiet,
that's enough.

When I get home, Mina’s already draped across the couch like royalty, one leg over the backrest, a bowl of cereal balanced on her stomach. The TV’s playing something she’s not watching. Her eyes lock on me the second the door closes.

“Well, well, well,” she says, drawing out the words. “If it isn’t our local traitor.”

I drop my bag by the door. “You left first.”

“Oh, I had to! I have that stupid class halfway across campus,” she says, like it was a heroic sacrifice. “But that doesn’t mean you had to walk off into the sunset with Sero.”

I kick off my shoes. “It was 10 am. He was going the same direction.”

Mina gasps like I’ve betrayed her in battle. “And yet… you didn’t even hesitate.”

I narrow my eyes. “You abandoned me.”

She sits up just enough to point her spoon at me. “That’s rich, coming from someone who let me face my long solo trek while she strolled through campus with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Elastic.”

I flop into the armchair, grabbing a throw pillow like it’s a shield. “It wasn’t a thing.”

Mina snorts. “You say that like I accused you of holding hands and skipping.”

“We didn’t even talk that much.”

“Right, because quiet tension isn’t a thing now?”

I groan and bury my face in the pillow. “He’s not—That’s not—God, you’re annoying.”

She grins like she's won something. "I didn't say you like him. But you let him walk with you. That's not nothing."

I peek over the pillow. "You're reading way too much into it."

She shrugs. "Maybe. Or maybe I just know you."

There's no edge to it. No pressure. Just a knowing look that feels more like a nudge than a shove. She's teasing, because she's Mina, but she's also watching me closely, like she's gauging what I'm not saying.

"He's just... Hanta," I say finally. "Weirdly nice. That's all."

Mina hums. "Weirdly nice is still nice."

Then she grabs her cereal bowl and turns back to the TV like it's no big deal, like she hasn't just lit a match and tossed it in my general direction.

———

The next morning, my alarm blares too early.

Again.

I groan, blindly swatting at my phone until I hit snooze by accident and immediately regret it. From down the hall, Mina's voice cuts through the early quiet like a threat.

"Y/N! You have ten minutes or I'm leaving your ass behind!"

I roll over and groan into my pillow. She's too chipper for a human being. I don't even think she sleeps. There's no other explanation.

Eventually, I drag myself out of bed, blanket still clutched around my shoulders like I'm being exiled from something sacred. My hair's a mess. My soul feels worse. The floor is too cold, the light too bright, and my motivation is somewhere back under the covers.

By the time I make it to the kitchen, Mina's already dressed and dangerous, leaning against the counter with a bowl of cereal in one hand and her phone in the other, scrolling like she has hours to spare.

She grins as I shuffle in. "Good morning, sleepyhead. You look like a Victorian ghost."

"I feel worse," I mumble, grabbing an apple and tearing into a granola bar wrapper like it's a survival ration.

Mina gestures dramatically with her spoon. "Eat faster. If we're late again, Kyoka will sacrifice us for extra credit."

I mutter something about how I'd let her if it meant another hour of sleep.

Still, we manage to leave on time. Barely. The air outside bites at my cheeks, brisk in that aggressive mid-September way that dares you not to bring a jacket. Mina loops her arm through mine anyway, probably for warmth, possibly just to keep me moving.

She's talking the whole way. About one of her classes, about a new drink she wants to try after lecture, about how she's positive Denki didn't study for this week's quiz and will absolutely try to cheat off Kyoka again. She's bouncing between topics so fast I can't keep up. I just nod when appropriate and pretend to be awake.

By the time we cross the quad, campus is alive with motion. Students swarm across sidewalks and stairwells, clutching coffees and last-minute notes, earbuds in or half-distracted by whoever's walking beside them. The big stone steps up to our lecture hall are crowded with people finishing bagels or speed-reading flashcards.

Mina tugs me toward the double doors. "C'mon. Middle row or bust."

Inside, the lecture hall is already humming. That low, pre-class buzz of papers rustling and laptops opening, of keyboard taps and zipper pulls and whispered jokes that trail off when someone else walks in. The air smells like coffee and old air conditioning. Someone in the back is clearly unwrapping a breakfast sandwich with intent.

Mina beelines toward our row and claims the far end like she's storming a beachhead. She tosses her bag onto the desk with dramatic flair and flops into the seat, legs stretched out like she's already exhausted.

"Place of suffering, sweet place of suffering," she says reverently, as if the classroom somehow deserves gratitude for her presence.

I trail after her and drop into the seat right beside her, tugging my hoodie sleeves down over my hands as I settle in. The chair's cold, the desk has a mystery smudge in one corner, and the fluorescent lights feel more aggressive than usual. I rest my chin on my hand and stare forward like that'll summon consciousness.

The professor is already talking when the side door swings open with a bang loud enough to jolt a few heads around.

Denki stumbles in first, breathless and beaming like he's just completed a triathlon. "Okay—okay—we made it! Nobody panic."

Kyoka follows behind him, scarf loose and coffee in hand, gaze dead ahead like she's pretending she doesn't know him. Hanta and Eijiro trail after, less chaotic but equally sleep-flattened.

The professor doesn't pause. Doesn't even glance up. Just gestures vaguely toward the back of the room and says, "Welcome, survivors of the morning commute. Please, try not to trip over your egos on the way in."

Mina grins and leans across me without whispering at all. "You missed the part where he threatened to quit and become a park ranger."

Eijiro chokes on a laugh. "Damn. Again?"

"Yep. Said it was either that or alpaca farming. He sounded serious this time."

"I always sound serious," the professor calls from the front, not looking up from his tablet. "But if you people continue to treat 8 a.m. like it's a personal vendetta, I will abandon academia and go live amongst the moss."

Denki salutes him as he slides into the seat next to Hanta. "Godspeed, Professor Mogurt."

"That is not my name," he says flatly, tapping his stylus like he's considering throwing it.

Mina's practically glowing. "He's already in rare form. This is gonna be a good one."

Eijiro slips into the seat beside her and drops his bag to the floor with a thud. "Did we miss anything important?"

"Only his resignation speech," I deadpan.

Hanta folds into the seat beside me a second later, notebook in hand and hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his arms. His leg bumps mine as he sits, warm and solid, and he doesn't shift away.

"Morning," he says under his breath, voice pitched just for me.

"Barely," I mumble back.

He smirks, soft and easy, and I glance away first.

Denki is already lounging like he's in a recliner, and Kyoka drops into the last open seat beside him, all quiet efficiency. She slides her coffee into the cupholder and doesn't say a word. Just flips open her notes and starts highlighting like she's been here for hours.

It's only the third time we've all ended up in a row like this. Not quite habit yet. Not automatic. But there's something about it that's starting to settle. Like maybe it could be routine. If we let it.

Up front, the professor launches into a story about how his college roommate once microwaved a spoon and set off the fire alarm during midterms.

And somehow, against all odds, the lecture begins. “Let's begin by addressing the true tragedy of the day: my barista spelled my name Mogurt. Again. That's twice this semester. I'm starting to think it's a cry for help."

Mina leans forward across Kyoka's desk. "It's a legacy name now. You should embrace it."

"I do," he says solemnly, "but only as a warning."

The room chuckles, and Hanta leans over, whispering just loud enough for me to hear, "Mogurt sounds like a yogurt that causes emotional damage."

I snort into my sleeve, and Kyoka gives us both a sideways look.

The projector flickers on with a mild wheeze. Lecture 11: Episodic vs Semantic Memory—and the professor gestures toward it like he's doing a TED Talk. "Today we'll be discussing the real reason you remember every line from that embarrassing cartoon you loved as a kid, but not where you put your ID last night."

Denki raises his hand. "Is that technically a trauma response?"

"Only if the cartoon was cursed," the professor deadpans, already swiping to the next slide.

Kyoka flips open her notebook. "So that's a yes."

Eijiro laughs under his breath, scribbling something down.

Beside me, Hanta's already started writing directly on my page. A tiny, looping margin note about "semantic memory = filing cabinet of doom." I don't stop him.

I just shift the notebook slightly closer, and let the lecture carry on.

Halfway through the lecture, Mina leans across the row, whispering loud enough that I brace for a pen to the forehead.

"I should've brought a snack," she mutters. "This guy's voice is literally a lullaby."

I press a hand to my mouth to stifle the laugh, shoulders shaking just a little. Mina's right. The professor's pacing is smooth enough to feel like a bedtime story, and the dim lighting isn't helping.

Kyoka doesn't even turn toward her. Just raises a brow and mutters, "Then pay attention harder."

Beside me, Hanta lets out a quiet huff of laughter, low and warm, just for me. I glance sideways and catch the lazy curve of his grin before he tilts his head back toward his notes like nothing happened.

The rest of the lecture drags in that slow, familiar rhythm. Scribbled definitions. A few halfhearted doodles. Denki nearly drops his pen twice, and Eijiro pokes him in the ribs on the second offense. Mina stretches too far and jabs her elbow straight into Eijiro's side, prompting a dramatic gasp and whispered "How could you—" like she's just betrayed him in battle.

A few rows down, someone coughs like they're dying. Someone else sneezes six times in a row. The fluorescent lights flicker once, and I silently bet myself five bucks that none of us remember a word of this by the time we reach our solo classes.

But then, like a divine gift, the professor pauses mid-slide and checks the clock on the wall. He makes a face, the kind that suggests he's either about to cancel the rest of the lecture or start a pop quiz.

Instead, he sighs.

"Well. This has been a valiant attempt at learning, but I can see the fog rolling in behind your eyes. Let's call it here before someone collapses. You're free to go."

There's a beat of stunned silence. And then chaos.

The scrape of chairs is instant and thunderous. Bags zip closed, notebooks vanish into backpacks, and the low murmur of conversation floods the room like a rising tide.

Mina shoots upright with both arms in the air like she's just won something. "Oh, thank god."

Kyoka stands with considerably less drama. "This man just gave us the rarest gift of all. Time."

"One down, three to go," Mina sighs, rolling her shoulders. "I need food or I'll die."

Outside, the air's crisp with leftover morning chill, but the sun's climbing higher now, warm enough to soak into the our backs as we move together toward the quad. The crowd thickens near the lecture hall doors, students peeling off in every direction, and our group instinctively clusters together like orbiting planets.

Eijiro slings his bag over one shoulder and throws a grin to the rest of us. "Dining hall?"

Mina loops her arm through mine before I can answer, already tugging me forward like she's afraid I'll vanish. "Duh. Early dismissal means actual food. This never happens."

"I don't trust it," Denki says, trailing behind with his coffee cup still half-full. "It's a trap. He's gonna chase us out with a quiz later."

"You don't go to office hours," Kyoka points out. "You don't go any hours."

Denki beams. "Exactly. He can't catch me."

We weave through the edge of the crowd, the six of us falling into that easy pace that only comes with repetition. Like we've done this a hundred times before, even if we haven't. Kyoka's head tilts toward Mina every so often as they trade quiet side comments. Eijiro's halfway through a story about his roommate freshman year and something involving a blender. Denki interrupts every other sentence.

Hanta stays close on my other side, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, walking with that slow, easy confidence he always seems to carry. His arm brushes mine now and then, a quiet pressure that never lingers long enough to count as on purpose. Every so often, he leans down just a little to say something meant only for me.

"That guy's wearing a cape," he murmurs, nodding toward a student speed-walking in full renaissance garb like it's no big deal.

"Do you think he's late for a duel?" I whisper back.

"Or maybe a brunch." Hanta shrugs. "I support both."

A few steps later, he points out a flyer taped crooked on the library wall that reads "Join Our Silent Screaming Club—Tuesdays at 8". He doesn't comment. Just quirks a brow and gives me a look like well?

I smile, even as I shake my head.

Behind us, Denki tries to balance his empty coffee cup on Kyoka's head. She doesn't even flinch, just side-eyes him hard enough to freeze a man in his tracks. Mina watches it happen with a smirk.

The breeze picks up as we cross the quad. It tugs gently at the hem of my hoodie, whips through Hanta's hair, and carries with it the faint scent of his cologne.

He doesn't say anything for a moment.

Just walks.

Close, steady.

Like he's done this a hundred times, too.

The dining hall is already packed when we step inside. A steady hum of trays clattering, shoes squeaking, silverware scraping against plates, and voices layered into an echo that bounces up toward the high ceilings. The air smells like fryer grease, overbrewed coffee, and something vaguely sweet that might be dessert or just wishful thinking.

Mina inhales dramatically. "Mmm. Eau de campus dining."

I nudge her with my elbow. "Gourmet."

Ahead of us, the line loops back and forth like a ride queue at a theme park. Denki groans out loud. "There's no way this many people are willingly here."

Kyoka raises an eyebrow. "You're here."

"I'm a victim of peer pressure," he says solemnly.

"Keep talking like that and you're a victim of starvation," Eijiro mutters, steering him forward.

We shuffle along slowly, trays in hand, making judgment calls on mystery entrees and half-wilted salads. Someone ahead of us fumbles and nearly spills soup all over their wrist. Denki makes a noise like he's been personally wounded. Mina reaches for a tray and tests its balance like she's lifting free weights.

"Okay, I'm calling it now," she says. "This is a tater tot day. I can feel it."

It's not. But we collect what we can. Fries, sandwiches, a suspiciously orange pasta, something labeled "strawberry surprise". _nd navigate toward one of the long communal tables near the windows.

We squeeze in wherever there's room, trays clattering as we shift and bump elbows. Mina wedges herself at the end and immediately leans over to steal a fry from Denki before she's even settled.

"Unbelievable," he gasps, snatching his tray closer. "That was the best one!"

"You can't tell which fry is the best," Kyoka deadpans without even looking up.

"Yes, you can," Denki insists. "It's always the longest one. It has the most crunch area."

Eijiro snorts into his drink. "Bro, you sound like you've done a full TED Talk on this."

"I could," Denki says seriously. "Fries: A Love Story."

Hanta huffs a soft laugh. "He's not wrong, though. Long ones are better."

"You're all deranged," I say, but I steal one of Mina's anyway.

The conversation spirals, like it always does. Within minutes, we're deep in the trenches of cafeteria hot takes. What constitutes a superior dorm snack, whether breakfast-for-dinner should be illegal, the crimes of cold scrambled eggs.

Mina's playing hype girl, tossing in wild opinions just to start fights. Kyoka counters with sniper-precise sarcasm, never looking up from her tray. Denki gets roasted every other sentence, and Eijiro grins through all of it like he was built for this.

Every now and then, I just sit back and let it all wash over me. The noise, the laughter, the way this table feels like a little carved-out space in the middle of campus chaos. I don't feel like an outsider here. Not anymore.

Beside me, Hanta eats slowly. He hasn't said much, not compared to the others, but he smiles when I laugh, throws in quiet commentary when Denki goes off the rails, and nudges the ketchup my way without me asking.

It's only been four days since we officially met. Saturday feels both too recent and weirdly far away, like I've known him just long enough to forget how new this is. He doesn't push, not with words, not with space. But he sits close. Our arms brush now and then, and neither of us moves. He catches my eye once, says something low and harmless about Denki trying to weaponize a breadstick, and I laugh without meaning to.

He watches that, I think. Not the breadstick. Me.

I don't quite know what to do with that yet.

Lunch stretches on until the trays are half empty and the stories start looping. Mina leans back in her chair with a dramatic sigh, hands over her stomach.

"Okay," she groans. "I'm officially too full to move. Someone roll me to class."

Eijiro grins and flexes one arm. "I got you."

Kyoka mutters, "Please don't," but there's a small smile tugging at her mouth.

Denki pokes at the last fry on his plate like it betrayed him.

Hanta stands and slides his tray aside. Then, soft, he glances down at me. "Want help carrying yours?"

It's casual. Easy. No pressure.

Still, I feel it.

I blink, then nod. "Yeah. Thanks."

He smiles, warm and a little surprised, and takes my tray without waiting for me to hand it over.

Not bold. Just... steady. Quiet. Like he's figuring out the shape of the space I take up. And maybe deciding he likes the view.

The rest of the afternoon drags.

Each class blurs into the next in a haze of tired blinking and the scratch of my pen. I switch notebooks twice. The first room is freezing. Too much air conditioning, not enough sunlight. And I spend the whole class huddled in my hoodie, trying to stay awake as the professor reads word-for-word off their slides.

The second class is warmer, but it's cramped and full, and I have to sit between two people who both type like they're trying to break their keyboards.

By the time the third one starts, I've already checked the clock twice before the professor even finishes attendance. The lecture moves slow, my notes get messier, and the ache in my wrist sets in for real.

Outside the window, the shadows shift across the lawn. Golden sunlight filters through the trees like the day is slipping out from under me while I'm still stuck taking bullet points.

When the final class ends, I linger for a second. Just long enough to savor the click of my pen and the relief of standing up. My back pops. My neck aches. My entire body protests as I swing my bag over one shoulder and head for the nearest exit.

The late afternoon air is warm against my face when I push open the door. Crisp, but not cold yet. A breeze drags through the courtyard, carrying the scent of grass and something sharp. Maybe a pine candle from one of the vendor tables that set up on Wednesdays.

I barely make it five steps before Mina intercepts me.

She's leaning against the brick wall just off to the side of the building, scrolling through her phone with one boot propped against the concrete. Her head pops up the second I appear.

"There you are," she says, like I'm late for something. "Took you long enough."

I blink. "You've been waiting?"

She pockets her phone with a shrug, already straightening. "Obviously. What, you thought I'd let you ghost us again?"

I squint at her. "I wasn't gonna ghost—"

She hooks her arm through mine before I can finish. "Sure you weren't."

I let out a sigh as she steers me off the path, cutting toward the quad. "I was going home. Like a responsible person. You know, to study."

She scoffs. "You were going home to rot in bed and scroll until dinner."

My silence doesn't exactly help my case.

Mina grins like she's won a prize. "Exactly. That's why we're going to the guys' place. Surprise group study night."

I freeze mid-step. "Mina—"

"Don't even start." She tugs me forward without mercy. "You always dip when we're over there. So I didn't tell you ahead of time."

"You tricked me," I hiss, but she's already guiding me across the grass like I've agreed to this.

"I guided you," she says sweetly. "It's different."

I shake my head in disbelief. "You're evil."

"You'll thank me when you actually get stuff done."

We reach the edge of the quad just as the breeze picks up again, rustling the trees overhead. In the distance, I spot the others.

Eijiro and Hanta are posted up near the bike racks, both leaning against the railing. Denki's clearly just said something ridiculous. Eijiro's doubled over laughing, and Hanta's shaking his head with a crooked smile like he's trying not to let it land. Kyoka stands a few feet away, arms crossed and expression flat, but even she doesn't look too annoyed. Her headphones are around her neck. She's probably been listening the whole time.

Mina lifts her free hand and waves like she hasn't just committed a minor betrayal. "Hey!"

They glance over. Eijiro waves back enthusiastically. Denki throws up both arms like we've just announced our arrival on stage.

But it's Hanta who notices me first.

His eyes catch on mine and stay there.

He grins, a little crooked, a little amused, and lifts his brows like he's surprised I'm actually here.

"You made it?" he calls out as we approach. "Damn. Wasn't sure you were real outside of psych lecture."

I roll my eyes, but I can't help the corner of my mouth from tugging upward. "It's Wednesday, not a full moon. Consider yourself lucky."

He chuckles under his breath. "Yeah, lucky's one word for it."

The comment's easy. Playful but quiet. There's a flicker of something in his expression when I get closer, like he's still trying to figure out the edges of whatever this dynamic is. He's not bold, not yet. Just steady. Curious. Testing the water like he's half-expecting me to drift.

But I don't.

Mina squeezes my arm with theatrical satisfaction. "See? Told you I'd drag her here."

"Dragging's generous," I mutter.

"You walked willingly once I mentioned snacks."

"No, you threatened me with public accountability."

"Same thing," she chirps, already letting go and speeding ahead toward the group.

I hang back just a second longer, enough for Hanta to glance at me again, his smile softening just slightly.

"Good to see you again," he says.

I nod once. "You too."

And then we follow the others across the lawn.

Side by side, but not quite touching. Close enough to notice when his hoodie sleeve brushes mine.

Close enough that I don't move away.

Chapter Text

The six of us fall into step, heading off campus toward the street that leads to the boys' house. The sidewalks are crowded with the usual late-afternoon shuffle. Students with earbuds in, bikes weaving between clusters of friends, the occasional backpacked blur sprinting for the bus. The air smells like roasted coffee from the corner café, warm and grounding, layered with the crisp bite of autumn.

Mina jumps into conversation like she's been waiting for the cue. "Okay, so—tell me why this guy in my class just poured his entire iced chai onto his laptop and then yelled like it betrayed him."

Denki lets out a mock gasp. "Tragic betrayal. Cold-blooded."

Kyoka doesn't miss a beat. "Laptop's got trauma now."

Eijiro laughs like it's the funniest thing he's heard all day. "Was it okay?"

"Absolutely not," Mina says cheerfully. "It made a noise. Like a death rattle."

While they spiral, I drift a little closer to Hanta. Not deliberately, but not avoiding it either. Not enough to draw attention, just enough that I catch it again when the wind shifts: that faint scent of his cologne. Peppermint and something deeper, warmer. The kind of smell that sticks without trying to.

He doesn't say anything. Just flicks a glance down, like he noticed, but doesn't plan on making a big deal out of it.

His shoulder brushes mine when we turn the corner. It's casual. Probably an accident. Still, the contact lingers longer in my head than it should.

Mina peeks back at us, subtle as a hammer, her grin wide and unreadable. She shifts ahead to walk next to Kyoka instead, which feels intentional. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to.

The sun's lower by the time we cut through the side street, the buzz of campus fading behind us. A dog barks somewhere behind a fence. Leaves crunch under our shoes. The porch light clicks on ahead like it's been expecting us.

"Home sweet home," Hanta says as he unlocks the gate, voice theatrical.

The house smells faintly like detergent and something fried. The kind of place that's clean enough but lived-in, comfortably chaotic. Shoes are piled by the door, jackets hung half-on the banister, and at least one pair of socks abandoned in the corner like a crime scene.

Eijiro kicks the door shut behind us and calls, "Make yourselves at home!"

Mina's already throwing her backpack at the couch. "I call the left cushion."

"You always do," Kyoka mutters, settling on the rug with a notebook in her lap.

Denki flops beside her like his bones gave up. "I'm ready to learn through osmosis."

"You barely learn through actual studying," Kyoka says.

"I contain multitudes."

Eijiro disappears into the kitchen. "Snacks incoming!"

"Chips!" Mina shouts after him.

"Fruit," Kyoka mutters, flipping open her notes.

Hanta hangs back for a second before sinking onto the couch. He glances up at me, then taps the cushion next to him. "There's room."

It's said casually. Not a dare, not flirtation. Just a gentle offer with that easy grin.

I sit, careful not to brush too close, though the warmth of him is still there. And so is the peppermint and amber, closer now, almost dizzying in how subtle it is. I keep my eyes on my notebook, like that'll help.

Eijiro returns with an armful of snacks and drops them on the table like treasure. "Survival fuel."

Mina immediately grabs a bag and starts quizzing us all like she's hosting a game show. "Okay. First question. What's the difference between classical and operant conditioning—Denki, stop pretending you're dead."

"Sorry," Denki groans, limp on the carpet. "That one sounded hard."

"You got this wrong yesterday," Kyoka says without looking up. "And the day before."

"Consistency is key."

Eijiro's already munching loudly, reaching across the table for more chips with one hand while trying to steady his notes with the other. Crumbs fly. Mina's voice climbs over everyone else's. Kyoka sighs dramatically. Denki starts humming the Jeopardy theme. And beside me, Hanta chuckles quietly like he's taking it all in.

It's loud. A little overwhelming. And... kind of good.

Warmth creeps in where the nerves used to be.

Hanta actually works, to my surprise. Neat handwriting, eyes skimming the textbook like he actually knows what he's doing. Every so often, he tilts his notebook my way, subtle and unspoken, letting me copy a definition or catch a date I missed. He never calls attention to it. No smug look, no teasing. Just quietly helpful in a way that makes it hard to look away.

His elbow bumps mine when he shifts forward to reach the chip bag, and neither of us moves for a second too long. It's casual, probably accidental, but the warmth of that brief contact sinks in deeper than I want it to.

I go back to my notes, frown at the page.

He notices. Without comment, he nudges his textbook closer, just within reach.

"Thanks," I murmur, and I think I catch the edge of a smile before he turns back to his own page.

It's somewhere around the second worksheet that the air starts to feel colder. Or maybe I just notice it more now that I've stopped moving.

The overhead fan whirs, pushing down chilled air that settles along the back of my neck. I rub my hands together quietly under the table, trying not to draw attention to it, and tuck my knees a little closer to my chest. The sleeves of my shirt don't help. Too thin, not meant for sitting still this long.

I try to shake it off, refocus on the material, but I must curl inward too noticeably because Hanta glances sideways again.

"You good?" he asks, low.

I nod quickly, even if it's not convincing. "Yeah. Just cold."

His response is immediate, easy. Like it was already decided.

He shrugs out of his hoodie without missing a beat, holding it out with one hand.

"Here. You'll concentrate better if you're not freezing."

I blink. "You sure?"

"Course." He grins, soft and lopsided. "I run hot anyway."

I hesitate for a second longer, but the chill wins. When I pull the hoodie on, it's still warm. Like the steady way he's been this whole afternoon.

I don't say thank you right away. Just let it settle around me like a shield, sleeves falling over my hands. I think he knows anyway.

"Oi. Idiots."

Bakugo's voice cuts through the quiet like a blade.

He stomps in without ceremony, shoes loud against the floor, dropping his keys on the counter with a metallic clatter that makes Mina flinch just slightly. He doesn't look at any of us. Doesn't say hi. Just beelines for the kitchen, yanks open two cabinets and the fridge like they've personally offended him.

A moment later, he reappears with a glass of water and a glare, leaning against the doorway like he owns the place. His eyes sweep across the disaster zone we've created. Open textbooks, snack bags, crumpled notes, half a spilled drink, and Denki halfway slumped over the coffee table in a dramatic sprawl.

Bakugo takes it all in and exhales through his nose.

"The hell is this?"

"Study group," Mina chirps brightly from her corner of the couch, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Bakugo squints at the mess again. "Looks more like a damn daycare."

He takes a long sip of water, still eyeing the room like we're an infestation.

Denki, unfazed, points at him with a chip. "You wanna join?"

Bakugo doesn't even dignify that with a full answer. Just mutters, "Pass," under his breath, and then his gaze flicks toward me.

Only for a second, but it's sharp.

Like he's already decided I'm the most annoying thing in the room, and that's saying something.

Then he turns to Hanta.

"Surprised you're not drooling on the damn couch like dumbass over there," he says, jerking his chin at Denki.

Hanta doesn't look up from his notes. "Some of us actually retain information without short-circuiting halfway through."

Mina snorts. Denki throws a chip at Hanta's head.

I let out a quiet laugh, quick and unexpected.

Bakugo catches it immediately.

His attention snaps back to me, narrow-eyed. Like he didn't realize I could make a sound that wasn't obnoxious. Like I've somehow inserted myself into a conversation I wasn't invited to.

His expression twists. Not confused, just annoyed.

"What about you, huh?" he asks, tone dry and pointed. "Actually learning something, or just here for the snacks?"

I blink at him. "Seriously?"

He shrugs like yeah, seriously, then takes another sip of water and waits.

Heat prickles under my skin. "I'm working," I snap. Sharper than I mean to, but I don't walk it back.

Bakugo lifts a brow like my tone confirmed his theory. "Could've fooled me."

He doesn't even sound mad. Just smug, like he already decided I'm useless and now I'm just proving his point in real time.

Mina lets out a soft "oof," under her breath.

Hanta's eyes flick briefly between us, then back to his textbook like he's not about to watch this play out for entertainment.

Bakugo doesn't push further, but the damage is done. He lingers for another beat, then rolls his eyes and turns away.

"Try not to burn the place down," he mutters, disappearing back into the kitchen.

Mina's already grinning when I glance her way.

"Oh no," she says gleefully, "that was fun."

I groan and bury my face in Hanta's hoodie.

The study session slowly unravels. Notes scatter, pens end up buried in couch cushions, and half-empty snack bags litter the coffee table. Mina's the first to tap out, flopping sideways across the cushions with her head in Eijiro's lap and sighing dramatically, "I am academically deceased."

Denki's already collapsed on the rug, one arm slung over his eyes like he's posing for a tragic oil painting. Kyoka nudges him with her foot. "Move. You're covering the cheat sheet."

He groans something that might be English. No one bothers translating.

Eijiro's trying to keep the momentum alive, bless him. His voice is too loud for how late it's gotten, a mix of encouragement and sheer willpower. "Come on, just this last section! Then we can actually say we tried."

I try. I really do. But my focus keeps drifting.

Hanta leans beside me on the couch, his pen tapping rhythmically against his notebook. When he shifts to grab another snack, his arm brushes mine. Warm. Unintentional. But it lingers just a second longer than it needs to, and I feel it through the sleeve of my hoodie. The peppermint sharpness of his cologne mixes with something softer, more grounding, and suddenly, whatever problem I was solving is gone.

"You zoning out again?" he murmurs.

I blink. Caught. I snap my notebook shut a little too quickly. "No. Just... tired."

He smirks like he doesn't believe me, but lets it go. Stretches his legs out, relaxed. His knee bumps mine on the way down. I ignore it. Or try to.

Across the room, the armchair creaks.

"Jesus," Bakugo mutters, voice flat. "You all look like you've been studying for days."

I hadn't even noticed him settle in. He's been silent most of the night, tucked into the corner like a stormcloud with arms crossed, only half-engaged. The others didn't question it when he wandered in late and dropped into the chair without a word. No one really knows how to act around him yet. Not completely.

Kyoka doesn't even glance over. "We have been studying for hours."

"You've been whining for hours," he corrects, gaze flicking lazily around the room. "There's a difference."

Eijiro tries to keep it light. "Don't be like that, man."

Bakugo doesn't answer. His eyes land on me instead, and something shifts. The air tightens, sharpens.

"You," he says, like it's an accusation. "You even write anything down?"

The heat creeps up my spine. "I took notes," I shoot back, sharper than I mean to.

He hums, low and unimpressed. "Sure. If doodling your name in bubble letters counts."

I sit up straighter. "Maybe if you'd contributed anything useful, we wouldn't be crawling toward burnout."

That gets a reaction. His brows twitch, not quite a frown, not quite a smile. Something in between. "Didn't realize you were expecting help."

"I wasn't."

"Good. Would've been disappointed."

The room stalls. Not frozen, exactly, just... unsure. Like no one's certain if they should step in. Mina lifts her head a few inches, eyes bouncing between us. Even Denki lifts his arm off his face.

Bakugo leans forward slowly, elbows on his knees, eyes still locked on mine. "Didn't realize you got so defensive over your glitter pens."

Before I can bite back, Hanta shifts beside me.

"Alright," he says, voice calm but firm. "Maybe chill out, man. We're all tired."

Bakugo doesn't look away at first. But eventually, he leans back again, expression unreadable. Arms crossed. Jaw tight.

He doesn't say anything else.

The tension hangs for a beat too long before Mina exhales and lets her head fall back again. "God. You two are like gasoline and fire."

Kyoka mutters, "More like ego and caffeine."

The room starts breathing again. Quietly. Carefully.

I pick my notebook back up. Not because I'm going to use it, but because I need something to do with my hands.

Hanta nudges his knee against mine again. Smaller this time. I let it stay.

The next few minutes are all scratchy pens and rustling pages. Or at least, they're supposed to be. Kyoka's the only one still actually writing anything down, her headphones looped around her neck like she's preparing to weaponize them the second Denki tries to cheat again.

Eijiro's talking to himself as he flips through a textbook, muttering something about neurotransmitters and dopamine receptors like saying it out loud might tattoo it onto his brain.

Denki reaches toward the snacks again, blindly, like he doesn't even care what he grabs, and ends up with a fistful of pencil shavings from the sharpener cup.

Kyoka doesn't look up. "I'm not even mad. That's what you get."

"Why was that even on the table?" he whines, flicking his hand like it's contaminated. "This is a hostile work environment."

"You're a hostile work environment," Mina mumbles, still face-down in Eijiro's hoodie like it's the only thing tethering her to the mortal plane.

The sharp scrape of Bakugo's chair sounds again, but he doesn't leave. Just adjusts. Shifts. Leans his head back like the ceiling's personally offended him.

No one says anything, and he doesn't offer more. It's almost easy to pretend he's not listening. Except he definitely is.

"You think we'll actually pass this exam?" I ask, mostly to the room, not expecting a real answer.

Hanta hums beside me. "You will."

I glance over, surprised. "That confident in me, huh?"

"Nah," he says with a lazy grin, "just more confident in my ability to copy your answers."

That earns a weak laugh out of me. Real, if a little tired. I nudge him with my shoulder and go back to flipping through my notebook.

Somewhere across the room, Bakugo exhales hard through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

"God, I need caffeine," Mina groans suddenly, lifting her head. "Kyoka, give me the last energy drink."

"There is no last energy drink," Kyoka says. "There's only the memory of what once was."

"That was poetic and cruel," Mina mutters, collapsing again.

Eijiro perks up. "We could make coffee."

"We're out," Hanta says.

Denki gasps like he's been stabbed. "You mean to tell me we have a four-pound bag of gummy worms but no caffeine?"

"Gummies last longer," Mina mumbles.

"We are the worst-prepared study group in the world," I sigh.

"Correction," Kyoka says, flipping a page. "You're the worst-prepared. I brought highlighters."

I groan dramatically. "Traitor."

She smirks.

Beside me, Hanta stretches, arms overhead, shirt riding up just enough to expose a sliver of skin before he drops them again with a sigh. "Okay. One more practice quiz. Let's go."

"You're a menace," Denki groans.

"Question one," Hanta reads. "What is the primary function of the limbic system?"

Mina raises a hand like she's in class. "To make me cry during exam week."

"Incorrect," he says smoothly. "But relatable."

"Emotional regulation," I mutter. "Memory and stuff. Right?"

He shoots me finger guns. "We have a winner."

"Winner gets to take a nap," I declare, flopping against the cushions.

Kyoka snorts. "You've been dreaming about that nap since chapter three."

"Chapter two," I correct, eyes closed.

For a while, the quiz trickles on. Hanta tossing out questions with increasing chaos, the group answering with decreasing accuracy. Denki somehow gets one right and immediately demands a celebratory gummy worm tower, which Mina tries to construct on his forehead while he lies still like a willing science experiment.

Through it all, Bakugo stays quiet.

Not fully withdrawn, not scowling either, just there. Present in a way that's hard to pin down. His eyes flick between speakers, unreadable as always. Like he's waiting for a reason to comment. Waiting for someone to say something stupid enough to deserve it.

So when Denki tries to justify a wrong answer by saying, "The hippocampus sounds like a zoo, so obviously it's related to elephants," Bakugo finally speaks.

"Holy shit."

Denki grins. "See? You're invested now."

Bakugo glares. "I'm invested in never hearing that sentence again."

"Too late. It's seared into your memory." Denki points triumphantly. "Which is ironic. Because the hippocampus is—"

"Responsible for memory," Kyoka finishes before he can.

"Exactly!" Denki beams. "See, it worked."

"I hate all of you," Bakugo mutters. No one believes him.

The moment breaks the last of the tension.

Eijiro reaches over Mina to grab his notes again. Kyoka starts highlighting like she's training for a competitive league. Denki keeps begging for flashcards with fun facts. And the study session limps forward. Messy, chaotic, but still moving.

Beside me, Hanta nudges his knee against mine again. Steady. Comfortable.

I don't pull away.

And this time, Bakugo doesn't say a thing.

Eijiro clears his throat like he's trying to restart the engine. "Okay. Last section. Let's finish strong."

Mina groans from the couch. "Define strong."

"Define finish," Denki adds, still sprawled on the rug, but at least he's holding a highlighter now. Upside down.

Kyoka grabs a marker from the coffee table and waves it threateningly. "I swear to god, Denki, if you give up now, I'm telling your mom."

"She likes you more than me," he mumbles into the carpet.

"Exactly," she deadpans.

I sink a little deeper into the cushions, flipping through my notes even though the words are blurring. The longer the night stretches, the harder it is to keep track of what we've actually accomplished. But no one's really willing to be the one who calls it. Not yet.

Beside me, Hanta leans over to scribble something across the top of my page. I glance down.

This question again. You got it this time.

He doesn't say it out loud, just gives me a knowing look and hands me the pen. Something about the quiet support of it makes the edges of my frustration ease a little.

I sigh and take the pen, rewriting the answer.

Across the coffee table, Mina's half-watching us now, head still in Eijiro's lap. "If I pass this final, I'm legally owed a parade. Like. A literal marching band. Confetti. Doves."

"You're allergic to birds," Eijiro says, amused.

"Then maybe I'll just take Denki in a sparkly cape."

Denki lifts his hand weakly. "I'd allow it."

Bakugo's voice cuts through the noise again, flat and irritated. "Can you all shut up and finish the worksheet?"

Mina throws a popcorn kernel at him. "You don't even go here."

"Different building," he mutters.

Kyoka doesn't miss a beat. "Then why are you still here?"

He shrugs. Doesn't answer. Just leans back in the chair like it'd take too much energy to leave.

"Your presence is confusing," Denki says, upside down on the rug. "Mysterious. Possibly romantic."

Bakugo ignores him. "Your professor's a damn lunatic, by the way."

That makes me pause. "You know him?"

He snorts. "Mine does."

I blink. "Wait—seriously?"

"Yeah. Says yours once brought a penguin slide to a midterm review."

There's a beat of stunned silence.

"I knew it," Mina whispers reverently.

Eijiro grins. "So even your prof talks shit about us?"

Bakugo doesn't confirm or deny. Just sips his water like he's above it all.

Kyoka sighs. "He's not wrong."

I eye him. "Still doesn't explain why you're here."

His eyes flick toward me. "Snacks."

Mina throws another kernel. "Just say you missed us, coward."

He doesn't say anything.

But he doesn't leave, either.

The marker squeaks as Eijiro underlines something on the whiteboard — a last-ditch attempt to keep us on track. Mina's curled up sideways on the couch like she's melting. Denki's sprawled on the rug, feet twitching every few seconds like he's dreaming of escape. Kyoka's half-asleep against the arm of the chair, mouthing terms to herself with the dead-eyed look of someone who's memorized too much Freud for one night.

I'm trying to focus.

Really.

But Hanta keeps tapping his pen. And I know he's not doing it on purpose, but it's enough to grate, especially with him across the room.

Bakugo hasn't moved since he sat down. Just sat down with his arms crossed like someone dared him to act interested and he decided losing was better. He hasn't said a word in a while.

Until now.

"You're wrong," he mutters.

I look up. "Excuse me?"

He nods toward my notebook. "The cognitive distortion list. You doubled up."

I glance down. Sure enough, I wrote catastrophizing twice. "Seriously?"

"You're not even listening to yourself."

"Because I've been doing everything else," I snap. "Unlike you, who showed up just to sulk in the corner."

He doesn't rise to it. Doesn't even blink.

"Not my fault you can't keep your notes straight."

"You're not even in our class."

"Don't need to be. It's basic shit."

My jaw tightens. "You could at least pretend to be useful."

Bakugo shrugs, eyes flicking back to the whiteboard. "Could. Won't."

Kyoka exhales slowly, like she's watching two dogs square up in a parking lot. "You two are exhausting."

Eijiro, ever the peacekeeper, tries to wave it off. "Okay, okay, it's not a big deal—"

But Bakugo doesn't stop. He turns back to me, mouth pulled into something too close to a smirk.

"Maybe if you stopped trying to psychoanalyze everyone else in class, you'd catch your own mistakes."

The blood in my face goes hot.

"And maybe if you stopped showing up just to breathe loud and look superior, you'd actually learn something."

Hanta, still beside me, doesn't look up. "Do I need to referee this or just break out the popcorn?"

Mina lifts her head from Eijiro's lap, eyes half-lidded. "Just let them fistfight already. Maybe it'll be therapeutic."

Denki groans from the floor. "I will fail this final if they keep flirting like this."

"We're not flirting," I snap, at the exact same time Bakugo mutters, "Don't flatter yourself."

Silence.

Kyoka slaps a textbook over her face.

"I hate all of you," she says, muffled.

I sink back into the couch. My pulse is racing, my notes are useless, and my pen is nowhere to be found.

Bakugo shifts in his chair. Doesn't say anything else. Just stares.

Hanta leans close enough to bump my shoulder. "You okay?"

I nod. Lie. "Peachy."

He chuckles quietly and reaches to grab the highlighter I dropped somewhere in the chaos. "Thought so."

Bakugo doesn't say anything else after that last jab. Just leans back in his seat like he's already done with the conversation. Like the whole thing bored him from the start.

The silence that follows isn't heavy. It's just... uncomfortable.

No one really moves.

Kyoka flips a page in her notebook just for something to do. Denki sighs dramatically and lets his head roll to the side, cheek squishing against the rug. Mina picks at the edge of a granola bar wrapper, eyes flicking between me and Bakugo like she's debating whether or not to say something snarky and ultimately deciding against it.

Hanta shifts next to me. His shoulder brushes mine again, but this time it feels like an anchor, quiet, steady. He doesn't say anything. Just gives me the space to either cool off or speak up first.

I don't do either.

I grip my pen a little too tightly and stare at the same line in my notes for way too long. Cognitive distortions. Catastrophizing. Black-and-white thinking. Clearly, whoever wrote this chapter had been in a study session with Bakugo before.

Mina finally clears her throat. "Sooooo," she says slowly, drawing the word out like taffy, "how 'bout that fun little discussion on Freud earlier? Nothing says quality education like unresolved Oedipal complexes."

Denki groans without lifting his face. "Please let me die."

"Seconded," Kyoka mutters.

Still, no one laughs. Not really.

Bakugo picks at a loose thread on the edge of his hoodie, eyes unfocused, jaw set. He's back in that closed-off mode again. Not angry. Not sulking, either. Just... unreadable. Like he's already somewhere else.

And honestly, I'm sick of trying to figure out where that is.

I glance down at my notes, then at the clock. We've been at this for hours.

It feels like longer.

Eijiro notices it too.

"Alright!" he says, clapping his hands once. "That's enough for tonight. Everyone pack it up."

The room shifts. Rustling pages, yawns, the scrape of someone's highlighter sliding into a bag. Denki jokes about flunking the quiz with flair, and it earns a few tired chuckles, but my head's somewhere else.

I shut my notebook with a little more force than necessary.

Hanta catches the sound. His head tilts toward me, brows lifted. "You good?"

"I'm fine," I say, too fast, too flat. My fingers still grip the notebook like it said something offensive.

His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. More like quiet amusement. Like he's been watching me lose patience for the last hour and was just waiting for the final straw.

"You sure? 'Cause you've had murder in your eyes since—"

A loud, theatrical scoff cuts him off.

"Jesus," Bakugo mutters from across the room. "Can you two save the melodrama for after you leave?"

I blink, turning toward him. He's still planted in the armchair, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Like our existence is the personal inconvenience he can't get rid of.

"Didn't realize a conversation I wasn't even having with you was such a burden," I snap.

He huffs, unimpressed. "You've been a burden since you walked in. Might as well stay consistent."

The words hit harder than they should. Not because they're clever, they're not, but because he means them. No smirk. No teasing edge. Just flat-out irritation, like the sight of me physically drains his will to live.

Hanta shifts beside me, posture stiffening. I feel it, the subtle change, like he's ready to say something, but I beat him to it.

"Mina," I say, already standing. "Let's go."

She grabs her stuff without a word, but her gaze flicks between me and Bakugo like she's watching a grenade roll across the carpet.

We make a round of half-hearted goodbyes. Kyoka waves, Denki mumbles something from the floor, Eijiro tries for a smile. Qnd then we step out into the night.

Cool air rushes in like a reset button, but it doesn't help. My thoughts are still too loud.

Mina loops her arm through mine as we walk. "Okay," she says under her breath, dragging the word out. "What the hell was that?"

"Nothing," I mutter.

"Mm. Sure," she says, voice dry as bone. "Totally normal way to look at someone like you'd happily set them on fire."

I don't answer.

And she doesn't push.

Not yet.

The walk back to our apartment is quieter than the way out. The air's cooled since earlier, calm and heavy with the scent of damp pavement. Hanta strolls beside us like there's nowhere else he needs to be, steps unhurried.

Mina bumps his arm halfway down the block. "You really didn't have to walk us all the way back, you know. We're big girls."

He shrugs without looking at her. "Maybe. But one of you almost walked into a bike lane arguing about Pavlov, and I'm not taking chances."

"That was one time," I mutter.

"You said his whole theory was a scam," Hanta says, grinning. "You got loud."

"I was right."

He huffs a laugh. "Didn't say you weren't."

We reach the front of our building just as Mina sighs dramatically and rubs her face. "I swear, if I dream about that stupid bell again, I'm suing."

She waves and heads inside, still grumbling. The stairwell door clicks behind her.

Hanta leans against the railing near the entrance, eyes tracking her for a second before flicking back to me. "You did good tonight," he says after a beat, voice softer now. "Even with her doodling nonsense all over your flashcards."

"She said the squiggles were memory anchors."

He smirks. "Sure. And I was studying. Not flirting."

I raise a brow. "Were you?"

"Guess you'll never know."

I should say something. I should laugh. But before I can, another voice cuts through the quiet.

"Touching."

It slices clean through the air. Dry and sharp and all too familiar.

"Didn't know you were taking babysitting gigs now, Sero."

My whole body goes still.

Bakugo's walking past the building, just a few feet away, hands stuffed in the pockets of a black windbreaker. His hood's down, hair windswept. He's not leaning. Not waiting. Just... there.

And yet, somehow, it still feels like he was carved into the night on purpose.

Hanta straightens. "Didn't realize you were doing stand-up now."

"Didn't realize you needed backup to walk two blocks."

"I wasn't aware it concerned you."

Bakugo's eyes shift, sharp and unflinching, to me.

"It doesn't."

But his stare holds a second too long.

"Then keep walking," I snap before I can stop myself.

His mouth twitches. Not a smile, more like the beginning of one that decided against it halfway through. "Relax. Wasn't planning on sticking around."

"Great," I say. "Then don't."

Something flickers behind his eyes, not surprise, not anger. Just... calculation. Like he's deciding whether I'm worth the effort.

Apparently, I am.

"Still got that habit of talking like everyone wants to hear what you think."

"And you still act like a dick when no one's even talking to you."

That does it.

He steps closer. Not enough to crowd me. Just enough that I can feel the air shift, tight and electric.

"You always this combative, or do I bring it out of you?"

My jaw locks. "You're not that special."

He lets that hang there. Lets it sting. Then—

"Sure about that?"

Hanta shifts beside me. Barely. But it's enough.

Bakugo clocks it immediately.

His gaze flicks between us, slow and deliberate. "Didn't think you'd rebound this fast," he mutters. "But I guess standards are flexible."

Hanta moves before I do. "Hey."

But I already feel the heat rising in my face. I take a step forward. "You don't get to comment on my standards when yours are nonexistent."

Bakugo's eyes flare, just slightly. "Careful," he says, voice lower now. "You're starting to sound jealous."

"You wish."

He laughs once, quiet and sharp. "Right. My mistake. Must be exhausting keeping that chip on your shoulder balanced all the time."

"Only when you're around."

We stare each other down. Unmoving, unsmiling, waiting for one of us to back off first.

Hanta's voice breaks through the tension, steady but firm. "It's late."

Bakugo finally looks away.

"Whatever."

He turns without another word. Keeps walking like none of it mattered. Like he didn't just throw a match at a puddle of gasoline and walk away before the explosion.

I don't realize my fists are clenched until Hanta touches my elbow. Just lightly. Just enough to steady.

"You okay?"

I force a breath. "Fine."

But I'm lying. Not because of what Bakugo said, not exactly. Not even because he showed up.

It's the look he gave me when I snapped back.

Like he was expecting it.

Like he wanted it.

Like I always, always give him exactly what he wants.

———

The sunlight creeps through the blinds before I'm ready for it. I bury my face deeper into the pillow with a groan, stretching under the covers. That's when I notice it. The weight on my shoulders. The warmth that isn't my blanket.

Hanta's hoodie.

It's slipped half off in the night but still draped across me like a shield. The first thing I breathe in isn't morning air or coffee, but him. That faint trace of peppermint and something softer. It's faded now, worn from the night, but sharp enough to make my chest twist.

I squeeze my eyes shut and tug the sleeves close like that'll make the ache easier to ignore. It doesn't. It never does.

"Ugh. Don't tell me you actually slept in that thing."

My eyes snap open. Mina's standing in the doorway, hair sticking up like a science experiment gone wrong, mug clutched to her chest like it's the only thing keeping her alive.

"I didn't," I mutter, fumbling to shrug the hoodie off. "It was just cold."

She eyes me over the rim of her mug. "So cold you forgot how pajamas work?"

"Mina."

Her grin spreads. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not judging. He's cute. And warm. And smells nice. If I had a hoodie like that, I'd be drooling in it too."

I groan and drag the blanket over my face. "Can we not?"

"No promises," she calls as she walks away, laughing. "Peppermint dreams, babe."

I flop back into the bed with a groan, dragging the blanket over my head. But it doesn't matter how much I try to smother the sound or the thought. The scent lingers, stubborn and soft, refusing to let me forget.

The air is crisp as we walk toward campus, our shoes clicking in rhythm. Mina's nursing an iced coffee like it's an IV drip, straw squeaking every time she takes a sip. I've got my arms folded tight against the morning chill, not just from the cold.

Mina bumps my arm. "So..."

I sigh. "What?"

"We're just not gonna talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

She raises a brow. "You wore the hoodie all night. You wore it this morning. You're still wearing it now."

I roll my eyes. "It was cold. He offered. That's all."

"And I'm a nun," she snorts. "Come on. I saw the way he looked at you all night. Like he was trying not to make it obvious. And don't think I didn't clock him hovering on the walk home."

"He was being nice."

Mina sips her coffee. "Mmhm. And you just so happened to fall asleep in his hoodie by coincidence."

I don't respond.

She glances sideways at me. "But something else happened, didn't it?"

I stop walking.

Mina stops too, eyebrows raising. "Oh?"

I hesitate, staring down at the sidewalk. "Bakugo showed up."

Silence.

Then—

"Wait. What?"

I glance at her. "Outside. After you went in. He was walking by—or... I don't know. Maybe not. Maybe he was already there."

Mina's eyes widen. "You're joking."

"I'm not."

She stares like I've just dropped a live grenade into her coffee. "Did he say anything?"

I swallow. "Yeah. A lot."

She blinks. "Y/N."

"It wasn't good."

I can feel the tension crawling back up my spine just remembering it. The way his voice cut through the quiet, the way he looked at me like he knew exactly which nerve to hit, and didn't give a damn about hitting it. Like it didn't cost him anything.

Mina picks up on the shift in my expression instantly. Her voice gentles. "Okay. Tell me what happened."

I exhale slowly, trying to untangle the mess in my head. "It started normal. Or, I guess... as normal as anything ever is with him. He took a shot at Hanta. Hanta gave one back. Nothing major."

She tilts her head. "But?"

I glance down at my hands. "Then he turned on me. I don't even know what I said that set him off. Just—he looked at me, and it went sideways fast."

"Sideways how?"

"He said I was combative," I mutter. "Accused me of rebounding. Took another dig at Hanta. Just kept pushing."

Mina blinks. "Wait, what?"

I nod. "Like it pissed him off that I was wearing Hanta's hoodie. Or maybe just that I was there at all. I don't know. I pushed back, hard, and it only made him more of an asshole."

Mina whistles low. "Damn."

"I told him he didn't get to talk about my standards when his are nonexistent."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. And he just..." I shake my head. "He walked away. Didn't flinch. Didn't look back. Like it didn't mean anything."

Mina's brows pinch together. "Okay, but like—what the hell was that?"

"I don't know," I say honestly. "I really don't. It's like he just wanted a fight and I was the easiest target."

She stays quiet for a beat. Then, carefully, "You don't think it was... I don't know, jealousy?"

I glance at her. "I don't know what it was, Mina. Maybe he just wanted to feel in control. Maybe he just doesn't like me. He's not exactly easy to read."

She nods slowly. "No, he's not."

"I'm not gonna assume anything," I say. "Because if he was trying to make a point, he didn't bother to explain it."

"That sounds like him," she mutters.

I let out a humorless laugh. "Sure does."

"But hey." She nudges me with her elbow. "You stood your ground."

"Yeah."

"Good. Whatever the hell that was, you didn't let him get away with it."

I nod, but it still simmers low in my chest. The echo of his voice. The weight behind it. Like he was holding something I wasn't allowed to see, and throwing knives to keep it that way.

And neither of us says anything after that. Just the scrape of our shoes on pavement, the sharp breath of morning, and the silent knowledge that things with Bakugo are far from over.

The hallway buzzes with early-morning energy as Mina and I step into the lecture hall. The low murmur of conversation, the slap of notebooks against desks. It's all a little too loud for how scrambled my head still feels.

My bag slips off my shoulder as I walk, weighed down more by everything I'm carrying internally than what's actually inside. Hanta's hoodie still clings to my frame, sleeves too long and soft from sleep. I hadn't meant to wear it again. I just... didn't take it off.

Mina's elbow bumps mine as we start up the steps toward our usual row. "Okay, I know I said I wouldn't say anything," she whispers, "but you realize you're still in it, right?"

I shoot her a look. "You're saying something."

"Yeah, well. You make it very hard to keep promises."

I don't answer. She doesn't push.

Kyoka's already there when we reach our row, chin propped on one hand, a highlighter twirling idly in the other. Her earbuds are looped around her neck, and she doesn't even try to hide the amused once-over she gives me as we sit down.

She nods toward the hoodie but raises a brow like that's a new development.

I sigh and slide into my seat, digging out my notebook. "It was cold."

Kyoka snorts.

I'm halfway through flipping to the right page when someone slides into the seat beside me. Hanta's grin flashes as he drops his bag at his feet, settling in with that familiar easy confidence, but not before his eyes flick, just once, to the hoodie I'm still wearing.

His smile lingers. Softer now. "Hey."

"Hey," I say back, throat a little dry.

He leans sideways against the table. Not intrusive. Not loud. Just... there.

"Didn't think I'd see that again so soon," he says, voice low. His tone isn't teasing. It's easy, warm. But it hits something in me anyway.

I tug at the sleeve. "It's warm," I manage. "I didn't really think about it this morning."

"You look good in it," he says, simple and steady, like it's not a line. Like he means it.

My heart stutters. Mina leans forward just enough to catch my eye, mouthing something dramatic. I ignore her.

A beat later, Eijiro and Denki drop into their seats. Eijiro immediately glances between us like the social golden retriever he is. "Dude. That is your hoodie, right?"

Denki doesn't even look up from his phone. "At this point, it's more hers than his."

I open my mouth to argue, but I don't actually have a leg to stand on. So I settle for glaring. "You two have a lot of opinions this morning."

"That's what we're here for," Denki says brightly. "Emotional support and outfit commentary."

Before I can fire something back, the professor clears his throat at the front of the room. The low chatter quiets instantly as the first slide clicks onto the board: Cognitive Dissonance and Decision-Making Biases.

I lean back in my seat, letting my eyes flick toward the screen, but the words don't quite land.

Not with Hanta still angled slightly in his chair, not with the scent of his cologne still clinging to the fabric I'm wearing. Not with my skin still warm from last night. From the walk home, the hoodie.

And not when, just behind those thoughts, another image slips in. Sharper. More volatile.

The memory of Bakugo's voice from the dark. Cold, clipped, and too damn precise.

My jaw clenches. I refocus on my notes, pen scratching against the page, but my lines are messy and uneven.

The professor's saying something about internal conflict, about when our actions don't line up with our beliefs. About how that tension builds until it finds somewhere to go.

Which is great, because I'm pretty sure that's exactly what's happening in my chest.

Hanta glances toward me once during the lecture. Just a quick flick of his eyes. Barely a second. But I catch it.

He offers a small smile. I return it, tight, but real.

And still, behind it all, my mind drifts. Not to Hanta's hoodie. Not to the warmth of the moment.

But to the fact that Bakugo was watching.

Not just last night.

The entire time.

Chapter Text

The quiz hangs over all of us like a storm cloud, but somehow, it's made the group glue tighter. Last night's study session had gone way too late, laughter and arguments over practice questions still ringing in my ears when I woke up this morning.

I'd gone to bed with operant conditioning theories stuck in my head and Mina dramatically yelling about classical vs operant like it was a breakup.

Now, with one more day to go, the pressure is worse than ever.

One wrong answer, one mental blank, and I'll be dragging my grade uphill for the rest of the semester. It's the kind of anxiety that usually drives me straight into hermit mode. Study alone. Don't breathe until it's over.

Which is exactly why Mina's not letting me out of her sight.

The cold hits the second I step outside.

It's not sharp, just a steady breeze that sinks in low and lingers, curling through the seams of my jacket. I barely have time to adjust my bag before I hear it.

"There you are."

Mina's voice cuts through the crowd like she's been waiting specifically to pounce. I glance up, and sure enough, she's already halfway across the walkway, curly pink hair bouncing with every determined step.

"I was this close to freezing into a statue. Do you know how long it's been?"

"Three minutes," I guess.

"Five," she corrects, looping her arm through mine without missing a beat. "Which, by the way, is an eternity when I know for a fact you were gonna bail on me again."

I blink, letting her tug me into a steady pace. "I never said that."

"You didn't have to." Her eyes narrow. "You had the look."

"What look?"

"The 'I'm going to pretend to study but actually burrow under six blankets and reread my notes in bed' look."

I huff. "And that's a problem because...?"

"Because," she says, bumping my shoulder with hers, "you study better with us. And I'm not letting you self-isolate and spiral the night before the quiz."

"I don't spiral."

She side-eyes me so hard I can feel it.

I sigh. "Okay. Maybe I spiral a little."

She nods, smug. "Exactly. That's why we're picking up Kyoka, walking to the boys' house, and pretending to be functional adults until we understand classical conditioning or die trying."

"We already do understand it."

"Then you can explain it to Denki again before he confuses it with the stages of grief."

I bark a laugh before I can help it. "That did happen, huh."

"And it'll happen again if we don't supervise." Her expression softens slightly as we round the corner toward Kyoka's dorm. "Seriously. It's one more night. Quiz is tomorrow. You've got this."

I don't answer right away, but I don't pull away either. The weight in my chest eases, just a little.

"I know," I murmur. "Just... feels like everything's riding on it."

"Hey." Mina gives my arm a quick squeeze. "You're not alone in this. We've got your back. And tonight's not about acing every question. It's about not losing your mind."

I smile faintly. "That might be the most supportive thing you've ever said."

"Don't get used to it," she says, grinning. "Now come on. Kyoka's waiting, and I refuse to show up late to my own forced study session."

———

The automatic doors slide shut behind us with a hiss, and the night air hits sharp against my cheeks, colder than I expected. Mina barely seems to notice. She's already juggling a plastic bag in one hand and her phone in the other, swinging both like she didn't just take twenty minutes to pick the exact right off-brand cookies for "brain fuel."

Kyoka exhales, breath fogging faintly in front of her as we step onto the sidewalk. "You realize we only needed one thing, right?"

Mina shrugs, utterly unapologetic. "You're welcome for curating the perfect study snack experience."

I hug my arms tighter around myself, or maybe just the hoodie I haven't taken off all day. The sleeves are a little too long, the inside soft with wear, and I know for a fact it still smells like Hanta's cologne. I don't think about why I haven't swapped it out yet. Or why the sleeves stay tugged over my hands like armor.

The street's quieter now, most of the dinner rush already filtered out. A few students shuffle past, faces buried in scarves or phones. Streetlamps hum overhead, casting pools of gold against the pavement. Above them, the sky's dipped into twilight, soft purples and smoky blues with the faintest hint of stars starting to peek through.

Mina loops her arm through mine like she owns the evening. "So. You ready to die slowly over flashcards?"

"Sounds like a dream," I mutter.

She grins. "That's the spirit."

Kyoka walks on my other side, hoodie sleeves pushed up, earbuds looped around her neck. "You two are deranged."

"And you love us," Mina says sweetly, bumping her shoulder.

Kyoka snorts. "Don't push it."

We fall into a rhythm as we cut across campus. Me in the middle, quiet between their banter, the weight of tomorrow thick behind my ribs. The quiz is only twenty-something hours away. I know the material. I've been through the notes, the lectures, the stupid class discussion about the implications of Pavlov and bells. I should feel fine.

But my stomach's been tight since this morning, and it only winds tighter the closer we get to the boys' house.

It's not nerves. Not really. It's something quieter than that, a flicker of awareness I haven't managed to shake. Because the house means walking into a room where he might be. And lately, he hasn't been easy to ignore.

Mina's voice carries like a soundtrack over the crunch of early-fallen leaves. "Okay, but what if this time, we actually don't get distracted and end up yelling about attachment styles for two hours?"

Kyoka hums. "Unlikely."

"I'm trying to manifest it."

"You're manifesting denial."

They keep going, voices light, easy, familiar. I let myself drift behind a step or two, letting the warmth of their presence tug me along while my thoughts drift further ahead. Straight to the porch we're almost at, to the wide windows glowing yellow and soft in the dark.

The boys' house is already loud from the outside. Not obnoxiously so, but enough to be obvious. There's music playing, something bass-heavy and fast, and the occasional burst of laughter leaks through the door even before we're close enough to knock. A bike's tipped halfway off the porch. The railing has new dents that weren't there last week. Classic.

Mina checks her phone, groans theatrically, and spins on her heel to face us. "Okay. Don't be mad. We're kind of late."

Kyoka raises one brow. "Wow. Shocked."

"I had to get snacks! And we couldn't just show up empty-handed. That's, like, house guest 101."

I blink. "You're literally the one who invited me."

"Details." Mina lifts the bag like a trophy. "They should be grateful."

She doesn't wait for a response before bounding up the porch steps, already calling, "Open up! Your favorite people have arrived!"

The door creaks open easily, unlocked, like always, and the second we step inside, it hits.

Warmth. Laughter. The smell of whatever leftover takeout someone forgot to throw out. It's chaos in familiar shades, cluttered and half-cozy. The living room's strewn with open notebooks, tangled charger cords, half-eaten granola bars. Denki's stretched across one end of the couch like he's been melted there for hours, legs tangled in a blanket, laptop perched on his knees.

"Finally," he groans, dropping his head back like he's been suffering. "We were about to hold your funeral."

Eijiro, sprawled on the rug in front of the coffee table, tosses a pen at him. "You were about to start snoring."

"Same thing," Denki says cheerfully.

Kyoka shakes her head. "You're hopeless."

Hanta glances up from the other end of the room, a highlighter twirling between his fingers. His mouth curves into a slow smile. "Took you long enough."

And then there's him.

Leaning against the wall like he's been there for hours, beer in hand, his shoulders squared and sharp under the black fabric of his shirt. Bakugo doesn't say anything. Doesn't nod or blink or even twitch. He just watches. Unmoving. Unreadable. Like he couldn't care less who just walked through the door, except his eyes are already on me.

The second I notice, I look away.

I tug the sleeves of Hanta's hoodie over my hands and follow Mina toward the table, the warm din of the room closing in around us. Someone shifts to make space. Someone else shouts about snacks. Kyoka disappears toward the kitchen, muttering something about boiling water like it's a personal mission.

I sit. Try to focus.

But the weight of it, that short, wordless glance, presses at the edge of my mind like something I'm not supposed to notice.

Something that's definitely not there.

Because he doesn't like me. I don't like him.

And that's the end of it.

The boys' living room has been transformed into a makeshift classroom. The coffee table's barely visible beneath layers of textbooks, flashcards, and scattered notes. Crumpled wrappers peek out from under Mina's elbow. One of the throw pillows has been repurposed into a whiteboard prop. Chaos, barely organized.

A calculator beeps somewhere beneath the mess.

"Stop mashing it," Kyoka says without looking up. "You're going to break it."

Mina lifts her hands, innocent. "It made a noise. I wanted it to do it again."

Denki cackles and promptly steals a highlighter from her stack. Kyoka, still scribbling in her notebook, flicks her eyes up just long enough to catch him drawing a neon yellow smiley face on the back of his hand.

"You're not even using it," she says flatly.

"It's called art, Kyoka. Ever heard of it?" Denki holds up his hand like he's just unveiled a masterpiece. "This is a metaphor for stress."

"You're a metaphor for stress," she mutters, deadpan.

Eijiro laughs from the couch, red pen tucked behind one ear. "At this point, I'm gonna fail tomorrow and get blamed for the metaphor."

"We're studying," Denki insists, flipping his notebook open upside-down. "It's creative multitasking."

"You're drawing flames on your vocab sheet," Mina points out, peeking over.

"Exactly! Psychological burnout. It's thematic."

Kyoka pinches the bridge of her nose. "You're going to actually burn out when you bomb the quiz."

Denki groans like it physically hurts him and slumps over the armrest. "Then I need a tutor. A savior. A beacon of knowledge."

He turns dramatically toward me.

"Y/N. Help me."

My pen pauses halfway down the page. "What?"

"You're smart. Like... disgustingly responsible. Save my grade. Please."

"Don't bring me into your academic spiral," I mutter, shaking my head. "I have my own spiral to worry about."

"Too late," Eijiro says, already pushing one of his practice sheets across the table toward me. "You actually explain stuff in a way that doesn't make my brain want to die. You're better than the professor."

"She is," Mina agrees brightly, scooting in. "Our little study queen."

I narrow my eyes at her. "Don't start."

She just beams. "It's too late. You're our designated tutor now."

Heat creeps up the back of my neck, but I drag Eijiro's worksheet closer anyway. "Fine. But if any of you fail tomorrow, I'm denying involvement."

"Deal," Denki chirps, already back to doodling in the margins like that somehow counts as studying.

Beside me, Hanta lets out a low laugh and leans back just enough for his chair to bump against mine. "Look at you. Fearless leader of the remedial squad."

I roll my eyes but don't move away. "More like babysitter."

He grins, lazy and warm. "Still heroic."

I try to focus. I really do. I even circle the first incorrect answer on Denki's page and tap twice beside it like I'm making a point. But Hanta's close enough that his cologne keeps catching in the air between us. Sharp, clean, a little too distracting.

"Here," I say, clearing my throat. "You flipped the definitions. That's why your answer's wrong."

Denki peers at the page like it betrayed him. "Words are evil."

"They're not evil. You just keep using them wrong."

There's laughter, mostly Denki's, and then, slicing through it, a scoff.

Sharp. Dismissive.

I look up before I can stop myself.

Bakugo's parked in the armchair across from us, slouched back with his arms crossed. There's an unopened textbook balanced on one knee, like he sat down just to make a point of not using it.

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.

"Real productive," he mutters.

My spine stiffens. "What?"

He doesn't look at me when he answers, not directly. "Just funny watching you waste time on people who don't listen."

"Hey!" Denki protests.

"Not a waste," I snap, sharper than I mean to.

Bakugo finally meets my gaze. His eyes are unreadable. Steady, cool, like he's already made a decision about me and doesn't care whether or not it's true.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," he says simply.

There's a beat of silence.

And then I look away. Back to the worksheet in front of me. My hand tightens around the pen, even though I'm not writing.

Hanta shifts beside me, voice pitched low. "You don't have to rise to it."

"I'm not," I mutter.

But it's fast. Too fast. And the edge to Hanta's smile says he caught that too.

The study session stretches long into the night, each hour bleeding into the next until I lose track of how many times we've circled the same worksheet.

We're half-buried in chaos. The living room looks like a textbook factory exploded. Open pages everywhere, loose-leaf paper poking out from under the couch, a graveyard of broken pencils and forgotten flashcards scattered across the coffee table like confetti.

Mina, for some reason, has decided gummy worms are an acceptable academic currency.

"Correct answer gets a worm," she says grandly, flicking one at Eijiro with sniper-like precision. "Incorrect answer means you're getting the green ones. No one likes the green ones."

"I like the green ones," Eijiro protests, catching it midair anyway and popping it in his mouth.

"Then you're wrong twice," Mina deadpans.

Kyoka doesn't look up from her notes, but she reaches out and smacks Denki's hand without breaking stride. "Stop cheating."

"I wasn't cheating," he whines.

"You were staring at my sheet like it held the secrets of the universe."

"I was admiring your handwriting."

"You can't even read my handwriting,” she says flatly

"Then I was admiring your vibe."

"You don't even know what that means."

"Doesn't matter," Denki says, waving his arms. "You have main-character energy."

Kyoka thwacks him again.

Eijiro's humming softly as he works beside her, half-tuned out of the conversation, completely locked in. Mina's already started building a tower of highlighters. It's swaying ominously between the snack bowls.

And next to me, Hanta shifts, casual and confident, his knee brushing mine like he doesn't notice. But I know he does.

His arm drapes over the back of the couch behind me. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel. Like a whisper at the edge of my shoulder. His voice is low when he speaks, pitched quiet so no one else can hear.

"You okay?"

I nod, even though I'm not sure. The room is loud, warm, alive. But there's this undercurrent buzzing through my nerves. Something that's not about the quiz anymore.

Hanta leans closer to skim my notes, and the smell of his cologne makes my thoughts go fuzzy. Every time he shifts, I feel it all over again. A casual kind of pull. Steady. Reassuring. But not weightless.

"You write so neat," he mutters, pointing at something on the page. "It's weirdly calming."

I huff, flipping to the next set. "You're weirdly calming."

"Thanks," he says, grinning like I handed him a win. "Stick with me. I'm great under pressure."

From across the room, a book closes with a sharp snap.

My eyes flick up? and that's a mistake.

Bakugo's still in the armchair. Same position as before. One leg stretched out, ankle hooked over the other knee. His book, which he hasn't touched in the last hour, is still balanced lazily across his thigh, but his eyes are on me.

Not on the group.

Not on the noise.

Just me.

There's no emotion on his face. Not even annoyance. Just something quiet. Still. Like he's watching the room from underwater and I'm the only part that's surfaced.

I blink hard and look away, my pulse catching in my throat.

"Problem?" Hanta asks again, too soft for anyone else to hear.

"No," I mutter. "Just focus."

He hums like he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't push. Just shifts forward again, letting his knee knock mine, and slides one of Denki's neglected practice sheets between us.

Mina throws another gummy worm at Eijiro. Denki starts beatboxing. Kyoka tells them both to shut up. The group's rhythm returns like a rubber band snapping back into place.

But I'm out of sync now.

Even when I bury my head in my notes, I can still feel the weight of it. Bakugo's stare is gone, or maybe he just got better at hiding it, but something about the room feels different. Tilted. Too warm.

Hanta leans back again, arms stretching over his head, shirt riding up just enough to flash skin and waistband. I catch myself glancing. He catches me glancing.

The grin he throws is slow. Teasing.

Deliberate.

I roll my eyes and toss a pencil at him. He catches it mid-air, still smiling.

And Bakugo?

Still hasn't moved.

Still silent.

Like none of this matters. Like he's not even paying attention.

But I know better.

I don't know how, but I do.

When Mina finally claps her hands and calls for a break, everyone groans in agreement. Kyoka stretches until her spine pops. Denki launches a mission for snacks. Eijiro follows him with an empty bowl and the promise of popcorn. Even Hanta finally pushes to his feet.

But I stay sitting.

Because for all the noise, all the jokes, all the safe energy between us, I feel off balance. Like I'm walking a tightrope I didn't realize I was on until now.

And somewhere behind it all, Bakugo finally exhales. A quiet sound. Nearly nothing.

But I hear it.

And somehow, I know it wasn't because of the quiz.

Mina plops down beside me with a flourish and an iced coffee, the plastic lid crinkling as she jams the straw in with aggressive precision.

Denki appears from the kitchen with a bag of chips balanced on his head and two packs of cookies in his hands. "Snack god has arrived."

"I thought you were making popcorn," Kyoka calls.

"I was," he says, tossing the cookies onto the table. "But then I opened the cabinet and there was a whole-ass box of peanut butter Oreos."

Hanta appears behind him with a bowl of the promised popcorn anyway. "Yeah, well, some of us can multitask. Unlike your single brain cell."

Eijiro's already halfway across the room, holding out a takeout carrier. "Got your coffee," he says, handing it over. "Still warm."

I take the cup gratefully, fingers wrapping around the paper sleeve. My name's scribbled across the side in black sharpie. A little wonky heart drawn underneath it.

Definitely Mina's doing.

The smell of caffeine hits first, strong and bitter-sweet. I take a sip and nearly groan. It's perfect. Just enough sugar to offset the exhaustion setting in behind my eyes.

The room slowly reorganizes into a looser shape. Kyoka stretches across the couch, feet in Denki's lap, her phone out as she scrolls one-handed. Eijiro's upside down in a beanbag chair, legs flopped over the edge like he forgot how chairs work. Mina's fussing with the sleeves of her hoodie, one knee bouncing in rhythm with the lo-fi playlist drifting from someone's speaker.

And Hanta sits beside me again, more relaxed this time. Shoulders slouched. One arm resting across the back of the couch like it belongs there, like I belong there, leaning into it.

I don't. But I think about it.

He holds out the popcorn bowl without looking. "Snack tax," he says, voice low. "I shared. You owe me three gummy worms."

"I don't have any gummy worms."

"I'll settle for a cookie."

I toss him one from the table. It hits him in the chest and bounces into his lap.

"Rude," he says, biting into it anyway.

The noise rises again, comfortably this time. Familiar. The kind of chaos that makes you forget how late it's getting. Kyoka groans dramatically about the next exam. Denki offers to swap lives with anyone who isn't in his calc class. Mina starts laughing so hard she wheezes.

And in the corner of it all, Bakugo stays silent.

He hasn't moved since the break started, still sunk into the armchair like gravity works differently on him. The only thing that's changed is his cup. Same black coffee from earlier, now nearly empty, resting on the edge of the table like it's part of him.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't smile.

But he watches.

Not in a way anyone else would notice. He's too good at it, too practiced. His face blank, expression unreadable, like nothing going on around him even registers.

But I know better.

Because every time Hanta shifts closer, every time my laugh slips out too loud, every time I let myself relax just enough to forget.

I feel it.

A flicker of attention. A shift in the air. Like a spotlight swinging into place and landing on my shoulders.

I take another sip of coffee to ground myself. Let the warmth settle behind my teeth.

"Hey," Hanta says, leaning in again. His voice brushes soft against the shell of my ear. "You sure you're okay?"

He's been watching too, in his own way.

"Yeah," I say, and it's almost true.

But there's something tight behind my ribs that won't go away. Something that keeps tugging my attention across the room no matter how hard I try to keep it here. In the noise, in the warmth, in the space that should be easy.

Bakugo's eyes are down now, fixed on his own notebook like he's been studying this whole time.

But the tension in his shoulders hasn't changed.

The popcorn bowl makes another lap, half-empty now, and Denki's somehow turned it into a competitive sport, launching kernels across the room like a catapult and demanding everyone keep score. Kyoka refuses. Eijiro keeps throwing him bonus points. Mina, unbothered, leans over the back of the couch to dig through the snack bag and makes a noise of dismay when she pulls out the wrong kind of chips.

"These were supposed to be the spicy ones," she groans.

"You bought them," I say, amused.

"I didn't check. That's different."

Denki gasps. "You betrayed your own palette."

Mina throws the bag at his head.

I shift forward to grab a napkin off the table, just a reach, careless , and my elbow hits the tray of cookies. Half the pack slides off the table.

And then it happens in slow motion.

The plastic clatters against the wood floor.

The cookies explode like landmines.

Everyone lets out some version of a groan. Kyoka's already sighing, Denki's gasping like we lost a soldier, and Eijiro mimes taking off his hat in mourning.

I'm already crouched to grab them. "It's fine. Gravity hates me."

Hanta's laugh is immediate. "That's what you get for talking with your hands."

I roll my eyes, sweeping the ruined cookies back into the tray, but someone else speaks before I can respond.

Not just someone.

Bakugo.

"Maybe if you focused instead of performing for a crowd, you wouldn't keep dropping shit."

The words are flat. No warmth. Not teasing, not playful. Just cold enough to sting.

And sharp enough to silence the room.

Even the laughter dies too fast.

I freeze, half-leaning over the table, fingers curled around a broken cookie.

Mina blinks. "Damn."

"Okay, ouch," Denki mutters. "Someone's cranky."

Bakugo doesn't react. Doesn't flinch. Just slouches deeper into the chair with that same carved-stone expression, one arm still draped over the armrest like a throne.

The quiet drags for half a second too long.

I straighten slowly, brushing my hands off. "Not all of us cope by brooding in a corner."

He tilts his head like he's just now paying attention. "Some of us cope by being useful."

"Ouch again," Eijiro says under his breath.

"Alright," Kyoka cuts in, not looking up from her coffee. "Let's stop emotionally assassinating each other before someone gets gutted."

Too late.

The words sink. The weight of them lingers in the back of my chest like someone jammed a key into the lock and twisted.

I don't look at him again.

Not even when I sit back down with the rest of the cookies. Not even when I toss the shattered ones in the trash. Not even when I feel that unmistakable heat crawling across my skin. That steady, unrelenting awareness of his gaze, still following me, still watching like he's waiting for something else to fall.

And maybe something already did.

The tray stays crooked on the table after I put the cookies back, but I don't fix it.

No one mentions the silence that followed Bakugo's words, how it changed the temperature of the room like someone cracked a window open in the dead of winter.

It lingers for a beat longer, then breaks apart when Eijiro launches into a complaint about memory association techniques and how none of them are helping him remember the twelve different types of reinforcement.

We settle back in. A little slower. A little less laughter.

I flip to a fresh page in my notebook and try to focus.

Mina calls out practice questions from her flashcards, doing different voices like a bad impression of their professor. Kyoka reads over Denki's shoulder to keep him from cheating again. Eijiro mutters terms under his breath, tapping his pen against his leg. And beside me, Hanta shifts closer, casual at first. Then less so.

When he leans in to read one of the diagrams I'm copying, his shoulder brushes mine.

He doesn't move.

"Is this you studying or an excuse to invade my space?" I mutter, not looking up.

"Why not both?" he says, voice low and amused.

I roll my eyes, but I don't move either.

It's not the first time he's hovered this close. Hanta's always been a little too good at toeing the line, half teasing, half serious, like he wants to see how far he can push before I pull away.

His hand brushes the side of mine when he adjusts the flashcard I was writing on. His pinky stays close, almost touching. And when I go to reach for another pen, his fingers are already there, nudging mine aside.

"Looking for this?" he says, holding it up like he won a prize.

"Maybe I just like dramatic tension," I mutter, taking it from him anyway.

"You're in the right house for it."

He's smiling. Lazy and charming and too steady for someone who's supposed to be just casually flirting. And I'm not sure what part of me answers back, the sarcastic one or the curious one, but it's definitely not the smart one.

Because I don't shift away when he stays leaning into my side.

I try to focus on the textbook again. Try to breathe through the heat still clinging to the base of my neck, not just from him, but from earlier. From the weight of Bakugo's words and the silence that followed. He's been quiet ever since. Didn't even open his mouth during the last round of definitions.

But I feel him.

That's the worst part.

He's just a few feet away, sitting with one leg bounced over the other, highlighter in hand like he's actually reading, even though the cap hasn't moved in ten minutes. I can't look at him. I know if I do, he'll already be looking back.

So I keep my eyes down. Let my fingers smudge through half-legible notes. Let the tension between me and Hanta hang, light and teasing, something easy to fall into, even if part of me feels like I'm drifting too close to something else.

"Alright," Mina says, loud enough to cut the haze. "Group question. Which concept best explains why Denki keeps trying to flirt with me after I say no?"

"Delusion," Kyoka offers immediately.

"Persistence," Denki grins, winking.

I bite back a laugh and circle reinforcement schedule in my notes with too much pressure.

Hanta leans in again. "You never tell me no," he murmurs, soft enough that only I can hear it.

I glance at him, trying not to smile. "You haven't asked anything worth turning down."

"Yet," he says. Just like that, simple and bold and effortless.

My heart stutters once. I don't let it show.

Outside, a siren wails somewhere in the distance, and the wind shifts through the trees. Inside, the buzz of quiet conversation and flipped pages resumes like nothing's changed.

But it has.

Only a little. Just enough to feel it.

And Bakugo still hasn't said a word.

The silence doesn't last, not in this house. Not with this group.

Mina flips another card with far too much enthusiasm. "Okay! Next question. Define negative reinforcement."

"Trauma," Denki says instantly.

"That's not—" Kyoka sighs, already exhausted. "That's not even remotely close."

"It feels emotionally accurate."

Eijiro laughs, nearly toppling forward as he gestures with his pen. "Come on, man. You're not even trying."

"I am trying. My brain just refuses to cooperate with capitalism."

"That's not the—" Kyoka stops, pinches the bridge of her nose. "You know what? Forget it. Fail. I don't care."

Mina gasps. "Kyoka! Harsh."

"Necessary."

Across the coffee table, Denki dramatically clutches his chest. "I thought we had a bond."

"We don't," she says flatly.

Snickers ripple through the room. The energy slowly lifts again, looser, warmer. Hanta bumps his knee against mine like it's second nature now, smiling when I shoot him a look.

"Admit it," he murmurs, "you're having fun."

"Barely."

"You totally are."

"Don't get cocky," I mutter, but I don't pull away.

Eijiro suddenly slams his textbook shut. "New rule! Every wrong answer means you owe Mina one snack."

"Yes!" Mina cheers. "I support this economy."

"Hold on," Denki protests. "I didn't agree to this system!"

"You don't have to," she says sweetly. "You just live under it."

Snacks start flying. Gummy worms get launched like tiny missiles. Someone knocks over a cup. Someone else almost trips over the rug trying to retrieve a runaway Twizzler.

And through all the chaos, the noise, the laughter, the petty arguments, there's still an edge underneath it.

It returns when Mina, in a fit of dramatic victory, tosses a gummy worm straight at Hanta's forehead.

He catches it without looking, then flicks it off his fingers toward her with precision.

"Not bad," she admits. "But try aiming at him next time."

She jerks her chin toward Bakugo.

The room falters for half a breath.

He doesn't move. Doesn't react.

Denki grins. "Yeah! Let's see if we can break his record for most emotions shown in one night."

Silence.

A second gummy worm sails through the air and lands right on the arm of Bakugo's chair.

Nothing.

Then another.

He finally shifts, slow. Deliberate. Eyes lifting with visible irritation.

"Who the hell keeps throwing shit?" he snaps.

The gummy worm slides off the arm of his chair like it knows better.

No one answers.

Bakugo's gaze flicks up from his phone. Bot fully engaged, but just annoyed enough to cut through the room like a blade.

Mina's already halfway through a guilty laugh. Eijiro's trying not to choke on a mouthful of sour strips. Denki makes a sound like he's been stabbed.

But his eyes land on me.

"Seriously?" he mutters, brow pulling down. "You're the worst shot I've ever seen."

I blink. "It wasn't me."

"Sure," he scoffs, deadpan. "'Cause you're so mature lately."

My mouth falls open. "You've got to be kidding."

"You were laughing the loudest."

"Because Denki tripped over the rug and claimed it was a performance piece."

"That rug's evil," Denki mumbles helpfully.

Bakugo ignores him. His eyes don't leave mine. "You're not slick."

"I didn't throw anything."

"Didn't say you had good aim. Just said it was you."

I sit up straighter, pulse sharpening. "You know what? If I had thrown it, I would've aimed for your face."

Hanta chokes on air. Mina wheezes.

Bakugo leans back like I'm exhausting just to look at. "Figures."

I narrow my eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're always the one stirring shit," he mutters, thumb flicking over his screen like he didn't just drop that casually.

I scoff. "I wasn't the one playing Fruit Ninja with the snacks."

"Funny. You act like you don't crave the attention."

I blink. The words land sharper than they should. Like a sucker punch in the middle of a joke.

Before I can fire back, Kyoka cuts in dryly, "Okay, Bakugo. Maybe go pick a fight with your own inner demons instead."

"Too late," Mina says. "He's already losing."

Denki throws his whole arm over his face, like this is all too much. "The sexual tension in here is ruining my immune system."

"Go home, Denki," Kyoka tells him.

"I live here."

"Tragic."

Bakugo doesn't say anything else. Doesn't apologize. Doesn't double down either. He just flicks his phone screen off and drops it in his lap, slouched in that way that says he's not interested but still watching.

Always watching.

I glare at him for another second before forcing my attention back to my notebook. My fingers are twitching slightly. I don't know if it's from irritation or something worse.

Hanta leans closer, not enough to draw attention, just enough that I feel it. His arm brushes mine when he grabs a pencil.

"You want me to actually quiz you?" he murmurs, voice pitched low enough to stay private.

I nod. Stiff at first, then looser.

He doesn't ask why I suddenly look ready to stab someone. Doesn't comment on the lingering heat of Bakugo's stare or the way my shoulders haven't relaxed yet.

He just flips to a page of flashcards and shifts a little closer, voice smooth, fingers brushing mine just briefly as he passes me a highlighter.

"Alright," he says. "Let's test how many brain cells are still functioning."

I exhale slowly, grateful for the distraction. Even more grateful that Hanta doesn't push.

But across the room, I can still feel Bakugo watching.

Still silent. Still simmering.

It's not that I want his attention.

It's not that I like the way his gaze burns into me, sharp and unrelenting like he's always trying to dissect something I haven't figured out myself.

I'm annoyed by him, always have been. He's infuriating. Dismissive. Impossible to read.

And yet—

I don't exactly hate it. That heat. That focus. The way it sparks something I can't name.

I don't crave it. I don't.

But maybe... just maybe... there's a part of me that wants more.

Which is worse.

Because I don't know what to do with it.

Not when it sets a fire in me I've never felt before.

The study session runs late, later than any of us meant for it to. By the time Kyoka tosses her pencil down with a groan, my brain feels like it's leaking out through my ears.

"Okay, that's it. I'm done." She slumps back in her chair. "If I try to memorize one more definition, my skull's gonna implode."

Mina groans dramatically from the floor, where she's somehow sprawled sideways over her open textbook. "You mean we don't want permanent brain damage from cramming all night?"

Kyoka tosses a crumpled receipt at her. "You volunteered for this."

I stretch my legs out, rolling my neck until it cracks. Hanta's hoodie hangs loose on my frame, heavier than I remembered, warm in the quiet way that sneaks up on you. I hadn't noticed how tightly I was holding onto it until my fingers curl into the sleeves again.

The group starts to shift. Papers rustle, bags unzip, the low murmur of tired goodnights humming under the dim light. Mina yawns as she grabs her coat. "If I don't sleep soon, I'm gonna start hallucinating that I passed."

Hanta checks his phone, then glances toward the door. "I'll walk you guys."

Mina raises an eyebrow. "What, you think we'll get mugged in our own neighborhood?"

"Maybe not." He shrugs, too casual to be taken seriously. "But I don't trust you not to trip into traffic."

She snorts. "Fair."

I blink. "Wait, why was that directed at me?"

"No reason," he says smoothly. "You've just got that 'main character gets taken out by uneven sidewalk' energy."

"Wow," I deadpan. "Thanks."

He grins, all mock innocence.

We step out into the night, cooler than before. Streetlights buzz overhead, scattering light in blotches across the cracked pavement. Mina chatters most of the way, launching into a rant about a guy in her lecture who tried to argue with the professor about Freud. Hanta listens with the kind of patience that's either deeply admirable or slightly suspicious.

When we reach the apartment, she lets out a sudden groan.

"Shit. My jeans. I left them in the dryer."

I blink. "And?"

"And if someone touches them, I will commit arson." She whirls toward the stairs. "Don't wait up!"

Before I can even roll my eyes, she's gone.

I turn to Hanta. "She's the most dramatic person I've ever met."

"She's a menace," he agrees. "Lovable, but dangerous."

We linger at the bottom of the stairwell. Bot close enough to call it something, but not far enough to ignore it either.

"So," I say, folding my arms. "Was this really just a safety escort, or were you planning a full stakeout?"

His grin crooks. "I prefer to think of it as neighborhood patrol."

"Mmhmm."

He glances down, then back up, slower this time. "You doing okay?"

"I'm fine."

His gaze flicks toward the hoodie, the one I haven't taken off since this morning. "Looks good on you."

The breath catches in my throat. I force myself to look away. "It's warm."

He nods, but doesn't say anything else. The silence thickens.

Until it breaks.

"Wow."

The voice cuts through the quiet like a blade.

I freeze.

Then turn, slower this time, spine already stiff.

Bakugo steps out of the shadows near the curb, arms crossed, face unreadable. He's got that jacket on, the one he only wears when he's heading out, not just pacing the house. His hood's down, but the rest of him is all sharp lines and that same tension I've felt threading through him lately.

He glances between us once. Just once.

"Well," he mutters, "two nights in a row. That's cute."

My jaw clenches. "Were you waiting for a moment to be dramatic, or did this one just work out?"

He ignores the jab. "Didn't know sidewalk dates were the new thing. Real intimate."

Hanta stiffens beside me, tone dry. "Nice to see you too."

Bakugo's eyes flick to him, barely a twitch. Then right back to me. "I'm not here for pleasantries."

"No one asked you to be here at all," I snap before I can stop myself.

His mouth twitches. Not a smirk, not quite. "Didn't realize I needed permission."

"You don't."

"Great. Then we're clear."

The air turns razor sharp.

"Heading somewhere?" Hanta asks, neutral, but not soft.

Bakugo shrugs, and somehow it feels like a challenge. "Got plans."

Plans. The word lands heavy.

He doesn't elaborate. He never does.

And maybe that's the point.

His gaze lingers for one beat longer, eyes steady, like he's daring me to ask where, or with who. Like he knows I won't.

Then he steps back. "Enjoy your walk home."

And he turns.

No goodbye. No explanation.

Just boots on concrete, the hood going up, and the distance stretching fast between us.

I finally let out the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "What the hell is his problem?"

Hanta mutters something under his breath that I don't catch. He scrubs a hand through his hair, then shakes his head and looks at me again, more grounded this time. "Don't let him get to you. He wants to leave a mark."

"Yeah, well," I say, voice low, "mission accomplished."

I fumble with the keys longer than I should. The door sticks on the first try, and I press my palm flat against it, grounding myself with the chill of the metal.

I don't crave Bakugo's attention. I don't.

I just—

I don't hate it. And maybe that's the part I can't get past. That whatever he's doing? or not doing, always finds a way to catch flame somewhere deep in my ribs.

It doesn't feel soft. It doesn't even feel safe. But it's something. It's heat. It's motion. And for someone I supposedly can't stand, he's starting to take up space I don't know how to reclaim.

Behind me, Hanta shifts his weight, quiet.

I turn the knob again. This time, the door opens.

"Thanks," I say, not quite meeting his eyes.

"Anytime."

When I slip inside, the last thing I see before it shuts is Hanta still standing there, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes steady. Watching like he always does.

But for the first time tonight, my mind's somewhere else entirely.

And it's not where I want it to be.

———

The shrill beeping of my alarm slices through the silence, pulling me out of a shallow sleep. I groan, roll over, and fumble for my phone until the noise cuts off. The room is dim, just a sliver of early light sneaking through the blinds. My body feels heavy, slow, like it's protesting the idea of movement altogether.

I drag myself upright, running a hand through my hair. No hoodie clinging to me this morning. Just the usual faint stiffness of too little sleep.

Mina's already awake. I hear her before I see her. The sound of music playing softly from her phone, the muffled pop of the toaster, her voice humming along, off key in the way only Mina can get away with.

When I shuffle into the kitchen, she's perched on the counter, one leg bouncing, plate of waffles on her lap. She grins as soon as she sees me.

"Morning, sunshine!" she chirps, waving her fork like it's a baton.

"Barely," I mutter, reaching for the coffee pot.

She laughs. "You ready to absolutely crush that quiz today?"

I pour myself a mug and raise an eyebrow. "Define ready."

Her grin widens. "Okay, so that's a no."

"Hey, I studied," I shoot back, collapsing into a chair at the table. "We all studied. More than once, if I remember correctly."

Mina narrows her eyes in mock suspicion, taking another bite of her waffle. "Yeah, but you're giving off doom and gloom energy. And that is not the vibe we need on game day."

"Game day?" I repeat flatly.

"Quiz day, game day, same thing." She shrugs. "Big plays, high stakes, a little blood, sweat, and tears. Except instead of grass stains, it's paper cuts and caffeine jitters."

I can't help but laugh. "That's... a horrifying analogy."

"And tonight," she continues dramatically, pointing her fork at me like a general giving orders, "we celebrate. No matter what. Drinks, snacks, maybe a little music. The boys' place is practically begging for it."

"You're assuming Denki actually passes." I sip my coffee, savoring the warmth.

Mina smirks. "Oh, he will. Barely. By the skin of his teeth."

"And if he doesn't?"

She shrugs like it's obvious. "Then we drink to mourn his GPA. Either way, we're partying."

I shake my head, but the thought of it makes the morning feel a little lighter. Even if the quiz is a disaster, Mina won't let me sulk about it.

We head out not long after, the air crisp and cool. By the time we get to campus, it's already alive. Clusters of students heading in all directions, voices carrying over the sound of car doors slamming and bikes zipping past.

Chapter Text

The lecture hall is already buzzing by the time Mina and I slip inside. Long rows of tables stretch toward the front, students hunched over notes and muttering last-minute theories like they might summon answers from the void.

We find our usual crew halfway down the center row. Denki's face is buried in his arms, groaning dramatically. Eijiro and Hanta sit on either side of him, their desks cluttered with highlighters, open notebooks, and enough water bottles to stock a mini-fridge. Kyoka's farther down, earbuds looped around her neck as she scrolls her phone with the emotional investment of someone awaiting a death sentence.

Mina waves, already smirking, and we slide into the row. She takes the aisle seat, Kyoka beside her, then me. Hanta's to my right, then Denki, then Eijiro anchoring the far end. It's a tight squeeze, but we're used to this, crammed together like survivors before a storm.

"I'm doomed," Denki moans, lifting his head just enough to glare at his blank notebook. "This is how I die. Bury me with my charger."

"No promises," Kyoka says dryly, not looking up.

"You'll be fine," Eijiro says, clapping him on the shoulder. "We all studied."

Denki just whimpers in response. Mina leans toward me with a wicked grin. "If he passes, I'll be more shocked than if Bakugo suddenly apologized for breathing too loud."

I snort, but tension coils tight in my stomach anyway. I grip my pencil hard enough to make it spin between my fingers.

"You're tapping again."

The low voice to my right cuts through my focus. I blink and glance down, only now realizing my nails are drumming a quiet rhythm on the desk. Hanta leans slightly toward me, arms folded, eyes steady.

"I'm fine," I whisper back, sharper than I mean to.

He doesn't flinch. "Didn't say you weren't."

His gaze lingers for a beat before he turns away, and I stare forward, heat crawling up my neck.

The professor arrives, heavy stack of papers in hand, and the room instantly settles. Quizzes slap against desks like little threats. One lands in front of me, face down. I stare at it.

"You may begin."

The shuffle of pages fills the room. I flip mine over. The first section, definitions, is solid. Familiar. Like muscle memory from all those late nights whispering terms back and forth with Mina. My pencil scratches quick across the page.

Then the math starts.

Formulas. Word problems. Logic masquerading as riddles.

I freeze.

My pencil hovers, breath shallow, brain fogged.

Then—

Eyes. Watching.

Not leaning in. Not close. But I can feel him.

"Do your own quiz," I murmur, eyes on the page.

Out of the corner of my vision, Hanta smirks. "Just making sure you don't forget what we practiced."

"I didn't," I mutter, pushing through the next question.

He chuckles under his breath, finally turning back to his own paper.

Still, even without touching me, the air between us is charged, a spark just waiting to land.

Down the row, Mina scribbles like she's running a race. Kyoka mutters to herself, erasing something twice. Denki lets out a pained wheeze every few minutes until the professor growls, "Eyes on your own paper, Kaminari." Eijiro, somehow, still looks like he's enjoying himself.

By the essay section, my hand aches and my pulse is still climbing. But I'm moving. Focused. Steady.

When the professor calls time, the collective sigh that rises from the room is almost loud enough to rattle the lights.

Mina stretches like a cat. Kyoka pinches the bridge of her nose. Denki collapses, groaning about how his soul left his body halfway through. Eijiro pats him on the back, reassuring and cheerful.

Beside me, Hanta leans back in his chair, voice pitched just low enough for me to catch.

"Told you you'd be fine."

I don't turn toward him.

But I feel the corner of my mouth twitch anyway.

———

After our solo classes, we head back to the psych lecture room to collect our quizzes. The mood is restless, like we're all waiting for the final verdict. The professor enters with a stack that looks heavier than necessary.

Mina leans close. "This is it. If Denki fails, we grieve. If he passes, we celebrate."

"Start drafting the eulogy," Denki mumbles into the desk. "My will's on a sticky note in my sock drawer."

Kyoka snorts. "Classy."

The professor begins calling names. One by one, papers whisper down the rows.

Mine lands facedown. I hesitate, then flip it.

92%.

My heart stumbles, relief crashing so hard I nearly laugh. I press my lips together to keep it in, but Mina catches the look and smacks my arm.

"Hell yes," she whispers, grinning.

Hers arrives. A 95%. She beams. Kyoka follows with an 88%, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite the shrug she gives.

Then Eijiro, a proud 90%. His chest puffs out like he just beat the quiz in hand-to-hand combat.

Hanta's lands next. He flips it without hesitation. 93%.

He tilts the paper toward me slightly. His voice is low, easy. "Guess those late nights weren't just for show."

I roll my eyes, but my pulse kicks anyway.

And then, Denki.

His quiz lands face-up.

72%.

Silence.

Then—

"Yes!! I live!!"

Denki slams his hands down so hard the professor startles. Eijiro grabs him like he's hoisting a trophy. Mina is doubled over laughing. Kyoka mutters something about divine intervention.

I laugh too. Can't help it. The tension breaks like a wave, and suddenly the world is lighter again.

Across the chaos, the professor clears his throat, but no one's listening.

Mina leans over, eyes alight. "We're celebrating tonight. No arguments."

Hanta tips his chair back. "Our place again. Bring your game face. One of the guys is already setting up."

He flicks his gaze toward me for a breath too long, not pushy, just... suggestive.

I don't react. Not really.

But Mina's already grinning like she knows something I don't.

The golden evening light fades as we spill out of the lecture hall, buzzing with adrenaline. For once, nobody looks weighed down. No backpacks gripped like lifelines. No definitions muttered under breath. Just the crunch of gravel beneath our shoes and the lingering high of surviving a week we weren't sure we'd make it through.

"I told you," Denki crows, holding up his graded quiz like a banner. "I told you all I'd pass! Everyone doubted. Everyone! And look at me now." He taps the bolded score at the top like it's some kind of sacred text. "Seventy-two percent, baby. The sexiest number."

Kyoka rips out one of her earbuds and levels him with a look. "I swear to god, Denki, if you keep talking, I'll make sure it's the last number you ever see."

Mina clutches her chest dramatically. "God, the violence. We're supposed to be celebrating. Let the boy bask in his mediocrity."

"Weak," Kyoka mutters, already done with all of us.

Mina grabs my wrist before I can laugh, tugging me into a spin that sends my bag swinging. "Y/N," she sings, grinning at me like I'm her prize. "Tell me you're coming tonight. Don't you dare try to vanish."

I open my mouth to lie. To say I have work or I'm tired or some other flimsy excuse.

But she's already raising an eyebrow. "Try it. I dare you."

"...Fine," I sigh, defeated.

"That's what I thought." She throws her arm around me like she's claimed me for the night.

Behind us, Eijiro smacks Denki on the back so hard he stumbles. "You got lucky, man. Barely scraped it. Don't act like you just cured cancer."

"I did climb Everest," Denki insists, pointing at himself. "Everest is relative."

"You tripped your way up it," Hanta says with a grin, his voice soft behind me.

I glance back, just a little, and catch him watching me. Casual. Familiar. Like the moment was meant to land.

And it does, maybe more than I want it to.

I look away too fast.

The walk is a blur of color and sound and slow-building bass, the thump of music growing louder as the boys' house comes into view. Denki climbs onto the porch railing like it's a stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he bellows, "Tonight, we celebrate a miracle. The miracle... of my genius."

"No one's ever passed psychology on vibes alone," Mina whispers, in mock awe.

"I'm rewriting the system," Denki calls, still mid-performance.

Eijiro yanks the front door open. Music spills out, loud, hot, dizzying. The kind that makes it hard to think straight. Bodies fill the living room wall to wall, half-drunk cups balanced on windowsills, someone already dancing on the couch.

"Denki passed!" Eijiro announces, grinning like he just gave birth to him.

A cheer goes up, uncoordinated and chaotic. A drink is shoved into Denki's hand before he even asks for it. Mina and Kyoka vanish together like a synchronized strike, swept into the rhythm. Eijiro disappears toward the kitchen. The party folds around them like they've always been part of it.

I linger in the doorway a beat longer.

And that's when I see him.

Leaning against the far wall, beer in hand like a weapon. Black tank stretched tight across his chest. Hair messy, like he rolled out of a storm and dared someone to say something about it.

Bakugo.

He hasn't moved. Hasn't looked away.

My stomach tightens.

"Oi," he calls, his voice slicing through the music like it doesn't matter. "Try not to trip over anything tonight, huh? Wouldn't want a repeat of the juice massacre."

My jaw ticks. My grip tightens on the strap of my bag. "Funny," I snap. "Maybe this time you'll learn how to watch where you're going."

His smirk is slow. Sharp. A blade he knows how to use. "Guess you're still mouthy."

He tilts his beer in mock salute, eyes flicking over me like he's reading something only he can see.

There's heat in his stare. Not warmth. Not flirtation. Just friction.

And I should hate it. I should walk the other way and not give it another second of my time.

Instead, I turn first. Not because I'm backing down.

Because I'm not sure I trust what would happen if I stayed.

The second I do, Hanta's at my side like he was waiting for that exact moment. He presses a cup into my hand, fingers brushing mine, intentional. Soft, but not accidental.

"You don't have to let him get to you," he says, just loud enough for me to hear.

I shrug. "He doesn't."

"Mm," Hanta hums like he doesn't believe me, even though he doesn't say it out loud. His eyes hold mine a second too long. Like he wants me to forget everyone else is here.

But I don't.

I can still feel Bakugo watching from across the room. Still sense him like he carved out space in the air just to stay rooted.

I exhale slowly, grateful for the distraction. Even more grateful that Bakugo doesn't say anything.

But I still feel it.
That strange tension, quiet but pointed, threading itself into the silence.

He stays on the edge of everything. Doesn't speak. Doesn't glance over again.
But it's like he's waiting, like he's measuring something in the space between us.

And I shouldn't care.

But something in me keeps catching on it.
Like a loose thread I don't remember pulling.

It's not attention I asked for.
Not anything I need.
Still, it leaves a mark. A heat beneath the ribs, curling tighter the longer I try to ignore it.

I don't understand why it lingers.
Only that it does.
And when it does, everything else feels a little sharper. A little louder.

Like something in me is waking up. And I don't know whether to follow it
or run.

The bass thunders into a new track? louder, faster, the kind of beat that rattles bones. Mina's voice rises above it effortlessly.

"Y/N! Come on!" she shouts, one hand already in the air as she spins beside Kyoka, who's mouthing lyrics and flipping her hair like she's in a music video.

I glance toward them, toward the glitter of lights, the tangle of limbs, the safety of movement.

But I don't go.

Because when I look back, Hanta is still there.
Closer now.

Not in a way that demands anything, not like he's looming, but like his feet never really pointed anywhere else. Like, out of all the places to drift, this is where he always planned to land. Right beside me. His eyes flick to mine, then away, then back again like he's testing something. A current maybe, or a door that might open if he leans just right.

His elbow brushes mine. Not by accident.

And behind it all, beneath the chatter, the laughter, the pulse of the speakers, I can still feel him.

Bakugo.

He hasn't moved from the wall, but his gaze hasn't dropped either. Still pinned on me, low-lidded and unreadable, like he's cataloging every shift in my posture. Every breath I draw. Like he's already dissected my bones and is just waiting for the data to prove him right.

He doesn't smirk. Doesn't taunt again.
He just watches. As if that alone is enough to unravel something.

The party swells around us. Louder, messier. Someone yells about a drink spill. The couch creaks under a pile of limbs. The floor sticks faintly under my shoes.

But I barely hear it.

Because something about this moment feels off-axis.
Tilted. Tense.
Like a wire's been pulled too tight and no one's noticed yet.

Not even me.

But the air's different now.
Crackling at the edges.

Like something's about to give.
And when it does, I don't know if I'll want to stop it.

A new wave of bass crashes through the speakers, heavy enough that the walls seem to vibrate with it. Somewhere near the kitchen, a chorus of cheers erupts as another round of shots gets poured. The air sharpens. Orange peel, spiced rum, something floral clinging to someone's perfume.

Hanta doesn't speak. Just raises his brows slightly, like a question unspoken.

I tilt my head.

He grins.

And then I let him pull me into it.

The crowd isn't massive, maybe twenty people, tops, but the room's still packed enough that we're weaving through bodies, bumping shoulders, brushing past warmth and laughter and static in the air. Hanta's hand stays steady on my wrist. Light. No pressure. But it anchors me just the same.

Mina shrieks when she sees me approaching.

"Finally!"

Her hands fly out and she spins in a blur of sequins. Kyoka's already halfway through another drink, swaying with sharp rhythm, boots scuffing the floor as she twirls. Someone I don't recognize shouts approval when she lands a perfect dip.

We fold into their gravity. All of us.

The music climbs louder, fast and glittering, and the next few minutes are a blur of hips and laughter, hair caught in lip gloss, glitter dusting collarbones, someone's half-finished drink sloshing wildly in their hand.

I'm laughing too. Not fully sure why. But it's real.

It rolls up from somewhere warm in my chest, something fizzy and sweet that catches me off guard. Maybe from the drink in my hand, maybe from the way Mina yells when Kyoka dips her too dramatically, maybe from the way Hanta's fingers brush the small of my back in passing.

Or maybe from the way the music makes it impossible to think.

For a moment, the world narrows to sound and color and movement. A drink gets pressed into my hand, something cold and citrusy, and I take it without looking, sip until it burns sweet, until it coils in my stomach like heat.

Mina yells something in my ear again. "Two more songs, then shots!"

Kyoka whoops in agreement, already pointing to the kitchen.

We keep moving.

And maybe it's the rhythm. Or the flash of colored lights across the ceiling. But I start to feel it, the way people blur around the edges, the way everything sharp fades. My body goes soft in the bass, my limbs loose with it, spun out in the middle of a song I don't know and don't care to learn. I let it shake something off of me.

I let go.

Until I don't.

Because somewhere in the blur, in the mess of sound and skin and flickering light, I look up again.

And he's still there.

Bakugo.

Not dancing. Not drinking. Still.

But something's changed now.

He's not just watching, he's bracing.

His jaw's tighter. Shoulders rigid. Like he's been standing that way too long and can't quite shake it off. Like he thought he could pretend the room didn't matter and suddenly realized it does.

Our eyes meet.

Just for a second.

Not long. Not loud. But it lands like a hand around my ribs.

I don't blink. Neither does he.

It holds.

Then Mina spins into me, laughing and pulling me by the wrist toward the kitchen, shouting something about salt rims and tequila I won't remember in the morning.

The spell breaks.

But the heat doesn't.

The kitchen is full when we get there. Denki's got limes in his mouth for no reason, Eijiro's holding the salt with a look of absolute panic, and someone's dared Kyoka to pour two shots without spilling, which she does with perfect efficiency and zero interest.

Hanta appears beside me again, cup in hand. He leans down, voice at my ear.

"Still good?"

I nod.

Not because I mean it, but because I think I might be.

He doesn't press. Just hands me another drink. We raise them, clink, knock them back.

The burn is immediate. Sharp. Alive.

I blink away the taste and grin.

Mina cheers again. "Another round!"

Everything's spinning now, but not too fast. Just enough to lift the floor a little. Just enough to make the edges glow.

And still, beneath it all, I feel that pull.

Even now.

Even as I laugh.

Even as I let Hanta tug me back into the music.

Even as I lose myself again.

I feel it.

A gaze across the room.

Still holding.
Still burning.
Still there.

The countertop's a battlefield. Lime wedges abandoned like casualties, salt spilled in streaks across the tile, and mismatched shot glasses clinking together like some chaotic communion.

Kyoka slams her empty one down first. "Next."

Denki's still gasping dramatically like he just swallowed fire. "You guys are demons."

Mina grins. "Flavored demons."

She's already refilling.

Eijiro coughs through a laugh and leans into the sink. "I'm tapping out after this. My chest is buzzing."

"You said that three rounds ago," Hanta calls out, nudging me with his shoulder as he grabs a glass for himself.

"And yet I'm still here," Eijiro wheezes.

I don't even know what round we're on. Four? Five? My mouth tastes like citrus and heat and something vaguely cinnamon. I press my hand to the counter just to steady myself, fingers catching on salt grains. They stick to my skin.

Mina hands me the next one, already rimmed and ready.

"To bad decisions!" she shouts.

Kyoka smirks. "And worse intentions."

We raise them.

The shot goes down hotter than the last. A new kind of burn. Sharper. It curls in my chest and settles like fire in my throat. My head tips back, lashes fluttering at the sensation, not from pain, but from the warmth that follows.

Something in me sways.

Hanta laughs beside me. "That face."

"You try taking that without flinching."

He grins. "I did."

"Liar."

He shrugs and leans in just close enough for me to feel the buzz of him. The energy always pouring off his skin, like the party lives under his collarbones. He smells like tequila and citrus and something a little sweeter, something easy.

But it's not just him that has me on edge.

Because across the room, half-shadowed in the warm yellow light spilling from the kitchen archway, Bakugo still hasn't moved.

The group isn't paying attention. No one seems to notice. But I do.

He's leaning now, shoulder against the wall like he's tethering himself there. And his gaze?

It hasn't faltered once.

I don't look away this time.

I can't.

There's no smirk. No teasing edge. Just a weight in his eyes that pins me like gravity, silent and searing and too intense to hold for long. But I do. I match it. Even as my chest stirs. Even as something dangerous flickers inside me.

His eyes narrow. Slight. Subtle.

My fingers curl tighter around the empty glass.

Beside me, Hanta says something, a joke maybe, or a dare, but I only catch part of it. Something about another round. Or maybe dancing again.

I nod, but my brain's a half-second behind.

Because Bakugo's still watching.

And the longer he does, the more I feel it.

That quiet burn just under my skin, not from the alcohol. From something else. Something I don't know how to name.

Something that started weeks ago and won't stop crackling.

Something I don't want.

But maybe want too much.

More drinks hit the counter. Someone's shouting about finding the "good" playlist. Denki's opened a cabinet looking for snacks and found nothing but protein bars. Mina's dragged Kyoka into a mock slow-dance while Eijiro fake-cries about missing Senior prom.

It's chaos. Beautiful, spiraling chaos.

And through it all, I'm still warm from the shot. Still unsteady on feet that know the rhythm too well. Still feeling the echo of that look across the room.

I pour one more. For me. Just me.

No cheers this time.

Just fire in my chest. And the quiet, undeniable heat of being seen.

The celebration is messy in the best way. Drinks are passed around, the kitchen smells like lime and cheap vodka, and Mina has already roped Eijiro and Denki into a loud drinking game that they're both definitely losing. Laughter keeps bubbling up in waves, spilling out into the living room where music pulses low but steady, more a background heartbeat than anything else.

I'm perched on one of the stools by the counter, knees tucked against the edge, the rim of my cup still faintly sticky with salt. Hanta leans casually beside me, one elbow braced on the counter like it's always been his, like gravity brought him here on purpose.

His smile is easy. Loose-limbed and golden in the way only Hanta can be. He tips his chin toward Denki, who's collapsed against the counter like a tragic painting.

"You're holding up better than half of them," he says. "Starting to think you're built different."

"Pure spite," I say, raising my cup with a mock toast. "And a little talent."

Hanta laughs, low and warm. It rolls through me like a ripple, unsteady and familiar. The kind of laugh that clings like heat. The kind that says we're still us, even after everything.

His shoulder brushes mine again, casually this time, like a rhythm we've fallen into. I try not to notice how he smells, how it lingers sharp and sweet every time he shifts closer. Like maybe the tequila's got nothing on him.

He starts to say something else, a story maybe, probably about the time Denki nearly lit a microwave on fire, but the edges of his words fade.

Because I feel it.

That flicker again. That weight behind my eyes. That prickle at the base of my neck.

A stare.

My body knows it before my brain does.

I glance up—and yeah.

There he is.

Bakugo.

Still posted against the far wall, shoulder hooked like it's holding up the drywall, black tank stretched over his chest, and a fresh beer dangling loose from his fingers. He hasn't moved. Hasn't joined. Hasn't spoken.

But he's been here.

The whole time.

Watching.

Not passively, either. Not like someone zoning out in the corner, half-tuned into the music. No. His stare is precise. Intentional. Like he's tracking me on purpose. Like every glance he catches is a tally on a list only he's keeping.

He doesn't blink when I meet his eyes.

Doesn't flinch.

Just looks. Steady. Intense.

Like he's waiting for something.

And god, the look isn't even heated. It's not jealous. It's not anything you could name in the light.

It's still.

So still it carves through the room.

My fingers tighten slightly on the cup.

Hanta's still talking. Something about Denki and a stolen mascot costume. But I can barely hear him over the static rushing in my ears.

Bakugo hasn't smiled. Not once tonight. Hasn't touched a single shot glass. Hasn't stepped even an inch out of place. But somehow, somehow, he still feels like the sharpest heat in the room.

Like I could be halfway across the city and still feel the weight of that stare.

"Y/N?"

Mina's voice breaks through like a snap.

She appears at my side without warning, glitter catching in her lashes, her cheeks flushed from dancing. She looks between me and Hanta, then over her shoulder toward the wall where Bakugo stands.

Her eyes narrow slightly.

"You okay?" she asks, too casual to be casual. "You kinda spaced."

I blink. Force a smile. Shake off the coil in my gut.

"Perfect," I lie, lifting my cup again. "Just plotting how to crush Eijiro in the next round."

Mina raises a skeptical brow but lets it slide, bumping her hip against my knee as she turns toward the fridge, muttering something about needing a chaser that doesn't taste like battery acid.

Still, even as the moment shifts, even as the music kicks back up and Kyoka starts yelling about her favorite playlist finally hitting the queue, I feel it.

That steady heat.

That unreadable gaze from across the room.

And even without looking, I know.

Bakugo's still watching.

Not like he wants me to notice.

Like he knows I already do.

The night drags on in that strange rhythm.
Laughter, the clatter of cups, the occasional roar when someone loses a game, but the undercurrent stays the same. Every time I loosen up, every time I let myself laugh a little too hard at something Hanta says, I feel it.

Bakugo. Watching again.

It's like he's everywhere and nowhere all at once. Leaning in a doorway, a shadow at the edge of the room, eyes locked on me whenever I'm not looking. Always there. Always tracking.

It's infuriating.

Like he's silently calling me out, mocking me without a word. Like he's waiting for something he won't say out loud.

When I finally push off the stool, irritated and empty-cupped, I barely get a step in before Hanta moves too, easy, warm, like he's been paying attention.

"You want another?" he asks, nodding toward my drink.

"Yeah," I murmur, grateful. "Thanks."

He turns toward the counter, and that's when it hits.

"Pathetic."

The word slices through the noise like a blade.

At first, I think I misheard. But then he says it again, louder. Pointed. Aimed.

My grip tightens around the rim of the cup.

I turn slowly.

Bakugo's still leaning against the doorframe, but his posture's changed. Straighter now. Shoulders squared. Like he's been reevaluating his target all night and finally decided to take the shot.

His eyes flick deliberately to Hanta, then back to me.

"What, he your new chaperone now?"

Hanta stiffens beside me, jaw ticking.

Bakugo scoffs under his breath. "Figures."

Then he tilts his head, razor-edged. "You walk around like you don't notice it. Like you don't know he's always right there, waiting for crumbs."

"Shut up," I snap.

But he ignores me. His attention stays locked on Hanta like he's dissecting something beneath a microscope.

"It's pathetic," he says again, low and cruel. "Watching you follow her around like she's the goddamn moon."

"Bakugo," Hanta warns, quiet and firm.

"No, go ahead," I say sharply. "Say what you really mean."

Bakugo's gaze snaps to me.

"What I really mean?" His laugh is short, bitter. "Fine. You act like you're above it. Like you don't eat up the attention. But you do. Every glance, every favor, every orbit. You let it happen."

My chest tightens. "You think this is about me leading him on?"

"I think you like being wanted," he says flatly. "Doesn't matter by who. As long as someone's watching you."

The music fades beneath the rush in my ears.

"You don't know a damn thing about me."

He steps forward. Just one step. But it's enough to tilt the air.

He lowers his voice. "I know exactly what I'm talking about. You thrive on it. On making people look stupid over you."

His eyes glint, hard. "And the worst part?"

A pause. Long enough to make it sting.

"You enjoy it."

That lands like impact.

The whole room seems to go still. Not silent, just... waiting.

Waiting to see what I'll do next.

And I don't move.

Not yet.

My grip tightens around the cup, plastic groaning under my fingers. It digs into my palm, sharp and grounding, but it's not enough to keep the heat from rising.

It burns through me, not shame, not embarrassment. Fury.

"I don't know what the fuck you think you're talking about," I bite out, low and steady. "But you don't know me."

Bakugo's gaze doesn't waver. Doesn't blink.

He takes a step closer. Not much, just enough that I can smell the beer on his breath and see the shift in his jaw. He drops his voice, low and intimate, the kind of quiet meant to land like a blow. But he doesn't keep it private. He pitches it just loud enough for everyone around us to hear.

"I know exactly what I'm talking about."

The words land like ash, hot and bitter.

That's when Hanta moves.

He pushes off the wall in one fluid motion, stepping in front of me like a barrier. Like instinct. His frame cuts clean between us, tall and unflinching, and it forces Bakugo to tilt his chin just slightly to meet his eyes.

"Back off," Hanta says, calm. Not quiet. And it cuts sharper than anything else in the room.

Bakugo doesn't budge. Doesn't flinch.

Instead, he smirks, but it's not cocky. Not playful. It's the kind of smirk that cuts with intention. That dares someone to hit back.

"What," he says, voice low, "did I hit a nerve?"

His eyes flick between us, measuring, reading, judging. Every glance a scalpel. Every pause a calculation. Like he's not just trying to win. He's trying to ruin.

The room doesn't go silent, but it feels like it does. The bass still hums faint behind us, someone laughs out by the firepit. But inside, here, now? It's nothing but pressure.

I feel it coil in my gut. That slow, hot snap of adrenaline as everything burns behind my ribs.

My jaw locks. My pulse pounds so hard it drowns out the music, the voices, the night itself.

I don't know if I want to scream, or shove him, or storm out and never look back.

But I know one thing.

This?

This isn't over.

Chapter Text

The music is a blur now. Just a heartbeat in the background, drowned beneath the roar of my pulse. The cup in my hand is bending, plastic creaking with the pressure of my grip. My knuckles ache, jaw clenched so tight I might crack something.

And Bakugo?

He's still talking.

Still standing there like he owns the space, like he hasn't just insulted me in front of the people I trust most. And worse, like he thinks he can get away with it.

Hanta hasn't moved from his place between us, and I know he's only staying calm because I'm not. But I feel him tense, ready to catch whatever comes next. So does Bakugo. That's why he keeps going.

He shifts his weight, dragging his tongue across his teeth like he's savoring the next hit. His voice lowers, sharpened like a blade. "What, you think standing here all righteous makes you better? You think they don't talk about you when you're not around?"

That lands.

Mina stiffens behind me. Denki looks like he might be sick. Kyoka's mouth parts just slightly, jaw locking a second later.

Bakugo tilts his chin. His gaze flicks to Hanta, then to me, like we're interchangeable. "It's pathetic. The way he plays guard dog like it means something. Like you need protection."

My spine locks, breath slicing short.

Hanta's hand twitches at his side, but he doesn't step in yet. He knows me too well by now, knows the second I start shaking isn't fear. It's fury.

I take a step forward. "Say that again."

He does. Of course he does. But not the same way.

"Don't act like you're some martyr, looking out for everyone. You're not noble. You're just loud. Loud enough to drown out the fact that you don't actually do anything. You cling to your friends because without them, what the hell are you?"

My vision tunnels. Everything narrows to red edges and Bakugo's smug, infuriating face. My fingers go numb from how tight I'm holding the cup.

"Or maybe," he adds, tilting his head like he's enjoying himself now, "you just keep people around so you've got someone to hide behind. Some poor idiot like him—"

"No," I snap, my voice sharp enough to slice.

But he doesn't stop.

"—to step in every time you start something you can't—"

That's when the drink leaves my hand.

Fast. Final.

I don't wait for the end of his sentence. I don't need to. I will not stand there while he spits venom at the people I love, like they're props in his ego parade. Like Hanta's some disposable piece on the board and not the reason I've made it through half the shit Bakugo couldn't dream of understanding.

The cup hits him square in the face. Red liquid splashes across his cheek, neck, shirt. It's sticky and immediate and shockingly loud in the sudden silence that falls.

He reels back, more stunned than injured, sputtering, eyes wide and wild with disbelief.

"Don't you ever talk about my friends like that again," I bite out, loud and vicious and steady.

Nobody moves.

Nobody breathes.

Even the fire outside seems to quiet, the crackling wood suddenly distant.

Bakugo slowly drags his hand down his soaked face, flicking juice from his fingers. The fury building in his expression is volcanic. But he doesn't yell. Doesn't explode.

He just looks at me.

And what he sees there, the shaking rage, the line he crossed, must be enough to stop him cold. Because his mouth shuts.

My chest is rising and falling too fast, adrenaline buzzing under my skin like a threat.

"Damn," Denki mutters under his breath.

Mina is frozen, eyes wide, one hand hovering like she forgot what she was about to do. Kyoka exhales a low whistle.

Eijiro steps in then, grabs Bakugo's arm with a grip that says don't. "That's enough," he murmurs.

Bakugo doesn't shake him off.

He just stands there, drenched and livid, and this time, it's me who doesn't look away first.

Silence doesn't last long.

"Holy shit," Mina says, breathless, somewhere between awe and alarm. "That was legendary."

Denki makes a strangled sound behind her. "Okay but I wasn't ready—there should've been a countdown or something."

Kyoka elbows him. "Read the room, dumbass."

Eijiro's still got a hold on Bakugo's arm, tension stiff through his shoulders like he's waiting for the detonation. But Bakugo hasn't moved. Just stands there, dripping jungle juice and rage, breathing hard like he's trying not to say whatever's clearly burning the back of his throat.

I don't care.

I don't flinch.

Because he deserved it. Every last drop. And if I hadn't thrown it, I would've said worse.

Hanta finally shifts beside me, sliding his hand lightly across my back, not pulling, not pushing. Just there. A quiet anchor in the wreckage. I lean into it without thinking.

"You alright?" he asks under his breath, eyes scanning my face.

"Yeah," I mutter. "Now I am."

Mina's blinking hard like she's trying to figure out if this is really happening. "I mean... I've wanted to throw something at him before, but I never had the guts."

Kyoka's voice is low but fierce. "You shouldn't need guts just to defend your friends."

"Honestly?" Hanta says, his voice still calm but firm. "That was overdue."

Denki finally exhales. "You looked him dead in the face and launched that drink like a dramatic movie villain and I think I might be changed forever."

Mina points. "You looked cool as hell. He looked like he lost a boss fight."

Eijiro glances between us all. "Okay. Maybe we take five minutes. Everybody breathe. Hydrate. Maybe... step outside?"

"I'm good right here," I say flatly, my voice still sharp enough to cut glass.

Kyoka nods once, approving. "He crossed a line."

"Multiple lines," Hanta adds. "Honestly, he ran a whole marathon."

Mina lets out a slow whistle and shakes her head. "I really thought you were gonna say something. Not throw the entire cup."

"It was mine to throw," I snap, still fuming.

"Yeah. No shit."

No one moves toward Bakugo. Not even Eijiro.

The space between us is radioactive now, humming with unspoken things and fractured pride. But my hands are still shaking, and the sticky scent of fake fruit is already sinking into the hem of my sleeve, and I do not regret it.

Not even a little.

Bakugo's eyes flick to Hanta again, but this time, slower. More calculated. Then back to me.

Then he turns and walks away.

No words. No bark. Just... leaves.

Like the storm has passed but the lightning's still crawling under everyone's skin.

As the sound of the door clicking shut echoes behind him, I let out a shaky exhale I didn't realize I was holding.

Mina breaks the silence again.

"...Okay but also? That was hot."

Kyoka groans. "You can't say that after a war."

"I'm serious!" She waves dramatically. "Just—the righteous fury? The drink toss? The glare? I need to sit down."

"You are sitting."

"I need to lie down, then."

Denki snorts and mutters something about needing a towel and maybe trauma therapy.

But I don't speak. Not yet.

Because I'm still burning.

Not because I lost my temper. Not even because of Bakugo's words.

But because he aimed low. Not at me, but at the people who never deserved it.

And I'm not the kind of person who lets that slide.

Not ever.

The buzz around us starts to swell again, but it's all static. I don't hear half of what anyone's saying anymore. My pulse is still hammering, my breath shallow under the weight of it all.

Then I feel his hand again, Hanta's, light at the bend of my elbow, steady in a way that grounds me instantly.

"Come on," he says softly, just for me. "Let's get out of here for a second."

I nod, wordless.

He doesn't make a scene. Doesn't call attention to it. Just guides me with a gentle tug, his fingers brushing against mine until they settle at the small of my back. We weave past the kitchen, through the hallway, his steps quiet and certain beside mine.

When he reaches the back door, he opens it without a word and waits for me to pass through first.

I don't look back. Don't need to.

The door shuts behind us.

And everything else fades.

Hanta lingers near the steps, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he's afraid of what they'll do if left loose. The porch light casts him in soft shadow, picking up the sharp line of his jaw, the furrow in his brow he usually hides behind a grin. But tonight, there's no grin. No teasing. Just silence.

He glances at me, not quick, not casual. He's watching me the way people watch for lightning. Like he knows something just struck, and he's still listening for the rumble underneath.

"You okay?" His voice is low. Not soft like it's nothing, but soft like it matters. Like he's afraid if he asks too loud, it'll all come spilling out before either of us is ready.

I cross my arms, hugging myself, though the cold is only half the reason. "I don't know," I admit. It slips out fast, honest. "I guess."

Then I exhale, shaky and uneven. "I'm just... mad. Embarrassed, maybe. But mostly mad."

The smallest smile tries to twitch at the corner of his mouth, reflexive, but it dies before it forms. He nods once. Doesn't speak. Just looks at me like he's really seeing me, not just the version of me I offer when things are easy.

The quiet stretches between us, taut as a wire, full of everything we haven't said and everything we're too raw to say now.

Then, he shifts.

His hand slips free from his pocket, slow, deliberate. And it brushes against mine.

Not an accident.

The back of his knuckles skim my skin, warm and steady and intentional, a quiet offer. A question without words.

My breath catches. The spark is immediate? not fire, but something gentler. A pulse. It runs up my arm, settles beneath my ribs.

But I don't move away.

I let him touch me.

Hanta doesn't rush. He doesn't push. His fingers hover close, barely grazing mine. He's waiting for me to close the distance, or not. He'd take either answer.

"Y/N..." My name lands rough in his throat. He's not hiding anything anymore. No sarcasm. No shield. Just him. Stripped down to the kind of honesty most people flinch from.

He looks at me fully, and the weight of it is staggering.

"I don't like how he talked to you," he says. Quiet, but full of heat. "Not even a little."

I blink hard, throat tight.

"You don't deserve that," he says again, firmer now. "No one gets to talk to you like that. Not him. Not anyone."

My pulse stumbles. I try to hold his gaze, but it's too much and not enough at once.

"Hanta..."

He swallows, eyes flicking to the side before he steels himself and looks back. He's not done.

"And I don't just..." He falters, then exhales sharp. "I don't just stick around because you're part of the group. Or because it's easy to be around you."

The silence stretches.

He shifts a fraction closer. His thumb brushes against the side of my hand, slow and steady, almost reverent. Like he's making sure I feel it. That I know.

"I stay because I want to."

That's all he says.

No declarations. No dramatic pause. Just that. Simple. Sincere. And somehow more honest than anything else I've heard tonight.

The air between us stills. My chest feels tight in a different way now, not anger, not adrenaline. Something quieter. Something I can't name yet, but it's there.

He pulls his hand back slowly, like it costs him something. Shoves it back into his pocket, jaw clenched like he's holding in more than he's willing to admit.

The space where he touched me feels colder instantly.

"Come on," he says after a beat, his voice quiet but steady. "Before Mina starts yelling and the whole house hears it."

I nod. But I don't move.

Not right away.

Because something shifted.

The ground doesn't feel the same beneath my feet, and I know, with a kind of stubborn certainty, that things won't go back to how they were before.

When I finally do move, he falls into step beside me.

Our shoulders don't touch.

But they almost do.

And that almost carries enough weight to keep me breathless all the way back.

Inside, the heat hits instantly. The crush of bodies, the hum of bass, the neon splash of string lights blurring with motion. Someone's yelling from the kitchen. Laughter ripples through the living room like a wave just missed. Cups clink. Shoes scuff.

Music still blasts from someone's questionable playlist, already on its third remix of a song no one remembers putting on.

The party hasn't stopped.

It's like we were never gone.

But everything feels slower now. Louder, too. Not in volume, but in presence. Like the room is swelling around me, sharp corners and muffled edges, as if I walked back into the same world but left something of myself behind the door.

Denki's still hollering about some outrageous dare. He's halfway onto the couch, arms flailing like he's conducting the chaos around him. "I'm telling you, if no one drinks, I will juggle the fucking limes!"

Eijiro grabs his hoodie from behind, tugging him down with the ease of someone who's done this more than once. "You can't even juggle two limes, man. Last time, you hit yourself in the face."

"That was an attack from gravity!" Denki protests.

No one listens. Mina's wheezing. Kyoka groans. Eijiro throws a lime across the room in protest. It's bedlam.

I should laugh.

Instead, I just hover, standing there in the doorway while the party surges around me, a little too fast and too bright and too unreal. My fingers still buzz where Hanta's hand brushed mine.

Mina spots us first. Of course she does.

Her cup lifts halfway to her mouth and pauses midair. Her eyes flit between the two of us, fast and sharp, clocking the distance, or lack of it. Her brows rise, slow, knowing. That smirk? Already forming. She lowers her drink like she's spotted something scandalous across the dance floor, but it's just us.

Her voice cuts above the noise without effort. "Well, well. Look who decided to rejoin the land of the emotionally repressed."

I shoot her a look. "Don't."

She lifts both hands, innocent, but her grin is too smug to sell it. "Didn't say anything."

"Yet," Kyoka mutters. She's draped sideways on the couch, chin propped in one hand, one of her earbuds trailing her shoulder. She gives me a once-over like she's trying to assess how much damage was done outside. "You okay?"

"I'm fine." I say it too fast, too flat. My voice sticks somewhere in my throat.

Eijiro pushes himself upright. "You sure? You kinda dipped out like—" He makes a vague poof motion with his hands. "Smoke bomb exit."

Hanta chuckles, quiet. "Bit of a long hallway."

That earns a few laughs. Kyoka rolls her eyes. Denki clutches his chest like he's been mortally offended. "Wait, what happened in the hallway? Was it sexy? Tell me it was sexy."

Mina groans. "Denks, oh my god."

"I'm just saying," he shouts over her, "this party desperately needs more drama. Like, if no one confesses feelings or gets kicked out soon, I'm gonna start scheming."

"You always say that," Eijiro says.

"And every time I do, something wild happens," Denki replies, pointing with authority. "Maybe I'm the drama!"

Kyoka grumbles into her cup. "You're the noise pollution."

Mina leans toward me, elbow grazing mine, voice pitched just low enough for only me to hear. "But seriously. You okay?"

My throat tightens. I nod.

She gives me a look, not playful this time. Just... knowing. And warm. "Good," she says. "Because for what it's worth? We've all wanted to deck Bakugo at least once."

My eyes flick up, instinctive. But he's not here. Not in the doorway. Not looming over the group like he normally does when he reenters a room. The spot he always claims near the far wall is empty.

And still, I feel like he's watching. Like the echo of that fight is still dragging behind me, clinging like smoke.

I feel the shift the second I walk past a group of partygoers I don't know that well, classmates, friends-of-friends. A few glance my way. One of them leans into the other and whispers. Not loud. Not overt. But I feel it.

The tension might've cooled, but it didn't go unnoticed.

Hanta drops onto the floor, settling against the wall. His posture is easy, too easy. Like he's trying not to take up space. Like he doesn't want anyone to see what I saw.

I stay standing for a beat longer, cup still in hand, like I'm not sure where to go now. Like the spot I left doesn't quite fit anymore.

Eventually, I sink into the cushion next to Kyoka. She shifts without looking, giving me more room. Her shoulder brushes mine.

Silence blooms in the beat between conversations. It only lasts a second, but in that second, I feel every pair of eyes that might've seen.

Then the party folds over itself again. Denki screams about the kangaroo fight bracket he's creating, Mina argues that someone should put on another playlist because if she hears one more remix she's going to scream, Kyoka mutters about how she told everyone not to let Denki near the speaker.

"Okay," Denki announces dramatically, raising his cup. "If no one's gonna fight, I will. The house plant's been talking shit all night."

"You can't fight a fern, dude," Eijiro says, nearly choking on his drink. "That's like, illegal."

"I can and I will! This party needs an event!"

Mina lifts her brows. "We had one. In the kitchen. With shouting. And broken glass."

"Wait—that was real?!" Denki shrieks.

Kyoka swats him with a pillow. "You threw the glass, idiot."

"I did?!" he gasps.

"I watched you."

"Well damn. I'm an agent of chaos."

Eijiro's laughing so hard he drops his drink. "You're a walking liability."

Laughter spills again, but mine doesn't come easily.

Hanta hasn't said a word since we sat down.

I glance over.

He's watching the group. Not zoning out, watching. Quietly. Intently. His hand turns his cup slowly between his fingers. When he feels me looking, his gaze shifts.

It's not intense. It's not a stare. Just an acknowledgment.

But it still lands like a spark in my chest.

He lifts his drink slightly, just a tilt. Barely visible to anyone else.

My hand follows on instinct. I raise mine back, breath catching, and for a second, it's just us again. Like outside never ended. Like there's something stretching across the space between us, taut and invisible.

Then Kyoka elbows me and mutters something about Denki's stupid playlist, and the moment vanishes.

But the weight of it lingers.

The party surges on.

And even though I'm surrounded by friends, noise, comfort, the cushion of routine, I feel like the axis of my night has already shifted. Like I stepped outside for a breath of air and came back changed.

And no one noticed.

Except him.

Mina's still smirking when she stands, swaying a little as she holds her empty cup above her head. "I need a refill," she announces to absolutely no one, already headed toward the kitchen. "And if there's no more fruit punch, I'm making something worse."

Eijiro calls after her, "Don't mix the juices again. Last time was a war crime."

She doesn't look back. "No promises."

Kyoka huffs a laugh under her breath, pulling her knees up onto the couch. Her fingers tap a lazy beat against the rim of her cup as she shifts to lean into Denki, who's now animatedly re-enacting a near-death experience with a staircase.

Hanta hasn't moved.

He's still propped against the wall like he belongs there, like he's used to watching the world from a step removed. But every now and then, when Mina cackles too loud, when someone brushes too close, his eyes flick over to me again. Not constantly. Not even expectantly. Just enough to make me feel like I'm not imagining it.

Someone turns the music up. The bass shakes the floor a little.

It pulls more people into the living room, most of them already a little too loud, a little too drunk. I catch a couple glances from people I barely know, wide eyes, half-laughs, whispering behind red Solo cups.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what they're whispering about. I'd seen the way they all paused when Bakugo raised his voice earlier. When the tension split the room like a fault line.

I cross my legs tighter and keep my drink close.

Denki springs up. "Alright, alright, let's bring the games back. The party's dying!"

"It's not," Kyoka says flatly, but she doesn't stop him.

Eijiro claps once. "Drunk charades?"

"We already did that," Mina says, reappearing with a terrifying concoction in a mason jar.

"Drunker charades?" Denki tries.

Kyoka looks at me. "You're better at keeping him in check."

I blink. "Since when?"

"Since he got on the table last week."

Denki gasps, scandalized. "That was for the bit!"

"You dislocated Eijiro's lamp," Kyoka deadpans.

"It's called performance art."

There's a flash of laughter. It's lighter this time. Less tight. I lean back into the couch, the edge of my cup tapping gently against my lip, and for a second it almost feels normal again.

Almost.

Because there's still that weight tucked behind my ribs, that flicker of heat along my skin where Hanta's knuckles brushed mine. That echo of his voice saying I mattered.

I feel it all over again when he shifts and his leg knocks gently against the edge of the couch I'm on. Not intentional. Not deliberate. But not entirely accidental either. My breath catches, just enough to notice.

I don't look at him this time. I don't have to.

Mina drops onto the arm of the couch next to me, nudging my shoulder with hers. "Hey," she says quietly, just for me. "You doing okay?"

I nod before I can think. "Yeah. Just... tired."

Her brow lifts. She doesn't press, doesn't prod. Just nudges me again and sips her drink. "We can bail early if you want. Blame it on Denki's mystery juice."

"I'm fine," I say again, softer this time. "Just—figuring stuff out."

She nods like she gets it.

Denki starts a new round of whatever game he's making up, and Eijiro joins in with wild enthusiasm. Kyoka groans but ends up playing anyway.

People are shouting again, laughing, flinging pillows and accusations across the room. The energy ramps back up, party pace resumed, but I feel the shift in me, steady and quiet beneath it all.

And even as I half-listen to Denki explain the rules of "Slurred Trivia," even as Mina whispers a prediction about how long it'll take him to forget them, I can feel that weight still sitting beside me. Hanta's presence solid and unshakable, even from across the room.

And when I look again, just once, he's already looking.

Still watching.

Still there.

"I swear to god," Kyoka says, already rubbing her temples, "if this game ends with Denki trying to bench-press someone again—"

"I only bench-press with consent," Denki interrupts, pointing at her with mock offense.

"That's not the part I'm worried about."

Eijiro shoves an ottoman to the center of the room. "Okay, okay—so this is the stage."

"We don't need a stage," Mina says. She's still perched beside me, swirling her horror show of a drink like it'll gain sentience.

Denki grins. "We always need a stage."

"No," Kyoka says immediately. "We need less stage. Less Denki. Less chaos."

Denki ignores her, arms wide. "New game. Drunk Improv. You get one word from the audience. Thirty seconds. Go."

Mina's eyes light up like he summoned a demon. "Apocalypse."

Kyoka sighs deeply.

Eijiro slams a hand to his chest like he's just been hit with divine inspiration. "My time has come."

Hanta snorts softly from the side, low and warm.

I don't say anything, but I feel the smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

Denki points at Eijiro. "You're on."

Eijiro immediately begins a dramatic monologue about how he alone can save the world with an overcooked sweet potato and a box of expired fireworks. It's loud. It's unhinged. It includes several fake deaths and one absolutely unnecessary backflip attempt.

By the time he collapses onto the floor with a guttural scream about nuclear love, half the room is doubled over in laughter. Even Kyoka, deadpan and exhausted, has her head against Denki's shoulder, hiding a grin.

Mina wipes a tear from her eye. "That was either brilliant or brain damage."

"Both," Eijiro wheezes.

"Hard to say," Hanta adds. His voice is easy now, smoother than before. Still not loud, still not pulling attention, but when he smiles this time, it lingers.

Denki throws a pillow at him. "You're next."

"Nah," Hanta says. "I'm better at being the judge."

"You're better at being tall," Mina mutters. "Let him be mysterious. It's working for him."

I bite back a comment, something dry, something dumb, but my throat feels tight all of a sudden. I drain the last of my drink instead.

Kyoka slaps a card deck onto the table. "No more improv. It's card time."

"What game?" Eijiro asks, already dragging himself upright.

"Dealer's choice."

"Go Fish," Denki says seriously.

Mina immediately throws a pillow at him.

The next ten minutes are nonsense. No one can agree on a game. Someone suggests President, which turns into a heated debate about Denki's abuse of power last time. Hanta suggests Speed and gets booed by everyone who knows they're too drunk for reflexes.

Eventually, Mina wins by default and forces everyone into a round of Kings. House rules, which somehow means no rules at all.

Chaos reigns.

Every new card is followed by shouting, wild gestures, accidental confessions, and at least one demand that Kyoka re-explain the rules. Denki ends up having to speak in song lyrics. Eijiro has to drink every time someone says his name. Mina makes a rule that every round has to include a compliment, which somehow leads to Denki professing his love for Hanta's earlobes.

"They're shaped like trust," Denki slurs.

Hanta chokes on his drink.

Kyoka leans into me, whispering through laughter, "You have five minutes before he tries to kiss someone."

"Minimum."

I glance toward the kitchen, half-expecting to see Bakugo's silhouette again, even though I know he's long gone. The house feels different without that weight in the room. Lighter. But not quite easier.

Mina drapes herself across my lap dramatically. "Tell me a secret."

"I'm not drunk enough for that."

"You're so drunk."

"You're projecting."

She laughs again. "Maybe."

Someone yells from the other room that the speaker disconnected. Denki takes off sprinting like he's on a mission from god. Eijiro follows him, either to help or to prevent casualties. Kyoka stays curled up with her cup, flipping cards idly, and I let Mina settle against me without complaint.

But I can still feel it.

That flicker.

That steady pulse of something just under the surface. Like gravity shifted.

Because even in the blur of the party, even with the noise and lights and alcohol smudging the edges of the night, I can still feel the way Hanta looked at me earlier.

And when I lift my gaze across the room, he's still looking.

Eijiro bounds back into the room, breathless. "Crisis averted. The speaker is alive. Denki did try to connect to the fridge by accident, though."

"It had strong Bluetooth," Denki insists from behind him, victorious, holding his phone aloft. "Anyway. Vibes restored."

He hits play.

The bass kicks back in, heavier this time. Something with a messier beat, the kind that makes it impossible to sit still. Someone on the floor whoops. Kyoka rolls her eyes, but she's already drumming her fingers against her cup again.

"Dance break," Eijiro shouts. "Mandatory."

"No," Kyoka says instantly.

Mina throws her hand in the air. "Yes."

Denki grabs her wrist. "Come on, Mina. You picked the chaos juice. You owe us."

"Peer pressure," she sighs, letting herself be dragged off the couch. "Don't say I never suffer for you."

She spins once dramatically, then immediately stumbles into Eijiro, laughing too hard to recover. The two of them disappear into the center of the room. Half-dancing, half-wrestling, all limbs and unhinged energy.

Denki turns to me next. "You in?"

I shake my head. "I'll supervise."

"You're no fun."

"I'm too fun. That's the problem."

He considers this. "Fair."

Kyoka takes his place without warning, grabbing his sleeve and yanking him away before he can beg harder. "Come on, Mr. Bluetooth Fridge. Time to redeem yourself."

"I'm gonna kill this dance floor," Denki yells, flinging his arms like a gremlin.

Kyoka mutters, "Please don't."

They're gone in seconds, swept into the heat of the crowd.

The lights are lower now. Someone dimmed the lamp and threw colored bulbs into the corners. Everything is red and gold and flickering shadows. Music pulses through the walls, through the floor. Through me.

I take a slow sip of what's left in my cup. It's warm now, sugary and flat, but I don't care.

And when I glance sideways, I'm not surprised to find him closer than before.

Hanta's still by the wall, but not pressed to it. Not hiding. He's drifted in with the edges of the group, half-lit in the ambient red glow. Close enough now that I could reach out without standing.

His gaze flicks to mine. Steady. A beat longer than it should be.

He doesn't look away.

So I don't either.

Not until Eijiro shouts from the crowd, "Slow song!”

"What?" Denki calls back, already out of breath. "Why?!"

"Drama!" Eijiro declares.

And just like that, someone switches the track. The mood flips. A syrupy R&B beat slides in, low and heavy. Too warm. Too slow. Too much.

Around us, the chaos stutters. Couples form. Some real, some ridiculous. Kyoka drags Denki into a mock-dip. Mina waves her hands dramatically and pulls Eijiro into a spin, both of them giggling through the entire thing.

I blink at the sudden shift, at the way the whole room seems to move in time with the tempo, softer now. A little blurred.

When I look again, Hanta's standing in front of me.

Not close. Not asking. Just there.

And then, quietly, he tips his head toward the crowd. Not quite a question. Not quite not.

My chest tightens.

I shouldn't.

But something in me aches with the weight of tonight. Of Bakugo's voice earlier, sharp and cold. Of the way I keep feeling like I'm floating sideways through the night.

So I move.

I slide off the couch, slow and careful, and let my cup clink quietly onto the table behind me. I don't say anything. Just nod once, barely there.

Hanta holds out a hand.

I take it.

His fingers are warm, steadier than I feel.

We drift closer to the others, where the floor is packed with slow-moving bodies, but not too close. Not center-stage. Just near enough to be part of it.

His hands are gentle at my waist. Mine rest light against his shoulders.

It's not romantic. Not yet.

But it's something.

We sway with the beat, slow and quiet. The kind of moment that doesn't ask for words.

The kind that fills the space between them.

The kind I let happen, even though my heart's not sure where it's meant to land.

And for just a minute—

I let myself feel it.

The slow song fades out, replaced by something fuzzier and unrecognizable, someone's drunken cue to switch playlists, probably. I glance around in time to catch a few couples peeling off, laughing into each other's shoulders as they drift toward the door.

The party's thinning.

People I don't know start saying their goodbyes in slurred, half-hearted waves. A guy in a basketball jersey leans over the couch to grab his jacket and knocks over an entire bowl of pretzels in the process. Kyoka glares at him until he stammers an apology and stumbles out.

Eijiro watches the exodus from where he's draped over the arm of a chair, red-faced and beaming. "Survival of the drunkest," he says wisely. "We remain."

"Barely," Kyoka mutters, curling tighter into Denki's side.

Mina's flat on the carpet now, her legs kicking in slow bicycle motions as she points at the ceiling. "We should paint stars up there," she says dreamily. "Like little glow ones. Like when we were kids."

I sink back onto the couch, flushed and too warm, heart still thudding a little from the dance. Hanta doesn't sit beside me, just drifts back to the wall with his usual quiet energy, close enough to hear my thoughts if I said them out loud.

Not that I will.

The door shuts again. Then again. And then, finally, Denki calls out, "Is that it? Are we clear?"

Mina lifts her hand like she's checking for rain. "I think all the randos left."

Kyoka grabs her phone and scans the hallway. "Yeah. Front door's locked. It's just us now."

Denki whoops, throwing himself dramatically across the nearest ottoman. "Finally! I can exist without having to fake-smile at Chad #4."

"I liked Chad #4," Eijiro says.

"You are Chad #4," Kyoka replies.

He gasps like she shot him.

Hanta chuckles low under his breath. I hear it. Feel it.

Denki kicks off his shoes and launches a half-crushed bag of chips across the room. It lands on Mina's stomach. She opens it and starts eating without sitting up.

Kyoka takes a long swig from her drink. "Okay, now that it's just us..."

"Truth or Dare," Denki blurts.

"No," Kyoka and Mina say in unison.

Eijiro perks up. "Yes."

"I'm too drunk for this," I mumble, pulling a blanket over my legs.

"That's the point," Denki says. "We've hit the golden hour of friendship. No more strangers. Just the real ones and all our regrets."

Denki raises his empty cup. "To us, the emotionally damaged elite!"

Eijiro cheers. Kyoka groans. Hanta doesn't speak, but his eyes are soft when he looks at me.

And mine? They sting just a little. From the warmth. From the weight of too much night and not enough space to sort it all.

"Alright, alright," Kyoka sighs, tapping the side of her cup. "I'll allow one round."

"One round of truth," Mina says quickly. "No dares. I'm not doing another hallway streak."

"That was your idea," Kyoka reminds her.

"I was blitzed!"

Eijiro claps his hands. "Let's go. Regret Hour is officially in session."

Denki grins wickedly. "Okay. Kyoka. What's the dumbest thing you've done while drunk?"

Kyoka deadpans, "Agreeing to play this game."

"Boo!"

"Fine. Sophomore year. I tried to outdrink a frat guy and then threw up on his emotional support lizard."

There's a beat of stunned silence before everyone dissolves into laughter.

Even Hanta's shoulders shake.

Mina wipes tears from her eyes. "The lizard?!"

"His name was Todd," Kyoka mutters.

Denki nearly falls off the ottoman.

The room gets louder again, punchier. But in the right way. Familiar. Safe. The music is still playing, but it's quieter now. Background noise to the comfort of inside jokes and old stories, most of which I haven't heard before, because last year it was just me, Mina, and Kyoka. And even then, it didn't feel like this.

Didn't feel like a room full of people who'd fight for each other.

Didn't feel like something I could stay in.

But tonight?

It does.

Denki's pointing at Hanta now. "You're up, Mr. Mysterious. Tell us your darkest truth."

Hanta leans his head back against the wall. Thinks for a second. Then says, easy as breath, "I broke into the campus pool last year."