Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The fucking phone wouldn't stop ringing.  Chapter One

Bakugo glared at the government form spread on his desk—PS-221-B compliance regulations for hero agencies with fewer than fifteen active personnel, like it was wired to detonate. The black text blurred into meaningless patterns as the phone shrieked again. Sixth call in twenty minutes. Each ring drilled deeper into his skull, compounding the constant high-pitched whine already occupying the space between his ears.

He jabbed at his hearing aid, turning the volume down to dull the assault. Didn't help. The damage was there whether he could hear it or not. The aftermath of a thousand explosions with his name on them.

His palms itched. Sweat beaded between his fingers, the sweet scent of nitroglycerin cutting through the sterile office air. One spark and he could reduce this paperwork to ash. Problem fucking solved.

The shrill melody cut off. Blessed silence for exactly three seconds before it started again.

"GODDAMMIT!"

His fist crashed against the metal desk, the impact vibrating up his arm. The ceramic mug beside his computer, a gag gift from Kirishima with "WORLD'S ANGRI#1 BOSS" printed in uneven letters—tipped over. Black coffee spread across his desk, seeping into the edges of the form.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

He snatched the papers away, droplets of coffee flinging onto the concrete wall behind him. The liquid left translucent stains on the white pages, blurring critical sections. Section 12-B: "Handling of Civilian Casualties." Section 18-D: "Acceptable Property Damage Thresholds."

All the bullshit they never taught at UA. The reality of hero work: 20% punching villains, 80% drowning in red tape.

The phone rang again.

His jaw clenched tight. The tension spread from his temples down his neck, hardening into concrete knots between his shoulder blades. His body still thought it was fighting something. Always ready. Always tight. Always burning.

The air hummed with fluorescent lighting that cast everything in a sickly pallor, highlighting the towers of paperwork that had multiplied like a cancer across every surface. The office wasn't messy, he wouldn't allow that—but the organization system was losing the war against bureaucracy.

Five rescue operations in three days. Two press conferences. One hospital visit to a civilian family. All while trying to run an agency that was hemorrhaging money faster than they could earn it.

The calendar on his desk, marked with red slashes through each completed day, showed Tuesday. Only Tuesday. Four more days of this shit. How the fuck was it only Tuesday?

The phone stopped again. His shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.

The door banged open.

"Bakugo." Kirishima stood in the doorway, his usually bright face set in grim lines. No "bro." No "hey." Just "Bakugo." Bad sign.

"What now?" The words came out as a growl. He wiped coffee from his fingers with a tissue, the paper shredding against his calloused skin.

Kirishima stepped inside, clutching a tablet. His red hair hung limp without its usual styling, another casualty of their schedule. "Got an email from the Public Safety Commission."

Bakugo's stomach dropped. The PSC never contacted them with good news.

"We missed the mandatory compliance meeting last week." Kirishima's voice was flat, resigned. "The one about the new quirk registration protocols."

"What meeting?" The words scraped against his dry throat.

"The one scheduled during the Hosu District mudslide."

Right. When they'd been pulling children from collapsed apartment buildings while desk jockeys took notes on proper form submissions.

Kirishima turned the tablet around. A bold red notice filled the screen, the number at the bottom stretching to six digits.

"That can't be right." Bakugo snatched the tablet, the brightness searing his already strained eyes. One missed meeting. One fucking meeting while they were saving lives, and this was the punishment?

The number didn't change. 120,000 yen. For a rookie agency operating on fumes, it might as well be a death sentence.

The phone started again. The ringing merged with the tinnitus, creating a symphony of needles behind his eyes.

His quirk activated involuntarily. Small pops erupted from his palms, scorching the edges of the tablet case. He set it down before he destroyed another piece of equipment they couldn't afford to replace.

Kirishima waited for the explosion—the shouting, the threats, the vivid descriptions of exactly where the PSC could shove their fine. The reaction that had earned Bakugo his reputation since childhood.

It didn't come.

Instead, Bakugo pressed his palms against his eyes. The pressure pushed back against the headache threatening to split his skull. His hands smelled like smoke and burnt sugar. The scent had once meant power. Victory. Now it just reminded him of all the reports he had to file every time he used his quirk.

He'd been awake for—what? Thirty-six hours now? The days had begun to blur, demarcated only by how many cups of coffee it took to keep functioning.

"We're shorthanded." His voice sounded distant to his own ears. Matter-of-fact. "Three pro heroes trying to do everything—field work, administration, PR, compliance. It's not sustainable."

Kirishima shifted his weight. "I know, man."

"Dunce Face is useless with paperwork." Bakugo dropped his hands, blinking to refocus. "You're barely better. And I can't—" He gestured at the disaster around him. "I can't keep all these plates spinning."

The admission burned worse than any villain's attack. Katsuki Bakugo, admitting he couldn't handle something. The old him would rather die.

The old him didn't have an agency on the verge of collapse under his responsibility.

"What do you want to do?" Kirishima asked, the question hanging in the stale office air like a challenge.

What did he want? Silence. Space to think without the constant barrage of noise and demands.

The endless ringing. The forms multiplying faster than he could complete them. The press asking questions he didn't have time to answer. The investors wanting results. The civilians needing saving. The government demanding compliance.

Everywhere he turned, something needed his attention. His quirk. His strength. His brain. His time.

But he was just one person. One very tired, overextended person with a growing suspicion that he wasn't cut out for the administrative side of heroics.

The phone shrieked again. His molars ground together.

What if he just...stopped? Walked away. Let the agency sink. It would be easier. Less shameful than failing after making such a big deal about starting his own operation independent of the established hero networks.

But then he pictured the faces of the kids they'd pulled from that mudslide. The elderly couple they'd evacuated during the robbery last month. The communities that relied on them because the bigger agencies didn't bother with "small-time" problems.

No. Failure wasn't an option. Never had been.

"We need help," he said finally. The words tasted like ash on his tongue. "Administrative help. Someone to handle..." He waved at the paperwork, the constantly ringing phone, the tablet with its damning fine. "This shit. All of it."

Kirishima's eyebrows shot up. "You want to hire an office manager?"

"We can't afford not to." Bakugo reached for a pen. "We're hemorrhaging money because we keep missing deadlines, filing forms incorrectly, and getting slapped with bullshit fines. And we can't focus on actual hero work because we're drowning in—" he stabbed a finger at the nearest stack of papers, "—this crap."

He grabbed the tablet and pulled up the agency's bank account. Another mistake. The numbers made his stomach clench.

Three months. That's how long they had before they'd have to close their doors if something didn't change. Three months of operational costs, and that was if they were careful. If they paid this fine, it dropped to two.

The phone rang. Again. He could feel his blood pressure spiking with each electronic wail.

"Find the form for this." He shoved the tablet back at Kirishima. "I'm not paying it until I've verified it's legitimate."

Kirishima nodded. 

"And after that, start looking for candidates." Bakugo grabbed the coffee-stained compliance form, flipping to the signature page.

"Candidates?" Kirishima echoed.

"For an office manager. Someone who knows government paperwork. PSC regulations. Scheduling. Phones. All of it." The pen felt awkward in his grip, his fingers more accustomed to creating explosions than signatures. "Someone competent. I don't have time to train an idiot."

The phone's ring cut through the momentary quiet. Bakugo's jaw tightened again, the tendons standing out along his neck. His free hand curled into a fist, small explosions popping between his fingers like angry firecrackers.

Kirishima hesitated. "We'd have to pay them."

"No shit." Bakugo scrawled his signature across the line, pressing hard enough that the pen's plastic casing cracked. Ink leaked onto his fingers, mixing with the explosive sweat. "We'll find the money."

He pressed harder. The pen snapped completely, sending a spray of blue ink across the form and onto his white shirt. "FUCK!"

The last vestige of his control shattered. He shoved back from the desk, sending his chair crashing against the wall. The rage that had been building all morning erupted.

"I can't fucking THINK with that goddamn phone!" He slammed his palms together, a controlled explosion that sent papers scattering. "I can't focus on saving people when I'm worried about missing some bullshit meeting! I can't run an agency AND be the Number One Hero at the same time!"

The outburst left him panting, palms smoking. The momentary release of pressure felt good, but the problems remained, scattered across the floor in bureaucratic black and white.

Kirishima didn't flinch. He'd known Bakugo long enough to weather these storms. He simply waited, watching as his friend's breathing gradually slowed.

The phone rang again.

Bakugo stared at it. The cheap office phone with its blinking red light. Such a small thing to bring a hero to his knees.

He picked up the receiver and slammed it back down, cutting off the cycle.

"Find someone." His voice was low, rough with exhaustion. He pushed the ink-stained compliance form across the desk. "I don't care how. I don't care who. Just find someone who can make this—" he gestured vaguely at the office, the papers, the endlessly ringing phone, "—stop. Someone who can bring order to this chaos."

He sank back into his chair, suddenly drained. The adrenaline crash left him hollow. "Someone who can make the ringing stop."

Kirishima nodded, tucking the form carefully into a folder. He didn't offer empty reassurances or optimistic platitudes. 

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Bakugo alone with the wreckage of paperwork and the blessed, temporary silence.

He knew it wouldn't last. Nothing did. The phone would ring again. Another form would appear. Another crisis would demand his attention.

But maybe—just maybe—they could find someone to stem the tide. Someone to create enough space for him to breathe. To think. To be the hero he'd trained his whole life to become.

For now, he closed his eyes and savored the silence.

* * *

Wind screamed past his face, the rush of air mixing with the sharp tang of his explosions. This was what he lived for. The heat building in his palms, the precise calculations of trajectory and force, the city spread below him like a battlefield waiting to be conquered.

Fucking finally. Something that made sense.

Bakugo twisted midair, adjusting his trajectory with controlled blasts from his palms. The familiar burn traveled up his forearms. The sweet pain of power unleashed. His hearing aids filtered out the worst of the sonic booms, but he could still feel each explosion resonate in his chest cavity.

The city was a grid of potential below him. Traffic patterns, escape routes, blind spots, all catalogued and processed in the space between heartbeats. This was his element. Not paperwork. Not phone calls. Not bullshit compliance meetings.

Combat.

His comm crackled to life. "Dynamight, we've got a robbery in progress at the First National Bank, Shibuya District. Three suspects, quirk unknown."

"Copy." The word came out clipped, professional. Inside, something dark and satisfied uncurled in his chest. Finally, something he could fix with his fists instead of a fucking pen.

He angled downward, the familiar weight of his gauntlets a comfort against his forearms. The bank came into view, a sleek glass building with police cars already forming a perimeter. Civilians pressed against the barriers, phones out, recording. The usual circus.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he could see the situation unfolding. Three figures in dark clothing, one with arms that had morphed into metallic blades, another whose body seemed to phase in and out of solidity. The third was normal-sized but moving with inhuman speed.

Classic setup. Quirk users who thought their abilities made them untouchable.

They were about to learn otherwise.

Bakugo hit the pavement outside the bank with enough force to crack the concrete. The crowd of onlookers scrambled back, but he was already moving, muscle memory taking over. No thought required. No forms to fill out. Just action and reaction.

The glass doors exploded inward as he charged through them, using a controlled blast to clear his entry point. The sound was deafening. A symphony of shattering glass and displaced air that sent papers swirling through the lobby like confetti.

"WHAT'S UP, EXTRAS?" His voice boomed across the marble space, amplified by the acoustics. "Bank's closed for renovations!"

The blade-armed thief turned first, metal extensions whistling through the air where Bakugo's head had been a split second before. Too slow. Too obvious. Too fucking easy.

Bakugo ducked under the swing and drove his palm upward, a precise explosion that sent the guy flying into the wall behind the teller counter. The impact left a spider web of cracks in the expensive marble.

One down.

The speedster was already in motion, a blur of movement that would have been impressive against a normal hero. But Bakugo had fought alongside Iida for years. He knew how speed quirks worked. Linear  thinking, predictable patterns, physics they couldn't break no matter how fast they moved.

He waited. Calculated. The moment the speedster committed to his trajectory, Bakugo's palm erupted. Not at where the thief was, but where he would be.

The explosion caught the speedster mid-stride, sending him tumbling across the polished floor in a tangle of limbs and momentum. He slid to a stop against a decorative pillar, groaning.

Two down.

The phasing quirk user was already trying to escape, his body flickering between solid and translucent as he backed toward the rear exit. Smart. But not smart enough.

"Oi!" Bakugo's grin was sharp as broken glass. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

He launched himself forward with twin explosions, closing the distance before the thief could fully phase. The trick with intangible quirks was timing. They all had to become solid to interact with anything. Doors. Door handles. Even air, if they wanted to breathe.

The moment the thief's hand solidified to grab the exit door, Bakugo was there. A controlled explosion to the wrist, painful but not permanently damaging, followed by a knee to the solar plexus. The guy dropped like a sack of concrete.

Three down. Fight over.

The entire encounter had lasted maybe ninety seconds. Ninety seconds of pure, crystalline purpose. No bureaucracy. No red tape. No bullshit. Just problem, solution, result.

His palms still smoked, the acrid scent of burnt nitroglycerin mixing with the smell of scorched marble and settling dust. This was what he was made for. This was what all those years of training, all that pain and discipline, had been building toward.

Not sitting behind a fucking desk, drowning in paperwork.

The bank's alarm system was still shrieking, a harsh electronic wail that made his tinnitus spike. But it was a good kind of noise. The sound of a job well done, of order restored from chaos.

Police officers flooded through the ruined entrance, their boots crunching on glass fragments. EMTs followed, checking the unconscious thieves for injuries. Standard procedure. Everything by the book.

"Nice work, Dynamight." The officer in charge—a middle-aged woman with graying hair and tired eyes, approached with something in her hand. "Clean takedown. No civilian casualties."

"Damn right it was clean," Bakugo muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead. The adrenaline was still singing in his veins, making everything sharp and hyperreal. His hearing aids picked up the whispers of the crowd outside, the click of camera shutters, the static of police radios.

That was when he saw it. The clipboard in the officer's outstretched hand.

The bottom dropped out of his mood like a stone through water.

"Just need you to fill out the incident report," the officer continued, I .[blivious to the way his expression had shifted from satisfaction to barely contained homicide. "Standard procedure."

Standard fucking procedure.

Bakugo stared at the clipboard like it was contaminated with plague. The form clipped to it was dense with tiny boxes and legal disclaimers, requesting everything from the exact time of engagement to a detailed description of property damage to the estimated monetary value of prevented theft.

All the shit that didn't matter. All the bureaucratic garbage that turned a moment of perfect clarity into another administrative nightmare.

"You've got to be shitting me," he growled, taking the clipboard. The plastic creaked under his grip.

The officer's eyebrows rose slightly. "Problem, sir?"

Problem? The problem was that he'd just executed a flawless takedown of three armed criminals with minimal collateral damage and maximum efficiency, and now he had to reduce that victory to checkboxes and legal jargon that some desk jockey would file away and forget.

The problem was that even out here, doing actual hero work, he couldn't escape the endless, soul-crushing bureaucracy that was strangling everything he'd worked for.

The problem was that in thirty minutes, he'd be back at the agency, staring at towers of identical forms while the phone rang and rang and rang.

"No problem," he lied, scanning the first page of questions. Time of initial contact with suspects. Method of quirk usage. Estimated property damage in yen.

The pen felt foreign in his hand after the weight of combat gauntlets. His palms were still smoking slightly, leaving faint scorch marks on the clipboard's metal surface. Each question felt like a small death—the systematic murder of everything that had just felt right and pure and good about his job.

How do you quantify the satisfaction of watching a criminal's face when they realize their quirk won't save them? How do you put a price on the moment when chaos becomes order, when wrong becomes right, when justice gets served with explosive efficiency?

You don't. You reduce it to statistics and file it away in a cabinet that nobody will ever look at again.

By the time he finished the form, the high of victory had completely evaporated. The bank lobby was being cleaned up, the criminals transported, the crowd dispersing. Just another Monday afternoon in the city. Just another stack of papers for someone's filing cabinet.

The sky had darkened while he'd been writing, heavy clouds promising rain. 

He stepped out of the bank and immediately felt the first drops of rain hit his face. Cold pinpricks that traced down his temples and jaw, mixing with the sweat from combat. The crowd had mostly moved on, leaving behind only the usual debris of public spectacle—coffee cups, dropped phones, scattered newspapers.

The walk back to the agency stretched ahead of him like a prison sentence. Each step took him further from the clarity of action and closer to the chaos of administration. More forms. More phone calls. More meetings about meetings about compliance.

His comm buzzed with another call, but he ignored it. Let Kirishima or Kaminari handle whatever crisis couldn't wait the fifteen minutes it would take him to get back. He'd done his hero work for the day. Now he had to go back to being a businessman. A manager. A bureaucrat in a hero costu me.

The rain picked up, fat drops that soaked through his uniform and plastered his hair to his skull. Normally, he'd blast himself dry or find shelter. Today, he let it fall. The cold was oddly comforting.

Other people hurried past with umbrellas and raincoats, civilians going about their normal lives without a care for the three dangerous criminals that had just been stopped from robbing them blind. They'd probably read about it in tomorrow's news, a three-paragraph story buried between celebrity gossip and stock reports.

That was the reality nobody talked about. Heroes saved the world in ninety-second intervals, then spent hours explaining why and how and exactly which regulations they'd followed while doing it.

His boots squelched against wet pavement as he turned onto the street that housed their agency. The building loomed ahead of him—glass and steel and concrete, all sharp angles and fluorescent lighting. Inside waited his desk, his computer, his endless stack of unfinished paperwork.

Inside waited that fucking phone.

Bakugo paused at the entrance, rain streaming down the windows like tears. Through the glass, he could see the warm glow of the lobby lights, could make out the shapes of his employees moving around inside. Kirishima was probably at his desk, diligently working through his own pile of administrative tasks. Kaminari was likely trying to fix whatever piece of equipment he'd accidentally electrocuted this week.

Normal people doing normal work in an abnormal world.

For a moment, he considered just walking away. Find a coffee shop. Sit in a park. Anything that didn't involve forms and compliance and that goddamn ringing phone.

But that was the fantasy. The reality was responsibility—to his employees, to the agency, to the civilians who depended on them. The reality was that someone had to sign the forms and pay the bills and deal with all the bullshit that kept the lights on and the doors open.

The reality was that being a hero meant more than just fighting villains. It meant fighting the system that tried to reduce heroism to paperwork and procedure.

He pulled open the glass door and stepped inside, water dripping from his uniform onto the lobby's polished floor. The familiar smell of coffee and ozone and lingering stress hit him like a wave. Home sweet fucking home.

Somewhere in the distance, a phone started ringing.

Bakugo closed his eyes and counted to ten, his wet hair dripping onto his shoulders. When he opened them again, nothing had changed. The phone was still ringing. The paperwork was still waiting. The bureaucracy was still winning.

But at least the criminals were in jail. At least someone was a little bit safer tonight because he'd done his job—the real part of his job, not the administrative bullshit.

That had to count for something.

Even if there wasn't a form to file that could capture what it was worth.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

The projection screen displayed a pixelated, high-definition image of the Vice President’s bare ass.

It was, objectively, a nice ass. Firm. well-moisturized. Unfortunately, it was currently occupying the majority of the wall in the frantic boardroom of Takahashi Support Tech, and it was sandwiched between a very recognizable pro-heroine’s thigh and a bottle of expensive champagne.

"It’s trending," the Social Media Director screamed, clutching his hair. "It’s number one on Twitter. It’s beating the villain attack in Shibuya. We are trending over a bank robbery!"

"Turn it off!" Mr. Takahashi roared, his face a dangerous shade of plum. "For the love of God, turn off the feed!"

You sat at the end of the mahogany table, shivering.

It was always freezing when you worked. The thermostat read twenty-two degrees, but your body was currently acting as a heat sink for twelve hyperventilating executives. You pulled your oversized oatmeal cardigan tighter around your shoulders, your fingers numb as they danced over your tablet screen.

The room smelled like fear-sweat, burnt coffee, and the impending death of a stock price.

"We issue a denial," the PR Lead stammered, his tie skewed. "We say it’s a deepfake. AI generated. The villains are trying to discredit us!"

"They have video, you idiot!" Takahashi slammed his fist on the table.

The cortisol levels in the room were spiking hard enough to taste. It was metallic and sour on the back of your tongue. You took a slow breath, centering yourself. You reached out with your senses, found that jagged, electric spike of collective panic, and pulled.

The heat drained from your skin instantly. Frost seemed to settle in your marrow. Your teeth wanted to chatter, but you clamped your jaw and forced a pleasant, professional smile.

The screaming in the room dropped a decibel. Then two. Shoulders slumped. The Social Media Director stopped pulling his hair out and just stared blankly at the screen.

"We don't deny it," you said.

Your voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like a bell.

Twelve heads snapped toward you. Mr. Takahashi blinked, looking like he’d just woken up from a nap. The rage was still there, but the manic edge had been dulled by your quirk.

"Excuse me?" Takahashi grunted.

"We don't deny it," you repeated, standing up. You smoothed the front of your skirt, ignoring the way your knees knocked together from the cold. You walked to the whiteboard, picked up a marker, and uncapped it. "If we deny it, we look like liars. If we apologize, we look weak. The stock drops fifteen percent either way."

You drew a line down the center of the board.

"The Heroine," you said, tapping the board. "Mount Lady. She’s currently polling at an all-time high for popularity, specifically in the 18-35 demographic. Our target market for the new line of lightweight support gear."

"She's a giantess," the PR Lead muttered, confused but no longer shouting. "She destroys cities."

"She destroys villains," you corrected. "And apparently, she enjoys Takahashi Tech’s Vice President." You turned to the room, beaming. "We spin it. This isn't a scandal. It's a partnership."

Silence. The air conditioner hummed. You could feel the heat seeping out of Mr. Takahashi, feeding the aura that kept them all from having strokes.

"A... partnership?" Takahashi asked slowly.

"We release a statement in twenty minutes," you said, checking your watch. "We claim the Vice President was personally testing the durability of our new 'shock-absorbent' nanofibers in a high-stress environment. We hint that Mount Lady is our new brand ambassador. We turn the narrative from 'sex scandal' to 'power couple'."

You looked at the Social Media Director. "Draft a tweet. Something cheeky. 'Our gear holds up under any pressure.' Tag Mount Lady. She loves the attention; she'll retweet it before she even talks to her agent."

The room was quiet. You could see the gears turning in their heads. The panic was receding, replaced by the calculating greed of corporate survival.

"That..." The PR Lead straightened his tie. "That could actually work."

"It will work," you said, capping the marker with a decisive click. "The stock will dip today, but the buzz will drive pre-orders for the nanofiber line through the roof by Friday."

Mr. Takahashi exhaled, a long, shuddering breath. The plum color faded from his face. "Do it. Everyone, move. Get Legal on the phone with Mount Lady's agency. Get Marketing on the 'pressure' campaign."

The room exploded into motion. Phones were dialled. Laptops were opened. The crisis was managed. The ship was righted.

You sat back down, your hands shaking violently now. You tucked them under your thighs to steal some warmth. You were exhausted. Managing the emotional regulation of a dozen grown men was like running a marathon in a blizzard.

"Good work," Takahashi said. He was standing over you. He didn't look grateful. He looked... calculating.

"Just doing my job, sir," you said, your teeth chattering slightly.

"Yes. About that." He adjusted his cufflinks. He didn't look you in the eye. "HR has been reviewing the quarterly budget."

Ah. Here it comes.

You didn't flinch. You kept the smile plastered on your face, even as the ice in your veins spread to your stomach. You knew this dance. You’d done it three times in five years. You were the fixer. You came in, you smoothed the waters, you made the impossible problems go away with a smile and a soothing aura, and then... you made them uncomfortable.

Because you knew where the bodies were buried. Or, in this case, whose ass was on the projector.

"We're restructuring," Takahashi said, his voice devoid of the panic you had just saved him from. "The Office Manager position is being absorbed into the Executive Assistant pool. It's a redundancy."

"A redundancy," you repeated. The projection of the Vice President's ass was still on the screen behind him, looming like a moon.

"Effective immediately," he said. "Security will escort you to your desk to collect your personal effects. Severance is two weeks."

You looked at him. Really looked at him. You released your hold on his cortisol. You let the natural, jagged edge of his stress come rushing back, but you didn't dampen it this time.

His eye twitched.

"Of course," you said, standing up. You grabbed your tablet. "I understand completely, sir. Business is business."

"Right. Yes." He cleared his throat, already turning away, his phone buzzing in his pocket. "leave your badge at the front desk."

You walked out of the boardroom. The chaos behind you was loud, frantic, and entirely someone else's problem.

Your cubicle was a small island of green in a sea of grey fabric and beige laminate.

You didn't rush. You folded your cardigan neatly and placed it in the bottom of the cardboard box you’d grabbed from the supply closet. You felt light. Strangely buoyant.

Maybe it was the hypothermia wearing off. Or maybe it was the realization that you never had to listen to the PR Lead chew with his mouth open ever again.

"I heard," Sato from Accounting whispered, leaning over the partition. Her eyes were wide. "I can't believe they fired you. After you saved their asses in there?"

"Restructuring, Sato," you said brightly, wrapping a ceramic pot in a layer of paper towels. "The economy is tough."

"It's bullshit," she hissed. "Who's going to organize the holiday party? Who's going to calm down Ito when the servers crash?"

"I'm sure Ito will find a new coping mechanism," you said. "Screaming into a pillow is very therapeutic."

You placed your succulent, Kuma, into the box. He was a sturdy little guy, having survived three different layoffs and a coffee spill incident in 20XX.

Then, you opened your top drawer.

There it was. The Swingline 747. All metal. heavy. Reliable. It didn't jam. It stapled through twenty sheets of paper like they were butter. It was the only thing in this godforsaken building that worked as advertised.

Technically, it was company property.

Technically, they had just fired you five minutes after you saved them millions of yen in stock devaluation.

You dropped the stapler into the box. Clunk.

"You're taking the stapler?" Sato whispered, looking around nervously.

"I brought it from home," you lied smoothly. You didn't. You ordered it on the company card three months ago. "And these pens." You swept a handful of the expensive gel pilots—the 0.7mm ones that glided across paper—into your bag. "And this tea."

You grabbed the tin of artisanal jasmine pearls. Takahashi only drank instant sludge. This was pearls before swine.

"I'm going to miss you," Sato said, and she actually looked like she meant it. "You're the only one who makes this place bearable. It's so... calm when you're around."

"It's the plants," you said, patting her hand. Your skin was still cool to the touch. "Oxygenates the brain."

You finished packing. One box. Two years of your life, distilled down to a plant, a cardigan, a stolen stapler, and a framed photo of your cat.

You put on your coat. It was a bright yellow trench, a splash of aggressive cheerfulness against the drab office. You wound a scarf around your neck, chasing the lingering chill from your bones.

"Take care, Sato," you said, hoisting the box. "Don't let them depreciate your assets."

You walked to the elevator. People watched you go. Some looked guilty. Some looked relieved. Most just looked tired. You smiled at all of them, a beatific, serene expression that made the Junior Analyst trip over his own feet as you passed.

The elevator ride down was silent. You hummed a little tune, watching the numbers tick down.

Lobby.

The security guard, an older man named Kenji who you brought donuts to every Friday, looked at the box in your arms.

"Leaving early?" he asked, confused.

"Leaving for good, Kenji," you said, setting the box on the counter to fish out your ID badge. "Promoted to customer."

"No way," he frowned. "Who's gonna fix the schedule when the night shift screws it up?"

"That sounds like a management problem." You slid the plastic card across the marble. It clicked against the surface. "Keep an eye on them, Kenji. They're fragile."

You picked up your box.

The automatic doors slid open, and the sound of rain hissed into the lobby. It was pouring. A grey, heavy Tokyo deluge that turned the streets into rivers and the sky into a bruised bruise.

Perfect.

You stepped out. The humidity hit you first, then the cold spray. You didn't have an umbrella—someone had stolen yours last week—but you didn't care.

You walked to the curb, the rain instantly soaking your hair, plastering it to your forehead. The water drummed against the cardboard box, threatening the structural integrity of your escape, but you just laughed.

A short, sharp sound that was lost in the traffic noise.

You were soaked. You were unemployed. You had rent due in two weeks and a cat that required expensive prescription food.

But as you looked back at the towering glass monolith of Takahashi Support Tech, watching the frantic silhouettes moving in the windows above, you felt a profound, warm sense of peace.

Not your circus. Not your monkeys.

"Alright, Kuma," you said to the succulent, shielding him with your hand as you hailed a taxi. "On to the next disaster."

* * *

"Education: Bachelor's in Business Administration. Experience: Five years in office management. Salary range: insultingly low to criminally underpaid."

You scrolled through another LinkedIn job posting, each word blurring into the next like watercolors left in the rain. Three days into unemployment, and you'd reached that special circle of hell where even pyramid schemes were starting to look like viable career options.

"What do you think, Mochi? Should I become a 'lifestyle entrepreneur' and sell suspicious protein powder to my high school classmates?"

Mochi—nine kilos of judgment wrapped in orange fur—responded by kneading his claws into your thigh. The pressure was just short of breaking skin, that perfect feline balance between affection and assault.

"Ouch. I'll take that as a no."

Your apartment was quiet except for the hum of the heater. After the firing, you'd cranked it up to twenty-eight degrees to thaw your quirk-chilled bones, but your fingers still felt like ice cubes wrapped in skin. You'd changed into your warmest pajamas—fleece pants covered in cartoon cats and an oversized hoodie stolen from an ex-boyfriend three relationships ago.

Your stolen stapler sat on the coffee table like a trophy, catching the afternoon light streaming through your tiny balcony window. The rain had finally stopped, but Tokyo glistened wet and gray outside, buildings reflecting silver in puddles that refused to dry.

Mochi stretched and repositioned himself directly on top of your laptop keyboard, his fluffy tail batting your face with deliberate precision.

"Yes, your majesty, I'm aware prescription food doesn't buy itself." You gently moved him aside. "And that humans who don't pay rent sleep in cardboard boxes, which would seriously cramp our style."

The laptop screen flickered back to life, displaying a local news site you'd opened earlier. Your attention caught on a headline in the sidebar:

DYNAMIGHT AGENCY SLAPPED WITH 120,000 YEN FINE BY PUBLIC SAFETY COMMISSION

You clicked, curiosity piqued. The article loaded with a video thumbnail featuring an angry blonde man in a hero costume that seemed designed to emphasize explosive shoulders. The footage played automatically.

"—have no comment on the Commission's decision at this time. Our agency remains committed to public safety while we address these administrative oversights."

The camera panned as  Dynamight stomped away from the press gathering. Behind him stood Red Riot trying to look professional while clearly panicking, and Charge Bolt smiling at the cameras.

But it wasn't the heroes that caught your attention. It was the absolute disaster zone visible through the agency's glass doors in the background.

Filing cabinets with drawers hanging open. Papers stacked precariously on every surface. A phone that rang continuously while everyone ignored it. And most damning of all, a whiteboard calendar where someone had scrawled "PSC MEETING" in red marker, circled it three times, and then written "FUCK" underneath in what appeared to be the aftermath of missing said meeting.

"Oh my god," you whispered, leaning closer. "It's... beautiful."

Not the heroes—though objectively, they were easy on the eyes in that "could benchpress a small car" way. No, what was beautiful was the glorious, magnificent chaos. The perfect storm of administrative disaster. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion, if the train was made of paperwork and the track was a filing system designed by a randomized algorithm.

You could feel your fingers itch with the need to organize it.

Mochi headbutted your arm, demanding attention. You absently scratched behind his ears while skimming the article, which detailed how the up-and-coming agency had missed a mandatory compliance meeting due to being engaged in a rescue operation during a mudslide.

"So they saved lives and got fined for missing a meeting about proper form submissions," you murmured. "That's bureaucracy for you, Mochi. No good deed goes unpunished."

You scrolled to the bottom of the page, where a link caught your eye:

Dynamight Agency Seeking Administrative Support - Apply Here

Click.

The agency's website was surprisingly sleek—clearly designed by professionals, then promptly abandoned to digital neglect. The job posting featured a stock image of a desk with a plant, a contrast to the paper apocalypse you'd glimpsed in the news footage.

WANTED: OFFICE MANGER 

Must have experience with government forms, scheduling, phones, and general administration. Knowledge of PSC regulations preferred. High-stress environment. Competitive salary.

You snorted. "Office Manger? Is that like a horse trough for cubicles?"

At the bottom, the salary range made you wince. It was exactly 18% less than you'd been making at Takahashi Tech—which hadn't been much to begin with.

"Competitive with what?" you asked Mochi. "A fast food cashier in 1995?"

But something else on the page caught your attention. The "About Us" section featured a photo of the three heroes standing in front of their agency building. In it, Dynamight stood with his arms crossed, scowling at the camera as if it had personally offended him. His ash-blonde hair, and his eyes burned with an intensity that seemed to leap off the screen.

You clicked through to a gallery of agency photos. More evidence of the chaos emerged. In one image, taken during an interview, there was a stack of mail so high it threatened to topple. In another, a close-up of Dynamight yelling at someone off-camera revealed a coffee stain on what appeared to be PS-221-B forms—the exact compliance regulations mentioned in the article.

"They need more than an office manager," you told Mochi. "They need a miracle worker."

Mochi meowed, his tail swishing dramatically across your screen.

"I know, I know. We need steady income, not a hero complex."

And yet...

You clicked back to the job posting, your cursor hovering over the "Apply" button. The salary was disappointing, but seeing that administrative wreckage stirred something in you. The same instinct that had you alphabetizing your spices and color-coding your closet. The professional itch that had made you so good at your previous jobs, until you knew too much and became inconvenient to keep around.

It was like seeing a crooked picture frame and not being able to walk past without straightening it.

"It would be a public service, really," you reasoned to Mochi, who had started grooming himself with pointed disinterest. "Those heroes are clearly drowning. What if they miss something important because they can't find it under that avalanche of paperwork? Lives could be at stake."

The more you thought about it, the more the idea took hold. Working with heroes would be a change from soulless corporate life. Maybe even exciting.

"He's probably a complete nightmare to work for," you told Mochi. "Probably screams at staplers and intimidates the coffee machine."

Mochi yawned, unimpressed by your assessment.

You clicked the "Apply" button. A standard application form appeared, asking for your resume and cover letter. You uploaded the same documents you'd sent to fifteen other companies that morning, but paused at the "Additional Comments" section.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before typing:

P.S. Your job posting has a typo. It should be "Office Manager," not "Office Manger." I'll fix that for you on Day One, along with what appears to be an alphabetizing system based on dart throws and a filing cabinet that's apparently being used as overflow coffee storage.

You read it over, then added:

P.P.S. I can also handle that phone that's been ringing for the entire duration of your press interview. The one nobody answered while you were talking about administrative oversights.

Too snarky? Probably. But something told you that an agency led by a human explosion factory wasn't looking for meek and mild. If they wanted someone to bring order to chaos, they needed someone who wasn't afraid to speak up.

Worst case scenario, they'd be offended and not call. Best case, they'd recognize that you had exactly the spine it would take to wrangle their disastrous office into submission.

"What do you think, employment chances on a scale of one to delusional?" you asked Mochi.

He stared at you with unblinking yellow eyes, then deliberately knocked your empty teacup off the coffee table.

"Yeah, that's what I thought too."

You clicked "Submit" anyway, treating it like a dare to fate. The form disappeared, replaced by a perfunctory "Thank you for your application" message that promised to contact you if your qualifications matched their needs.

A strange mix of resignation and excitement fluttered in your stomach. It was probably a long shot. The pay was mediocre. The work environment looked chaotic at best and actively hostile at worst.

But something about that angry blonde hero and his paper disaster called to you. The prospect of taming that chaos sang in your veins like a siren's call.

You scooped up Mochi, holding him at eye level. His paws dangled, his expression one of feline sufferance.

"You know what this means, right?" you asked him with mock seriousness. "If mom gets this job, she can afford your fancy grain-free salmon pâté again. The one that smells like a fish died in my shoe."

Mochi's ears perked up slightly at the word "salmon."

"That's right. I saw you getting dramatic about the budget kibble. Don't think I didn't notice you pushing it around the bowl like a toddler rejecting broccoli."

You nuzzled your face into his fur, which smelled like warmth and home, then set him back on the couch. He immediately reclaimed his position on your keyboard, purring with the satisfaction of a mission accomplished.

Your phone pinged with a text notification.

Sato: How's the job hunt? Ito had a meltdown over the printer today. It was terrible but also kind of satisfying to watch? Anyway, thinking of you!

You smiled, typing back a quick reply:

You: Just applied to work for heroes. Either a brilliant career move or the beginning of a fascinating obituary. Will keep you posted.

You set the phone down, gazing out at the Tokyo skyline. The sun was starting to set, painting the wet city in shades of orange and pink.

Dynamight Agency.

The name itself sounded like a challenge. A dare.

"Well," you said to Mochi, who was now pretending to be asleep. "At least it won't be boring."

Chapter Text

CH. 3

"Can you explain how you'd handle an emergency PR situation where—"

"Get the fuck out."

The interviewee—a forty-something man with circular glasses and already sweating through his collar—froze mid-sentence.

"I—I'm sorry, what did—"

"Are you deaf or stupid?" Bakugo's palms itched. "You've been talking for fifteen minutes and haven't answered a single goddamn question. GET. OUT."

The man knocked over his chair in his scramble to leave. The door slammed behind him, rattling the hinges that had already taken more abuse in the past two days than they'd been designed for.

"That's the eleventh one today." Kirishima sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe we should take a break?"

"Not my fault they're all incompetent disasters." Bakugo flipped through the stack of resumes, his eyes burning from lack of sleep. Each page blurred into the next, meaningless credentials, bullshit experience, recycled soft skills. "Half of them can't answer basic questions, and the other half piss themselves when I look at them wrong."

"You did make the last one cry," Kaminari pointed out, spinning lazily in his chair. "The one wearing all the bangles. She was actually kinda cute."

"She couldn't even explain a Section 8 compliance form. We'd get shut down in a week." The afternoon sun cut through the blinds in harsh stripes, hitting Bakugo directly in the eyes. Another knife to his already pounding headache. The tinnitus in his right ear had kicked up from a dull whine to a persistent screech. His hearing aid wasn't helping. 

He reached up to adjust the volume, grinding his molars together.

"Next one's the last for today," Kirishima said, checking his phone. "After that we've got the budget meeting with the bank, and you've got that press thing at—"

"I fucking know my schedule." Bakugo pressed his fingers against his temples. The pressure didn't help. "Just get them in here."

Kirishima stepped out. Bakugo stared at the office around them. The makeshift interview setup they'd cobbled together in what would eventually be the office manager's space. Three chairs for the heroes, one chair placed strategically in the worst spot, facing both the glare from the window and the harsh overhead light. Psychological warfare disguised as an interview.

"You know," Kaminari said, still spinning, "you could turn down the intimidation factor a little. We need someone who can do the job, not someone who—"

"We need someone who won't fold under pressure." Bakugo snapped. "What happens when the PSC shows up for a surprise inspection? When we're being audited? When some reporter's shoving a microphone in her face and we're not here? She needs to have a fucking spine."

Kirishima returned with a clipboard. "This one's interesting," he said, sliding a resume across the table. "Twenty-four. Business degree. Five years in office management, including government contracting experience. Most recently at Takahashi Support Tech."

"Takahashi?" That caught Bakugo's attention. "The gear manufacturer?"

"Yeah. They handle like half the licensing deals for hero merch." Kirishima grinned. "And check this out—her application included a note calling out the typo in our job posting."

"What typo?" Bakugo frowned.

"You wrote 'Office Manger' instead of 'Manager,'" Kaminari snickered. "Like horses eat from."

Bakugo's eye twitched. "What kind of smartass—"

A knock on the door cut him off. Three crisp taps, confident but not aggressive.

"Come in," Kirishima called.

The door opened, and Bakugo's first thought was: Fuck. This one's going to cry too.

She looked like a goddamn cupcake. Soft curves wrapped in a mint-green blouse and neat pencil skirt, topped with a cream-colored cardigan that made her look like she should be working in a library, not a hero agency. Her hair was styled in a way that somehow looked both professional and like she'd just rolled out of bed. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright, and—most irritatingly—she was smiling.

Who the fuck smiled at a job interview?

"Good afternoon!" Her voice was sunshine poured into sound. "Thank you so much for seeing me today. I'm sorry if I'm a minute or two late. I was admiring your lobby setup. The industrial aesthetic is very on-trend."

Bakugo caught Kirishima and Kaminari exchanging glances. They were already smitten, the idiots. Probably ready to hire her just because she'd complimented their shitty warehouse conversion.

"Sit." Bakugo jerked his chin toward the empty chair.

She did, smoothing her skirt as she settled. The movement was practiced, precise. The kind of gesture that spoke to experience in boardrooms and meetings. Her posture remained straight, shoulders back, gaze direct. Not an edge of nervousness in sight.

That was... unexpected.

"I understand your name is—" Kirishima started.

"Your resume says Takahashi Tech," Bakugo cut in, watching for her reaction with narrowed eyes. "Why'd you leave?"

A professional smile. "Restructuring. My position was declared redundant."

"They fired you," he translated flatly.

The smile didn't waver. "They eliminated the position immediately after I helped them navigate a PR crisis involving the Vice President's rear end and a hero with a sizeable social media following." Her eyes sparkled. "Timing is everything in business decisions."

Kaminari snorted, then tried to cover it with a cough.

"What was the outcome of the crisis?" Kirishima asked, leaning forward. 

"Stock dropped only 3% instead of the projected 15%, and pre-orders for their new product line increased 22%." She recited the numbers without a trace of arrogance. Just facts. "The Vice President still has his job. The hero got a licensing deal. I got a box and a security escort."

Bakugo studied her. Something didn't add up. If she was as competent as the numbers suggested, why the hell was she applying to their dysfunctional agency with its shit salary?

"What's your quirk?" he demanded.

"Registered as 'Serenity,'" she replied, pulling a small card from her bag and sliding it across the table. "Low-level stress reduction field, effective to about a five-foot radius. I'm happy to provide my quirk registration papers if you'd like to verify."

The card was legit. Class C therapeutic quirk, non-combat rated. Environmental impact minimal, with a notation about endothermic energy requirements. He flipped it over, scanning the fine print.

"So you're telling me," he said slowly, "that you calm people down."

"I lower cortisol levels in the immediate vicinity." Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. "It's not mind control or mood manipulation—just a slight damping of the physiological stress response. Useful in crisis management scenarios."

He tossed the card back across the table. "And why the hell would we want that here?"

She caught it with a quick hand. "Because your agency has incurred 120,000 yen in fines this month alone due to missed deadlines and administrative oversights that resulted directly from stress-induced disorganization."

Silence.

Kaminari's spinning chair had stopped. Kirishima's pen hovered over his notepad. Bakugo's jaw tightened until he could feel the tendons straining in his neck.

"How did you know the exact amount?" His voice was low, dangerous.

She smiled again—not smug, but warm. "It was in the PSC public disclosure notice. Their website archives all regulatory actions against licensed agencies. I spent some time researching your agency before applying."

Bakugo narrowed his eyes. This woman had done her homework. It was simultaneously impressive and irritating as hell.

"Great initiative!" Kirishima jumped in, his voice too bright. "So, what made you interested in working specifically with our agency?"

"Honestly?" She tilted her head slightly. "The chaos. I saw the background footage of your office during that press conference last week, and my first thought was: 'That filing system is a safety hazard and those heroes are one misplaced form away from losing their licenses.'"

Bakugo bristled. "Our filing system is—"

"Non-existent," she finished for him, still smiling but with a steel edge to her voice. "Your calendar has red marker all over it, your papers are stacked by what appears to be height rather than category, and your phones ring constantly without being answered."

The muscles in Bakugo's jaw jumped. How dare this... this cardigan-wearing pixie walk in here and—

"Which is exactly why you need me," she continued, completely unfazed by his glare. "I excel at creating order from chaos. I understand government paperwork, PR management, and scheduling logistics. I'm also not intimidated easily, which I'm guessing is a necessary trait given the... intensity of your operation."

She was right. And that pissed him off more than if she'd been wrong.

"Big talk from someone who thinks pastel is appropriate for a hero agency," he muttered.

"My wardrobe doesn't affect my competency, Mr. Dynamight," she replied smoothly, "just as your volume doesn't affect yours."

Dunce Face made a choking sound. Kirishima disguised his laugh as a cough.

That was it. Time to break out the big guns.

"Fill this out," Bakugo snapped, yanking open a drawer and pulling out a thick stapled packet. He slid it across the table with enough force that it nearly shot into her lap. "Every applicant needs to complete it."

A lie. She was the first.

The form was a nightmare. The L-443-X Liability Waiver, a dense twelve-page document filled with legal jargon, checkboxes, and cross-referenced sections. Bakugo had spent three hours trying to complete it last week before giving up and throwing it across the room. The PSC required one for every non-hero employee, and failing to file it properly could result in another fine—something they couldn't afford.

Kirishima shot him a look, clearly recognizing the form. "That's not really necessary at this stage—"

"If she wants the job, she fills it out," Bakugo interrupted. "Let's see if she's as good as she thinks she is."

She accepted the packet, her dainty fingers briefly brushing his as she took it. Her hand was startlingly cold. He pulled back as if burned, even though the contact lasted less than a second.

"Do you have a pen I could borrow?" she asked pleasantly.

Bakugo shoved one across the table. This ought to give him at least fifteen minutes to figure out how to get her out of here before Kirishima and Kaminari could offer her the job. She was too... something. Too chipper. Too composed. Too fucking cold-fingered.

"Take your time." He leaned back, crossing his arms.

She uncapped the pen and began to read.

To his slight discomfort, she didn't seem intimidated by the form at all. Her eyes moved rapidly across the pages, her pen making occasional marks. She flipped back and forth, referring to earlier sections, making connections. There was a rhythm to her process—efficient, focused.

After about five minutes, she looked up. "Excuse me, but there's a problem with section 4B."

Bakugo frowned. "What problem?"

"It references Addendum C-8, but there's no such addendum in this packet. It should be referencing Addendum C-6, which deals with civilian contractor insurance parameters."

His frown deepened. He hadn't even noticed that.

"Also," she continued, "if you file this form as written, you'll be locked into the titanium-tier liability insurance package, which costs an additional 15,000 yen annually per employee. Given your current financial situation, you'd be better served by the gold-tier package, which offers nearly identical coverage for non-combatants."

Kaminari's eyes had glazed over, but Bakugo was paying sharp attention now.

"How do you know that?" he demanded.

"I handled similar forms at Takahashi," she explained, already making more notations. "Heroes undergo the same regulatory framework regardless of agency. The trick is finding the cost-efficient options without sacrificing coverage. Section 7D lets you opt out of titanium-tier if you check these three boxes and include a secondary form PS-118-G."

She was right. Again. He'd missed that completely.

She returned to the form, her pen moving confidently. The scratch of ink against paper was the only sound in the room for several minutes. Then she flipped to the last page, signed with a flourish, and placed the completed form on the table.

"All done," she announced. "I've marked the sections where you can reduce your costs, flagged a few areas where the form contains errors that could invalidate your filing, and added notations about which supplementary forms you'll need to submit alongside this one."

Bakugo grabbed the packet. Nine minutes and twenty-seven seconds. That's all it had taken her. He rifled through the pages, scanning her neat handwriting in the margins. Every note was precise, accurate. The corrections saved them money. The identified errors prevented potential fines.

In less than ten minutes, she'd conquered a form that had defeated him for hours.

His pride burned, but something else, something that felt like grudging respect, burned alongside it.

"You read contracts for fun, or what?" he asked, unable to keep the suspicion from his voice.

"I find them meditative," she replied with a small smile. "The logic puzzles of legal language can be quite soothing once you learn the patterns."

Kirishima and Kaminari were both staring at her like she'd just admitted to having a quirk that could end world hunger.

She folded her hands again, waiting. The soft cardigan concealed a backbone of steel. The pleasant smile masked a brain that could navigate the byzantine bullshit of hero regulations. The cold fingers had filled out a form that would save them thousands of yen.

"When can you start?" The words left Bakugo's mouth before he could stop them.

Her eyes widened slightly, the first hint of surprise she'd shown. "Is that... are you offering me the position?"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

Her smile broadened, lighting up her entire face. "I can start immediately. Tomorrow, if that works for you."

"Tomorrow," Bakugo confirmed with a short nod. "Eight AM. Don't be late."

"I won't be." She stood and gathered her bag, moving with the same efficient grace she'd displayed with the form. "Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Dynamight, Mr. Red Riot, Mr. Chargebolt. I'm looking forward to working with you all."

"Just call me Kaminari," Denki said, practically bouncing out of his chair to shake her hand. "Or Denki! We're pretty informal here."

"Except Bakugo," Kirishima added with a laugh. "He prefers to be addressed as 'Sir' or 'Your Explosive Majesty.'"

"Shut the fuck up, Shitty Hair," Bakugo growled.

She laughed—a bright, clear sound that seemed to cut through the stuffiness of the room. "I'll keep that in mind."

She was halfway to the door when she paused and turned back. "One quick question—would it be alright if I bring a few plants tomorrow? I find they help with air quality and office morale."

"Plants?" Bakugo scowled. "Absolutely fucking not. This is a hero agency, not a fucking greenhouse."

"I think plants would be a great addition!" Kirishima interjected immediately.

"Yeah, totally! Green up the place!" Kaminari agreed enthusiastically.

Bakugo's glare bounced between them. Traitors.

She stood in the doorway, her head tilted in a question, glancing between the three of them with amusement dancing in her eyes.

"Two," Bakugo barked finally. "You can bring two. Any more than that and they go in the dumpster."

Her smile widened. "Two it is. Thank you, Mr. Dynamight."

The door closed behind her with a soft click.

The silence that followed felt strangely empty.

"Holy shit," Kaminari breathed finally. "Did we just hire an actual competent adult?"

"I think we did," Kirishima looked stunned. "And Bakugo didn't even make her cry."

Bakugo stared at the door, his mind already calculating how having her around would change things. The phones would be answered. The forms would be filed. The calendar would make sense. They might actually have a chance at turning this disaster of an agency into something functional.

"She better not bring three plants," he muttered, tucking the completed form into a folder.

But even as he said it, he knew he wouldn't throw the third one out if she did.

* * *

The phone didn't ring.

Bakugo stared at it, waiting for the shrill buzz that had haunted his nightmares for months. Nothing. Just blessed fucking silence.

Two weeks. That's all it had taken her to transform the administrative disaster zone into something that actually resembled a functioning agency. The mountain of papers had disappeared from his desk, replaced by neatly labeled folders color-coded by urgency. The calendar no longer looked like a murder scene. The chaotic red scribbles were replaced by a meticulous digital system that synced to his phone.

Even the air smelled different. Less like desperation and burnt coffee, more like—he sniffed—was that lavender? Fucking lavender in a hero agency. Ridiculous.

"Your nine o'clock meeting with the equipment vendor has been moved to eleven, Mr. Dynamight, sir."

She appeared in his doorway like she'd been summoned by his thoughts, a steaming mug in one hand and a tablet in the other. Today's cardigan was pale blue, thin enough that it couldn't possibly provide actual warmth. Beneath it, a floral dress that belonged in a garden party, not a concrete warehouse converted into hero headquarters.

"I didn't approve any schedule changes," he snapped, eyes narrowing.

"The representative called with a family emergency." She set the coffee on his desk, precisely centered on the coaster she'd brought from god-knows-where. "I took the liberty of rescheduling while you were on your call with the Commission. I've also added thirty minutes of buffer time in case they run late again."

The coffee steamed between them, the exact shade of black he preferred. She'd figured that out on day two, along with the fact that no one was allowed to speak to him before his first cup. The others still didn't get it.

"Fine. Whatever." He grabbed the mug, the heat seeping into his palms. Too hot for normal people, just right for him. "What about the PR shitheads? They finally approve the billboard design?"

"Twenty minutes ago." Not a hint of irritation at his tone, just that same infuriating pleasantness. "I've forwarded the proof to your email. They incorporated all your requested changes, except the explosion effect in the background. Apparently it resembled blood spatter too closely." Her lips quirked upward. "I told them you'd be disappointed."

He grunted, already scanning his inbox. The mockups loaded on his screen—sleek, aggressive, perfectly capturing his brand without looking like a crime scene. Dammit. She was right again.

"It'll do," he muttered.

"Excellent." She made a quick note on her tablet. "Oh, and Mr. Red Riot asked me to remind you about the team training session at two. Mr. Chargebolt filed the proper safety forms this time, so the basement is cleared for quirk usage."

The way she said their hero names—formal, with that little "sir" tacked on—should have sounded sarcastic. But somehow it never did. Like she actually respected the ridiculous titles they'd given themselves as teenagers. 

His hearing aid pinged softly. Notification from dispatch. He reached up to adjust the volume.

"Warehouse fire in Minato," he muttered, scanning the details. "Fucking Kaminari should handle it. He's on patrol rotation this morning."

"Mr. Chargebolt is already en route," she confirmed, not even needing to check her tablet. "I've notified emergency services that he's responding, and updated the incident log for the Commission report later."

Bakugo's jaw tightened. He should be out there. Fighting. Saving. Exploding things. Not trapped in this office while Dunce Face got all the action.

"You have that look again, sir." Her voice was gentle.

"What fucking look?" he growled.

"The one that says you're calculating how many regulations you'd break if you ditched your meetings to join the fight." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "For what it's worth, your patrol schedule opens up considerably next week once we clear the compliance backlog."

She was tracking his moods now. Great. Just great.

"I didn't hire you to psychoanalyze me."

"No, you hired me to bring order to chaos, which includes keeping you from being suspended for missing more mandatory reviews." She smiled, the expression brightening her entire face. "Speaking of which, I've prepared all the documentation for tomorrow's quarterly assessment. I just need your signature on these."

She placed a thin stack of papers on his desk. Three pages. Not thirty. Three fucking pages, with yellow tabs marking exactly where to sign.

"How the hell did you condense all that bullshit?" The quarterly review packet was legendarily massive, a bureaucratic nightmare of redundant questions and legal jargon.

"I didn't. That's just the summary cover sheet and authorization form. I've completed the full filing electronically." She tapped her tablet. "The system allows for digital submission if you know which exemption codes to apply."

Of course she did. Of fucking course.

He scrawled his signature across the yellow tabs, not bothering to read the text. If she'd wanted to bankrupt the agency or sign away his organs, she'd have had a dozen easier opportunities before now.

"Perfect." She gathered the papers with efficient movements. "One more item for your consideration. You've been invited to speak at the Children's Quirk Foundation charity gala this Saturday. It's a fundraiser for kids with destructive or dangerous quirks. Given your... expertise in that area, they specifically requested you."

A cold and tight knit coiled in his stomach. Public speaking. Kids. Fancy bullshit with cameras and expectations and a million ways to fuck up.

"Tell them I'm busy." He took a long swallow of coffee, almost welcoming the burn down his throat.

"It would be excellent publicity, especially with the new billboard campaign launching." She didn't push, exactly, but her voice had that gentle persistence that somehow bypassed his defenses. "The Commission is sending representatives. Several top-ten heroes have confirmed attendance."

Rankings. Promotions. Visibility.

"Fine," he bit out. "But I'm not wearing a fucking tux."

"The dress code allows for hero costumes." Her smile widened a fraction. "Would you like me to draft some talking points? Perhaps a short speech about controlling volatile quirks?"

"I know how to talk about my own quirk," he snapped. "Been doing it since I was four."

"Of course," she said smoothly, not even blinking at his tone. "Just offering. The event is from six to nine on Saturday. I'll add it to your calendar and send the RSVP."

She turned to leave, the floral dress swishing around her knees.

"Oi." He didn't know why he called after her. "The phones don't ring anymore."

She paused in the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder. "I set up an automated routing system. Reporters go to voicemail. Commission calls come directly to me. Emergency services have a dedicated line." A small shrug. "Simple triage."

Simple. Like everything was simple to her. Like untangling the administrative nightmare of a hero agency run by three disaster-prone men with destructive quirks was just another day.

"Right." He looked down at his desk. "That's... fine."

She nodded and disappeared into the hallway. A moment later, he heard her cheerful greeting to Kirishima, followed by Shitty Hair's too-loud laugh. 

The lavender scent lingered. He didn't hate it. And that pissed him off more than if he did.

"—and so we remain committed to ensuring public safety while respecting the unique challenges faced by those with powerful quirks. Thank you."

Polite applause filled the ballroom of the Miyato Hotel. Camera flashes popped like tiny explosions, capturing the moment for tomorrow's news. All Might, retired but still commanding attention in his skeletal form, nodded approvingly from his place at the head table.

Fucking disaster. The whole thing.

Bakugo stepped away from the podium, hands jammed deep in his pockets to hide the nitroglycerin sweat beading on his palms. He hated this shit. Hated the fake smiles and handshakes, the carefully worded speeches that said nothing of substance, the entire performance of being a "suitable role model" when what kids really needed was the truth.

His gaze caught on a group of children near the dessert table. The special guests of the evening, kids with quirks powerful enough to be considered dangerous, many wearing control devices. They stared at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

Great. Just fucking great.

"Mr. Dynamight!" A small boy with what looked like metal protrusions jutting from his arms approached. "Can I ask you a question, sir?"

One of the Foundation chaperones hovered nearby, nodding encouragingly. The cameras were still trained on him. No escape.

"What?" It came out harsher than he'd intended. The kid flinched but pressed on.

"How do you... how do you make people not be scared of your quirk?" The boy's voice quavered slightly. "Everyone at school says I'm gonna hurt someone."

He ground his teeth . He remembered the weight of training gauntlets. The whispers. The sidelong looks.

"People are fucking stupid," he said.

The ballroom went silent. The chaperone's smile froze. All Might coughed into his hand.

"Excuse me?" the boy said, his voice small.

"People are stupid," Bakugo repeated, though he'd dropped the expletive after catching All Might's eye. "They're scared of power they don't understand. They should be."

The boy blinked rapidly. "But I don't want them to be scared of me."

"Then you're setting yourself up for disappointment, kid." He gestured toward the control devices on the boy's arms. "You think those make people feel safe? They don't. They just remind everyone that you're dangerous."

"Dynamight, perhaps we should—" the chaperone started.

"Let him finish," the boy said, surprising everyone. There were tears in his eyes, but his jaw was set in a way Bakugo recognized all too well.

"Look," Bakugo continued, aware of the cameras but beyond caring, "powerful quirks are dangerous. That's the point. Anyone who tells you different is selling you something. The truth is, you probably will hurt someone eventually. Accidents happen. Training fails."

A collective intake of breath swept through the ballroom. A girl with what looked like fire flickering between her fingers had begun to cry silently.

"But," Bakugo growled, his voice dropping so that everyone had to strain to hear, "that doesn't make you a villain. It makes you someone with a responsibility. You learn control not because it makes others comfortable, but because it gives you freedom."

The boy's eyes were fixed on him, hanging on every word.

"I blew up plenty of shit getting here," Bakugo said flatly. "Still do. The difference is now I choose when and why." He nodded at the boy's metal arms. "You want people to stop being afraid? Stop being afraid of yourself first."

Silence stretched across the ballroom like a live wire. The boy's eyes were huge, glistening with tears that now spilled down his cheeks. Behind him, the girl with the fire quirk was openly sobbing, her chaperone trying to comfort her.

Shit.

"Thank you, Mr. Dynamight, for that... perspective," the event coordinator said, stepping swiftly to the microphone. "Let's give another round of applause for our hero speakers tonight!"

The applause was scattered, uncertain. Bakugo caught All Might's expression—not angry, but deeply disappointed, which was somehow worse. Cameras continued to flash, capturing his scowl, the crying children, the awkward aftermath of his unfiltered honesty.

He knew how this would play in tomorrow's news. Knew exactly what they'd say about him. About his suitability as a mentor, as a top-ranked hero.

Fuck it. He'd said what needed saying. Some things weren't pretty, and he wasn't about to sugar-coat reality for a bunch of kids who needed the truth more than they needed comfort.

Even if it cost him.

"Number twelve." 

He slammed the tablet onto his desk hard enough to crack the screen protector. The hero ranking update glared back at him, a six-spot drop from last week. The biggest single decline in his professional career.

"Twelve. Behind fucking Wash. The sentient washing machine." His palms sparked involuntarily, leaving scorch marks on the desk's surface. "Because I didn't coddle a bunch of kids with lies."

She stood in front of his desk, calm as still water, holding a stack of newspapers. The headlines were variations on the same theme:

DYNAMIGHT MAKES CHILDREN CRY AT CHARITY EVENT  

TOP HERO TELLS KIDS "YOU WILL HURT SOMEONE"  

EXPLOSIVE PERSONALITY: IS DYNAMIGHT UNFIT FOR ROLE MODEL STATUS?  

"The event organizer has asked that you not be invited back next year," she said, her voice neutral. "The Foundation has issued a statement 'regretfully distancing' themselves from your comments."

"Let me guess. You're here to tell me I should've let you write that speech after all." He kicked his desk drawer, metal groaning under the impact. "Go ahead. Say it."

"Actually," she said, setting the newspapers down neatly, "I think you were right."

That stopped him cold. "What?"

"Those children didn't need platitudes." She met his gaze directly. "They needed honesty from someone who's walked their path. Someone who understands that power requires responsibility, that control means freedom."

Suspicion prickled along his spine. "Are you mocking me?"

"Not at all, sir." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Your delivery could have been... gentler. But your message was exactly what they needed to hear."

He stared at her, searching for the lie, the angle, the hidden criticism. Found none.

"The Commission doesn't agree with you," he said, nodding at the tablet. "Neither do the press or the fucking public."

"Because they misunderstood your intent." She shifted slightly, and he caught the scent of her perfume  light and floral. "You weren't being cruel. You were being honest in a way that respected those children's intelligence."

He unclenched his fits. 

"That boy with the metal quirk," she continued, "his mother called the office this morning."

Bakugo's head snapped up. "To complain?"

"To thank you." A small smile played across her lips. "Apparently, after the gala, he told her he wanted to remove the control devices and start training properly, like you did. He said—and I quote—'Dynamight said I don't have to be scared of myself anymore.'"

The heat in his palms subsided. "One kid out of a dozen. The rest just got traumatized."

"Perhaps." She adjusted her cardigan, a deep burgundy today that matched her lipstick. "But I think we can work with this. The narrative isn't fixed yet."

"What are you talking about?" 

"Your public image." She pulled out her tablet, swiping to a note page filled with bullet points. "Right now, you're being painted as insensitive and harsh. But what if we reframe it? Your brutal honesty as a form of respect. Your refusal to coddle as a commitment to preparing the next generation for reality."

He snorted. "The press won't buy that spin."

"They might, with the right story." She tapped the tablet. "The metal quirk boy—his name is Hinata. With his mother's permission, we feature him in a follow-up piece. How your words challenged him but ultimately empowered him. We arrange a private training session, supervised, of course. Document your approach to quirk control."

Bakugo leaned forward, interested despite himself. "And the rest of the crying brats?"

"We acknowledge that your approach isn't for everyone. We don't apologize—that would undermine your authenticity—but we clarify. We position you not as the hero who makes kids feel safe, but as the hero who prepares them for a world that isn't."

She laid it out like battle strategy, precise and calculated. Not trying to change him, but to help others understand him. The distinction felt... important.

"It won't work," he said, but there wasn't much conviction behind it.

"It might. Let me try." She straightened.. "You hired me to handle the administrative chaos so you could focus on hero work. Consider this an extension of that role. Your image is just another thing I can manage while you focus on what matters."

He studied her. The soft cardigan and floral dress disguising a mind sharp enough to cut diamond. The sweet smile that hid a will just as stubborn as his own.

"Fine," he said finally. "But I'm not doing some bullshit apology tour."

"I wouldn't dream of suggesting it, sir." Her smile brightened. "I'll have a full strategy drafted by tomorrow morning. We'll need to move quickly to get ahead of this news cycle."

She turned to leave, already typing notes into her tablet.

"Oi." He stopped her at the doorway. "You really think this will work? That people will suddenly decide I'm not an asshole because of one sob story?"

She glanced back, and for a split second, he glimpsed something steely beneath the sunshine exterior.

"With all due respect, Mr. Dynamight, you are an asshole." Her tone remained perfectly professional. "But you're an asshole who was right, and who genuinely cares about those kids' futures. That's the story I'm going to tell."

The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving Bakugo to stare at the space she'd occupied. He wasn't sure if he'd just been insulted or defended, possibly both.

For the first time since seeing his ranking plummet, the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

She was probably wrong. The damage was done. No amount of strategic spin could undo the image of crying children and outraged parents.

But as he glanced at the notes she'd left behind, the careful analysis of his actual words versus the press interpretation, he felt a dangerous flicker  of hope.

Maybe—just fucking maybe—she understood what he'd been trying to do. What he'd been trying to say. 

Chapter Text

CH- 4

"What if we got him to punch Dynamight in the face on camera? People love a good hero rivalry."

You glanced up from your laptop, giving Chargevoly a look that you hoped conveyed exactly how unhelpful that suggestion was. He responded with a wink that probably worked wonders on civilian women who hadn't spent the last ten days watching him electrocute the coffee maker.

"I think we're aiming for 'redemption arc,' not 'boxing pay-per-view,'" you said, tapping your pen against the notepad where you'd been sketching out PR strategies. "Though I'm noting a disturbing enthusiasm for seeing your friend assaulted."

"All I'm saying is everyone loves a good comeback story." Kaminari leaned back in his chair until the front legs lifted off the ground. One day, gravity was going to win that particular battle and you'd have heroic paperwork to file. "Imagine the headline: 'Explosive Hero Learns Humility After Ice Prince Decks Him.'"

"It would finally answer which of them is stronger!" Kirishima chimed in from his spot on your office couch, where he was going through a stack of emails from parents. His hair blazed red against the soft gray upholstery you'd special-ordered to replace the original, which had been stained with what you sincerely hoped was pizza sauce.

"No one is punching anyone," you said firmly, though your lips twitched. "At least not as part of an official PR strategy that I've authorized."

You stretched, trying to work out the kink in your neck that had formed after two solid hours of damage control planning. The digital clock on your desk read 8:17 PM. Outside your office window, Tokyo's lights sparkled against the evening sky, a galaxy of neon and fluorescence.

"Okay, but seriously," you continued, bringing the conversation back on track. "I think the key to fixing this is showing Dynamight actually working with these kids, not just talking at them. Actions speak louder than words, especially when the words made several children cry."

"That's actually pretty brilliant," Kirishima sat up straighter, his eyes brightening. "Like a training camp! Bakugo's amazing with technique. If people saw him actually helping kids control their quirks..."

"Exactly." You smiled, grateful that at least one of the three heroes understood the concept of constructive public relations. "A hands-on follow-up shows that he wasn't just being harsh for the sake of it. He genuinely wants to prepare them."

"So we need other heroes who can help with specific quirk types," Kaminari said, unexpectedly contributing something useful to the conversation. "Like, I could work with electricity types, Kirishima with hardening or physical enhancement..."

Your fingers flew across the keyboard, expanding the outline. This had potential, a real potential. Not just a one-day PR stunt, but an actual program that could genuinely help those kids while rehabilitating Dynamight's image.

"What we really need," you mused, "is to get some of Mr. Dynamight's former classmates involved. The more prestigious heroes lending their support, the more legitimacy the program has."

"Oh man, Class 1-A reunion!" Kirishima clapped his hands together. "That would be so manly! Everyone's been so busy with their own agencies lately."

You were about to ask which of his former classmates might be willing to participate when both heroes' phones buzzed simultaneously. The energy in the room shifted instantly. Kaminari's chair dropped back to all fours with a thud, and Kirishima was already on his feet.

"Four-alarm fire at the Sumida warehouse district," Kirishima read, his voice dropping to what you'd come to think of as his "hero register"—deeper, more focused. "Multiple structures involved, potential gas line rupture."

"Rescue operation?" you asked, already pulling up the agency's deployment protocols on your tablet.

"Looks like it," Kaminari was heading for the door. "Dispatch says there's a night shift trapped in the eastern building."

You swiveled to your second screen, pulling up the incident mapping system you'd implemented last week. "I'm sending structural blueprints to your HUD displays now. Eastern building has a secondary exit through the loading bay, northwest corner."

"You're the best!" Kirishima called over his shoulder, already halfway down the hall. "Rain check on the PR brainstorm!"

"Don't get blown up!" you called after them. "The insurance paperwork is a nightmare!"

Your office fell silent as their heavy footsteps faded, followed by the distant slam of the emergency exit door. The sudden quiet felt heavier somehow, weighted with the reality of what they were rushing toward.

This was the part of the job you were still adjusting to, the abrupt transitions from mundane office work to life-or-death situations. The way your heart rate slowed while theirs accelerated. The strange, hollow feeling of staying behind while they ran toward danger.

You sighed and turned back to your laptop, pulling up a new document.

You might not be able to run into burning buildings, but you could damn well make sure that when they came back, their agency hadn't collapsed under the weight of bureaucratic neglect.

Three hours later, your office resembled the inside of a refrigerator, and not just because of the leftover takeout containers stacked beside your laptop.

Your fingers had gone from cold to numb to that peculiar pins-and-needles stage that made typing feel like you were wearing mittens made of static. You'd piled on your emergency cardigan (kept in the bottom drawer for nights like these) over your regular cardigan, creating a cocoon of wool that would have been cozy if your body wasn't actively sucking the heat from everything it touched.

The price of productivity, apparently, was hypothermia.

Your quirk had been working overtime as you refined the PR strategy, absorbing your stress and converting it to a soothing biological field that, unfortunately, left you feeling like you'd been dunked in an ice bath. Worth it, though. The outline was solid—a comprehensive plan that could salvage Dynamight's reputation while actually helping those kids.

If you could just get him to cooperate with other heroes for more than five consecutive minutes without threatening grievous bodily harm.

You were contemplating whether adding a third cardigan would help or just restrict your blood flow entirely when a sharp knock made you jump.

"Still here?"

Bakugo stood in your doorway, arms crossed over his chest, scowl firmly in place. His hair was more disheveled than usual, sticking up at odd angles like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. His dress shirt was rumpled, the top buttons undone, his tie long gone. He looked exhausted, irritable, and unfairly attractive for someone whose default expression suggested he was calculating the exact force needed to explode a clipboard.

"Just finishing up the PR strategy," you said, mustering a bright smile despite your chattering teeth. "I lost track of time. How's the warehouse fire?"

"Contained." He stepped into your office, his gaze sweeping over the chaos of papers, empty coffee cups, and abandoned sticky notes. "Kirishima and Sparky are still on scene helping with cleanup."

You nodded, making a mental note to prepare the incident reports for morning. "Were there casualties?"

"No." His face hardened, then relaxed fractionally. "Everyone got out."

Not for the first time, you registered the strange disconnect between Bakugo's public image and the man himself. The media painted him as a rage-fueled demolition expert, but they missed the obsessively high standards he held himself to—the way "everyone got out" wasn't just a statement of fact but a personal measure of success.

"That's good," you said simply.

He grunted in acknowledgment, then eyed your dual-cardigan situation with narrowed eyes. "Why the hell is it so cold in here?"

"Quirk side effect," you explained, rubbing your hands together. "I burn through my own body heat when I use it for extended periods. Tonight was... productive."

"That's a shit drawback." He frowned, like your quirk had personally offended him.

"Could be worse. I could leave scorch marks on all the furniture." You gestured vaguely at the char mark on your doorframe from last week, when he'd gotten news of his ranking drop.

His scowl deepened. "You should go home."

"Just need to finish this." You gestured at your laptop. "I actually have something to run by you. I think I've figured out how to turn the gala disaster into an opportunity."

He didn't look convinced, but he moved further into your office, leaning his hip against your desk in a casual stance that nonetheless managed to telegraph impatience. "Let's hear it."

"A training camp," you said, watching his expression carefully. "You were right about those kids needing practical skills, not just reassurance. But a one-time speech isn't enough, they need hands-on instruction from heroes who understand difficult quirks."

His eyebrow lifted slightly, the Bakugo equivalent of intrigued interest.

"We organize a weekend workshop," you continued, warming to the topic despite your physical chill. "You lead it, focusing on the practical control techniques you developed. We invite the kids from the gala, plus others with similar quirk challenges. Show the public you weren't just being harsh—you were offering a system that actually works."

"Huh." Not a rejection. You pressed on.

"The key is getting other heroes involved. Multiple quirk types represented, different teaching styles. It expands the impact while diluting the public attention on you specifically." You pulled up a draft list on your screen. "I was thinking we could reach out to some of your former classmates. The more prestigious the lineup, the more publicity we get."

He moved closer to scan the list over your shoulder. You caught a whiff of his scent—burnt sugar layered over soap. The heat radiating from his body was like standing next to a space heater. You resisted the urge to lean toward it like a plant seeking sunlight.

"Most of these might work," he admitted grudgingly. "Except Deku. He's in the States."

You nodded, making a note. "What about Mr. Shoto? His quirk control background would be especially relevant, given his fire abilities—"

The temperature near your desk seemed to spike, and a faint crackling sound emanated from Bakugo's palms.

"Absolutely fucking not," he growled, pushing off from your desk. "Half-n-Half has his own agency to worry about. And I don't need his pity project to fix my public image."

You blinked, momentarily thrown by the intensity of his reaction. "It's not a pity project, it's strategic collaboration. His dual-quirk control perspective would—"

"I said no," he snapped, cutting you off. "We do this with our own resources. No IcyHot."

You held up your hands in surrender, too tired to push the issue. "Okay, no Mr. Shoto. It was just a suggestion."

He glared at you for a long moment, as if suspecting some hidden agenda. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose. "Work up a proposal with the others. I'm going to train."

Before you could respond, he was already stalking toward the door, tension radiating from his shoulders.

"I'll have it ready by morning," you called after him, trying to salvage the conversation. "And a draft of your public statement."

He paused in the doorway, not turning around. "Make sure it doesn't sound like a fucking apology. I'm not sorry for telling the truth."

"I know," you said quietly. "That's why this will work."

He left without another word, and you could have sworn the temperature in your office dropped another five degrees.

Great. Now you were cold and had to figure out why the mere mention of Shoto triggered a small thermonuclear event.

You flexed your stiff fingers and turned back to your laptop. What was it about these heroes and their overblown rivalries? It was like working with spectacular, muscular toddlers sometimes.

Still, you had work to do. A reputation to salvage. And eventually, feeling to restore to your extremities, though that seemed increasingly optional.

You pulled up a blank document and began crafting Dynamight's public statement. Not an apology—he'd sooner blow up the agency than apologize—but a clarification. A reinforcement of his original message, softened just enough to be palatable without sacrificing authenticity.

The words flowed despite your numb fingers, shaping themselves into something that sounded like him, but more... diplomatic. Like Bakugo with a PR filter—still direct and uncompromising, but without the verbal equivalence of a grenade launcher.

"Power doesn't come with safety guarantees. Anyone who promises otherwise is selling false hope. What I offer is something more valuable: real control. Not the illusion of harmlessness, but the reality of mastery. My methods aren't gentle. Neither are dangerous quirks. But they work."

You read it over, making small adjustments. It maintained his voice, the unapologetic conviction, the blunt assessment, while recasting his approach as tough love rather than callousness. You added sections about the upcoming training camp, emphasizing his commitment to practical skill-building over empty reassurances.

By the time you finished, your shoulders were hunched nearly to your ears from cold, and your vision had begun to blur around the edges. But the statement was good. Really good. It captured Bakugo's essence without the profanity that would get you blacklisted by every major news outlet.

You hit save, then pushed back from your desk with a satisfied sigh. You'd need to run it by him in the morning, but for now, you'd done what you could.

Then you remembered he was still in the building. Training, he'd said. Maybe you should show him the draft tonight, so he'd have time to suggest changes before the morning media cycle.

You glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight. He was probably still angry about the Shoto suggestion. But angry Bakugo was your baseline operating condition—you'd learned to navigate around his explosive moods like a sailor charting familiar reefs.

Decision made, you saved the document to your tablet and pushed yourself out of your chair, wincing as your stiff joints protested. You wrapped yourself more tightly in your double-cardigan ensemble and headed toward the training facilities.

The main gym occupied the entire basement level of the agency. A cavernous space filled with weights, combat dummies, and a central sparring area. As you descended the stairs, the temperature noticeably increased, a welcome relief to your chilled body. The sound of impacts echoed up the stairwell, rhythmic thuds punctuated by the occasional muffled explosion.

You paused at the entrance, caught off guard by the sight before you.

Bakugo was attacking a heavy bag with a series of precise kicks and punches, each impact reverberating through the empty gym. He wore only a pair of black athletic shorts, his upper body bare and gleaming with sweat. The defined muscles of his back flexed with each movement, a topography of strength mapped in the harsh overhead lighting. Scars marked his skin, some small and faded, others newer and still pink. 

Your mouth went suddenly dry. 

It was one thing to know intellectually that your boss was physically impressive. It was another to be confronted with the reality of it in such an immediate, visceral way. Each movement was controlled power, lethal grace contained in human form.

You should have announced yourself. Should have cleared your throat or called out a greeting. Professional boundaries and all that.

Instead, you stood frozen, watching as he executed a spinning kick that made the heavy bag swing wildly on its chain. As he pivoted, his gaze caught yours, and you had the distinct impression of being a deer spotted by a predator.

"What." Not really a question. More a demand for explanation.

You held up your tablet like a shield. "I finished the statement. Thought you might want to review it before morning."

He straightened, chest rising and falling with exertion, and grabbed a towel from a nearby bench. He dragged it across his face and neck, then hung it around his shoulders.

"Let's see it," he said, walking toward you with the fluid confidence of someone perfectly at home in their body.

As he approached, the scent of him intensified, that burnt sugar smell now mixed with clean sweat and something darker, richer. It reminded you of caramelized sugar, like the top of a crème brûlée moments after being torched. You'd always had a ridiculous sweet tooth.

You handed him the tablet, careful not to let your fingers brush his. He took it, eyes already scanning the text, brow furrowed in concentration.

"It's just a draft," you explained, suddenly nervous about his reaction. "I tried to keep your voice while making it more... media-friendly."

He didn't respond, continuing to read with intense focus. You were close enough that the heat radiating from his skin created a pocket of warmth around you both. After months of perpetual cold, it was like standing next to a bonfire.

He finished reading and looked up, red eyes meeting yours with an unreadable expression. "It's not terrible."

Coming from Bakugo, this was practically effusive praise. You felt a ridiculous flutter of pride.

"The training camp angle works," he continued, handing the tablet back. "We'll need a suitable venue. Somewhere remote enough for quirk practice but accessible for the kids."

"I've got a few options researched," you said, relieved that he was engaging with the plan. "I'll have a full proposal ready tomorrow."

He nodded, then moved past you toward a water bottle sitting on a weight bench. The movement brought him closer, close enough that his arm nearly brushed yours. 

"You're still fucking freezing," he observed, glancing at your huddled form.

"Side effect of productivity," you said lightly. "Worth it for a good PR strategy."

He regarded you for a moment, something like irritation flickering across his features. Then he stepped closer, moving behind you to look at the tablet over your shoulder.

"Show me the venue options," he said, his voice closer to your ear than you were prepared for.

You pulled up the document with proposed locations, hyper-aware of his presence at your back. He was so close that the heat from his body enveloped you like a cocoon, seeping through your layers of wool and cotton. It was the first time you'd felt genuinely warm in weeks.

"This one has potential," he said, reaching around to tap the screen, indicating a former hero training facility in the mountains. His arm came into view beside yours, the difference striking. His tanned, scarred forearm next to your goosebump-covered wrist. His proximity brought another wave of that burnt sugar scent, making your stomach tighten with an entirely inappropriate reaction.

"It has multiple training areas," you managed to say, trying to focus on the professional task rather than the way your body seemed magnetically drawn to his heat. "And accommodation for up to thirty students."

"Distance from the city?"

"Two hours by train. We could arrange transportation."

He hummed in acknowledgment, still reading over your shoulder. You were caught in a bizarre limbo—professionally discussing logistics while every nerve ending in your body screamed about his proximity. The contradiction between his gruff demeanor and the gentle heat radiating from him made your head spin.

This was a monumentally bad idea. Being attracted to your boss was HR nightmare territory, even if your agency didn't actually have an HR department (yet—it was on your to-do list). You mentally cataloged all the reasons this awareness needed to be shut down immediately:

The list continued, each item more sensible than the last. Your brain understood all of this perfectly.

Your body, traitor that it was, only registered warm and pleasant after endless cold.

"We'll go with this one," he said finally, stepping back and breaking the spell. "Work up the logistics tomorrow."

You turned to face him, grateful for the restored professional distance. "I'll have everything ready for your approval by ten."

He nodded, already moving away toward the bench where his shirt lay discarded. You should have taken the opportunity to leave, mission accomplished. Instead, you found yourself asking:

"Why don't you want Mr. Shoto involved?"

His back stiffened. For a moment, you thought he might ignore the question entirely.

"Old history," he said finally, not turning around. "Doesn't matter."

"It might, for the PR strategy," you pressed, knowing you were pushing your luck. "If there's bad blood that could surface—"

"There's no 'bad blood,'" he cut you off, turning to face you with narrowed eyes. "We're not friends. We're not enemies. We're nothing. And I don't need his help to fix my own mess."

The intensity in his voice suggested this was far from "nothing," but you knew when to back off.

"Understood," you said, hugging your tablet to your chest. "No Shoto."

His shoulders relaxed fractionally. "Go home," he said, the gruffness in his voice softened by what might have been concern. "It's late, and you're still shivering."

You hadn't realized he'd noticed.

"I'm fine," you insisted automatically. "Just need to finish a few—"

"That wasn't a suggestion." His tone left no room for argument. "Agency regs. No civilian staff after midnight without hero supervision."

You blinked. "You're here supervising."

"I'm about to leave," he countered. "So either you go home now, or I have to stick around to babysit."

The thought of Bakugo extending his already long day just to satisfy a regulation was enough to make you relent.

"Fine," you sighed, too tired to argue further. "I'm going. But I'll be in early tomorrow to finish the proposal."

He grunted in acknowledgment, already turning back to gather his things. You took that as your dismissal and headed for the door, trying not to think about the warmth you were leaving behind.

"Oi." His voice stopped you at the threshold. "The statement. It's good. Doesn't sound like someone else wrote it."

Coming from Bakugo, this was the highest possible praise. You smiled over your shoulder.

"That's because I didn't write it. I just translated what you already said into a language that won't terrify small children and news anchors."

His blonde brows shot up before he schooled them back into his customary scowl. "Whatever. Just go home before you freeze to death in my gym. The paperwork would be a nightmare."

"Goodnight to you too, Mr. Dynamight," you said, unable to completely hide your smile as you left.

It wasn't until you were outside, the cool night air shocking your system after the warmth of the gym, that you allowed yourself to acknowledge what you'd been trying to ignore.

You were attracted to your boss. Your grumpy, explosive, difficult, surprisingly prinicipled boss.

"Stupid," you muttered to yourself as you hailed a taxi. "Completely, utterly stupid."

But as you slid into the backseat, you found yourself already mentally planning tomorrow's outfit, and wondering if your warmest cardigan would seem too obvious.

****

Three reporters, two microphones in your face, and a heroic dust cyclone that threatened to blow your notes into the next prefecture.

Just another Saturday morning at your dream job.

"Ms. PR Manager! How do you respond to critics saying this is just damage control after Dynamight made children cry?" 

You flashed your most disarming smile,the one you'd perfected in customer service hell years before upgrading to superhero babysitting. "Actually, it's Office Manager, and I'd say actions speak louder than words. If you'll look behind me, you'll see those same children working directly with Dynamight on practical safety protocols."

You gestured toward the training field where Bakugo was demonstrating proper wrist positioning to a group of wide-eyed kids with explosive quirks. His voice carried across the mountain facility—gruff but measured, none of his usual profanity. A miracle on par with his hero ranking.

"But isn't it true that—" 

"Oh! I think that's your cue for exclusive footage," you interrupted, pointing to where Earphone Jack was helping a sound-sensitive child with specialized noise-canceling equipment. "First time this prototype's been used publicly. Might want to capture that before your competitors do."

The reporters scattered like pigeons, leaving you to exhale slowly and check one more disaster off your mental list. You'd been awake since 4 AM coordinating this circus, and you'd developed a new theory: herding actual cats would be easier than managing hero egos, media vultures, and thirty children with quirks that could level buildings.

But you'd never admit how much you were enjoying it.

After your momentary lapse of judgment in the gym—which you'd firmly decided was due to hypothermia-induced brain fog, because obviously that was a thing, you'd doubled down on professionalism. No more noticing how the morning light caught Bakugo's hair or how his voice dropped an octave when explaining complex quirk mechanics. Nobody needed that complication, especially not your career.

Your tablet pinged with seventeen simultaneous alerts. Because of course it did.

"Ribbit." Froppy appeared beside you, her large eyes blinking curiously. "The kitchen staff says we're running low on protein options for lunch."

"Already handled," you replied, swiping through your tablet. "Extra delivery arriving in twenty minutes. There's a cooler of emergency protein shakes behind the equipment shed if anyone gets desperate before then."

"You're good at this," she observed simply, head tilting.

"Just doing my job." You smiled, genuinely appreciating her calm energy. "Though I must say, it's a bit surreal meeting so many heroes at once. I feel like I need trading cards to keep track."

"Most of us are pretty normal once you get past the costumes," she said. "Except Bakugo. He's exactly like his public image."

"Oh, I don't know about that." The words slipped out before your professional filter caught them. "He's actually quite—" Warm. Principled. Surprisingly observant.

Thankfully, your sentence was interrupted by a small explosion from the training field, followed by a child's excited squeal. Not a distressed squeal—this was pure delight. You both turned to see a young boy with metal-tipped fingers successfully channeling a controlled spark between his hands while Bakugo nodded in stern approval.

"Progress," you murmured, making a note to position a photographer nearby.

"You know," Froppy said thoughtfully, "I've never seen Bakugo so... measured with beginners before."

"He's good with them," you agreed, unable to keep the pride from your voice. "Underneath all the shouting, he's actually an excellent teacher."

Froppy gave you a long, inscrutable look that made you straighten your cardigan (today's was sunshine yellow, chosen specifically for press photos—nothing to do with a certain hero's hair color, obviously).

"Interesting," she said finally. "Well, I should get back to the aquatic quirk station."

You watched her hop away, wondering what exactly had been "interesting" before your attention was diverted by the sight of a drone hovering too close to the strength enhancement training area. You'd explicitly banned unauthorized aerial photography after Kirishima accidentally punched one yesterday, causing a minor media relations crisis.

"Excuse me!" You waved your clipboard at the offending journalist while speed-walking across the grounds. "Section 4 of your press credentials clearly states no drones within 50 meters of active quirk training!"

By mid-afternoon, you'd averted three potential disasters (one literal fire), facilitated five media interviews, and restocked the first aid tent twice. Your feet ached, your fingers had gone numb hours ago thanks to your overactive quirk, and you were running on pure adrenaline and the protein bar you'd stolen from the emergency cooler.

Worth it, though. The kids were thriving, the press narrative had completely shifted from "cruel hero makes children cry" to "tough-love mentor empowers next generation," and you hadn't had a single inappropriate thought about your boss in at least... seventeen minutes.

Progress.

"Oi. You need to eat something real."

You nearly jumped at Bakugo's voice behind you. So much for your situational awareness.

"I'm fine," you said automatically, turning with your brightest professional smile. "Just making sure everything's on schedule for the—"

"Here." He thrust a lunch box at you, scowling. "From the kitchen. You missed the meal break."

The fact that he'd noticed made your chest warm. You promptly froze it with rational thought. He's the boss. He needs his PR manager functioning. This is basic workplace maintenance.

"Oh! Thank you, Mr. Dynamight," you said, accepting the container. "That's very considerate."

He grunted, eyes scanning the training grounds with the intensity he applied to everything. "Camp's working. Kids are making actual progress. Press is eating it up."

"It's going wonderfully," you agreed, unable to keep the enthusiasm from your voice. "Hinata—the boy with the metal quirk—told a reporter you were his hero. Not just 'a' hero, but 'his' hero. It was perfect soundbite material."

His eyes  softened imperceptibly, but you caught it. You’ve studied his face during countless meetings, trying to gauge his mood before it exploded (literally) into the quarterly budget.

"Kid's got potential," he said gruffly. "Just needed someone to tell him the truth."

"Which is exactly what our messaging has been," you pointed out. "Sometimes honesty is the kindest approach, even when it's difficult to hear."

He looked at you then, red eyes focusing with sudden intensity that made your professional demeanor waver dangerously. You busied yourself with opening the lunch box.

"You're cold again," he observed, frowning at your hands.

"Just part of the job," you said lightly. "My quirk's been working overtime keeping everyone calm amid the chaos. Small price to pay for smooth operations."

He made a dissatisfied noise. "Inefficient design."

"Pardon?"

"Your quirk. Using your own heat as fuel. Inefficient."

You laughed. "I'll be sure to file a complaint with whatever cosmic entity handles quirk distribution."

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but its distant cousin. Before he could respond, Kaminari bounded over, crackling with residual electricity and enthusiasm.

"Dude! Channel 6 wants an interview with you and Red Riot about the agency's community outreach initiatives. They're setting up by the main building."

Bakugo's face darkened. "I've done enough talking to reporters."

"Actually," you interjected, slipping seamlessly into PR mode, "this dovetails perfectly with our messaging strategy. Community investment, hero agency innovations, legacy building—all the themes we discussed."

You handed him your tablet with talking points already highlighted, knowing he'd absorbed them despite his protests about "media bullshit." He scanned the screen, scowling, then handed it back with a curt nod.

"Fine. But if they ask about—"

"The UA Sports Festival incident from your first year? I've already redirected those questions twice," you assured him. "And I've personally briefed this reporter on what topics are off-limits."

"Good."

As they walked away, Kaminari slung an arm around Bakugo's shoulders, earning himself an elbow to the ribs that looked painful but didn't actually dislodge him. Their friendship was an enigma wrapped in electrical burns and explosions, but somehow it worked.

Just like this entire improbable weekend was working.

You allowed yourself one moment to savor the success before your tablet pinged again, summoning you to the next minor crisis.

Sunday was a blur of closing ceremonies, parental meetings, and coordinated press statements.

You'd perfected the art of being everywhere at once—smiling for photos one minute, sternly enforcing media boundaries the next, all while keeping thirty children and a dozen pro heroes on schedule. Your clipboard had become an extension of your arm, and you'd developed a sixth sense for impending PR disasters.

"I must say, I'm impressed." 

You looked up from your tablet to find Creati—Yaoyorozu—beside you, elegantly sipping tea from a thermos. She'd arrived late Saturday evening, having adjusted her hero patrol schedule specifically to participate in the female mentorship segment.

"That's high praise coming from someone who created an entire generator yesterday when the power briefly went out," you replied, smiling.

"That was just my quirk. You're coordinating actual humans—far more unpredictable than machinery." She glanced toward where Bakugo was demonstrating proper stance to a group of parents. "Especially certain humans."

"He's been remarkably cooperative," you said, perhaps a bit too defensively.

Yaoyorozu gave you a thoughtful look. "Yes, that's what several of our former classmates have commented on. Quite unusual for Bakugo." 

Before you could respond, a familiar voice called your name. Kirishima jogged over, his hair somehow still perfectly styled despite a full weekend of quirk demonstrations.

"Crisis in the media tent," he reported, looking more amused than concerned. "Kaminari accidentally revealed the plans for the upgrades."

"Oh for—" You bit back the colorful phrase you'd unconsciously adopted from spending too much time with Bakugo. "I'll handle it. Can you please make sure the parents get their commemorative photos before departure?"

"You got it!" Kirishima's smile was so genuinely warm that it momentarily distracted from the PR fire you needed to extinguish. "Man, we should have hired you months ago. This place actually runs now."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Red Riot," you said with a wink, already speed-walking toward the media tent. "But maybe save some for Kaminari. He's going to need it after I'm done with him."

You spent the next hour performing damage control, spinning the accidental leak into an "exclusive preview" that had reporters feeling like they'd gotten special access rather than ammunition. By the time you finished, the narrative was fully under your control: Dynamight Agency, upgrading its agency due to overwhelming demand and community support.

The fact that none of you had actually finalized these plans was a minor detail you'd discuss with your employers later.

As sunset painted the mountain facility in shades of gold and amber, you found yourself momentarily alone on the observation deck, watching the last of the families board the chartered buses. Exhaustion weighed on your shoulders, but it was the satisfying kind—the type that came from genuine accomplishment.

"Not bad."

You didn't need to turn to recognize Bakugo's voice. He joined you at the railing, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the departing vehicles.

"High praise from you, Mr. Dynamight," you said lightly. "I might need that in writing for my performance review."

He made a dismissive sound, but there was no heat behind it. "The press statements were solid. The kid with the metal quirk's mother asked about private training sessions."

"I've already drafted a proposal for a monthly program," you said, unable to keep the pride from your voice. "Limited enrollment, exclusive access, premium pricing. It could become a significant revenue stream."

He glanced at you. . "You don't miss much, do you?"

"That's literally my job description," you pointed out with a small smile. "Professional noticer of things, preventer of disasters, filer of incomprehensible paperwork."

"Keeper of idiots," he added, and you could have sworn the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"I prefer 'hero wrangler,'" you countered. "Sounds more impressive on a business card."

The last rays of sunlight caught in his ash-blonde hair, turning it almost golden. You firmly redirected your attention to your tablet, pulling up the departure checklist. Professional focus. That's what had gotten you through this weekend without embarrassing yourself.

"Agency car's leaving in twenty minutes," you said, switching topics. "I've arranged for the remaining equipment to be transported back tomorrow."

He nodded, pushing away from the railing. "The statement for tomorrow's press release. You have it?"

"Already drafted, proofed, and scheduled for 7 AM distribution." You pulled it up, handing him your tablet. "Zero apologies, maximum confidence, strategic humility where it counts."

He scanned it quickly, then handed it back with a satisfied grunt. "It's good."

Two words that somehow meant more than any lengthy praise. You felt a ridiculous flutter of pride and promptly squashed it. This was your job—doing it well was the expectation, not the exception.

"Thank you, sir." You slipped the tablet back into your bag. "I should finish the final check before departure."

He studied you for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. "You're still cold."

It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact. After two full days of nonstop quirk usage, keeping the emotional temperature regulated among dozens of people, your internal thermostat had given up completely. You'd been running on three cardigans and sheer determination since breakfast.

"Nothing a hot shower won't fix once I'm home," you assured him brightly.

He made a sound of disagreement but didn't push further. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small hand warmer, the type used by heroes on winter patrols. He activated it with a quick snap before holding it out to you.

"Here."

The gesture was so unexpected that you momentarily forgot your professional boundaries. Your fingers brushed his as you accepted it.

"Thank you," you said, clutching the warmer. "That's very thoughtful."

He shrugged, already turning away. "Can't have my office manager freezing to death.”

He walked away, his posture relaxed in a way you rarely saw at the agency. Success looked good on him—the confidence without the defensive edge, the authority without the constant need to prove it.

This was what you'd been hired to facilitate. This outcome. This victory. This restoration of his professional standing.

Not inappropriate thoughts about how the sunset highlighted the sharp angle of his jaw or how his rare almost-smiles made your stomach flip in decidedly unprofessional ways.

Get it together, you scolded yourself, squeezing the hand warmer like a stress ball. Brain freeze made you temporarily insane. You're cured now. Back to being a consummate professional.

You headed down to complete the final checks, already mentally drafting Monday's to-do list. There were sponsorship contracts to review, staff schedules to adjust for the new training program, and approximately eight million emails to answer.

That was what mattered. The work. The agency. The career you were building.

Not the way Bakugo had noticed you were cold when no one else did.

"Number six! We're back to number six!" 

Kaminari's celebratory dance around the conference table Monday morning involved jazz hands and what appeared to be improvised Electric Slide moves. Kirishima joined in with enthusiasm, while Bakugo looked caught between satisfaction and the desire to explode them both.

"And three new sponsorship offers," you added, spreading the contracts across the table. "Athletic wear, protein supplements, and a security system company that wants Mr. Dynamight to be their spokesperson."

"The security company makes sense," Kirishima said, finally taking a seat. "Nothing says 'protected' like Bakugo's glare on a billboard."

"It's the face of someone who would absolutely murder an intruder," Kaminari agreed cheerfully. "Very on-brand."

Bakugo ignored them both, studying the contracts with intense focus. "These numbers are good."

"Very good," you confirmed. "The training camp generated extraordinary publicity. Your authenticity resonated with both parents and industry sponsors. We've positioned your direct approach as your unique strength rather than attempting to soften it."

"Told you," Bakugo said, a hint of smugness in his tone. "Don't need to be fucking Deku to get results."

You smiled. . "No, sir. Your methods are entirely your own. And they're working."

The meeting continued with discussions of the expanded training program, additional administrative support needs, and plans for the leaked second location. Your quirk hummed steadily as you kept the atmosphere productive despite Kaminari's tangents and Bakugo's occasional threatening glares.

When the meeting ended, you gathered your materials with satisfaction. This was what professional fulfillment felt like. Concrete results. Measurable improvements. Legitimate business growth.

Bakugo lingered after the others had left, reviewing the security company contract one more time.

"This one. We'll start with this one," he decided, tapping the document.

"Excellent choice, sir. Their demographic aligns perfectly with our target audience for the training program." You accepted the contract, making a note to draft the acceptance letter.

He stood, his height advantage more noticeable in the empty conference room. "The camp worked because of you."

Your brows shot up. "It was a team effort—"

"Don't do that," he interrupted, frowning. "Don't deflect. You made it happen. Take the credit."

The directness in his red gaze made your carefully maintained professionalism waver. You straightened your spine, meeting his eyes.

"Thank you, Mr. Dynamight. I appreciate the recognition."

He nodded once, seemingly satisfied, then headed for the door. "Staff meeting tomorrow at nine. We need to discuss the upgrades seriously now that Dunce Face let the cat out of the bag."

"I'll prepare the preliminary figures," you promised.

After he left, you remained in the conference room, surveying the contracts and publicity reports spread across the table. Tangible evidence of success. Real career advancement. The kind of accomplishment that would look outstanding on your resume.

This is what you should be focused on. Not the way Bakugo's rare compliments made your chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with temperature regulation. Not how his direct gaze seemed to see past your professional facade.

Just the work. The measurable, quantifiable, resume-worthy work.

You gathered the contracts, slipped them into your leather portfolio, and headed to your office to draft acceptance letters.

If you found yourself absently holding the now-cold hand warmer he'd given you yesterday while you worked, well—that was just because your quirk left you perpetually chilly.

Nothing more.

Chapter Text

CH 5

"—infiltration at Edgeshot's agency lasted three weeks before detection. All digital records were compromised."

Bakugo's hearing aids picked up Hawks' voice with crystal clarity, amplifying it through the murmur of twenty-three pro heroes crammed into the Commission's secure briefing room. The sharp fluorescent lighting bounced off the steel table, hammering his already throbbing temples. He shifted in his chair, the cheap metal frame creaking under his weight.

Fucking waste of time. Another goddamn bureaucratic meeting while villains schemed.

"And that's just the digital aspect," Hawks continued, his hand reached for wings no longer there. Just empty air where feathers should be. "The Akiba incident last month shows they're escalating to physical violence. Two support staff hospitalized."

The ringing in Bakugo's left ear kicked up a notch. He adjusted his hearing aid, grimacing as the electronic feedback screeched briefly before settling.

"You good, bro?" Kirishima whispered from his right, leaning close enough that his hair nearly brushed Bakugo's shoulder.

"Fine," Bakugo muttered, scanning the room. 

Too many heroes. Too many agencies represented. The room stank of multiple quirk residues, burnt carbon, something vaguely floral that made his nose itch. His gaze cut across familiar faces: Deku, watching Hawks with that same earnest intensity that made Bakugo want to punch him. Uravity beside him, taking detailed notes. IcyHot staring blankly ahead, his expression as empty as his daddy issues. Number two in the rankings now, and hadn't worked a day to get there.

"Yo, Bakugo!" Ashido's whisper-shout from his left was about as subtle as her pink skin. She grinned, leaning across Sero to flash him a peace sign. "Long time no see!"

"We're in the middle of a fucking briefing," Bakugo hissed back, ignoring the way Sero's mouth quirked into a smile.

"The purpose of today's gathering," Hawks said, commanding attention with the sharp rap of his knuckles against the podium, "is to establish a joint task force. Information sharing. Coordinated security protocols. These villains, calling themselves 'Quirk Freedom Force', are targeting our infrastructure specifically."

Bakugo's jaw tightened. His agency. Three heroes and one civilian. A warehouse converted to offices less than six months ago. Security that consisted primarily of his ability to blow shit up. The thought of these fuckers getting anywhere near his office, near his—

His palms heated, nitroglycerin sweat beading against his skin.

"Each agency will submit security assessments by week's end," Hawks continued. "Commission will provide additional resources to smaller operations with fewer personnel."

Smaller operations. Like his. The implied weakness burned in his gut.

"Doesn't he mean tiny, scrappy startups run by temperamental blondes?" Kaminari whispered, earning a sharp elbow to the ribs that made him wheeze.

"The Commission recognizes some agencies have more robust infrastructure than others," Hawks said, his gaze sweeping the room. "That's why we're encouraging partnerships between established organizations and newer ones."

Bakugo's shoulders tightened. His agency wasn't a fucking charity case.

"The Shoto Agency has offered to share their security framework with any interested parties," Hawks added.

Bakugo didn't need to look to feel IcyHot's eyes on him. The mixed quirk bastard with his handed-down agency and inherited resources. The ghost of Endeavor's legacy served up on a silver fucking platter.

His fist clenched under the table. The meeting dragged on, Hawks outlining protocols that Bakugo half-listened to while mentally cataloging the weak points in his own agency's security. The loading dock entrance. The roof access. The fact that their server was housed in a converted janitor's closet because the building had shit wiring and it was the only place with adequate outlets.

Bakugo's mind drifted to his office manager and her endless spreadsheets. She'd have opinions about all this. Probably six contingency plans before he even brought it up.

"—conclude by Friday's follow-up," Hawks finished. "Meeting dismissed. Agency heads, stay behind for individual assessments."

Chairs scraped against floor tiles as heroes stood, the room suddenly filled with voices. Bakugo rolled his neck, feeling vertebrae pop as he stood.

"Looks serious," Kirishima said, his normally easy grin absent. "Think we should up our security?"

"No shit," Bakugo snapped. "Our 'security system' is a fucking padlock and whatever booby traps Dunce Face accidentally sets with his quirk."

"Hey, that printer fire was a one-time thing," Kaminari protested. "Mostly."

"Bakugo."

The monotone voice cut through the ambient noise like a blade. Todoroki stood directly behind him, mismatched eyes steady, expression unreadable as always.

"What," Bakugo bit out, not bothering to make it a question.

"My agency is three blocks from yours," Todoroki said matter-of-factly. "It would be logical to establish a shared security protocol. Our systems could—"

"Don't need your handouts, Half-n-Half," Bakugo cut him off. "We're doing fine."

His brows furrowed. "It's not a handout. It's strategic resource allocation."

Bakugo snorted. "Call it whatever the fuck you want. Still smells like pity."

"I don't understand," Todoroki said, and the genuineness of his bewilderment just pissed Bakugo off more. "Your agency is new. Mine has established protocols. Sharing them benefits everyone."

Heat prickled along Bakugo's palms. "Let me make this clear for your half-frozen brain. I built my agency from nothing. Didn't have daddy's name, daddy's contacts, or daddy's bank account. So thanks, but we'll handle our own shit."

Todoroki blinked slowly, processing. "My father retired. The agency is mine now. Its success reflects my work."

"Bullshit." Bakugo stepped closer, close enough to feel the temperature shift around Todoroki's right side. "You walked into a fully staffed, fully funded operation with an established reputation. Don't pretend that's the same as starting from scratch."

Kirishima's hand landed on his shoulder. "Bro, maybe we should—"

"It's fine," Todoroki said calmly. "The offer stands if you change your mind. We're in neighboring districts. Cooperation makes sense."

He walked away before Bakugo could tell him exactly where to shove his cooperation. Kirishima's grip relaxed slightly.

"Dude, he was just trying to help," Kirishima said quietly.

"Don't need his fucking help," Bakugo growled.

"Kacchan!"

Great. From IcyHot to Deku. A perfect fucking tag team of annoyance.

Deku approached, his hero costume modified again. More  support gear around the arms to prevent further damage to his overused quirk. His smile was genuine, which somehow made it worse.

"Your agency's doing really well! I've been following your progress from America." Deku's enthusiasm hadn't dimmed since their UA days. "That training camp was brilliant PR. Your office manager must be amazing."

Bakugo's jaw clenched. He didn't like the idea of Deku watching his agency, analyzing his operations from across the ocean. And he especially didn't like Deku commenting on his staff.

"She's adequate," he muttered, knowing it was a gross understatement. "How's the American hero shit going?"

"Busy! Their regulatory system is completely different, and the quirk categorization is fascinating. I've been documenting the variations between—"

"Deku," a quiet voice interrupted. Best Jeanist stood nearby, his posture impeccable as always. "I believe Hawks needs you for the specialized assessment."

"Oh! Right!" Deku beamed at Bakugo. "We should catch up properly soon! I'm back for at least a month." He rushed off toward Hawks, already pulling out a notebook.

Bakugo exhaled slowly, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders. "Thanks," he said gruffly to Jeanist.

"You looked close to spontaneous combustion," Jeanist replied, his voice as measured as ever. "I assumed intervention was warranted."

Despite himself, Bakugo's mouth quirked upward. "Haven't blown up a government building in years. Got a reputation to maintain now."

"Indeed. Your agency has been making quite the impression." Jeanist's eyes crinkled slightly above his facial covering. "The security concerns Hawks raised are legitimate. Your operation should take them seriously."

"I know," Bakugo said, his voice dropping. The performative aggression faded slightly in Jeanist's presence. "We're vulnerable. Small staff. New location. Shit budget."

Jeanist nodded. "I faced similar challenges early in my career. Before the resources, before the staff. I have security protocols you might find useful."

"I'd take those," Bakugo said immediately. From Jeanist, it didn't feel like charity. It felt like mentorship. "Better than IcyHot's pity package."

"Shoto meant well," Jeanist said mildly.

"Don't care what he meant. Born with a silver spoon up his ass." Bakugo rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the residual irritation. "How's the agency expansion going? Heard you opened a Kansai branch."

They talked shop for ten minutes. Jeanist offering practical advice on growth management, Bakugo soaking it up like he once soaked up combat techniques. The conversation eased the tension in his chest. This was learning, not handouts. Earning knowledge, not being pitied.

"Your office manager," Jeanist said as they wrapped up. "The one who organized the training camp. She has potential."

Bakugo's eyes narrowed. "What about her?"

"Hold onto that one," Jeanist said simply. "Good support staff is rarer than good heroes. More valuable, too."

"She's fine," Bakugo muttered, uncomfortable with discussing her. Like speaking her name might summon her, with her color-coded files and friendly smiles.

"Visit the agency next week," Jeanist said. "I'll have those security protocols ready. Bring her, she should understand the implementation details."

Bakugo grunted an affirmative, already mentally rearranging his schedule. She'd have to clear his appointments. She'd probably already anticipated it, had contingencies ready before he even mentioned it.

"Bakugo!" Kirishima's voice called from across the room. "We're heading out. You coming?"

Jeanist inclined his head slightly. "Until next week, then."

Bakugo nodded, then rejoined his former classmates at the door.

The izakaya hummed with low conversation and clinking glasses, the after-work crowd thinning as evening deepened. Their corner booth provided enough privacy for hero talk, though Bakugo still kept his voice down as he outlined the meeting's security concerns.

"So these villain a-holes are specifically targeting agencies?" Racoon Eyes asked, her pink fingers wrapped around a beer glass. "Like, our actual offices?"

"Disruption strategy," Bakugo confirmed, sipping his whiskey. "Fuck with the infrastructure, make it harder to respond to incidents."

"Smart," Soy  Sauce Face said, leaning back against the wooden booth. "Most agencies are just glorified dispatch centers with PR departments attached. Take those out, hero response time doubles."

"They hit Edgeshot already," Kaminari added, his electric-yellow cocktail glowing faintly in the dim light. "Digital infiltration."

"How's Ms. Joke's agency handling it?" Kirishima asked Ashido. "They doing extra security?"

Ashido shrugged, her expression dimming slightly. "Probably, but I won't be there to see it. My assignment ends this week since Ms. Joke's going on maternity leave. Her husband's picking up most of her cases."

"Wait, Ms. Joke is pregnant?" Kaminari's eyes widened. "Who's the—"

"Eraserhead, obviously," Ashido rolled her eyes. "They've been married for like two years now."

"Mr. Aizawa gonna be a dad?" Kirishima looked delighted by this prospect. "That's so manly!"

Bakugo snorted. "That poor fucking kid. Between Joke's manic energy and Aizawa's death glares, they're doomed."

"What about you, Sero?" Kirishima asked. "Still with Kamui Woods?"

Sero's easy smile faltered slightly. "Not anymore. He's retiring next month. That fight with the toxic waste guy did permanent damage to his quirk. Wood doesn't regrow like it used to."

A momentary silence fell over the table. The reality of hero work. Careers cut short by injury, by quirk degradation, by the constant physical toll.

Bakugo heard the faint humming in his ear, felt the weight of his hearing aids. Permanent damage. Part of the job.

"So you're both free agents now?" he asked quietly, gaze darting between Racoon Eyes and Soy Sauce Face.

"Yep!" Ashido's smile was too bright, her voice too cheerful. "Back to the freelance life! Taking patrol shifts wherever they'll have me."

"Same," Sero agreed, his casual tone not quite masking the concern in his eyes. "Hoping to land somewhere stable soon, though. Freelancing gets old fast."

Bakugo drained his whiskey, set the glass down with a decisive clunk. "Work for me."

Four pairs of eyes locked onto him. Kaminari choked on his drink.

"What?" Ashido blinked.

"You heard me. Both of you. My agency needs heroes. You need jobs." Bakugo crossed his arms, face set in a challenging scowl. "Problem solved."

"Just like that?" Sero asked, eyebrows rising.

"Just like that," Bakugo confirmed. "Pay's shit. Hours are worse. Office is a renovated warehouse that leaks when it rains. But it's hero work."

"With you as the boss," Ashido pointed out, a smile tugging at her lips.

"Got a problem with that, Raccoon Eyes?"

"Absolutely not, No explosion orders on the first day?" Her grin widened, eyes glinting with mischief.

"Second day, maybe," Bakugo retorted. "First day's all fucking paperwork. Got an office manager who'll drown you in forms."

"The hero whisperer," Kaminari chimed in, his grin too knowing. "She's got Bakugo practically house-trained."

"Shut it, Dunce Face, before I melt your last functioning brain cell." Bakugo's scowl deepened, but there was no real heat behind it. "She's competent. Handles the administrative shit so we can focus on hero work."

"She's amazing," Kirishima added enthusiastically. "Organized this whole training camp that saved Bakugo's public image after he made a bunch of kids cry."

"You made children cry?" Ashido looked both horrified and impressed.

"They had dangerous quirks. Needed to hear the truth." Bakugo's jaw set stubbornly. "Worked out in the end."

"Thanks to your office manager," Sero observed, smirking.

"Are you taking the fucking jobs or not?" Bakugo demanded, steering the conversation away from his office manager.

Ashido and Sero exchanged a look, some silent communication passing between them.

"Yeah," Sero said finally. "I'm in."

"Me too!" Ashido beamed. "When do we start?"

"Monday. Nine AM." Bakugo pulled out his phone, fingers tapping rapidly. "Bringing you on means we qualify for increased Commission funding. Security upgrades, expanded patrol zones."

More heroes meant more coverage. More protection for the agency. For the staff. For her.

"Did you just decide this right now?" Kirishima asked, grinning broadly. "Like, this actual second?"

"Been thinking about expansion since the camp," Bakugo muttered, attention still on his phone. "Need more field operatives if we're opening a second location. Pinky's got urban patrol experience from Joke. Cellophane has rescue training from the lumber quirk bastard. Makes sense."

"He's been overthinking this for weeks," Kaminari stage-whispered to the table. "I've seen the spreadsheets."

"Shut up and drink your neon piss water," Bakugo growled, still typing.

"Who're you texting so intently?" Ashido asked, peering over the table. "Hot date?"

Bakugo yanked the phone away from her line of sight. "Office manager. Needs to prepare your contracts and commission paperwork."

"At nine PM?" Sero raised an eyebrow.

"She's probably still at the office," Kirishima said, his expression shifting to something more serious. "She works late a lot."

Bakugo's jaw tightened, but he didn't refute it. Instead, he finished the text:

Hiring Ashido and Sero effective Monday. Prepare hero contracts and Commission registration forms. Will explain security situation tomorrow. Don't stay all night.

The last part was an afterthought, fingers hesitating before adding it. He hit send before he could think too hard about it.

His phone pinged with a response barely thirty seconds later:

Congratulations on the new hires! I'll have everything ready by morning. Already started the expansion paperwork after the training camp leak. Don't worry about me – just finishing up some filing. See you tomorrow!

The cheerful tone practically radiated through the screen. He could picture her at her desk, probably wearing one of those ridiculous cardigans, surrounded by plants that had no business surviving in a concrete warehouse.

"She answered already, didn't she?" Kaminari grinned. "Told you. Always working."

Bakugo ignored him, quickly typing back:

Go home. That's an order.

"More drinks to celebrate?" Kirishima suggested, signaling the waitress. "First round on me, since we're about to be a proper agency with actual staff."

Ashido cheered, Sero smiled, and Kaminari launched into an elaborate explanation of the office dynamics they'd be walking into. Bakugo half-listened, his attention split between their conversation and his phone.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. Finally:

Yes, sir. Leaving now. I've set your calendar for a 10 AM briefing tomorrow on the Commission meeting outcomes. Sleep well!

He tucked the phone away, rejoining the conversation as Kirishima passed around fresh drinks.

"—and then there's Bakugo's office, which is basically a combat zone with a desk," Kaminari was saying. "I swear the walls are reinforced with blast panels."

"They fucking should be, given your electrical disasters," Bakugo countered, reaching for his fresh whiskey.

The conversation shifted to agency logistics, patrol schedules, equipment needs, the perpetually broken coffee maker. The anxiety that had coiled in Bakugo's gut during the Commission meeting gradually unwound, replaced by something close to anticipation.

His agency was growing. Adapting. Getting stronger.

Let the villains try their infiltration bullshit. They'd find a hell of a lot more resistance than they bargained for.

* * *

Bakugo squinted at the employment contract, vision blurring around the edges. The words on the page. Liability waivers, pension contributions, health insurance mandates—swirled together like alphabet soup. Pointless HR bullshit that kept his heroes from doing actual fucking work.

"Sign here, here, and here, then initial on pages four, seven, and twelve." He muttered to himself, mimicking his office manager's cheerful instructions.

The sound of high-pitched squealing from the reception area pierced through his concentration. His hearing aid shrieked with feedback, making him wince as his fingers automatically adjusted the volume.

What the fuck now?

He rose from his chair, stalking toward his doorway just in time to witness Ashido—electric-pink energy in human form—spinning in circles in the reception area. Sero followed behind her at a more sedate pace, hands in his pockets with that perpetually chill smile plastered on his face.

But it was his office manager who held his focus. She stood before the new arrivals, tablet clutched against a sunshine-yellow cardigan that had no business being that cheerful before 9 AM on a Monday. Her smile was wide and genuine as she extended her hand to each of them in turn.

"Welcome to Dynamight Agency! I'm the Office Manager. We're so pleased to have you join our team, Miss Pinky, Mr. Cellophane."

Bakugo's mouth quirked upward before he could stop it. She'd done the same thing with Kirishima and Dunce Face—insisted on using their hero names with honorifics despite their protests. Professional to a fucking fault.

"Oh my gosh, just call me Mina!" Ashido grabbed her hand and pumped it with enough enthusiasm to dislocate a shoulder. "And this is Sero! We've heard so much about you!"

"All good things, I hope," she laughed, the sound bright and musical in the concrete space. "Mr. Dynamight mentioned you'd be starting today. I've prepared welcome packets with all the necessary paperwork and agency protocols."

"Mr. Dynamight," Ashido repeated, eyes gleaming with mischief as they darted to where Bakugo stood. "That is precious."

Bakugo scowled, pushing away from the doorframe. "She's the only one with office privileges to call me that. Rest of you extras can stick with Bakugo."

His office manager turned, spotting him by the door. Her smile somehow brightened, and the air stalled in his lungs.

"Good morning, Mr. Dynamight! The new contracts are on your desk for final approval. I've highlighted the sections that needed modification after legal review."

Of course she had. Probably color-coded them too, with neat little tabs for his signature.

"I was just about to give Miss Pinky and Mr. Cellophane a quick tour before their orientation."

"Please, seriously, just Sero is fine," Sero said, his easy smile not faltering. "No need for the formality."

She tilted her head, considering this. "How about Mr. Sero as a compromise? Agency professionalism is important to maintain, especially with clients."

"She's not budging," Bakugo said, crossing his arms. "Already tried. She still calls Kirishima 'Mr. Red Riot' after six months."

"That's because Mr. Red Riot deserves respect as a senior hero," she replied primly, but with a teasing glint in her eye. "Now, shall we begin the tour? We can start with the operations center and work our way through to the training facilities."

"Lead the way, Office Manager!" Ashido chirped, linking arms with her immediately like they'd known each other for years. "I want to know everything about this place. And you! How do you handle working with the human grenade over there?"

Bakugo bristled, but before he could snap, his office manager laughed again.

"Mr. Dynamight is a consummate professional with exacting standards," she said smoothly. "The occasional eruption is just part of his creative process."

Ashido's eyes widened, then she broke into peals of laughter. "Oh my god, you're the Bakugo-whisperer! I love you already!"

Bakugo's scowl deepened as they walked away, his office manager pointing out various features of the renovated warehouse while Ashido peppered her with questions. Sero gave Bakugo a knowing look as he passed.

"She seems nice," he said simply. "Kirishima wasn't exaggerating."

"Just get your shit signed," Bakugo growled, turning back toward his office. "Training schedules are on the board. First patrol's tomorrow."

But instead of returning to his desk, he found himself lingering in the doorway, watching as his office manager led the tour. Her voice carried through the open space, clear and warm as she explained the agency's mission and operational structure. 

Something about the way Ashido had immediately latched onto her twisted in his gut. Like they were already best friends. Like she belonged with the heroes more than with him—

He cut that thought off before it fully formed. She didn't belong "with him" at all. She was an employee. His office manager. A crucial piece of operational infrastructure. Nothing more.

The fact that he was still standing there watching her like some kind of creep was just... quality control. Making sure she was giving the right information. That was all.

He forced himself back to his desk, but found it impossible to focus on the contracts. The sound of laughter,hers and Ashido's, with Sero's deeper chuckle occasionally joining in, kept pulling his attention away from the words on the page.

Fucking distracting.

After reading the same paragraph four times, Bakugo shoved away from his desk and stalked through the agency toward the sound of voices. Not because he wanted to see what they found so fucking hilarious, but because he needed to make sure they weren't wasting time. New heroes meant new patrol routes. Security upgrades. Implementation of Jeanist's protocols.

He found them in what had once been a storage area and was now a break room of sorts, another one of her renovations. There was an actual coffee machine now, not the burnt-coffee-flavored sludge maker they'd started with. Plants that somehow thrived despite the lack of natural light. A small couch that Kaminari routinely napped on.

"—and then he said, 'If you can't handle a little explosion, you shouldn't be in this line of work,' and the poor delivery guy just stood there holding half a melted package!" his office manager was saying, eyes bright with amusement.

Ashido howled with laughter, clutching her stomach. "Classic Bakugo! Was the package salvageable?"

"Barely! I had to sweet-talk the courier service for weeks before they'd deliver here again." She shook her head, but her smile was fond rather than exasperated. "Now I intercept all deliveries before they reach Mr. Dynamight's office."

"Smart woman," Sero nodded, leaning against the counter. "Place looks great, by the way. Way different from when I visited right after you guys opened. Like an actual professional agency now instead of, you know..."

"A bomb shelter run by overworked heroes?" she suggested, making Ashido snort coffee through her nose.

"Something like that," Sero grinned.

Bakugo cleared his throat loudly, and three heads swiveled toward him. His office manager's eyes widened briefly before her professional smile clicked back into place.

"Mr. Dynamight! I was just showing Miss Pinky and Mr. Cellophane the break area. We were about to continue to the training facilities."

"Security briefing. Conference room. Ten minutes," he said curtly, ignoring the way Ashido's eyes darted between him and his office manager with entirely too much interest. "Bring the building schematics."

"Of course, sir!" she said brightly. "I'll grab those from storage and meet you there."

Bakugo nodded once, then turned on his heel and stalked back toward the conference room. Behind him, he heard Ashido's voice, pitched low but not low enough for his enhanced hearing aids.

"Okay, he is way less murder-y with you than I remember. What's your secret?"

"No secret," his office manager replied, amusement clear in her tone. "Just basic psychology. Even apex predators respond to consistent handling."

Ashido's cackle echoed down the hallway, and Bakugo's jaw clenched so hard he felt a molar crack.

Apex predator. Handling. Like he was some wild animal she'd tamed.

Worse was the tiny part of him that didn't entirely hate the comparison.

By late afternoon, Bakugo had run Ashido and Sero through the security protocols, assigned patrol quadrants, and outlined emergency response procedures. His office manager had surprised him by presenting not just building schematics, but an entire security upgrade proposal that aligned perfectly with Jeanist's recommendations, compete with budget projections and implementation timelines.

She'd done it all while fielding Ashido's increasingly personal questions with diplomatic grace.

"So do you have a boyfriend? Girlfriend? Pet lizard?" Ashido had asked during a brief break, perched on the edge of the conference table.

"I have a cat named Mochi," she'd replied with a smile, not missing a beat as she reorganized her files. "He's very judgy and sleeps on my face."

"But no significant other?" Ashido pressed, her eyes gleaming. "Because my friend Tetsutetsu from high school would be perfect for you! He's all buff and metallic and sweet underneath, kinda like—"

The sound of Bakugo's pen snapping in half cut through the conversation. Ink splattered across his knuckles, black against the pale scars.

"If we're done with the fucking matchmaking," he growled, "can we get back to the security measures that keep us from getting killed by villains?"

His office manager had smoothly steered the conversation back to professional matters, but not before Racoon Eyes had caught his eye and smirked, a knowing, self-satisfied look that made his palms itch with the urge to detonate something.

Now, as evening fell and the agency emptied out, he sat at his desk, pretending to review reports while actually listening to the sounds of the building. Kirishima and Kaminari had left half an hour ago, dragging Ashido and Sero with them for "welcome drinks." They'd invited him along, but he'd dismissed them with a grunt, claiming paperwork.

The truth was, he didn't want to listen to Ashido's not-so-subtle attempts to set up his office manager with some metal-headed extra from their school days.

He rubbed his temples, trying to ease the pressure that had been building there all day. The ringing in his left ear had intensified, a constant high-pitched whine that signaled he was overdue for his hearing aid adjustment. Another piece of maintenance he'd been putting off.

A soft knock on his door frame pulled him from his thoughts. His office manager stood there, still in that yellow cardigan that somehow hadn't wrinkled despite the 12-hour day.

"I'm heading to the storage room to file these blueprints before I leave," she said. "Did you need anything else tonight, sir?"

He should have said no. Should have told her to go home, like any reasonable boss would. Instead, he pushed away from his desk.

"I'll come with you," he said, ignoring her surprised look. "Need to check something in the building layout."

It wasn't a complete lie. He did need to review the building's structural weak points after the security briefing. But it could have waited until morning. They both knew it.

"Of course," she said, her professional smile never faltering. "I was just going to file these in the back storage room."

They walked in silence through the empty agency, their footsteps echoing off the concrete floors. The converted warehouse was eerie after hours, the overhead lights dimmed to their energy-saving setting. Without the constant buzz of activity, Kirishima's booming laugh, Kaminari's chatter, the phones ringing—the space felt hollow, unfinished.

The storage room was tucked at the back of the building, a cramped space lined with metal shelving and filing cabinets. She switched on the light—a single bulb that cast more shadows than illumination and moved confidently between the narrow aisles.

"The building schematics are kept here," she explained, gesturing to a shelf above her head. "Along with all the original permit applications and inspection certificates."

Bakugo leaned against the door frame, she stretched to reach the appropriate file box. Her cardigan rode up slightly as she extended her arm, revealing a sliver of skin at her lower back. He looked away, jaw tight.

"The security upgrade proposal you presented," he said, keeping his voice neutral. "How did you put that together so fast?"

She glanced over her shoulder, still reaching for the box. "I started working on it after you texted about the Commission meeting. Figured it would be a priority given the threat assessment."

Of course she had. Always three steps ahead.

She finally grasped the box, easing it toward the edge of the shelf. "I've been researching best practices for agency security since—"

The metallic groan of failing hardware cut off her words. The shelf bracket, apparently not designed to hold the weight of a decade's worth of building documentation, tore away from the wall. The heavy box tilted precariously as the shelf gave way.

Bakugo moved without thinking. Three quick strides brought him to her side just as the bracket failed completely. He caught the falling shelf with one hand, his other arm instinctively wrapping around her waist to pull her away from the cascade of papers and metal.

The momentum spun her toward him. The blueprints fell from her hands, scattering across the floor as her body collided with his chest. Her hands clutched at his shirt for balance, fingers gripping the fabric tight enough that he felt her nails through the material.

Time seemed to slow. Her body pressed fully against his, soft curves meeting hard muscle. The thin material of her blouse and cardigan did nothing to disguise the press of her breasts against his chest. She was looking up at him, eyes wide, lips parted in surprise, close enough that he could count her eyelashes if he wanted to.

Close enough to taste.

Her scent filled his nostrils—that floral fragrance mixed with paper and ink. His body responded instantly, blood rushing south with such force he felt lightheaded. The hardening in his pants was unmistakable, pressed as they were against each other in the narrow aisle.

He saw the exact moment she felt it. Her eyes widened further, pupils dilating until they nearly swallowed the color of her irises. A flush spread across her cheeks, down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her blouse. Her lips—fuck, her lips—parted slightly, the tip of her tongue darting out to wet them in a gesture that sent another surge of blood to his already painfully hard cock.

"I—" she started, her voice breathy and so unlike her usual professional tone that it made his grip on her waist tighten reflexively.

She took a step back, nearly colliding with the shelving unit behind her. He reached out with his free hand, cradling the back of her head before it could impact the metal edge, his fingers threading through her hair. The shelf above them still hung at a precarious angle, held up only by his other arm.

The position left them in an even more compromising embrace—her back arched slightly, his hand in her hair, their bodies a breath apart. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the tremor that ran through her body.

"Sorry to interrupt—"

The janitor's voice shattered the moment like a grenade. Bakugo jerked back, releasing her but keeping his hand on the broken shelf to prevent it from falling.

"The shelf bracket broke," he said, his voice rough even to his own ears. "Get me a screwdriver from maintenance."

The janitor, an older man with a glowing fingertip quirk that made him ideal for finding dust in corners, nodded and disappeared. His office manager had already stepped away, crouching to gather the scattered blueprints with hands that weren't quite steady.

"I'm so sorry about that," she said, her professional mask sliding back into place despite the flush still staining her cheeks. "Thank you for your quick reflexes, Mr. Dynamight. That could have been a nasty accident."

Bakugo braced the shelf more securely against the wall, using the physical task as an excuse to regain his composure. His body was still painfully aware of her proximity, still throbbing with want that had nowhere to go.

"Just doing my job," he said roughly. "Protecting agency assets."

Something flickered in her eyes—hurt? disappointment?—before her smile returned, slightly dimmer than before. "Of course. The blueprints are quite valuable."

The janitor returned with tools, and Bakugo spent the next ten minutes securing the shelf properly to the wall, using the mechanical task to will his body back under control. His office manager continued gathering and organizing the fallen papers, maintaining a careful distance between them.

When the shelf was fixed and the blueprints were filed, they stood awkwardly in the small space, neither quite meeting the other's eyes.

"Thank you again," she said finally, clutching her tablet. "I should review these security protocols before implementation. Is there anything else you needed tonight, sir?"

Yes. You. Under me. Over me. Against the wall. On my desk. Everywhere.

"No," he said instead. "Go home. Get some rest. Big day tomorrow with the new patrol schedules."

She nodded, her professional smile firmly in place. "Goodnight, Mr. Dynamight."

He watched her walk away, her steps brisk and measured. Only when he heard the main door close did he release the breath he'd been holding, dragging a hand down his face.

Fucking perfect. Getting hard over his office manager like some horny teenager. In a storage closet, no less. Classy.

He stalked back to his office, grabbed his jacket, and left the agency, making sure to set the security system. The cool night air did nothing to calm the heat still simmering under his skin, the phantom pressure of her body against his.

Sleep eluded him that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—looking up at him with those wide, sparkling eyes, lips parted, body pressed against his. His imagination, unconstrained by professional boundaries or interrupting janitors, took the scenario further.

In his mind, he was pushing her against the shelves, lifting her onto the metal surface. Her legs were wrapping around his waist, her cardigan discarded, blouse unbuttoned to reveal the skin beneath. He was tasting her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. She was gasping his name—his actual name, not "Mr. Dynamight"—as his hand slid up her thigh, under her skirt.

Bakugo groaned, throwing off the sheets that felt too constraining, too hot against his skin. His cock throbbed painfully, demanding attention. He gave in, wrapping his hand around himself, hissing at the contact.

It was wrong. She was his employee. His office manager. The person who kept his entire operation from collapsing. Fantasizing about her like this was unprofessional at best, predatory at worst.

Didn't stop his hand from moving, his mind from conjuring her beneath him, on top of him, her mouth on his skin, her hands in his hair. He imagined her taste, her sounds, the way she might look coming apart under his touch.

His release, when it came, was intense but unsatisfying. A physical relief that did nothing to ease the ache that had taken up residence somewhere behind his sternum.

Bakugo stared at the ceiling, sweat cooling on his skin, breathing ragged. Tomorrow he'd have to look her in the eye, pretend nothing had happened. Pretend he hadn't felt her against him, hadn't wanted to push her up against those shelves and taste every inch of her skin.

Pretend he wasn't lying in bed thinking about all the ways he wanted to make her scream his name.

Sleep, when it finally claimed him, was fitful and filled with dreams of yellow cardigans and scattered blueprints, of soft skin and even softer gasps, cut short each time by an interruption he couldn't fight past.

Morning would come too soon, and with it, the reality he'd have to face. A reality where she called him "Mr. Dynamight" and maintained professional distance, and he pretended that was exactly what he wanted.

The Wednesday morning staff meeting felt like torture. Bakugo sat at the head of the conference table, pretending to review patrol reports while stealing glances at his office manager. She wore a soft blue cardigan today, the color making her skin look like fucking porcelain or some shit. Not that he noticed. Or cared.

"—and the quarterly budget projections are trending positive, especially with the new sponsorship deals." Her voice carried through the room with that same cheerful efficiency that somehow never grated on his nerves like Kaminari's did.

Her hands moved as she spoke, gesturing to the charts displayed on the conference room screen. Bakugo's eyes tracked the motion, remembering how those same fingers had clutched at his shirt last night, how her nails had dug into the fabric when he'd pulled her against him.

Fuck. Stop it.

"Mr. Dynamight, do you have any questions about the security upgrade timeline?"

His gaze snapped up to her face, finding her looking at him expectantly. Had she asked him something? He'd been too busy staring at the curve of her wrist where it disappeared into her sleeve to pay attention to the actual fucking meeting he was supposed to be running.

"It's fine," he grunted, ignoring Kaminari's poorly concealed snicker. "We need those upgrades done by next Friday."

"Of course, sir," she nodded, not missing a beat despite his obvious inattention. "I've already arranged for the necessary contractors."

She turned to continue the presentation, and Bakugo's eyes dropped to the shape of her ass in her pencil skirt before he caught himself. What the fuck was wrong with him? Twenty-four hours ago, he'd been a professional. Now he was ogling his office manager like some hormone-crazed teenager.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur of tactical assessments and patrol schedules. He noticed Ashido watching him with narrowed eyes, her gaze darting between him and his office manager with that same knowing smirk from yesterday. Fucking pink menace.

As the meeting wrapped up, his office manager approached his chair while the others filed out.

"Mr. Dynamight, Best Jeanist's agency sent over the meeting details for this afternoon. We're expected at two o'clock for the security protocol briefing." She held out a tablet, her smile bright and professional. No sign that anything awkward had happened between them. "I've prepared a summary of their current systems for your review."

Her fingers brushed his as he took the tablet, and he jerked back like he'd been burned, nearly dropping the device. Her eyes widened slightly, but her smile never faltered.

"Thank you for accompanying me to this meeting," she continued smoothly. "Your technical expertise will be invaluable."

"Whatever," he muttered, focusing on the tablet to avoid looking at her face. "Just doing my fucking job."

"Of course," she said cheerfully. "I've cleared your schedule until four. Should I have the car waiting at one-thirty?"

"Fine."

She nodded, then turned to leave. As she walked away, his treacherous eyes tracked the sway of her hips, the way her cardigan hugged her waist. He forced himself to look down at the tablet, only to catch Ashido watching him from the doorway, a gleeful expression on her pink face.

"Don't you have patrol routes to memorize, Raccoon Eyes?" he snapped.

"All done, Boss!" she sang out. "Just enjoying the... view."

Before he could detonate her smug face, she skipped away, dragging Kirishima into a huddle near the water cooler. Their heads bent together, Ashido whispering furiously while gesturing back toward the conference room. Kirishima's eyes widened, darting toward Bakugo, then toward his office manager's retreating form.

Great. Just fucking perfect. Now he'd have to endure Kirishima's "manly" advice about workplace relationships or some shit.

Bakugo stalked back to his office, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame. He needed to get his shit together before the meeting with Jeanist.

At precisely one-thirty, Bakugo found his office manager waiting by the agency car, tablet in hand and a thin portfolio tucked under her arm. "Ready when you are, Mr. Dynamight," she said with that same unwavering smile.

He grunted in response, climbing into the back seat without meeting her eyes. She slid in beside him, maintaining a careful distance that somehow annoyed him more than if she'd crowded his space.

The drive was silent for the first few minutes, tension crackling between them like static electricity. He stared resolutely out the window, hyperaware of her scent—floral and clean—filling the confined space of the vehicle.

"I thought you might want to review the security briefing materials," she said finally, breaking the silence. "Best Jeanist's agency uses an integrated system that combines physical barriers with quirk-sensitive alarms."

Work. Focus on work. That was safe territory.

"Their budget's ten times ours," he muttered, accepting the folder she offered. "We can't afford half their shit."

"Actually, I've identified several key components that would work within our budget constraints." She leaned closer, pointing to a highlighted section of the report. "These motion sensors are manufactured by a company that offers significant discounts to new agencies as part of their market expansion."

Her arm brushed against his as she reached across to turn the page, and he tensed at the contact. She either didn't notice or chose to ignore it, continuing her explanation with undiminished enthusiasm.

"And here's the really exciting part," she said, her eyes lighting up. "The quirk-dampening field generators can be scaled based on square footage. We wouldn't need the industrial-strength versions they use."

Her genuine excitement over fucking security systems shouldn't have been endearing, but somehow it was. She was practically vibrating with energy as she outlined cost-saving measures and implementation plans, completely in her element amid spreadsheets and technical specifications.

"You're really into this shit," he observed, watching her animated gestures.

She blinked, then laughed—a genuine, melodic sound that hit him straight in the chest. "I suppose I am! There's something satisfying about finding efficient solutions to complex problems." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a hint of pink coloring her cheeks. "I know it's not as exciting as actual hero work."

"It's important," he said gruffly, surprising himself with the admission. "Can't do the hero shit without the infrastructure."

Her smile softened and it made his stomach twist. "Thank you, Mr. Dynamight. That means a lot coming from you."

He looked away, uncomfortable with the warmth spreading through his chest. "Just stating facts."

The rest of the drive passed with her explaining various security protocols, her voice a soothing counterpoint to the cacophony of the city outside. By the time they arrived at Best Jeanist's headquarters, Bakugo had almost convinced himself that the storage room incident was a fluke, a momentary lapse in judgment that wouldn't be repeated.

Then she stepped out of the car, the wind catching her scarf and pressing her blouse against the curves of her body, and all his carefully constructed rationalizations crumbled like wet cardboard.

Fuck. This was going to be a long afternoon.

Best Jeanist's agency headquarters rose like a monument to modern design, all glass and steel and precision, just like the man himself. Bakugo stepped through the automatic doors with a strange mix of discomfort and nostalgia. He'd interned here once, back when he was still figuring out what kind of hero he wanted to be. Before he understood the value of order and discipline.

"Welcome back, Bakugo," Jeanist said, his tall figure impeccable as always in a tailored suit. His eyes shifted to the office manager standing beside Bakugo. "And this must be your invaluable office manager I've heard so much about."

She stepped forward, extending her hand with that perfect professional smile. "It's an honor to meet you, Sir. I've studied your agency's administrative structure extensively. Your integration of hero support systems is truly exemplary."

Jeanist took her hand, inclining his head slightly. "The honor is mine. I've been impressed by the transformation of Dynamight Agency in recent months. It seems Bakugo finally found someone who can keep his explosive tendencies channeled productively."

Bakugo bristled at the implied criticism. "We're here for security protocols, not a fucking performance review."

"Of course," Jeanist said smoothly, unfazed by the outburst. "Though I must say, the Bakugo I remember would have used considerably more colorful language just now. Perhaps some positive influence is at work."

Bakugo's jaw clenched, but before he could respond, his office manager stepped in seamlessly.

"Mr. Dynamight has built an extraordinary agency in record time," she said, her tone warm but firm. "His strategic vision is what drives our success. I merely facilitate the implementation."

Jeanist's eyes crinkled above his mask—the closest he ever came to smiling. "Loyalty as well as competence. You've chosen well, Bakugo."

He looked away. . She made him sound like some kind of visionary leader instead of the short-tempered mess he actually was. The agency wouldn't exist without Kirishima's optimism and her organizational skills, but she gave him all the credit.

"This way," Jeanist said, leading them deeper into the building. "I've prepared a demonstration of our security systems."

As they walked through the pristine corridors, Bakugo felt a pang of something close to homesickness. Everything here was ordered, controlled, precise, values he'd internalized during his internship, even as he'd railed against Jeanist's methods. The polished floors, the color-coded filing systems, the quiet efficiency of the staff—it was everything his chaotic converted warehouse wasn't.

And yet, as he glanced at his office manager walking beside him, her eyes bright with excitement as she analyzed the agency layout, he realized he wouldn't trade his ramshackle operation for this sterile perfection. His agency had character. It had fucking personality. It had her cheerful yellow cardigans brightening up the concrete corridors.

Jeanist led them into a control room filled with monitors displaying various angles of the agency. His office manager immediately stepped forward, studying the setup with unabashed interest.

"This is fascinating," she said, examining the control panel. "You've integrated quirk detection with traditional security measures."

"Indeed," Jeanist replied. "The system can identify unauthorized quirk usage within the building and respond accordingly."

She began asking detailed technical questions that Bakugo could barely follow, her understanding of security systems clearly exceeding what he'd expected. Jeanist answered each question thoroughly, looking increasingly impressed by her knowledge.

"Perhaps you could show her the main security hub," Jeanist suggested, turning to Bakugo. "My security chief would be delighted to explain the more technical aspects. He's just down the hall, third door on the right."

She looked at Bakugo for approval, eyes shining with barely contained enthusiasm. He nodded curtly, and she practically bounced out of the room, following Jeanist's directions.

Once she was gone, Jeanist turned to Bakugo, his expression unreadable behind his mask. "She's quite remarkable."

"She's competent," Bakugo said flatly, refusing to engage.

"More than competent," Jeanist corrected. "She reminds me of my wife, in fact."

That caught Bakugo off guard. Jeanist rarely mentioned his personal life. "How?"

"Intelligence masked by cheerfulness. Strength disguised as accommodation." Jeanist adjusted his cuffs, a habit he'd had as long as Bakugo had known him. "She sees your potential clearly, even when you don't. And she balances you—provides the order that allows your chaos to be constructive rather than destructive."

Bakugo's hands curled into fists at his sides. "She's an employee. Nothing more."

"Is that so?" Jeanist's voice was mild, infuriatingly knowing. "Then you won't mind if I offer her a position here? Her talents are being wasted on basic office management."

The surge of possessive rage that shot through Bakugo was so intense he had to physically stop himself from lunging across the room. His palms grew hot, wisps of smoke curling between his fingers.

"She's not fucking going anywhere," he growled, voice dropping to a dangerous register. "She's mine—" He caught himself, jaw snapping shut. "She's integral to my agency's operations."

Jeanist studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "As I suspected."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Jeanist said carefully, "that you might want to examine why the mere suggestion of her leaving provokes such a reaction."

"I don't like people touching my stuff," Bakugo snapped.

"She's not 'stuff,' Bakugo. She's a person with ambitions and needs of her own." Jeanist looked toward the door she'd exited through. "And someone of her caliber won't wait forever for you to recognize her value beyond her professional contributions."

"There's nothing—" Bakugo started, but was cut off by the door opening.

His office manager returned, cheeks flushed with excitement, clutching a handful of technical diagrams. "Mr. Dynamight, their sensor array is incredible! The security chief explained how we could adapt a scaled-down version to our building specifications."

Her enthusiasm washed over him like a wave, momentarily distracting him from the lingering irritation at Jeanist's insinuations. She looked so fucking happy about security schematics that it was almost cute. Not that he'd ever use that word out loud.

"Show me," he said, stepping away from Jeanist to examine the diagrams she held.

She spread them across the conference table, pointing out key features and adaptations. Her knowledge was impressive. She’d clearly done extensive research before this meeting. As she explained the technical specifications, Bakugo found himself watching her more than the diagrams, tracking the animated movements of her hands, the way her eyes lit up when explaining particularly clever solutions.

"The beauty of this system is its scalability," she was saying, completely unaware of his inattention. "We can implement it in phases, prioritizing key areas like the server room and sensitive document storage."

He grunted in agreement, forcing himself to focus on the diagrams instead of the stray strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek. He reached out without thinking, tucking it behind her ear. She froze mid-sentence, eyes widening at the contact.

Fuck. Why had he done that?

He yanked his hand back,  but the damage was done. Her cheeks had flushed pink, and there was an awkward pause before she continued her explanation, voice slightly less steady than before.

From the corner of his eye, Bakugo caught Jeanist watching them, that same knowing look in his eyes. When their gazes met, Jeanist merely raised an eyebrow, as if to say "Nothing more, you said?"

Bakugo scowled, hating how transparent he apparently was. He turned his attention deliberately to the security diagrams, asking pointed technical questions to steer the conversation back to professional territory.

The rest of the briefing passed in a blur of specifications and protocols. His office manager maintained her professional demeanor, but he noticed she kept a careful distance from him, no longer leaning close to point out details on the diagrams.

By the time they wrapped up, the sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Jeanist's agency. Bakugo felt drained, not from the technical discussions but from the constant effort of not looking at her, not touching her, not reacting to her presence.

"Thank you for your time," she said to Jeanist, shaking his hand with that perfect professional smile. "We'll put these protocols to good use."

"I have no doubt," Jeanist replied, his eyes crinkling again. "Bakugo is fortunate to have you."

Bakugo grunted, unwilling to engage further with Jeanist's pointed comments. "We should get back. Patrol shifts change at six."

They said their goodbyes, Jeanist extracting a promise from his office manager to consult him if she had further questions about implementation. The proprietary undertone in Bakugo's responding glare only seemed to amuse the fiber hero further.

As they stepped outside, the setting sun bathed the city in golden light, transforming the concrete jungle into something almost beautiful. His office manager paused for a moment, tilting her face up to catch the last rays of warmth.

"The car won't be here for another fifteen minutes," she said, checking her phone. "Traffic delay."

Bakugo nodded, keeping a deliberate distance between them as they stood outside Jeanist's agency. The evening crowd rushed past on the sidewalk, salarymen heading home after long office hours, students in uniform picking their way along.

"That was incredibly informative," she said, breaking the silence. "Their systems are state-of-the-art, but I really think we can implement the key components within our budget constraints. I've already drafted a phased approach that—"

Her words cut off as a businessman rushed past, shoulder colliding hard with hers. The impact sent her stumbling sideways, portfolio flying from her hands, papers scattering in the wind.

Bakugo reacted instinctively, one arm shooting out to catch her around the waist before she could fall. His other hand snatched at the airborne papers, saving at least some of the diagrams from being lost to the evening breeze.

She collided with his chest, her body fitting against his with the same perfect alignment as the night before. His arm tightened reflexively, pulling her closer than necessary, her breasts pressing against his torso. 

"Shit, sorry," the businessman called over his shoulder, not slowing down.

Bakugo barely heard him, too focused on the woman in his arms. She was looking up at him, lips parted in surprise, her hands clutching at his shoulders for balance. The golden sunset light caught in her hair, making it glow, and he was seized by the sudden, overwhelming urge to bury his face in it, to inhale her scent directly from the source.

Time seemed to stretch, the busy sidewalk fading away until there was only her. Cold and soft against him, her breath coming in quick little gasps that he could feel against his neck. His body responded immediately. 

Her eyes widened, and he knew she felt it—his hardening cock pressed against her hip, unmistakable despite the layers of clothing between them. She should have pulled away. Should have been disgusted, offended.

Instead, her pupils dilated, swallowing the color of her irises, and her lips parted further on a small, barely audible intake of breath that wasn't quite a gasp, wasn't quite a moan, but somewhere torturously in between.

The sound shot straight to his groin, his cock twitching against her hip. Her hands tightened on his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket. For one wild, reckless moment, he considered pulling her into the nearest alley and taking her against the wall, consequences be damned.

Reality crashed back when someone jostled them, breaking the moment. She stepped back quickly, smoothing her cardigan with trembling hands, a flush staining her cheeks.

"Thank you for catching me," she said, her professional mask sliding back into place despite the color in her face. "And saving the diagrams."

Bakugo handed over the papers he'd managed to grab, careful not to let their fingers touch. "Watch where you're fucking walking next time," he muttered, the words lacking their usual bite.

She nodded, busy rearranging the papers in her portfolio, not meeting his eyes. "The car should be here any minute."

As if on cue, the agency car pulled up to the curb. She hurried toward it, and Bakugo followed at a more measured pace, using the brief moment to adjust his pants and will his body back under control.

The ride back to the agency was silent, tension filling the space between them. She kept her gaze fixed on her tablet, while he stared resolutely out the window, both pretending there wasn't a crackling current of electricity connecting them across the back seat.

When they reached the agency, she gathered her things quickly. "I'll draft the implementation plan tonight and have it on your desk first thing tomorrow," she said, still not meeting his eyes. "Will you be coming back inside?"

"No," he said gruffly. "Got patrol to handle. You go home."

She nodded, finally glancing at him. Something vulnerable flickered in her eyes before her professional smile returned. "Goodnight, Mr. Dynamight."

He watched her walk into the building, forcing himself not to focus on the sway of her hips or the curve of her back. Only when she disappeared inside did he exhale, shoulders dropping as tension drained from his body.

"Fuck," he muttered, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

This had to stop. She was his employee. His office manager. The person who kept his agency from collapsing into chaos. Jeopardizing that relationship for the sake of his dick would be the height of stupidity.

Besides, she deserved better than to be ogled by her boss, made uncomfortable in her workplace. She was competent, professional, fucking brilliant at her job. She didn't come to work to deal with his inappropriate attraction.

He'd put an end to it. Maintain professional distance. Keep interactions brief and strictly business-related. No more accidental touches, no more staring at her mouth when she spoke, no more fantasizing about how she'd taste, how she'd feel underneath him, how she'd sound when—

Fuck. STOP.

Bakugo stormed back into the agency, making a beeline for his office. He slammed the door behind him, leaning against it as he forced his breathing to steady. The ringing in his ears had intensified, a high-pitched drone that matched the buzz of adrenaline under his skin.

This was a fucking disaster. She was an office manager, not a conquest. And even if she wasn't his employee, she wasn't his type. Too cheerful. Too optimistic. Too fucking sunny for someone like him, with his sharp edges and explosive temper.

She deserved someone who wouldn't burn her with his heat. Someone stable and calm, someone who could match her warmth without scorching her.

Not someone whose hands were weapons, whose temper was legendary, whose nightmares sometimes woke him sweating and shaking. Not someone who couldn't even maintain friendships without blowing shit up occasionally.

It was better this way. Professional distance. Clear boundaries. Once the immediate physical attraction faded, things would go back to normal. He'd be her boss, she'd be his office manager, and that would be that.

He pushed away from the door, striding to his desk and yanking open a drawer to retrieve patrol reports. Wisps of smoke curled from his palms as his agitation manifested physically, nitroglycerin sweat beading on his skin.

"Fucking thermodynamics," he muttered, slamming the drawer shut with enough force to rattle the desk.

Heat always flows to cold. Basic physics. Unavoidable.

But he'd find a way to defy the laws of nature if it meant keeping her safe from his destructive influence.

He had to.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

"Mr. Dynamight should be arriving any minute now." You smiled at the producer with the confidence of someone who wasn't currently fantasizing about hurling herself out the nearest window. "He likes to make an entrance."

The producer—Mori or Morita or something equally forgettable—checked his watch for the fourteenth time in five minutes. "We go live in twenty."

"I understand. He'll be here."

Your phone remained stubbornly silent. No text. No call. No smoke signals from the world's most combustible hero who was supposed to be sitting in a makeup chair right now, getting his perpetual scowl powder-coated into submission for his first major TV interview since the training camp success.

The interview you'd spent weeks arranging. The one that would cement his rebranding as tough-but-caring rather than tough-but-psychopathic. The one you'd meticulously crafted questions for to highlight his strengths without triggering a ratings-destroying explosion on national television.

The same questions you'd emailed him three times with increasing urgency, only to receive a two-word response that made you want to strangle him with one of his cargo pants: "Looks good."

Looks good? LOOKS GOOD? Those six pages of carefully crafted talking points deserved a goddamn parade, not a text message you might send about a mediocre lunch.

"Is there a problem?" The host, Aiko Nakano, with glass-cutting cheekbones and a smile that could sell ice to polar bears, approached in a cloud of designer perfume.

"Not at all," you assured her, channeling your inner publicist. "Mr. Dynamight is coming directly from patrol. Saving lives, you know how it is!"

The sad truth was you had no idea where he was. After the storage room incident and the subsequent sidewalk-fumble outside Best Jeanist's agency, Bakugo had been avoiding you with the dedication of a cat avoiding a bath. Five days of communicating exclusively through terse texts and notes left on your desk after hours.

Five days of replaying those moments in your head like some sort of torture reel, the hard press of his body against yours, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal, the way his eyes had darkened to the color of blood wine. Five days of your brain helpfully providing alternate endings where the janitor didn't interrupt, where the businessman hadn't bumped into you, where Bakugo's hands slid from your waist to—

Stop. Focus. Professional. You were a professional.

A professional who had spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about how the hardness you'd felt pressed against your hip would feel elsewhere.

"Ten minutes to air," called a PA, shooting you a look of mounting panic.

You smiled reassuringly while mentally calculating how quickly you could update your resume if this went south. Maybe Best Jeanist was still hiring. He'd seemed impressed with your security protocol knowledge, and his agency probably had functioning air conditioning and coffee that didn't taste like it was filtered through a sweaty gym sock.

The station's double doors burst open with enough force to rattle the framed autographs lining the walls. Conversations halted as all heads swiveled toward the entrance.

And there he stood. Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight in his full, filthy glory.

His hero costume was streaked with soot, a tear visible along one sleeve. Ash dusted his blonde hair, somehow making him look more dangerous rather than disheveled. His face had a smear of dirt across one cheek, highlighting the scar below his left eye.

He looked like he'd fought a building and won.

He looked absolutely fucking magnificent.

"Got held up," he growled, red eyes scanning the room until they found you. "Warehouse fire."

Your heart did an unauthorized somersault. Five days of avoiding you, and now he was staring with that intensity that made your skin feel two sizes too small for your body.

"Mr. Dynamight," you recovered, professionalism snapping back into place as you crossed the room. "I'm so glad you made it. We're on a very tight schedule."

"I need to clean up," he muttered, the smell of smoke and burnt sugar and heat, enveloped you as you approached.

"Of course. The makeup team is ready for you." You gestured toward the hovering stylists, who looked simultaneously terrified and thrilled at the prospect of touching Japan's most volatile hero.

A production assistant materialized beside you. "We're down to eight minutes. He needs to be in the chair now."

Bakugo's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "I'm covered in fire suppression foam and building dust."

"It adds authenticity," you said brightly, guiding him toward the makeup station with a hand hovering near—but not touching—his elbow. "Straight from saving lives to sharing wisdom with the nation."

He gave you a look that suggested he was contemplating spontaneous combustion, but allowed himself to be led to the chair. The makeup artists descended like nervous hummingbirds, dabbing at his face with wipes that came away black with soot.

"Just clean the worst of it," you instructed them. "The authentic hero look works for the narrative we're building."

In truth, you doubted any amount of concealer could make Bakugo look less like he'd just crawled through the gates of hell. But the disheveled appearance had its advantages. It underscored the image rehab you'd been orchestrating. Heroes who looked too polished became idols; heroes who looked battle-worn became human.

"Five minutes," called another PA, the pitch of her voice rising with panic.

"Mr. Dynamight, while they're finishing up, could we quickly review the key talking points?" You pulled out your tablet, heart hammering. "When Ms. Nakano asks about your hero ranking, remember to emphasize—"

"I read your notes," he cut in, eyes meeting yours in the makeup mirror. "All six fucking pages of them. Twice."

Oh.

You smiled. He'd read them. He'd actually read them. The "looks good" wasn't just a dismissive brush-off.

"Sound check!" A frazzled technician approached, headphones around his neck. "Need to test the levels with your mic, sir."

Bakugo scowled as the makeup artist finished dabbing at his face. The technician reached toward Bakugo's collar to attach the lapel mic, but froze when a warning growl rumbled from the hero's chest.

"I'll do it myself," Bakugo snapped, taking the mic pack.

"I also need to check your hearing aids," the technician said, voice quavering slightly. "Sometimes they can cause feedback with our—"

"No." The single syllable could have frozen lava.

"But sir, it's standard procedure for—"

Bakugo's palm crackled with a warning spark. "Touch my ears and lose your fucking hands."

The technician paled, taking a step back. You could practically see the station's insurance premiums doubling before your eyes.

"May I?" you asked quietly, stepping forward.

Bakugo's eyes snapped to yours, narrowed and suspicious. For a moment, you thought he might refuse you too. Then, with a barely perceptible nod, he tilted his head slightly.

"Follow me," you told him, gesturing to a quieter corner away from the chaos of pre-broadcast preparations. 

He rose from the chair, ignoring the protests of the makeup artists, and followed you to a small alcove partially hidden by a large potted plant. The relative privacy wasn't much, but it would have to do.

"Two minutes!" someone shouted across the studio.

"This'll be quick," you promised, setting your tablet down. "Can you lower the volume first? It'll help prevent feedback while I adjust."

Bakugo's jaw tightened, but he reached up and twisted a tiny dial on his right hearing aid. You stepped closer. Close enough that you could smell the lingering scent of smoke on his costume, mingled with sweetness. Nitroglycerin. His quirk's unique scent.

"Left one first," you murmured, raising your hands slowly to telegraph your movements.

His eyes tracked your hands like a predator monitoring a potential threat, but he didn't move away. Taking that as permission, you carefully brushed your fingers along the shell of his ear to access the small, high-tech device nestled there.

The moment your skin made contact with his, he hissed through his teeth.

"Your hands are fucking freezing."

Heat flooded your cheeks. "Sorry! I should go warm them up—"

You started to pull away, but his hand shot out, fingers circling your wrist. The sudden contact sent a jolt through your body, hot as a lightning strike.

"It's fine," he muttered, not releasing you. "Just wasn't expecting it."

You froze. His warm, rough fingers circled your wrist and he surely felt your fluttering pulse. How his palm radiated heat like a furnace. The contrast between your temperatures was almost shocking; where you ran cold enough to need cardigans in summer, he burned hot enough to warm the entire alcove.

His eyes never left yours as you carefully reached toward his ear again. Your fingertips brushed against his skin, the heat of him sinking into your chronically cold hands like sunlight into shadows.

"You're always so fucking cold," he murmured, voice dropping to a register that did dangerous things to your insides. "Like ice."

You focused on the hearing aid, making a tiny adjustment to the external settings. "Endothermic quirk, remember? I'm basically a walking refrigerator."

"And I'm—"

"A human space heater?" you finished, the corner of your mouth lifting as you moved to his other ear. "Thermodynamic opposites."

Physics had a sick sense of humor, creating two people with such complementary temperature needs and then throwing in workplace boundaries and a boss-employee dynamic for extra laughs.

His right ear required more careful adjustment. You had to lean closer, your faces now mere inches apart. From this distance, you could see the flecks of darker crimson in his irises, the tiny scar near his hairline you'd never noticed before. He smelled like adrenaline and victory and dangerl that made your lizard brain want to climb him like a tree.

Professional. You were a professional.

A professional who was currently close enough to count his eyelashes while trying desperately not to think about those two incidents where his very impressive arousal had pressed against you.

"That should do it," you said, your voice embarrassingly breathless as you finished the adjustment. "They shouldn't cause feedback now."

But you didn't step away immediately, caught in the gravity of his gaze. Neither did he release your wrist, his thumb absently, perhaps unconsciously, stroking the sensitive skin over your pulse point.

The realization struck you like a brick to the forehead: he was letting you into his space. The man who'd nearly murdered a sound technician for approaching his ears was allowing you—and only you—to touch this vulnerable part of him.

"Thirty seconds to places!" A voice shattered the moment.

Bakugo released your wrist abruptly, as if suddenly remembering where you were. You took a step back, professionalism sliding back into place like armor.

"Remember, when she asks about the charity gala incident, pivot to how it led to the training camp," you said, your voice remarkably steady considering your heart was performing gymnastics in your chest. "We want to frame it as a learning opportunity that—"

"I know what to do," he cut you off, but without his usual bite. His expression softened fractionally, barely noticeable to anyone who hadn't spent months studying his micro-expressions like sacred texts. "I read your notes."

"Places NOW!" The floor director's voice echoed through the studio.

As Bakugo walked toward the interview set, shoulders squared and spine straight despite the soot still clinging to his costume, you allowed yourself exactly three seconds to acknowledge the fire he'd lit in your veins before extinguishing it with cold professionalism.

Later. You'd unpack all of this later, preferably with your cat and the emergency wine stash you kept for PR disasters.

Right now, you had a hero's image to rehabilitate. And if your hands still tingled where he'd touched you, if you could still feel the heat of his skin against your fingertips—well, that was a problem for future you.

God help her.

The lights dimmed across the studio as Aiko Nakano's entrance music played. Bakugo took his seat, back straight, managing to look commanding despite the lingering evidence of his recent heroics. As the cameras began to roll, he caught your eye from across the studio and gave you the smallest of nods.

Message received. He had this.

And if your heart skipped a beat at that silent acknowledgment, that was nobody's business but yours.

* * *

 "—and that's exactly why I said it," Bakugo's voice came from the break room TV. "Kids with dangerous quirks don't need coddling. They need honesty about the responsibility they're carrying."

You smiled into your coffee mug as you watched the interview replay. Somehow, the man who communicated primarily through explosions and expletives had managed to sound... reasonable. Articulate, even. The miracle of proper media coaching and six pages of meticulously crafted talking points that he'd actually bothered to read.

Twice, apparently.

"My approach isn't about scaring children," on-screen Bakugo continued, looking directly into the camera with that intense red gaze. "It's about respecting them enough to tell them the truth. Their power matters. How they use it matters."

Aiko leaned forward, perfectly manicured hand touching her collar in practiced concern. "Some might say your message was too harsh for children who are already struggling with their abilities."

"Those kids don't need another adult lying to them about how 'everything will be fine' when their quirks can level buildings." Bakugo didn't raise his voice, a minor miracle you silently credited yourself for. "What they need is someone who understands that kind of power comes with fear. And who can show them how to master it anyway."

You stared at the screen, a warm feeling spreading through your chest that definitely wasn't just the coffee. This was the Bakugo you'd glimpsed beneath all that anger and posturing, the one who understood struggle because he'd lived it, who believed in hard truths because soft lies had never helped him.

That didn't mean you weren't going to silently high-five yourself for every talking point he seamlessly incorporated. Professional pride was still pride.

Your phone buzzed against the desk. Then buzzed again. And again. And kept buzzing until you wondered if it might vibrate itself right off the edge.

Seventeen missed calls. Thirty-four text messages. Forty-two new emails.

What fresh hell...?

You picked up your phone just as it buzzed again, an unknown number lighting up the screen. Against your better judgment, you answered.

"Dynamight Agency, this is the office manager speaking."

"Good morning! This is Ryota Suzuki from KyoTech Support Gear." The voice on the other end was so enthusiastic it practically sparkled through the phone. "We'd like to discuss a potential equipment sponsorship for Mr. Dynamight following his excellent interview last night!"

"I... see." You scrambled for a notebook, mentally rearranging your morning schedule. "Could you tell me a bit more about what you have in mind?"

As the caller outlined a surprisingly generous offer involving custom gauntlet upgrades, your tablet pinged with a calendar notification. Then another. And another.

Your inbox was flooding with meeting requests from companies you'd been unsuccessful at reaching for months. Premium brands that normally wouldn't give Dynamight Agency the time of day were suddenly desperate to associate themselves with the hero who spoke harsh truths to vulnerable children.

Who would have thought honesty could be such a marketable commodity?

"Yes, I can certainly arrange a meeting next week," you assured the KyoTech representative, adding it to your rapidly filling calendar. "Mr. Dynamight will be very interested to hear about your shock-absorption technology."

You hung up just as your office door swung open, revealing Ashido's pink form practically vibrating with excitement.

"Did you SEE the Hero Watch poll this morning?" she squealed, bouncing into your office with Sero trailing behind her. "Bakugo jumped three spots overnight! He's trending with the 18-25 demographic. They're calling him 'the anti-hero with a purpose'!"

"Is that better or worse than 'the hero most likely to explode while filling out forms'?" you asked, looking up with a smile. "Because that was last month's title."

"Definitely better," Sero chuckled, his relaxed posture making your utilitarian office furniture look suddenly comfortable. "The guy's actually getting respect instead of just fear. It's about time."

Your phone buzzed again. You glanced at the screen, recognizing a major support gear manufacturer's number. "Excuse me one moment, I need to—"

"Take it!" urged Ashido, dropping into the chair across from your desk. "We'll just—" she lowered her voice to a theatrical whisper, "—eavesdrop respectfully."

You rolled your eyes but answered the call with your professional voice, discussing yet another sponsorship opportunity while the two heroes made themselves at home in your office. Despite the interruption, you smiled at their casual comfort around you.

By the time you hung up, they had apparently ordered lunch.

"Hope you like gyudon," Sero said, gesturing to a delivery app on his phone. "Mina insisted we needed a 'getting to know you' lunch, and I figured protein over rice was a safe bet."

"Gyudon is perfect," you assured him, genuinely touched by the gesture. "But you didn't have to—"

"Yes we did!" Ashido cut in, spinning in her chair. "You've been here for months, and all I know about you is that you somehow tamed Bakugo, which basically makes you a cryptid or a witch. No offense."

"Both fair assessments," you laughed, closing your laptop to give them your full attention. "Though I prefer 'office manager with questionable self-preservation instincts.'"

"Speaking of questionable choices," Sero leaned forward with an easy grin, "what made you apply here? Most people run away from Bakugo, not toward him."

"The organizational disaster I saw on the news physically hurt my soul," you admitted. "All those forms just... everywhere. The ringing phones. The absolute chaos. It was like watching someone do a puzzle wrong."

"And you thought, 'Yes, this screaming blonde man needs my help'?" Ashido's incredulous expression made you laugh.

"I thought, 'Yes, this agency needs systems before it implodes.' The screaming blonde man was just a bonus feature." The words tumbled out before you could filter them, and you felt heat rise to your cheeks. "I mean—"

"Oh my god, you're adorable," Ashido declared, yellow eyes gleaming with delight. "We're keeping you forever."

The conversation flowed easily as you learned more about your new colleagues. Ashido had spent time at Ms. Joke's agency ("So. Many. Puns. In every report. I still have nightmares"), while Sero had worked with Kamui Woods ("Lots of 'branching out' metaphors in the mission briefings. Also, never leave your lunch in the break room unless you want it covered in pollen").

By the time the food arrived, you felt like you'd known them for years instead of days. There was something about hero life, the constant threat, the adrenaline, the bizarre villain names that created instant bonds.

"So wait," you said between bites, "the villain was actually called 'Lint Trap,' and his quirk was—"

"Collecting fabric from people's clothes, yes," Sero confirmed, struggling to keep a straight face. "I spent an entire fight basically naked because my costume is fabric-based."

"The tabloids called him 'The Stripping Tape Hero' for weeks," Ashido cackled. "The fan mail doubled!"

"Please tell me there are pictures," you giggled.

"There absolutely are," came Kirishima's voice from the doorway, "and they're hilarious."

The red-haired hero stood there grinning, his sharp teeth gleaming in a wide smile. In his massive hands, he delicately held a small potted succulent.

"Mr. Red Riot," you greeted him warmly. "I thought you were on patrol until four?"

"Wrapped up early! Figured I'd head back and check how all the phones are blowing up after Bakugo's interview." His eyes fell on the plant in his hands. "Oh! This is for you. A thank you for... well, everything, really."

He crossed to your desk and carefully set down the succulent—a plump little echeveria with mint-green rosettes. Something about the incongruity of this massive, hardened hero handling the delicate plant with such care made your heart squeeze.

"It's drought-resistant," he explained earnestly. "The shop lady said it's hard to kill, which seemed important for an office plant. And it doesn't need much maintenance, which seemed, uh, thematically appropriate for you since you maintain everything else around here."

The thoughtfulness of the gesture caught you off guard. You were used to being the one who remembered birthdays and ordered lunch and made sure everyone had what they needed. Being on the receiving end of such consideration felt...nice.

"It's perfect," you told him, genuinely touched. "Thank you, Mr. Red Riot."

"Just Kirishima is fine," he insisted, pulling up another chair to join your impromptu lunch circle.

"Kirishima was just about to tell us why any of you willingly hang out with Bakugo," Ashido said, passing him a spare container of gyudon that had mysteriously appeared. "You know, for educational purposes."

You raised an eyebrow. "Educational?"

"Yeah, like a nature documentary," Sero quipped. "'Here we observe the rare Explosive Hero in his natural habitat. Approach with caution and preferably fireproof clothing.'"

"He's not that bad," you found yourself saying, then immediately questioned your own sanity. Had you developed Stockholm syndrome? Was defending Bakugo a symptom?

"He's really not," Kirishima agreed, digging into his food. "Bakugo's actually the most loyal person I know. Back in our first year, there was this villain attack, and he—"

For the next twenty minutes, you listened as the three heroes shared stories about Bakugo that painted a very different picture than his public persona. The harsh training sessions he ran to make sure his friends could defend themselves. The time he stayed up all night researching a quirk limitation that was holding Kaminari back. The way he threw himself between civilians and danger without a second thought, every time.

"He acts like everyone's a pain in his ass," Sero explained, "but he's the first one there when you need backup."

"And he never, ever gives up on people he cares about," Kirishima added. "He just... shows it differently than most people."

"Through elaborate death threats?" you suggested wryly.

"Exactly!" Ashido nodded enthusiastically. "The more creative the threat, the more he likes you. It's like his love language is innovative murder scenarios."

You thought about the time Bakugo had threatened to, and you quote, "launch you into the sun if you move his patrol schedule again." A week later, he'd silently placed a hand warmer on your desk when he noticed you shivering after using your quirk too much.

Ashido leaned forward with a mischievous gleam in her eye. "So when did you realize Bakugo was secretly a teddy bear?"

"I—what?" You nearly choked on your tea. "Mr. Dynamight is many things, but 'teddy bear' isn't on the list. 'Live grenade' maybe. 'Unexploded ordnance' definitely."

"Mmhmm," Ashido hummed, clearly unconvinced. And the hand warmer he gave you at the training camp? Just boss-employee equipment distribution?" Her grin widened as your flush deepened.

"It was efficient," you paused. Wait how do you even know about that?. "Can't file forms with frostbitten fingers."

"Sure, sure." Ashido winked dramatically. "And I bet the lunch he brought you was 'just fuel for optimal workplace productivity.'"

Before you could formulate a defense that didn't sound like terrible romantic comedy dialogue, your phone rang again. Saved by the bell—literally.

You excused yourself and took the call, which turned out to be from Hatsume Support Industries. One of the leading manufacturers of hero equipment in the country. Ten minutes of negotiation later, you had secured a deal that would provide the entire agency with cutting-edge gear at a fraction of the retail price in exchange for Dynamight's endorsement.

When you hung up, you couldn't contain your excitement.

"We just got Hatsume Support!" you announced, grinning. "Twenty percent below market rate for all standard equipment, and they're throwing in custom upgrades for the entire hero roster!"

"Holy shit, that's huge!" Sero's eyes widened. "Their stuff is top-tier."

"Bakugo's been trying to get them on board for months," Kirishima added, looking impressed.

"This is cause for celebration!" Ashido declared, jumping to her feet. "Drinks tonight! No excuses!" She pointed at you. "Especially you, Office Manager. You're coming out with us if I have to carry you there myself."

The familiar weight of responsibility pressed against your chest—reports to file, calls to return, contracts to review. But looking at their eager faces, at this little circle that had somehow formed around your desk, you felt something else too. Something that felt suspiciously like belonging.

"Okay," you agreed, surprising yourself. "Drinks after work."

Ashido cheered, Sero offered a fist bump, and Kirishima beamed with all his sharp teeth showing. Your office, usually so orderly and quiet, filled with their laughter and energy, warming the space like sunshine after rain.

As they gathered the empty food containers and made plans for the evening, you glanced at the little succulent Kirishima had brought, sturdy and resilient and thriving in harsh conditions.

Maybe you weren't so different from it after all.

* * *

The private room at Ryugin Izakaya was exactly what you would expect from a place recommended by Ashido—elegant dark wood panels contrasting with neon-bright cushions, traditional enough to impress but modern enough to encourage terrible decisions. Perfect for celebrating career milestones or, in your case, watching four professional heroes attempt to drink each other under the table.

"To Dynamight Agency's meteoric rise!" Kirishima raised his glass, sharp teeth gleaming in the ambient lighting. "And to our office manager who somehow made Bakugo appear human on national television!"

You clinked your glass against his, fighting a smile. "I simply helped highlight Mr. Dynamight's existing qualities. The rabid wolverine aesthetic was entirely his own creative choice."

Sero choked on his drink, tape-dispenser elbows knocking against the low table as he laughed. Mina slapped her thigh, yellow eyes crinkling with delight as she pointed at you.

"See! This is what I mean—you're hilarious when you're not being all professional!"

You hid your flush behind your menu. After months of maintaining a carefully calibrated professional persona, just friendly enough to be approachable, just firm enough to be respected, letting your guard down felt like walking outside without pants. Exhilarating, but definitely exposing parts of yourself usually kept covered.

"I'm always professional," you sniffed primly, before adding, "Except when dealing with forms labeled 'urgent' that have been sitting in someone's desk drawer for three weeks. Then I'm a vengeful bureaucratic deity."

The conversation flowed easily as you studied the extensive menu. Your usual dining budget ran more toward "convenience store bento" than "upscale izakaya," but tonight was special. Hatsume Support's contract alone would stabilize the agency's finances for months.

The sliding door to your private room rattled open, revealing Kaminari with his megawatt smile. "Sorry I'm late! Had to finish patrol reports, which sounds responsible but was actually me forgetting about them until Bakugo texted me death threats."

Behind him, looming like a storm cloud at a picnic, stood the man himself.

Your heart did a completely unauthorized somersault.

Bakugo wore dark jeans and a fitted black henley pushed up to his elbows, exposing corded forearms marked with the faint burn scars. His ash-blonde hair was still slightly damp, clearly having showered after patrol. He looked...good. Unfairly good.

He scanned the room with those sharp crimson eyes, his gaze landing on you for a fraction too long before he grunted something that might have been a greeting and dropped into the empty space beside Kirishima.

"Bossman! You actually came!" Mina's voice rose an octave in excitement. "I thought for sure you'd bail to go punch a training dummy or alphabetize your protein shakes or whatever you do for fun!"

"Watching you all make fools of yourselves is entertainment enough," he growled, reaching for the menu.

"Bakugo never misses free food," Kaminari stage-whispered, sliding in beside you with a wink that caused a microscopic eye twitch from your boss across the table.

The waitress appeared, her professional calm slipping just slightly when she recognized the pro heroes at the table. After taking drink orders, beer for Kaminari, sake for everyone else, she started on food.

"I'll have the yakitori platter," Mina said, bouncing slightly in her seat.

"Saba shioyaki for me," Sero added, while Kirishima ordered enough gyudon to feed a small army.

Kaminari went for ramen with extra egg. Then the waitress turned to Bakugo, who hadn't looked up from the menu.

"You got anything actually spicy here?" he asked bluntly. "Not the weak shit you serve tourists."

The waitress didn't miss a beat. "We have our Demon's Breath Ramen. It comes with a waiver."

A predatory smile spread across Bakugo's face. "Perfect."

Five heads swiveled toward you, clearly expecting you to order something sensible. Something befitting an office manager. Maybe a nice mild soup or—

"I'll have the Demon's Breath as well," you said, closing your menu. "Extra chili oil on the side, please."

The silence that followed was almost comical. Kaminari's jaw literally dropped. Mina's eyes went so wide you were concerned for her ocular health. Even Bakugo looked up, one eyebrow raised in what might have been surprise.

"Uh, Office Manager?" Kirishima leaned forward, voice lowered as if breaking terrible news. "That dish is basically a war crime in a bowl. People cry. Like, actual tears."

You shrugged, a small smile playing at your lips. "I like spicy food."

"'Like' is a mild word for committing to something that requires signing away your right to sue," Sero muttered.

As promised, the waitress returned with two liability waivers. You signed yours with the same practiced efficiency you applied to agency paperwork, ignoring Kaminari's dramatic reading of the "digestive distress" clause.

The sake arrived, and you found yourself relaxing into the warm atmosphere. These people had somehow evolved from "screaming heroes who generated paperwork" into something dangerously close to friends. It was strange how easily they'd slipped past your professional boundaries, setting up camp in the territory reserved for people who knew the real you, the one who collected tacky souvenir magnets and talked to her cat in different voices and absolutely destroyed spicy food challenges.

By the time your ramen arrived, a menacing red bowl topped with what looked like Satan's confetti—you were pleasantly warm from the sake and the company. The waitress placed it before you with the reverence typically reserved for unstable explosives.

"We have milk on standby," she informed you solemnly.

Across the table, Bakugo had already grabbed his chopsticks, giving his identical bowl an appreciative once-over. The steam rising between you smelled like delicious regret. Rich pork broth layered with what had to be at least seven different varieties of chili.

"Didn't take you for the spicy type," he remarked, those red eyes assessing you with new interest.

You smiled sweetly. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Mr. Dynamight."

Without breaking eye contact, you took your first bite.

The heat hit like a freight train, immediate, intense, and all-consuming. But beneath the fire was complex flavor: deep umami, bright aromatics, the numbing buzz of Sichuan peppercorns. It was glorious.

Bakugo watched you for any sign of distress, clearly expecting you to reach for water. When you simply took another bite, respect flickered across his face. He dug into his own bowl with newfound enthusiasm.

"Oh my god, they're actually enjoying it," Kaminari whispered in horror. "Is this some kind of quirk thing? Are you secretly part dragon?"

"Just built different," you replied cheerfully, reaching for the extra chili oil. 

Kirishima, brave soul that he was, requested a taste. One noodle later, his hardened skin actually turned the color of his hair.

"WATER!" he gasped, grabbing his glass with the desperation of a man lost in the desert.

"Amateur," Bakugo muttered, but there was no real bite to it.

Across the table, your eyes met his over your steaming bowls. A silent understanding passed between you. The recognition of finding someone who could match your tolerance for things others found too intense. His lips quirked up in what was almost a smile, and you felt a ridiculous flutter in your chest that had nothing to do with capsaicin.

"You two are actually perfect for each other," Mina observed, looking between you with growing delight. "Both completely insane in complementary ways!"

You choked on your noodles, and not from the spice. "I think the technical term is 'having compatible palates,' Mina."

"Mhmm. 'Palates.' That's definitely what I meant." Her grin was positively feline.

More sake arrived as you finished your ramen, the burning in your mouth pleasantly dulled by the alcohol, warming your body. You laughed more freely, the careful filter between your thoughts and your words growing thinner with each cup. Without realizing it, you'd shifted closer to Bakugo during Kaminari's animated retelling of his latest patrol mishap.

"—and then the grandmother just DECKS the guy! Full-on grandma justice!" Kaminari slapped the table, nearly upending his beer.

"I once saw a civilian take down a purse-snatcher with an umbrella," you offered, giggling at the memory. "Opened it right in his face mid-run. Most elegant takedown I've ever witnessed."

"Civilians can be fucking terrifying," Bakugo agreed, his knee briefly brushing yours under the table. The contact sent a spark through you that rivaled his quirk.

You turned to face him, only to find him much closer than expected. When had that happened? His sharp features were softened by the warm lighting, his perpetual scowl relaxed into something almost approachable. The sake had left a faint flush across his cheekbones, making him look younger, more like the university student he would have been in another life.

"You're staring," he said, voice pitched low enough that only you could hear.

"You have eyelashes," you replied nonsensically, then immediately wanted to drown yourself in what remained of your ramen. Why was your brain-to-mouth filter suddenly nonexistent?

His brow furrowed. "Everyone has eyelashes."

"Yours are nice," you mumbled, knowing your face must be absolutely scarlet by now. "Like... unnecessarily nice for someone who sets things on fire for a living."

Across the table, the conversation had stopped. Four pairs of eyes were fixed on you with varying degrees of shock and amusement. Oh god, had you said that out loud? To your boss?

Bakugo's eyes narrowed, taking in your flushed face. "You're a fucking lightweight."

You smiled weakly, relief washing over you that he'd attributed your bizarre compliment to alcohol rather than your increasingly difficult-to-ignore attraction. "Guilty as charged. I'm usually a one-drink maximum kind of girl."

"And yet you're on cup four," he observed.

"Special occasion," you replied, raising your cup in a mock toast. "Not every day we land Hatsume Support. Or that I get to watch Kirishima turn the same color as his hair."

"I still can't feel my tongue," Kirishima confirmed cheerfully.

Mina refilled everyone's cups, launching into a story about a disastrous dinner date with another pro hero that had ended with half a restaurant evacuated due to her acid accidentally melting through plumbing. You laughed along, but the room had started to feel uncomfortably warm, your blouse suddenly too confining.

"Bathroom," you announced, rising perhaps too quickly. The room tilted pleasantly, and you steadied yourself on the table.

"Need a spotter?" Mina offered, already half-standing.

"I'm tipsy, not incapacitated," you assured her, summoning your most professional smile. "Back in a minute."

The hallway outside your private room was blissfully cool. You made your way to the bathroom, grateful for the moment of solitude. Inside, you splashed water on your flushed face, careful not to ruin your makeup. Your reflection showed bright eyes and pink cheeks, your usual composed appearance slightly disheveled in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

"Get it together," you told your reflection sternly. "He's your boss. Your very attractive, temperamental, runs-hot-in-every-sense boss who you should absolutely not be thinking about in any context involving the word 'eyelashes.'"

Your reflection offered no helpful advice.

With a sigh, you undid the top two buttons of your blouse, seeking relief from the heat that seemed to radiate from your core. Without your usual cardigan, abandoned in the office in your haste to make the dinner reservation, you felt oddly exposed, but the cool air against your collarbone was worth it.

You released your hair from its neat bun, letting it fall around your shoulders. The immediate relief as tension eased from your scalp made you sigh with pleasure. Much better.

Exiting the bathroom, you paused to orient yourself in the dimly lit hallway. The restaurant had filled since your arrival, the main dining area now bustling with patrons. Through a partially open sliding door, you glimpsed another private room, this one occupied by what appeared to be a group of heroes you vaguely recognized from media coverage.

"—can't believe they let Dynamight keep his license after that stunt with the crying kids," a male voice carried through the gap.

You froze, hand instinctively tightening on your purse strap.

"Guy's a PR nightmare wrapped in anger issues," a second voice agreed. "Did you see him at the Commission meeting? Nearly took Todoroki's head off for offering help."

"My agency would never—"

The conversation continued, but your hearing tunneled as something hot and fierce uncoiled in your chest. These B-list heroes, because that's what they were, you realized, recognizing them now as Jawbreaker and Windvane from an agency that routinely ranked below yours had the audacity to criticize Bakugo? The man who worked eighteen-hour days, who fielded midnight emergency calls, who had personally saved 347 civilians last year alone?

Before you could reconsider, you slid the door fully open, startling the room's occupants into silence.

"Excuse me," you said, your voice sweet but your smile sharp enough to cut glass. "I couldn't help but overhear your fascinating analysis of Dynamight's career."

The two heroes exchanged glances, clearly trying to place you.

"And you are...?" one asked, his jawline unnaturally pronounced—Jawbreaker, whose quirk allowed him to crush steel between his molars but evidently couldn't help him recognize the management of a rival agency.

"Someone who actually does her research," you replied, stepping into the room with the confidence of a woman who regularly faced down Bakugo's worst moods. "Unlike Windvane here, whose agency dropped eleven spots in public confidence after that high-rise evacuation he bungled last spring."

Windvane sputtered, his carefully styled hair ruffling with an unconscious activation of his weather manipulation quirk. "That was a challenging situation—"

"Every hero faces challenges," you cut in, your words slightly slurred but your facts razor-sharp. "The difference is how they respond. When Dynamight faced a similar scenario at the Tenjin Complex fire, he saved all forty-three residents without a single injury."

"Listen, lady—"

"No, you listen." You stepped closer, sake-fueled indignation propelling you forward. "While you're sitting here running your mouths about a hero who outranks you both combined, Dynamight is out there actually saving people." You paused. "He's twice the hero either of you will ever be."

The silence that followed was absolute. Jawbreaker's mouth opened and closed like a particularly confused fish. Windvane looked like he wished his quirk could generate a hole to disappear into.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot," Jawbreaker finally said, clearly attempting damage control. "We were just—"

"Leaving," came a low, dangerous voice from behind you.

You whirled around to find Bakugo standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, expression thunderous. Your stomach dropped to somewhere around your knees. How long had he been there?

Windvane and Jawbreaker practically tripped over each other in their haste to bow and apologize, excuses tumbling from their lips. Bakugo ignored them completely, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"We're going," he said, the words quiet but unmistakably a command. His hand closed around your elbow, steadying you as you swayed slightly.

Only when you were back in the hallway, the door firmly shut behind you, did you realize what had happened. Bakugo had witnessed your impassioned, slightly drunk defense of his honor. You, the consummate professional, had just caused a scene worthy of a reality TV show.

Oh god. You were going to be fired. Or possibly spontaneously combust from embarrassment. Neither seemed like a bad option at the moment.

"I'm so sorry," you began, the words tumbling out. "That was incredibly unprofessional of me. I don't know what I was thinking, and I completely understand if you want to—"

"I didn't need you to fight my fucking battles," he interrupted, but his voice lacked the anger you expected. Instead, he sounded almost...confused.

You looked up at him, courage borrowed from the sake still warming your veins. "Too bad. I wanted to."

His brows shot up. His hand was still on your elbow, his touch burning through the thin fabric of your blouse.

"You're wasted," he said, but there was no judgment in it.

"A little," you admitted, strangely unemboldened by his calm reaction. "I'm really sorry about causing a scene. That's not very professional of me."

"You think I give a shit about 'professional' right now?" He guided you toward a quieter alcove, away from the main hallway traffic. "Those extras were talking out of their asses. They're lucky you got to them before I did."

The dim lighting cast half his face in shadow, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity of his gaze. Standing this close, you could smell the familiar scent of him—burnt sugar and expensive soap. Bakugo.

Without thinking, you reached up, your fingertip lightly touching his lower lip. It was soft, surprisingly so for someone whose default expression was a scowl.

"Your lips are all red from the ramen," you murmured.

He went absolutely still, his eyes darkening as pupils dilated. For one endless moment, he stared at your mouth with an intensity that made heat pool low in your belly, his breathing shallow and controlled.

"You're always so hot," you mumbled, then froze as you realized what you'd said. "I mean— temperature-wise! Because of your quirk. Obviously. That's what I meant." The backpedaling was so rapid you were surprised you didn't create a breeze. "I'm sorry, Mr. Dynamight, sir."

A throat cleared loudly, breaking the charged silence. Mina stood a few feet away, her yellow eyes wide with gleeful interest.

"Am I interrupting something?" she asked, not sounding sorry in the slightest.

You jumped back like you'd been electrocuted, putting a respectable distance between yourself and Bakugo. He didn't move, his expression unreadable as he continued to watch you.

"Absolutely not!" Your voice came out approximately two octaves higher than normal. "We were just discussing... agency... things."

"With your finger on his lip?" Mina's grin widened to Cheshire cat proportions.

"Ramen... residue," you managed weakly.

"Riiiight." She bounced on her toes. "Well, we're planning to make some custom ice cream drinks, but we need supplies from the convenience store down the block."

"I'll get them!" You seized the escape opportunity with the desperation of a drowning woman spotting a lifeboat. "Fresh air would be good. Very good. What do you need?"

Before she could answer, you were already edging toward the exit. "I'll just get... everything. Ice cream. Toppings. The works."

You needed to get away before you did something even more catastrophically stupid, like tell Bakugo how his eyes reminded you of sunset or how his hands had been featuring prominently in your more inappropriate dreams lately.

"I'll text you the list," Mina called after you, amusement clear in her voice.

"Great!" You were practically speed-walking now. "Be right back!"

You didn't look back to see Bakugo's expression, too focused on escape. The cool night air hit your flushed face as you burst out of the restaurant, a welcome shock to your system.

What had you been thinking? Touching his face? Making comments about heat that could be interpreted multiple ways? This was exactly why you maintained strict boundaries and limited herself to one drink maximum.

Your phone buzzed with Mina's grocery list, but you barely registered it, still reeling from what had just happened. One thing was certain—the professional distance you'd carefully cultivated for months had just gone up in flames as explosive as Bakugo's quirk.

And deep down, part of you wasn't sorry at all.

You power-walked down the street, the cool night air doing nothing to diminish the nuclear meltdown occurring in your face. Your body was engaged in an Olympic-level sprint away from what was possibly the most mortifying professional boundary violation of your career.

You'd touched his lip. His actual lip. With your actual finger. 

And then you'd called him hot.

"A swift death by spontaneous combustion would be preferable to returning to that restaurant," you informed a confused cat that was perched on a nearby wall. The cat, unmoved by your existential crisis, began grooming its tail.

Your phone buzzed with Mina's grocery list. Ice cream (vanilla AND chocolate), chocolate sauce, whipped cream, sprinkles, and—bizarrely—pickled ginger. The last item featured three question marks, which seemed like an appropriate punctuation for tonight's chaos.

The 7-Eleven's fluorescent lighting offered an unflattering but mercifully sobering environment. You grabbed a basket and had just reached for a carton of vanilla ice cream when a voice behind you sent your heart into gymnastics.

"You forgot your purse."

You whirled around, nearly fumbling the ice cream. Bakugo stood there, your purse dangling from one finger, his expression unreadable.

"Oh! Thanks. I was... distracted." You accepted the purse, careful not to let your fingers brush his. "About what happened back there—"

"Don't."

"—I'm really sorry and completely understand if you want to fire me for inappropriate workplace conduct—"

"I said don't." He scratched the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at you. "It's fine."

That was... unexpectedly anticlimactic. Where was the explosion? The yelling? The righteous termination of your employment?

"Oh. Okay then." You clutched your purse. "I'll just get these items and head back."

He didn't leave. Instead, he grabbed a basket of his own and followed you down the aisle.

"Are you... helping me shop?" You couldn't keep the bewilderment from your voice.

"Racoon Eyes wants enough sugar to put everyone in a diabetic coma. You need another set of hands."

That was... surprisingly thoughtful? 

You moved through the store in awkward silence, placing items into your baskets. You grabbed the chocolate sauce; he found the sprinkles. You selected vanilla ice cream; he opted for chocolate. Like an oddly domestic dance where neither of you knew the steps.

"So," you ventured, desperate to break the silence as you scrutinized two brands of whipped cream, "do you always rescue drunk employees from convenience stores, or am I special?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "You're not drunk. Tipsy at worst."

"My lack of filter suggests otherwise." You selected the premium whipped cream—why not, you were celebrating. "I don't normally comment on my boss's eyelashes."

"Or temperature."

"Oh god." You buried your face in your hands. "Can we establish a new workplace policy where sake is banned from all agency functions?"

"Nope." Was that amusement in his voice? "It's too fucking entertaining."

You peeked at him through your fingers. "Glad my mortification provides quality entertainment."

He was definitely smirking now. "Your mortification isn't the entertaining part."

"What is?"

"You."

Your heart did a little flip. The fluorescent lights seemed to soften around him, highlighting the sharp planes of his face, the intense red of his eyes. You suddenly realized you were staring again and busied yourself with examining the pickled ginger options.

"Why the hell does Raccoon Eyes want pickled ginger with ice cream?" he asked, peering over your shoulder.

"I stopped questioning Mina's food preferences after she put hot sauce on her parfait last week." You plucked a jar from the shelf. "So, outside of eating food that would hospitalize normal humans, what do you do for fun, Mr. Dynamight?"

He gave you a side-eye. "Drop the 'Mr. Dynamight' bullshit when we're off the clock."

"I'm technically always on the clock. Your email notifications chime at 3 a.m."

"That's because I'm awake at 3 a.m. Doesn't mean you have to be."

You blinked in surprise. Was that his way of saying you should set boundaries? From the man who texted "WHERE'S THE Q4 BUDGET REPORT" at midnight on a Sunday?

"I hike," he said abruptly, answering your earlier question as you moved toward the checkout. "When I'm not working. Mountains, mostly."

This felt like a precious gem of personal information, something you hadn't excavated from personnel files or overheard in office chatter. Something he'd chosen to share.

"Solo hiking? That tracks," you nodded, paying for your items. "Minimum people, maximum screaming into the void opportunity."

He snorted, a sound that might have been a laugh in another man. "The void doesn't file complaints."

You stepped out into the night air, shopping bags in hand. "I like hiking too, actually. Though I tend toward forest trails. I go for the quiet."

"Bullshit. You're never quiet. You hum while you work."

Your mouth fell open. "You noticed that?"

"Hard not to when you've been humming the same three bars of that pop song for a week."

"'Dynamite Heart'? It's catchy! Wait—" You narrowed your eyes. "Are you secretly a pop music fan?"

"I'm a fan of not having shitty songs stuck in my head because my office manager can't remember a full chorus."

"I know the full chorus," you protested, then impulsively began singing the hook under your breath as you walked.

You expected him to growl or stomp away. Instead, he finished the line—gruffly, barely audible, but unmistakably correct.

You stopped dead in your tracks. "You DO know it!"

"I know everything that's been in the top forty for the past month. Hard not to when Dunce Face blasts it during training."

"So what do you actually listen to?"

"Classical."

Now it was your turn to say "Bullshit."

He raised an eyebrow. "Problem?"

"No, it's just... unexpected. Dynamight the ballet enthusiast?"

"Not ballet. Orchestral." He looked almost defensive. "Prokofiev. Holst. The aggressive stuff."

You bit back a smile. "Of course. Heaven forbid you enjoy something without explosions."

"Says the woman who just dumped extra chili oil on food that came with a liability waiver."

"Touché." You laughed. "I like classical too, actually. Not just the aggressive stuff."

His eyes found yours, something like surprise flickering in them. "Yeah?"

"My grandmother was a concert pianist. She'd practice while I did homework. Debussy, mostly."

You walked in surprisingly comfortable silence for half a block, the sounds of the city a gentle backdrop to your thoughts. This was... nice. Bakugo outside the office was still Bakugo—gruff, direct, intense—but without the pressure of deadlines and hero emergencies, there was room for something else. Something that felt dangerously like connection.

"What else?" you asked.

"What else what?"

"What else do you do when you're not saving the world or terrorizing administrative staff?"

He considered this for longer than you expected. "I cook."

You nearly dropped your shopping bag. "You cook? Like, actual food? Not just protein shakes blended with determination and rage?"

"Is that so fucking hard to believe?" 

"Little bit, yeah." You grinned. "I assumed you survived on a diet of villain tears and paperwork."

"I make a shoyu ramen that would put that Demon's Breath shit to shame."

"Bold claim. I'll need empirical evidence."

The words left your mouth before you realized their implication. Were you just... asking Bakugo to cook for you?

Rather than frost over, his expression turned calculating. "Maybe you will."

You bit your lip. The izakaya was coming back into view, golden light spilling onto the sidewalk.

"What about you?" he asked. "When you're not rescuing heroes from paperwork nightmares."

"Oh, you know, the usual. I knit. I collect weird refrigerator magnets. I conduct underground fight clubs where office managers battle to the death over who can file the most expense reports in an hour."

His lip quirked. "One of these things is not like the others."

"The magnets. They're really weird. I have one shaped like a pickle that yodels."

That earned you an actual laugh—short and rusty, like he wasn't used to the sound coming from his own throat. The effect was intoxicating, better than sake, better than spicy food. You wanted to hear it again.

"I do knit, though. Helps with the perpetual cold hands." You flexed your fingers. "Hard to file forms when your fingers feel like icicles."

"Your hands are always cold," he agreed. 

"Quirk side effect. I generate calm but sacrifice body heat. The universe's way of saying 'no free lunch.'"

You'd reached the restaurant steps. In your attempt to juggle the shopping bags while climbing the first step, your foot caught on the edge. The world tilted, bags tumbling from your grasp, gravity claiming another victory against human coordination.

Strong hands caught you, one at your waist, the other gripping your upper arm. You found yourself pressed against a solid wall of warmth, Bakugo's chest firm beneath your palms where you'd instinctively braced yourself. The sudden proximity knocked the air from your lungs.

You were close enough to see the individual flecks of darker crimson in his irises, to count each of those unfairly long eyelashes, to feel the heat radiating from his skin through his shirt. His hand at your waist tightened fractionally, fingertips pressing into the curve of your hip.

Time stretched like taffy. In that endless moment, your gaze dropped to his mouth. The same mouth you'd touched earlier, the same mouth that was now barely inches from yours. You could just tilt your chin up, close that infinitesimal gap...

Reality crashed back with brutal efficiency. This was your boss. Your very off-limits, workplace-harassment-lawsuit-waiting-to-happen boss, who also happened to be a top-ranking pro hero with media scrutiny and public expectations.

You jerked back, almost tripping again in your haste to put distance between you. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Dynamight! Thank you for catching me. Very clumsy. Too much sake. Should have stuck to water. Haha!"

Your voice had risen to a pitch that probably attracted bats. Smooth.

He hadn't released your arm, his expression unreadable as his eyes searched yours. For one wild moment, you thought he might pull you back.

"Your ice cream is melting," he said finally, voice rough.

"Right! Ice cream! For the others!" You bent to gather the scattered bags, horrifically aware of how your hair fell forward to hide your burning face. "Kirishima will be wondering where we are. I mean, where the ice cream is. That we went to get. Together. For reasons."

Stop. Talking.

His hand finally dropped from your arm, and you stupidly missed its heat immediately. You clutched the shopping bags like life preservers and practically sprinted up the remaining steps.

"There you are!" Kirishima's cheerful voice boomed as you rounded the corner into the private room. "We were about to send a search party!"

"Ice cream acquired!" you announced with forced brightness, holding up the bags like trophies. "Sorry for the delay! There was a... line."

Your eyes found Bakugo, who had followed at a more measured pace. Something passed between you—acknowledgment of the moment, perhaps, or mutual agreement to pretend it hadn't happened.

"Awesome!" Kirishima reached for the bags. "Let me help with that."

As you handed them over, you realized your hands were shaking slightly. Whether from the lingering effect of Bakugo's touch or the adrenaline of your near-kiss, you couldn't say.

"You okay?" Kirishima asked quietly, his sharktooth smile softening with concern. "You look a little flushed."

"Fine! Just the sake. And the walk. And the... everything." You busied yourself arranging ice cream containers on the table, aware of Bakugo taking his seat across from you, of his eyes tracking your movements.

"Did you remember the pickled ginger?" Mina bounced toward you, yellow eyes bright with anticipation.

You produced the jar with a flourish. "As requested, though I maintain this is a crime against dessert."

"It's for a dare! Kaminari thinks he can't handle it, but I've seen him eat worse."

"I have STANDARDS!" Kaminari protested.

As the group dissolved into good-natured bickering about food combinations and dares, you risked a glance at Bakugo. He was watching you with that same unreadable expression, his posture more relaxed than usual, one arm draped casually over the back of his chair.

When your eyes met, he didn't look away. Instead, he raised his sake cup in the smallest of salutes, a gesture so subtle the others missed it entirely.

Classical music. Hiking. Cooking. Spicy food. All these facets of Bakugo you'd never known, never even imagined. The realization settled in your chest like a warm coal: you wanted to discover more. All of them.

And that was the most dangerous thought of all.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

"DYNAMIGHT, PLEASE! Just one autograph!" 

The third wave of UA students swarmed like villain extras in a badly choreographed fight scene. Bakugo's jaw clenched as his palm itched with the familiar prickle of sweat building—not enough to blast, just enough to warn his system was on edge.

"Fine. One each. Then move." He snatched the notebooks thrust in his face, scrawling his hero signature with aggressive efficiency. "Next time, don't ambush pro heroes in hallways."

The tallest kid—lanky with multi-jointed arms that reminded him vaguely of Sero had the fucking audacity to grin. "But you're not just any pro hero! You're Dynamight! Number six and climbing!"

Bakugo's hearing aid picked up a high-pitched squeal from another student. He reflexively dialed it down two notches, dulling the cacophony to a bearable drone.

"Four," he corrected, because facts mattered. "Now move. Official business."

The students parted, still buzzing with excitement. Fucking hero worship. He remembered being on the other side of it—staring up at All Might posters, analyzing every move, every victory. Now he was the poster. The standard. People actually believed the curated bullshit PR machine that his office manager had engineered.

His office manager. The thought of her sent an unwelcome surge of heat through his chest. Three days since the izakaya, and he still couldn't shake the sensation of her fingertip against his lip. Cold. Her eyes slightly unfocused from the sake, but still sharper than most pros at their best.

You're always so hot.

He shoved the memory down, where it belonged. Far away from UA. Far away from his quarterly check-in with All Might. This was professional territory, the foundation of his hero career. He wouldn't contaminate it with... whatever the hell that was.

Rounding the corner to the faculty wing, he spotted the oak door to All Might's office. And exiting it—because the universe enjoyed fucking with him—was Deku.

"Kacchan!"

Green hair, freckles, and that same earnest smile that still made Bakugo want to punch something. Midoriya Izukiya, the number two hero "Deku" stood with a stack of files tucked under one arm, looking as irritatingly pleased to see him as always.

"Deku," he acknowledged, not breaking stride. "Move."

"I didn't know you were coming today!" Deku fell into step beside him, apparently immune to basic social cues after all these years. "All Might didn't mention it. How's the agency? I've been following your team's work with the Quirk Freedom Force investigation really  impressive response time on the warehouse raid."

Bakugo grunted. The praise from Deku still scraped against his insides, even after years of working alongside each other as pros. Old habits. Old wounds.

"Agency's fine. Expanding."

"I heard you brought on Pinky and Cellophane! Smart move—their quirks complement your combat style."

Bakugo stopped outside All Might's door. "Did you need something, or are you just practicing your fanboy routine?"

Rather than looking offended, Deku's eyes lit up with that analytical gleam Bakugo recognized from their school days. The look that meant he'd noticed something, cataloged it, and was preparing to dissect it with the precision of a scientist.

"Actually, I was hoping to ask about your office manager."

Jealousy hot and sharp twisted in Bakugo's gut.

"What about her?" His voice dropped, taking on an edge that had sent villains running.

Deku, predictably, didn't flinch. "Her work on your PR rehabilitation has been remarkable. The training camp strategy in particular—pure genius. Taking a potential liability like your bluntness and turning it into an asset." He shifted his weight, excited now. "I've been analyzing her methods for my own agency's communication protocols. The way she positions your public statements... she must have an incredible understanding of hero psychology."

The twisted feeling intensified, crawling up Bakugo's spine. His palm sparked—a small pop that made Deku's gaze flick down, then back up with too much understanding in his eyes.

"I was hoping you might introduce us," Deku continued, oblivious to his imminent death. "Maybe I could stop by your agency, or take her to lunch to pick her brain about—"

"No." The word cut through the air like a blade.

Deku blinked. "No?"

"She's too busy." Bakugo could hear the possessiveness in his own voice, like a warning growl. "Agency's expanding. Security protocols need upgrading. New recruits need processing. She doesn't have time for social calls."

"It wouldn't be social, it would be professional—"

"I said no." His palms crackled again, the smell of burnt sugar seeping into the hallway. "Find your own damn office manager."

Deku’s brows shot up, the. The nerd fuxking smiled. That made Bakugo want to detonate his entire supply of nitroglycerin at once.

"I see," Deku said carefully, his tone setting off every alarm in Bakugo's head. "Well, if her schedule opens up, maybe reconsider? Her insights could be valuable for—"

"All Might's waiting," Bakugo cut him off, shoving past into the office without another word.

He slammed the door harder than necessary, the force of it briefly drowning out the low-grade ringing that had taken up permanent residence in his right ear. Fucking Deku. Always wanting what wasn't his. Always watching. Always analyzing.

"Young Bakugo!" All Might's voice boomed from behind his desk. Even diminished to his true form—gaunt, shadowed, but somehow still larger than life the former Symbol of Peace commanded attention. "Right on schedule! Though I see you've been delayed by our enthusiastic students."

Bakugo dropped into the chair across from him, willing the residual heat in his palms to subside. "They're worse than paparazzi."

All Might laughed, the sound dissolving into a familiar cough that he waved off. "The burden of success, I'm afraid. Your agency's prominence has made you quite the celebrity on campus." He shuffled some papers, yellow legal pads covered with his distinctive handwriting. "I've been following your work closely. The recent surge in your public approval ratings is particularly impressive."

"Yeah, well." Bakugo crossed his arms. "Can't save people if they don't trust you to do it."

"A lesson that took some of us much longer to learn," All Might observed with that knowing look that still made Bakugo feel like a first-year student. "Your growth continues to impress me, young Bakugo. The mature way you've handled public relations, your strategic expansion of the agency, the professional team you've assembled..."

Bakugo grunted, uncomfortable with the praise but hungry for it nonetheless. Coming from All Might, approval still meant something.

"Most of the PR stuff is her," he found himself saying. "The office manager. She handles the media strategy."

All Might's sunken eyes sparked with interest. "Ah yes, I've heard about this mystery woman who's brought order to Dynamight Agency. Best Jeanist mentioned her when we last spoke—said she was quite remarkable."

Bakugo's fingers tightened against his bicep. Best Jeanist too? How many heroes were discussing his office manager behind his back?

"She's efficient," he said tersely.

"More than efficient, from what I gather. The training camp initiative was brilliantly executed. Turning a potential PR crisis into an opportunity—that takes both intelligence and an intimate understanding of hero psychology."

The word "intimate" scraped against Bakugo's nerves like sandpaper. He shifted in his seat.

"She gets it," he said. "The job. What it takes. What it costs." He hadn't meant to say that last part, but the words escaped anyway.

All Might leaned forward slightly, resting his bony elbows on the desk. "The rare civilian who truly understands the hero profession is indeed valuable. I remember Nighteye was that way—analytical, three steps ahead, always anticipating what I needed before I knew it myself."

Bakugo nodded, the comparison surprisingly apt. She did that too, appeared at his side with exactly what he required before he'd even formulated the demand. Coffee at the exact moment his concentration started to flag. Reports prioritized in the precise order he would have chosen. Silence when he needed space. Presence when the walls started closing in.

"She's got this quirk," he found himself saying. "Stress reduction field. Low-level, but effective. Makes the whole agency run smoother."

"Fascinating! A support-oriented quirk that enhances the functioning of those around her. No wonder your agency's efficiency has improved."

"Makes her cold though," Bakugo continued, the words tumbling out now. "The quirk. Endothermic. She's always freezing."

All Might's eyebrow raised slightly. "You've noticed her discomfort?"

The question made Bakugo's defenses rise. "Hard not to when she's wearing three layers in summer."

A careful pause followed, the kind that made Bakugo's instincts prickle with warning.

"And what is the nature of your relationship with this remarkable young woman?" All Might asked, his tone deliberately casual.

Bakugo's jaw tightened. "Professional."

"Of course," All Might said, nodding. "Though I've noticed you speak of her with particular... attention to detail."

The implication hung in the air. Bakugo felt heat crawling up his neck, and he hated it. Hated being so fucking transparent.

"She works for me," he bit out. "That's it."

All Might regarded him for a long moment, then sighed. "It may not be my place to say this, young Bakugo, but I've watched you grow from an ambitious student into a formidable hero. I would be remiss if I didn't share some... perspective."

Here it came. The lecture. The disappointment. Bakugo braced himself.

"Did I ever tell you about Flashpoint?"

The unexpected question caught Bakugo off-guard. "The speed hero? From the Golden Age?"

All Might nodded. "Before my time, but a legendary hero in his day. Fastest quirk on record—could circle a building twenty times before you blinked. Saved countless lives. Stopped disasters before they happened."

"What about him?"

"He fell in love with his support team manager." All Might's voice grew quiet. "A brilliant woman who designed his equipment, managed his schedule, understood him like no one else could. They kept it secret at first professional boundaries and all that—but eventually, they couldn't deny their connection."

Bakugo shifted uncomfortably, not liking where this was heading.

"They were happy, by all accounts. A formidable partnership. Until the Shirai Tower incident."

All Might's gaze drifted to the window, to the UA campus spread out below. "A villain attack. High-rise office building. Flashpoint responded immediately hundreds of civilians trapped inside. But his manager was among them, visiting a client on the forty-second floor."

Bakugo's stomach twisted.

"His focus split the moment he realized she was in danger. Instead of systematically evacuating from the ground up, as protocol dictated, he rushed to the forty-second floor first. The delay cost seventeen people their lives when the east wing collapsed."

The silence that followed pressed against Bakugo's ears like water.

"The woman he loved survived," All Might continued softly. "But Flashpoint never forgave himself. He retired from hero work a month later. The guilt destroyed him."

All Might's sunken eyes found Bakugo's. "A hero with divided focus puts everyone at risk, young Bakugo. Our duty demands we make impossible choices. Having someone we cannot bear to lose among those choices..." He shook his head. "It compromises everything."

Bakugo's throat felt tight. The ringing in his ears intensified as memories flashed through his mind—his hand reaching to tuck hair behind her ear at Best Jeanist's office, the fierce protectiveness he'd felt when those second-rate heroes insulted him at the izakaya, the heat that had surged through him when she'd traced his lip with her fingertip.

"Like I said," he forced out. "Professional."

All Might nodded, but his expression remained grave. "I believe you. And I trust your judgment. You've become an exceptional hero, young Bakugo—someone who understands duty and sacrifice."

The praise felt hollow now, shadowed by the unspoken warning.

They moved on to other topics. The Quirk Freedom Force investigation, UA's new security protocols, his agency's expansion plans. Bakugo responded mechanically, his mind still caught on the image of Flashpoint racing to the forty-second floor while people burned below.

By the time he left All Might's office an hour later, his resolve had crystallized into something hard and sharp. Professional boundaries existed for a reason. The flash of attraction, the unwelcome fascination. He would bury it. His agency needed an office manager, not a distraction. The world needed Dynamight focused, not compromised.

He stalked through UA's corridors, barely registering the wide-eyed stares of students. The memory of her at the izakaya kept surfacing despite his efforts to suppress it—her hair down around her shoulders, her laughter uninhibited by professional restraint, the fierce loyalty in her voice as she defended him to those second-rate heroes. It had been a glimpse behind the curtain, a flash of the woman beneath the office manager façade.

The real her.

He wanted to see it again. Needed to. And therein lay the problem.

As he pushed through UA's main doors into the afternoon sun, he made a decision. A compromise with himself. He would maintain the professional boundaries keep the necessary distance All Might had warned him about. But he would also find ways to glimpse that other side of her again. Not for any inappropriate reason. Just to... understand her better. As her boss. As the leader of the agency she helped run.

The weight of his hero license pressed against him through his pocket—the responsibility he'd fought for, bled for. He'd sacrificed too much to risk it now on something as reckless as attraction. As want.

Flashpoint racing to the forty-second floor.

No. Bakugo Katsuki was better than that. Stronger. The office manager was an asset to his agency, nothing more. He would maintain the professional distance while studying her like any other tactical advantage.

He could see that other side of her without crossing lines. Without compromising his duty.

It was a challenge. And Bakugo had never backed down from a challenge in his life.

The familiar heat of competition kindled in his chest as he headed toward the train station. He'd find a way to draw out that honest, unguarded version of her while keeping the professional walls intact. A strategic mission. Nothing more.

And if his pulse quickened at the thought of her unrestrained smile, her cold fingers against his skin—well. That was his problem to control.

Not hers.

* * *

"The Commission meeting is in forty-five minutes," Kirishima announced, poking his head through Bakugo's office door. "Car's scheduled for twenty minutes from now."

Bakugo glared at the small silver battery rolling across his desk, evading his fingertips like a living thing. "I know the fucking schedule."

His right ear buzzed with feedback, the hearing aid emitting a high-pitched whine that scraped against his nerves. The left one was dead silent battery completely drained leaving him with lopsided audio input that made his balance feel off. Perfect timing. Critical security briefing in less than an hour, and his equipment decided to malfunction.

"You need—" Kirishima started.

"I need you to go prep the others," Bakugo snapped, cutting him off. The tiny battery slipped from his fingers again, his palms too slick with nitroglycerin sweat for the precise manipulation required. "Make sure Dunce Face remembers to bring his tablet. And tell Raccoon Eyes this isn't a fashion show."

Kirishima hesitated, clearly wanting to help, but smart enough to recognize Bakugo's tone. "Got it, boss."

The door closed, leaving Bakugo alone with his frustration. He flexed his fingers, trying to dry them against his pants. The hearing aids were cutting-edge tech specially designed for heroes with sound-based quirk damage but the battery compartments were ridiculously small. Designed by sadists with needle-thin fingers, probably.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his struggle.

"What?" he barked.

She entered without waiting for actual permission. A habit she'd developed over the past weeks that should have infuriated him but somehow didn't. The office manager moved with that efficient grace he'd become too aware of, a stack of folders tucked against her chest, her professional smile firmly in place.

"Mr. Kirishima mentioned you might need assistance with your hearing aids before the Commission meeting," she said, setting the folders on the corner of his desk. "I brought the backup pair from the safe, just in case."

His first instinct was to refuse, he didn't need help with his own fucking equipment but the dead silence in his left ear and the shrieking feedback in his right made the decision for him.

"Battery's being a little bitch," he muttered, flicking the traitorous disc across the desk toward her. 

She nodded, all business, moving around the desk to his side without hesitation. "May I?"

He grunted agreement, tensing as she stepped into his personal space. The familiar scent of her hit him first, followed by the subtle drop in temperature that always accompanied her presence. Her quirk activated automatically in proximity to stress, and apparently, he was broadcasting plenty.

"The right one's shrieking," he said, tilting his head slightly. "Left one's dead."

"I'll start with the right." She set the backup devices aside and leaned closer, her breath a cool whisper against his ear. "This might be easier if I—"

She paused, then rested her fingertips gently against his jaw, guiding his head to tilt further. The touch was clinical, professional, exactly how she'd touch his shoulder to direct him to the correct camera mark at press events but the placement sent a jolt through him. Her fingertips were blessedly cool.

"Sorry," she murmured, her voice closer than expected. "Is this alright?"

"Fine," he managed, his voice rough. He focused on the wall opposite, training his eyes away from the curve of her neck now inches from his face.

Her fingers worked with remarkable precision, sliding the tiny device from his ear with a gentle touch. The relief from the feedback was immediate, leaving only the hollow silence of having both aids out. He watched as she deftly opened the battery compartment with her thumbnail, replaced the malfunctioning battery with a fresh one, and snapped it closed.

"Have you been swimming recently?" she asked, examining the device. "There's a bit of moisture in the casing."

"Patrol in the rain last night," he answered. She was standing between his knees, her cardigan sleeve brushing his shoulder. "Got drenched."

She clicked her tongue in disapproval, a sound so reminiscent of his mother that it should have killed any inappropriate thoughts immediately. Somehow, it didn't.

"You should use the drying kit I ordered. Ten minutes in that after wet conditions would prevent this." She held up the device. "Ready?"

He nodded, steeling himself as her fingers returned to his jaw, this time sliding up to brush his hair away from his ear. The contact sent a ripple of heat down his spine that pooled low and dangerous. Her hands were so fucking cold. A perfect contrast to his overheated skin.

She slid the hearing aid back into place with practiced care, her fingertips lingering at the curve of his ear as she ensured it was properly seated. The sound of the world rushed back into his right ear. Her breathing, the soft rustle of her clothing, the distant voices from the main office area.

"Better?" she asked.

He nodded. . She was still too close, her cold fingers still at his ear, adjusting the fit with minor, precise movements that sent shockwaves down his neck.

"Now the left," she said, shifting slightly to access his other ear. This time, she didn't ask permission, simply cupped his jaw with her right hand to turn his head. The contact was firmer this time, more confident. Professional. Nothing inappropriate about it.

So why did his pulse suddenly hammer in his throat?

Her knuckles brushed the side of his neck as she worked, and his entire body went rigid with the effort not to react. She removed the dead device, replaced the battery with efficient movements, and leaned in closer to reinsert it. This time, a stray strand of her hair tickled his cheekbone. His nostrils filled with that floral scent again, stronger now.

"Almost..." she murmured, concentrating on fitting the device properly. Her breath cooled his overheated skin.

His hand moved without conscious instruction, settling at her waist to steady her or himself, he wasn't sure. The thin material of her blouse did little to block the transfer of temperature. Her skin was cool even through the fabric, and his thumb traced the curve of her hipbone before he realized what he was doing.

She went perfectly still, her fingers pausing in their adjustment of the hearing aid. For three rapid heartbeats, neither of them moved. Then she continued her work, sliding the device into place with a final gentle press.

"There," she said, her voice professional again as she stepped back, breaking the contact. He released her waist immediately, the phantom pressure of her hip burning against his palm. "Both should be functioning properly now."

The sounds of the office filled his ears in perfect stereo, but somehow all he could focus on was the slight hitch in her breath as she moved away, the subtle color in her cheeks as she rearranged her expression into that familiar professional mask.

"I've prepared briefing packets for everyone," she continued, indicating the folders she'd brought in. Her voice revealed nothing of whatever had just passed between them. "Summaries of all known Quirk Freedom Force activity, member profiles where available, and a map of attacks on hero agencies over the past six months."

The moment, if there had been a moment was gone. She was all business now, pulling the top folder from the stack and handing it to him. "Your copy is highlighted with specific incidents that might relate to Dynamight Agency's operations."

He took the folder, deliberately avoiding contact with her fingers. "You're not coming to the meeting."

It wasn't a question.

"It's heroes-only according to the Commission email," she confirmed. "I'll handle things here and prepare for any outcomes."

He nodded, standing abruptly. The movement brought him closer to her again, and she stepped back smoothly, maintaining a professional distance. Nothing in her expression betrayed any residual tension from their contact moments before.

"Car will be here in ten," she said, gathering the remaining folders. "I've already informed the team."

"Right." He cleared his throat. "Thanks."

Her eyes widened fractionall before she nodded and moved toward the door. "Good luck at the meeting, Mr. Dynamight."

The formal address scraped against his ears, suddenly irritating after the intimacy of her hands on his skin. But that was how it needed to be—professional, distant, appropriate. All Might's warning echoed in his head. Flashpoint racing to the forty-second floor.

"Wait," he called as she reached the door. She turned, eyebrow raised in question. "If we're not back by seven, lock up. Don't stay late."

Her smile was polite, practiced. "I have payroll to finish, but I'll be sure to set the security system before I leave."

Before he could argue, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her. He stood motionless for a moment, the ghost of cool fingertips still lingering on his skin.

Focus. He needed to focus. 

The Commission meeting. The Quirk Freedom Force. Threats to his agency. These were the priorities, not the lingering sensation of his office manager's hands or the way her breath had cooled his burning skin.

He grabbed the folder and stalked out of his office, every inch the pro hero Dynamight, pushing away Bakugo Katsuki's inconvenient reactions to a simple battery change.

The Commission's secure briefing room hummed with low conversation as two dozen pro heroes filtered in, taking seats around the massive oval table. Bakugo led his team—Kirishima, Kaminari, Ashido, and Sero—to a cluster of empty chairs on the right side, pointedly ignoring Todoroki's presence across the table.

"This is so exciting," Ashido whispered, her yellow eyes wide as she scanned the room. "All the top agencies in one place!"

"It's a security briefing about terrorist attacks, Raccoon Eyes," Bakugo growled. "Not a fucking mixers."

She rolled her eyes. "I know that. But still—look at the firepower in this room. We could take down a small country."

She wasn't wrong. The gathered heroes represented the elite of Japan's hero force. Mirko tapped her foot impatiently near the head of the table. Gang Orca's massive form dwarfed his chair in the corner. Deku—because of course he'd be here—was scribbling notes already, though the briefing hadn't even started.

"Good, you're all here," came a lazy drawl from the doorway.

Hawks strolled in, his massive red wings folded neatly behind him, a tablet tucked under one arm. He looked exactly like he always did—disheveled and unbothered, blond hair falling into eyes that missed nothing. But the tension in his shoulders told Bakugo this wasn't a routine briefing.

"Let's skip the pleasantries," Hawks said, taking position at the head of the table. "You're here because your agencies are either confirmed targets or match the profile of likely targets for the Quirk Freedom Force."

He tapped his tablet, and the lights dimmed. A projection appeared on the wall behind him—a map of Japan dotted with red markers.

"Each of these points represents an attack on a hero agency in the past six months," Hawks continued. "Twenty-seven in total. The pattern was subtle at first—equipment theft, data breaches, minor property damage. Isolated incidents that looked random."

Another tap, and lines began connecting the dots, forming a web across the map.

"But they weren't random. The QFF has been systematically targeting specific types of agencies, gathering intelligence and testing response times." Hawks' expression hardened. "Three weeks ago, they escalated."

The image changed to security footage of a mid-sized agency building. The timestamp showed 3:17 AM. For five seconds, nothing happened. Then, the entire front of the building erupted in flames.

"Backdraft Hero Agency in Sapporo," Hawks said grimly. "Four support staff were working late. Two didn't make it out."

The footage continued, showing shadowy figures moving through the flames with purpose, entering specific offices.

"They knew the layout. They had access codes. And they targeted the server room and equipment storage first." Hawks paused, letting the implications sink in. "This wasn't random terrorism. This was a precision strike with specific objectives."

Bakugo felt his hands tightening into fists beneath the table. His mind immediately went to his own agency—the warehouse conversion with its large windows, multiple access points, and minimal security infrastructure. To his support staff working late. To his office manager, alone after hours, completing payroll.

"Since then, we've had two more escalated attacks," Hawks continued, flicking through more security footage. "Rising Sun Agency in Yokohama and Gale Force Agency in Nagoya. Both followed the same pattern—incapacitate security systems, neutralize any heroes on-site, extract specific intelligence and equipment."

"What exactly are they after?" Mirko demanded, leaning forward. "What's the pattern?"

"Independent agencies," Hawks replied. "Specifically, newer ones without corporate backing or government affiliations. Places where security protocols might not be as robust, where classified information about hero identities, patrol routes, and quirk specifications might be more accessible."

Bakugo's agency fit that description perfectly. The realization settled cold and heavy in his gut.

"But why?" Kirishima asked. "What's their endgame?"

Hawks' expression was grim. "Based on intelligence gathered from captured members, the QFF believes quirks should be unrestricted by hero licensing. They see the current system as oppressive—limiting the 'natural right' to use quirks freely. Their manifesto calls for dismantling the hero regulatory framework entirely."

"So they're attacking the system by targeting its newest, most vulnerable points," Bakugo concluded, the strategy making a sick kind of sense.

Hawks nodded. "Precisely. And they're getting bolder." He tapped his tablet again, bringing up a new set of images. Surveillance asa photos of various heroes on patrol. Bakugo felt his blood freeze when he recognized himself in several of the shots.

"They're monitoring patrol routes, documenting response patterns, identifying vulnerabilities," Hawks explained. "Planning their next moves."

The image shifted again, showing what was unmistakably the street outside Dynamight Agency. A figure in a nondescript jacket stood across the street, partially hidden by a newspaper but clearly photographing the building.

"This was taken three days ago outside your agency, Dynamight," Hawks said, meeting Bakugo's eyes directly. "They're watching you."

The temperature in Bakugo's palms spiked dangerously, nitroglycerin sweat beading against his skin. That was the day his office manager had stayed late to finish quarterly reports. She'd been alone in the building after he and the others left for patrol.

"What's the Commission's response plan?" he demanded, voice tight with controlled fury.

A suited Commission official stepped forward. "Effective immediately, we're implementing Emergency Protocol 17-B. All independent agencies identified as high-risk are required to establish formal partnership arrangements with larger, more secure agency networks within one week."

A murmur ran through the room.

"Partnership arrangements?" Bakugo repeated, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "The fuck does that mean?"

"It means you'll need to align your operations with an established agency that has comprehensive security infrastructure," the official explained, unfazed by Bakugo's tone. "Share resources, coordinate patrols, potentially relocate to more secure facilities—"

"Bullshit," Bakugo cut in. "I built my agency from nothing. We don't need to hide behind someone else's security system."

The official's expression hardened. "This isn't a request, Dynamight. It's a mandate. The QFF has specifically targeted your patrol routes for surveillance. Your agency matches every high-risk criterion we've identified. And unlike some agencies represented here, you employ civilian support staff who cannot defend themselves in an attack."

The words hit with precision accuracy. His office manager's face flashed in his mind—her determined expression as she organized chaos into order, her cold fingertips against his skin, the way she hummed absently while working late. Civilian.

Chapter Text

CH 8

The glossy brochures for security systems fanned across Bakugo's desk like funeral arrangements for the agency's bank account. Three different companies, three equally terrifying quotes, all featuring smiling men in tactical gear who clearly enjoyed the taste of desperation.

"The Commission's requirements will cost us 3.5 million yen minimum," Bakugo growled, stabbing a document with his finger hard enough to dent the paper. "For what? Motion sensors that any decent villain could bypass? Thermal imaging that breaks if you sneeze near it?"

You shifted the stack of mail in your arms, suppressing a shiver. It wasn't your usual chill; it was a cold dread sparked by those numbers. The Commission's security mandate had hit your desk yesterday. A thinly veiled ultimatum delivered in bureaucratic language. Upgrade or partner with a larger agency. Translation: spend money you don't have or surrender autonomy.

"I sorted the mail by priority," you said, approaching his desk with the practiced caution of someone who'd worked with volatile substances for months. "Three sponsorship inquiries, the electrical bill marked urgent because someone keeps using the training facility at 2 AM, and—"

"I don't sleep," he cut in, not looking up. "What's the point of having a gym if I can't use it?"

"The point is not bankrupting us before the QFF has a chance to blow us up." You set down the stack, extracting a glossy burgundy envelope embossed with gold lettering. "This came by courier. Hand-delivered, signature required."

His eyes flicked up, narrowing at the envelope. "What is it?"

"Pro Hero Quarterly. Apparently, they want you for their next cover and a six-page spread."

The change in his expression would have been comical if you weren't so invested in your continued employment. His face performed a complicated journey from mild interest to dawning horror to outright disgust in under two seconds.

"Fuck that." He snatched the envelope and pitched it directly into the trash can beside his desk with the precision of a pro athlete. "I don't do photoshoots. I'm not some fucking model posing while actual villains are out there."

You sighed, mentally adding "retrieves trash" to your ever-expanding job description. Kneeling down, you fished the envelope from the bin.

"With all due respect, Mr. Dynamight, perhaps you should read their offer before rejecting it. Specifically, the part where they're offering four million yen for exclusive rights."

His tirade stopped mid-syllable, mouth still open. "Four million?"

"Four million," you confirmed, placing the letter directly beside the security system quotes, a visual aid for the mathematically challenged. "Which is exactly 500,000 yen more than we need for the security upgrades the Commission is requiring."

You tapped the deadline notice from the Hero Commission with your pen for emphasis, the sharp click punctuating your point. The math wasn't subtle, but subtlety wasn't your strongest negotiation tool with Bakugo. Sometimes he needed the obvious spelled out in size 72 font with accompanying sound effects.

"That's..." He ran a hand through his already-chaotic hair, eyes darting between the documents as if waiting for the numbers to change. "That can't be right."

"I double-checked. Triple-checked, actually. Pro Hero Quarterly is offering a significant premium for a Dynamight exclusive. Apparently, your latest approval ratings make you quite the hot commodity."

His eyes narrowed at the word "hot," and you immediately regretted your word choice. The izakaya incident still burned in your memory like a particularly embarrassing high school talent show performance.

"I don't parade around for cameras," he said, but the usual venom had diluted to something closer to irritation. "That's what Icyhot does."

"Actually, Shoto hasn't done a magazine spread in over a year," you replied automatically, then winced as Bakugo's palms sparked in response to the name.

"You follow his PR calendar?" His voice dropped dangerously.

"I follow everyone's PR calendar," you corrected with a smile. "It's my job to know the media landscape. And right now, that landscape is offering us exactly what we need, exactly when we need it."

You pulled out a folder tucked beneath the mail stack, color-coded in Dynamight Agency red, of course and placed it on his desk.

"What's this?" he asked, eyeing the folder like it might contain anthrax.

"My preliminary response to Pro Hero Quarterly, pending your approval." You flipped it open, revealing a neatly typed list. "I took the liberty of drafting conditions for your participation."

He blinked.

"You already wrote back?"

"I drafted a response," you clarified. "I wouldn't presume to accept or decline without your authorization. But I did want to be prepared with realistic terms that might make this palatable for you."

His expression shifted from annoyance to a sharp, sudden intrigue as he pulled the folder closer. The security vendors could wait; you'd successfully diverted his attention to the possibility of solving two problems with one solution.

"What kind of terms?" he asked, suspicion lacing his voice.

"For starters, you'd maintain full creative approval over all images. Nothing gets published without your sign-off." You tapped the first bullet point. "No shirtless poses, no gimmicky props, no silly costumes. Just Dynamight, as you actually are."

His eyebrow arched slightly. "They agreed to that?"

"Not yet. These are our opening demands." You smiled. "They need you more than you need them right now, particularly after your approval rating jump following the training camp. It's a seller's market."

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, but you could see the calculations happening behind those sharp red eyes. Bakugo might be explosive, but he was never stupid.

"What else?"

"No questions about your UA days or specific past missions without prior approval." You flipped to the next page. "Interview questions submitted in advance. Right to refuse any query. Four-hour maximum for the shoot, scheduled around patrol times so it doesn't interfere with actual hero work."

His expression softened for a fraction of a second before disappearing beneath his usual scowl. "You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"It's literally my job to think of everything. Though I'm flattered you just noticed."

To your surprise, he snorted, his equivalent to a laugh. "Smartass."

"Smartass who's trying to save our agency from financial ruin," you corrected with a faint smile. "Four million yen is a lot for a few hours of your time."

"It's not the time I'm worried about," he muttered, staring at the terms sheet. "It's the vultures with cameras trying to turn me into some pretty-boy idol. I'm a fucking hero, not a pinup."

Your brain, the traitorous organ, helpfully supplied an image of Bakugo in a calendar pose. It wasn’t a tasteful, pro-hero action shot. It was something from the darkest, most humid corner of your imagination, and you immediately exiled it to the furthest reaches of your mind with the force of a mental slam.

It was July. He wasn’t on a beach. He was in the agency’s gym, the one he haunted at 2 AM. The photo was taken from a low angle, making his already formidable frame tower impossible. Sweat gleamed along the sharp cut of his hip bones, trailing down the deep V that disappeared beneath the waistband of his low-slung shorts. Heat flushed his skin, burning against the cool steel of the weight rack behind him. Every muscle in his abdomen was corded tight. The lighting caught the scar below his eye. His head was tilted back, throat exposed, a single bead of sweat tracing the line of his jugular. His red eyes weren’t looking at the camera. They were looking directly at you, through the page, heavy-lidded and knowing. The expression wasn’t a smile. It was a challenge. A promise.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. The chill from your quirk spiked, drawing heat from your core so violently you had to grip the edge of his desk.

"That's why I included the creative control clause," you said, swallowing and

 tapping your pen against the paper. "You define how you're portrayed. I'm not asking you to pose with kittens or blow kisses at the camera."

The mental image that followed this statement threatened your professional composure, but you managed to maintain your neutral expression through sheer force of will.

"Though I have to say," you continued, a strategic gambit forming, "turning this down would be giving Shoto Agency a significant advantage. I hear they've just upgraded to the Platinum security package from SentryTech."

It was a low blow, but an effective one. Bakugo's jaw tightened.

"How the hell do you know what security system Shoto is using?" he demanded.

You shrugged one shoulder. "I have lunch with Shoto's operations manager once a month. We compare notes."

"You what?" His palm sparked, sending the smell of caramel and gunpowder into the air.

"Professional networking," you said innocently. "How do you think I got KyoTech to give us that discount on your gauntlet upgrades?"

He looked like he wanted to argue, but the financial logic was undeniable. Four million yen for security systems you desperately needed, with a 500,000 yen surplus. The alternative was partnering with a larger agency and losing the independence Bakugo had fought so hard to establish.

"What about this?" he asked suddenly, pointing to one of your conditions. "No  civilian clothes? I can wear my hero costume?"

"That's non-negotiable," you confirmed. "You're a hero, not a model. The shoot should reflect that."

He nodded slowly, then looked up at you with narrowed eyes. "You were pretty damn certain I'd agree to this."

You fought back the blush that threatened to heat your face. "I was... optimistically prepared for multiple outcomes."

"Bullshit. You knew I'd say yes."

"I knew you'd make the practical choice once you had all the facts," you corrected. "You're stubborn, not stupid."

Another snort, this one closer to genuine amusement. "You've got that calculation down to the exact 500,000 yen surplus." He tapped the paper. "Convenient."

"Math doesn't lie." You gestured to the security quotes. "Just like these numbers don't lie. We need the upgrades, and this is the cleanest way to get them. One day of mild inconvenience in exchange for not having to bend the knee to a larger agency."

You could see the resistance fading from his posture. Bakugo hated being manipulated, but he respected efficiency. And this solution was nothing if not efficient.

"There's something else," he said, flipping through the pages. "No personal questions? About family, background, or...relationships?"

Your heart performed a small gymnastics routine at the way he paused before "relationships," but your face remained perfectly composed.

"I thought you'd appreciate that boundary," you said carefully. "Your private life is not public property, no matter how much they're paying."

He studied you for a long moment, the intensity of his gaze making you fight the urge to fidget. "You drafted all this yesterday?"

"Last night," you admitted. "After the Commission's deadline arrived."

"At the office?"

"At home. With tea. And Mochi judging me from the windowsill."

His brows furrowed. "Mochi?"

"My cat," you explained. "She has strong opinions about my work-life balance."

"You have a cat." He stated this as if you'd revealed some critical piece of intelligence.

"Yes? Most people without quirk-incompatible allergies have pets. They're standard-issue companions for those of us who work too much."

"What color?" he asked, the question so unexpected you actually blinked in surprise.

"Um, calico. Orange, black, and white patches. Very opinionated. Terrible at filing."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Useless assistant then."

"She excels at emotional support and judging my fashion choices," you deadpanned. "Critical skills in the hero support industry."

This time, the sound that escaped him was unmistakably a chuckle, quickly disguised as a throat clearing. You filed away this new knowledge: Bakugo Katsuki, explosion murder God, might be a cat person.

He turned his attention back to the draft, tapping a paragraph near the bottom. "What's this part about 'action sequences'?"

"I suggested they photograph you during a training session rather than static poses," you explained. "More authentic to who you are. Plus, your quirk is visually dynamic. It would be a waste not to showcase it."

"Huh." He looked genuinely surprised. "That's... not stupid."

"Thank you for that ringing endorsement," you said dryly. "I'll add it to my performance review."

His eyes narrowed again, but without real heat. "There's still a problem with these terms."

"Which is?"

"The timing. I'm scheduled for patrol blocks all next week."

You were already pulling out your tablet, flipping to the agency calendar you maintained with borderline obsessive precision. "I can reschedule Tuesday afternoon. You'd be with Pinky anyway, and she can pair with Red Riot instead."

"You're that sure they'll accept our terms?"

"No," you admitted. "But I'm very good at negotiation. And failing that, I've pulled together a list of competitive outlets who would jump at the chance for a Dynamight exclusive. Pro Hero Quarterly knows they're not the only game in town."

Bakugo stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. "You're fucking terrifying sometimes, you know that?"

You smiled sweetly. "Thank you, Mr. Dynamight. I try."

He shook his head, but picked up a pen. "Fine. I'll do their stupid photoshoot." He signed the authorization form with enough force to nearly tear through the paper. "But you're handling everything and staying the entire time. I'm not dealing with these pretentious camera assholes alone."

You nodded professionally, ignoring the flutter in your chest at the implied request for your presence. "Of course. I wouldn't dream of abandoning you to the vultures."

"And if they try any funny shit—"

"I'll handle it," you assured him. "They'll get their cover story, we'll get our security system, and the Commission will get off our backs. Everyone wins."

"Except my dignity," he muttered.

"Your dignity will survive," you said, gathering the signed forms. "And so will our agency's independence."

As you turned to leave, his voice stopped you.

"Hey."

You looked back, finding his eyes fixed on you with that same unreadable expression.

"That cat of yours. Does it catch mice?"

The question was so unexpected you almost laughed. "She once spent three hours stalking a dust bunny, so... no. She's more decorative than functional."

He nodded as if this confirmed something important. "Figures."

You waited a beat, but no further explanation came. "I'll contact Pro Hero Quarterly immediately. We should have confirmation by end of day."

"Whatever." He was already turning back to the security quotes, but there was less tension in his shoulders than before.

As you closed his office door behind you, you allowed yourself a small, victorious smile. Four million yen, agency independence secured, and a fleeting glimpse of Bakugo Katsuki's curiosity about your personal life, all before lunch.

Not a bad morning's work for the Bakugo whisperer.

* * *

"No, the lighting needs to be harder, he's not a fashion model, he's a hero who blows things up for a living!" 

The photographer's assistant scurried away like she'd been threatened with detonation herself, which wasn't entirely inaccurate given the way Bakugo's jaw was clenching. The agency's largest conference room had been transformed into an impromptu studio, equipment cases creating an obstacle course that three people had already tripped over (four, if you counted yourself, but you'd managed to disguise your stumble as an intentional bend to adjust a cable).

You crossed another item off your clipboard checklist—a physical clipboard, because apparently the universe had a sense of humor and the Pro Hero Quarterly team had crashed your Wi-Fi router by plugging in their "essential" espresso machine. 

"Ms. Nakajima," the magazine's editor called, waving frantically from across the room. "We need the hero statement forms for the release, and the photographer wants to know if Dynamight can dial back the..." she lowered her voice to a stage whisper, "...intense glaring? It's making the intern cry."

You glanced over at Bakugo, who stood ramrod straight by the windows, arms crossed, looking like he was mentally calculating how much property damage his agency's insurance would cover if he decided to blast everyone through the nearest wall. The lighting team circled him with reflectors, daring to approach the epicenter of his rage only to dart back like nervous satellites.

"I'll handle it," you assured the editor with your most professional smile. "And the forms are already on your producer's desk. I placed them there twenty minutes ago."

You navigated the maze of equipment, pausing only to straighten the craft services table that someone had knocked askew. The room was cluttered with at least fifteen people from the magazine, plus Kirishima, Kaminari, Ashido, and Sero, who had all shown up "for moral support" (translation: to witness Bakugo's suffering and collect blackmail material).

"You look like you're planning a mass murder," you murmured, stepping beside Bakugo at the window. "Which, while on-brand, is not the aesthetic we're going for."

"This is bullshit," he growled, though notably softer than his usual snarl. "They've been setting up for an hour and haven't taken a single photo. We're wasting time."

"Magazine photoshoots are 95% setup and 5% actual photography. It's in the contract." You positioned yourself between him and the crew, your back to the room. "The sooner you stop terrorizing the staff with your death glare, the sooner we finish."

His crimson eyes narrowed, but his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. "The lighting guy keeps telling me to 'find my soft side.' I don't have a soft side."

"Tell that to the stray cat you fed behind the dumpster last week."

His head snapped toward you, genuine surprise crossing his features before harshening back to suspicion. "How did you—"

"I know everything that happens at this agency," you reminded him with a small smile. "Including the tuna you 'accidentally' ordered too much of for lunch three days in a row."

A dusting of pink appeared high on his cheekbones. "It was going to starve," he muttered.

"Mochi approves of your charitable spirit. Now, smile—no, don't actually smile, that's terrifying—just look less homicidal for twenty minutes, and then we move to the action shots where you can blow things up. Deal?"

His lip twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. "Fine."

"Good. Now I have to go save our interviewer from Kaminari's attempts at 'enhancing your public image' with stories from UA."

As if on cue, you heard Kaminari's voice rising from the corner: "So there was this one time in the dorms when Bakugo tried to—"

You moved with the speed of someone whose career depended on damage control, appearing at Kaminari's side just as he was getting to what you assumed was the punchline. "Mr. Chargebolt! Just the hero I was looking for. The photographer needs your expertise on lighting effects for the explosion sequence."

"Really?" Kaminari perked up, momentarily distracted.

"Absolutely. Something about electricity complementing explosions?" You gestured vaguely toward the far side of the room. "They're setting up by the external generator right now."

As Kaminari bounded away, the interviewer, a sleek woman with a sharp bob and sharper eyes 

turned to you with a knowing smile. "Quite the handler, aren't you? I'd love to include some of your insights in our piece. How long have you been managing Dynamight's... personal affairs?"

The emphasis she placed on "personal" set off every alarm bell in your head.

"I'm the agency's office manager," you corrected smoothly. "And while I'm happy to discuss Dynamight's professional achievements and hero work, his personal life is off-limits per our agreement."

Her smile didn't falter. "Of course, of course. I was just curious about your working relationship. It must be... challenging... to manage someone with such a passionate temperament."

"Mr. Dynamight's dedication to heroics is unmatched," you replied, your smile a perfect mirror of her own—professional, unwavering, and completely unyielding. "His intensity is what makes him the number four hero in Japan."

"And what about his relationships with other heroes? There are rumors about tension with certain former classmates—"

"We'll be focusing on Dynamight's current agency work and his recent training initiatives," you interrupted, your tone pleasant but firm. "As outlined in the contract your publication signed yesterday."

You pulled the contract from your folder, flipping to the highlighted paragraph with a practiced flick. "Section 5, paragraph 3 specifically prohibits questions about past rivalries, UA incidents, or personal relationships. I'd be happy to provide you with our approved topic list again."

The interviewer's smile thinned. "That won't be necessary."

"Wonderful. Then I believe the photographer is ready for the first set of shots." You gestured toward the main setup, where Bakugo was now being positioned in front of a neutral backdrop. "I'm sure you'll want to observe."

As she walked away, Ashido appeared at your elbow, yellow eyes gleaming with mischief. "That was the most polite evisceration I've ever witnessed."

"I have no idea what you mean," you replied, checking off another item on your list. "I was simply clarifying our agreement."

"Uh-huh." Ashido grinned. "You know, for someone who can literally cool a room, you sure know how to bring the heat when Boss Man needs defending."

"It's my job to ensure contractual compliance."

"It's kind of hot, actually. No wonder Bakugo keeps you around."

You nearly dropped your clipboard. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh come on," Ashido leaned closer, lowering her voice. "You're the only person he actually listens to. You could probably tell him to jump off a bridge, and he'd just ask which one."

"That's a professional relationship built on mutual respect and—"

"And the fact that he stares at you when you're not looking," Kirishima added, joining your huddle with a protein bar in hand. "Like, a lot."

Your face warmed uncomfortably. "Mr. Kirishima, that's—"

"It's kind of sweet," he continued, oblivious to your distress. "I've never seen him so..." he searched for the right word, "...attentive? Yeah, attentive to anyone."

"The photographer is ready for the first set now," you announced loudly, desperate to change the subject. "If you'll excuse me."

You escaped to the far side of the room, pulse thrumming in your ears. The heroes' comments had stirred something dangerous. A hope you couldn't afford to nurture. Professional boundaries existed for a reason. Bakugo was your boss. Your very attractive, infuriatingly complicated boss who apparently fed stray cats and stared at you when you weren't looking.

Not that you'd noticed him staring. Because you definitely weren't staring at him either. That would be unprofessional.

The first round of formal portraits proceeded smoothly, despite Bakugo's obvious discomfort with being directed to "turn slightly left" and "chin down, eyes up." He complied with minimal growling, occasionally seeking your gaze across the room as if to confirm he was doing this right. Each time your eyes met, something warm curled in your stomach.

After the portraits came the costume change—Bakugo disappearing into the makeshift dressing area to switch to his battle gear for the action sequences. The crew used the break to reset, rearranging lights and backdrops while you coordinated with the safety team. The agency's training room had been cleared for controlled explosions, with fire suppressant systems on standby.

You were reviewing the sequence timing with the photographer when Bakugo emerged in his hero costume, gauntlets gleaming, utility belt fitted snugly across his hips. The familiar outfit shouldn't have affected you. You saw him in it almost daily but something about the context made your mouth go dry. Maybe it was the subtle changes they'd made for the shoot: the new reinforced panels that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, or the way the adjusted straps highlighted the taper of his waist.

"Something wrong with my gear?" Bakugo asked, catching you staring.

You blinked, professionally resurfacing. "No, they did a nice job with the modifications. The new panels should photograph well."

He grunted, tugging at one of the straps. "It's too tight across the shoulders."

Without thinking, you stepped closer, reaching up to adjust the offending strap. "Here, let me."

Your fingers worked deftly at his shoulder, where the reinforced material had bunched awkwardly. The heat of him radiated through the costume, warming your cold fingers. The top of your head barely reaching his chin, forcing you to stretch upward.

"Better?" you asked, smoothing the strap flat.

He didn't answer immediately. When you glanced up, his eyes were fixed on your face, expression unreadable.

"Mr. Dynamight?" you prompted.

"It's fine," he said finally, voice rougher than usual. "Thanks."

You should have stepped back then. That would have been the professional thing to do. Instead, you lingered, hands still resting lightly on the strap you'd fixed. The background noise of the busy room seemed to fade.

"You're doing great," you said softly. "I know this isn't your idea of hero work."

"It's a waste of time," he muttered.

"It's keeping our agency independent," you reminded him. "And..." you hesitated, then continued in a lower voice, "I think it's important for people to see this side of you."

His brow furrowed. "What side?"

"The real one. Not just the explosions and the victories, but the dedication and the... care." Your chest tightened at your own daring. "People should know their number four hero would feed a stray cat for three days straight and never admit it."

His eyes widened before narrowing. For a heartbeat, you thought you'd crossed a line.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it: "Four days. The damn thing expected it by day four."

The admission, small as it was, felt monumental. A private confession meant only for you.

A throat cleared nearby, shattering the moment. The photographer stood a few feet away, looking between you with poorly concealed interest.

"We're ready for the action sequence," he announced.

You stepped back abruptly, the professional mask sliding back into place. "Of course. We'll be right there."

As you turned to lead the way to the training room, Bakugo caught your elbow, halting you. His grip was firm but not tight, his calloused fingertips pressing gently against your skin.

"You cold?" he asked, though it wasn't really a question. He could feel the chill emanating from you, your quirk responding to the spike in your heart rate.

"I'm fine," you assured him, hyperaware of every point of contact between his fingers and your arm.

He didn't release you immediately. Instead, his thumb moved once, a small circle against your inner elbow that sent electricity racing up your spine. The gesture was brief—barely a second—but deliberately intimate.

"Your quirk's acting up," he observed, voice dropping to that low register that seemed reserved for private conversations. "Means you're stressed."

"I'm managing a photoshoot with fifteen strangers in our workspace while keeping Kaminari from telling UA stories and an interviewer from breaching contract," you pointed out. "A little stress is expected."

His mouth curved slightly. "That's not it."

The certainty in his tone made your pulse stutter. "Excuse me?"

"You're not stressed about them," he said, nodding toward the crew. "You handle bigger disasters before breakfast."

Heat crawled up your neck. "Then what, exactly, do you think is triggering my quirk, Mr. Dynamight?"

The formality didn't deter him. If anything, his expression grew more knowing, his eyes glinting with something that looked dangerously like amusement.

"Me," he said simply. "You get colder when you're close to me."

The directness of the statement left you momentarily speechless. Your professional armor cracked just enough for genuine surprise to show through.

"That's—that's not—"

"It's fine, Frostbite," he said, releasing your arm. "Your secret's safe."

Your brain stuttered to a halt. "Frostbite?"

"Fits, doesn't it?" A flicker of a smile—there and gone, but unmistakable. "Cold hands, warm brain."

Something about the nickname affectionate despite its edge broke through your carefully constructed professionalism. To your horror, you felt your face heat.

"I—that's not—we should really—" you stammered, gesturing vaguely toward the waiting crew.

His lip curled into what could only be described as a smirk. "Careful. Your office manager is slipping."

The informal teasing so unlike his usual gruff demeanor caught you completely off guard. This wasn't Bakugo the boss or Dynamight the hero. This was something else entirely: Bakugo the man, flirting with you.

He was flirting with you.

"We have a schedule to maintain," you managed finally, desperately reaching for your professional tone. "The photographer is waiting."

"After you, Frostbite," he said, the nickname rolling off his tongue as if he'd been saying it for years.

You led the way to the training room on autopilot, your mind racing. The nickname replayed in your head, each iteration sending a fresh wave of heat through your body that your quirk instantly cooled, creating a disorienting internal temperature war.

The action sequence proceeded in a blur of technical adjustments and controlled explosions. Bakugo, now in his element, moved through the choreographed battle scenarios with fluid precision. Each blast illuminated his features in stark relief. The sharp line of his jaw, the intensity of his focus, the raw power contained in his controlled movements.

You stood with the safety team, clipboard clutched to your chest, ostensibly monitoring the proceedings. In reality, you were fighting a losing battle against your own awareness of him.

Just as the photographer called for the final series, Bakugo turned—mid-explosion, gauntlets smoking, costume illuminated by the afterglow and looked directly at you. Not at the camera, not at the light meter, but at you. His eyes locked on yours with such deliberate intensity that your breath caught.

The photographer shouted excitedly, capturing the moment, but you barely heard him. For those few seconds, despite the room full of people and equipment, it felt like Bakugo was performing for an audience of one.

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly—not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment. A private communication across the room that said, more clearly than words: I see you.

Not the office manager. Not the professional. You.

And as the flash fired and the smoke cleared, you realized with startling clarity that your professional armor had just sustained a direct hit—and Bakugo knew it.

He'd found the crack in your mask, and from the look in his eyes, he intended to exploit it mercilessly.

* * *

"And with that, we can offer a full 22% on all merchandise sales above the first ten thousand units, along with prime placement on the Heroes United app storefront throughout Golden Week." 

The KyoTech merchandising executive's jaw literally dropped. His eyes darted to his assistant, who was frantically checking calculations on her tablet.

"Twenty-two percent is significantly higher than industry standard," the executive said, regaining his composure.

You tilted your head slightly, expression pleasantly neutral. "It is. But then, Dynamight Agency isn't standard, is it?"

Beside you, Ashido and Sero sat in perfect flanking position – Ashido's bright smile providing the charm offensive while Sero's relaxed-but-attentive posture added silent credibility. You'd spent the last hour dismantling KyoTech's lowball offer point by point, navigating the complex dance of negotiation with the precision of someone who'd memorized every step.

"Our social metrics indicate a 64% increase in engagement over the past month," you continued, sliding another chart across the polished conference table. "And the Pro Hero Quarterly exclusive hits newsstands next week. The timing for premium merchandise couldn't be better."

The executive sighed, defeated. "I'll need to get final approval, but... tentatively, we accept your terms."

You didn't smile that would be a rookie negotiation error but you allowed your shoulders to relax by a fraction of an inch. "Excellent. We'll have the revised contract to you by end of day."

Fifteen minutes later, after handshakes and business card exchanges, you closed the conference room door behind the KyoTech team.

"Holy shit!" Ashido's professional veneer evaporated instantly as she squealed and spun in a circle. "Did you see their faces when you dropped the engagement metrics? Total destruction!"

"That was surgical," Sero agreed, loosening his tie with a relieved exhale. "I thought the guy was going to pass out when you countered his 'final offer' with an even higher percentage."

You allowed yourself a small, satisfied smile as you gathered your materials into a neat stack. "The numbers supported it. They were trying to lowball us because we're a newer agency."

"You were so calm," Ashido marveled, perching on the edge of the table. "Like some kind of negotiation assassin. All 'I'm sorry, did you just attempt to offer me that pathetic number with a straight face?'"

"A little professionalism goes a long way," you said, but the praise warmed you nonetheless.

The door burst open as Kirishima and Kaminari tumbled in, energy radiating off them like heat from pavement in August.

"Well?" Kirishima demanded, eyes bright with anticipation.

"We crushed them," Sero reported. "She crushed them, actually. We just sat there looking pretty."

"Twenty-two percent royalties!" Ashido announced triumphantly.

Kirishima's face lit up with pure joy. "No way! That's amazing!" He pumped his fist in the air, then gave you a grin so wide it could power a small city. "This calls for celebration ramen!"

Your hand automatically reached for your planner. "Oh, I don't think—"

"Come on," Kirishima pleaded. "This is a major win for the agency!"

"I have to finalize the contract and—"

Kaminari darted forward and snatched your planner from your hands, holding it above his head like a trophy. "Nope! No excuses this time. Friends eat together."

Friends.

The word landed in your chest like a warm stone dropped into cold water, sending ripples through your carefully maintained professional boundaries. They weren't just your colleagues or charges to manage. Somewhere in the chaos of explosions and paperwork and 3AM crisis calls, they'd become your friends.

You looked at their expectant faces – Kirishima's earnest excitement, Kaminari's playful challenge, Ashido's bubbling enthusiasm, Sero's calm encouragement – and felt something shift inside you.

"Okay," you said, a genuine smile spreading across your face. "Ramen it is."

"No, that's not—stop mangling it!" You laughed, reaching over to adjust Kaminari's hopeless chopstick grip. "Your fingers go here, not—how do you even eat normally?"

"I usually ask for a fork," he admitted, grinning as he attempted to follow your correction.

The ramen shop buzzed with lunchtime energy, steam rising from ceramic bowls and conversation flowing as freely as the tea. You'd abandoned your cardigan on the back of your chair. Something about the warm atmosphere and the circle of animated faces around you kept the cold at bay.

"I can't believe you ordered the Inferno Bowl," Ashido said, eyeing your ramen with a mix of horror and awe. "That's Bakugo-level spicy."

"I like food with personality," you replied, slurping a mouthful of fiery broth with obvious relish. 

"Woman of hidden depths," Sero commented, raising his tea cup in a mini toast.

While you were focused on helping Kaminari, a flash of movement caught your peripheral vision. You turned just in time to see Ashido's chopsticks retreating from your bowl, a slice of chashu pork dangling between them.

"Did you just—" you gasped in mock outrage.

Ashido popped the stolen pork into her mouth with a wink. "Taxation for providing excellent moral support."

Without hesitation, you reached over and plucked the perfectly cooked egg from her bowl. "Retribution," you declared, biting into it as she protested through her laughter.

"I never would have pegged you as a food thief," Sero remarked, raising an eyebrow at your playfulness.

"Desperate times," you said solemnly, though your eyes danced with mirth. "Besides, this is a tactical response to aggression, not theft."

It struck you then how utterly different this felt from your usual lunch routine: a sandwich eaten at your desk while reviewing reports, or the occasional solitary cafe visit with a book for company. Here, the professional veneer you'd cultivated like a shield had completely dissolved, replaced by something lighter and more authentic than you'd allowed yourself in... well, years.

"You know what's weird?" you mused, chopsticks paused mid-air as the realization fully formed. "This is the first time I've had lunch with coworkers in three years."

The table went momentarily silent, the admission landing heavier than you'd intended. You hadn't meant to cast a shadow over the celebration, but once the words were out, you couldn't take them back.

Kirishima's shoulder gently bumped against yours. "We're not just coworkers though, right?" His voice was uncharacteristically quiet, his eyes serious beneath his bright hair.

You looked around at their expectant faces, a lump forming in your throat. Ashido's yellow eyes wide and hopeful. Sero's steady, accepting gaze. Kaminari's crooked smile. Kirishima's earnest expression.

"No," you said softly. "I suppose you're not."

"Damn right we're not," Kaminari declared, breaking the moment with perfect timing. "We're the awesome friends who are going to teach you how to have an actual life outside that office."

"Bold of you to assume I don't have a life," you retorted, grateful for the shift back to lighter territory.

"Mochi doesn't count," Ashido teased. "Though I still need to meet this legendary cat."

"She's very particular about who she associates with," you said primly, then ruined the effect by stealing another bite from Ashido's bowl.

"Okay, that's it!" she laughed, launching a counterattack that nearly ended with her elbow in Sero's soup.

The rest of lunch passed in a blur of laughter and stories, the heroes sharing tales from their training days that had you alternately gasping and snorting tea up your nose. 

***

"No, it's like this," you explained, demonstrating the correct chopstick hold as your small group made its way back toward the agency. "Your fingers form a pivot point, not a death grip."

Kaminari's arm was slung casually across your shoulders as he examined your demonstration, his other hand attempting to mimic your grip.

"It still feels wrong," he complained, nearly dropping the disposable chopsticks he'd taken from the restaurant specifically for this impromptu lesson.

"No wonder you're still single if that's how you handle sticks," you teased, emboldened by the casual camaraderie that had enveloped you all afternoon.

Ashido choked on her bubble tea. "Oh my god, boss lady's got jokes!"

"I have many hidden talents," you replied primly, trying and failing to maintain a serious expression.

Your laughter echoed in the hallway as you turned the corner toward the agency's main office area – only to collide with a wall of tense silence. Bakugo stood in the corridor, arms crossed, his expression darkening as his gaze locked on Kaminari's arm draped across your shoulders.

The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees despite the heat radiating from Bakugo's rigid form. His jaw was clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, and you noticed with alarm how his fingertips twitched against his bicep – a warning sign you'd learned to recognize as imminent nitroglycerin activation.

"Where the hell have you all been?" he demanded, his eyes never leaving Kaminari's arm, which dropped from your shoulder as if suddenly made of lead.

Your professional mask slid back into place with practiced ease, though your heart hammered against your ribcage. "We just concluded a very successful meeting with KyoTech Merchandise," you explained, clasping your hands in front of you to hide their slight tremor. "I'm pleased to report they've agreed to a 22% royalty rate on all merchandise sales above—"

"Don't worry, Bakugo," Ashido interrupted, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "We didn't steal your precious office manager permanently." 

She leaned closer to you, her voice dropping to a stage whisper loud enough for everyone within a twenty-foot radius to hear clearly: "He gets so jealous when anyone else has your attention."

Bakugo's face contorted through at least four distinct expressions, settling on outraged disbelief. "What the—I don't—that's not—" he spluttered, a faint tinge of pink creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with his quirk.

Your eyes widened, a matching heat rushing to your own cheeks despite your desperate attempt to maintain composure. The careful professional distance you'd rebuilt after the photoshoot incident crumbled like wet tissue paper.

"The contract," you blurted out, grasping for any semblance of workplace normalcy. "I should finish the contract revisions immediately."

Kaminari and Sero exchanged identical looks of barely suppressed amusement. Kirishima, bless him, attempted to defuse the situation with his usual cheerful straightforwardness.

"The meeting went great, man! We should celebrate the win as a team later."

Bakugo's eyes finally left your face, settling on Kirishima with slightly less murderous intent. "I need the full report," he growled. "My office. Now."

You nodded stiffly. "Of course, Mr. Dynamight. I'll just get my notes and—"

"And Dunce Face," Bakugo added, his gaze sliding back to Kaminari with dangerous precision, "patrol schedule's been updated. You've got night shifts. All week."

Kaminari's mouth fell open. "But I was supposed to—"

"All. Week." Bakugo's tone left no room for argument. With one final glare that swept across the group but lingered a beat longer on you, he turned and stalked down the hallway, the scent of burnt sugar trailing in his wake.

In the resounding silence that followed his departure, Ashido turned to you with delighted mischief dancing in her yellow eyes. "So..." she drawled. "Frostbite, huh?"

Your hand flew to your mouth. "How did you—"

"Pro Hero Quarterly photographer. Super chatty guy." Her grin widened to impossible proportions. "Told me all about how Dynamight kept calling his 'assistant' something special during the shoot."

"That's not—we're not—" you stammered, feeling your professional persona crumbling beyond recovery.

"Oh, this is perfect," Kaminari crowed, apparently undeterred by his punitive patrol schedule. "The Bakugo whisperer has a nickname!"

You pressed your icy palms to your flaming cheeks, wondering if this thermal contradiction might actually cause you to spontaneously combust. It would be a fitting end, really.

"I have work to do," you managed, dignity hanging by a thread.

As you turned to escape, Kirishima caught your elbow gently. "Hey," he said, voice low enough that only you could hear. "Friends tease. It's what we do."

You met his eyes, finding nothing but warmth and sincere affection. No mockery, no judgment. Just... acceptance.

"I know," you replied softly. "I'm just out of practice."

His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "We'll help with that."

With a steadying breath, you straightened your spine and headed toward your office, the sound of friendly banter fading behind you. Two revelations warmed your chest despite the perpetual chill of your quirk: you had friends now, actual friends who saw beyond your professional facade.

And the most dangerous man you'd ever met had given you a nickname that fit like a glove.

Chapter Text

CH 9

Her laugh cut through the ambient noise of the office like a precision blade.

Bakugo's pen stalled mid-signature, hovering over the security system implementation schedule. He didn't look up—didn't need to. He'd recognize that sound anywhere. His office door was ajar, giving him a perfect sightline to where she stood with Kirishima near her desk, hand resting casually on Shitty Hair's forearm as she laughed at whatever dumb shit he'd just said.

Her fingers lingered there. Five seconds. Seven. Ten.

His palm heated against the paper, faint smell of nitroglycerin seeping from his skin. Not enough to burn just enough to leave a smudge on the contract's corner.

Fifteen seconds of touching Kirishima's arm.

Not that he was counting.

Three million yen of security upgrades laid out in front of him. State-of-the-art surveillance. Reinforced access points. Biometric locks. All paid for with magazine money instead of bending the knee to some corporate agency. His agency. His rules. His people.

His office manager still touching Shitty Hair's arm.

The pen snapped between his fingers, spattering ink across the desk calendar.

"Fuck," he muttered, swiping at the mess and only making it worse.

She'd arranged everything perfectly. The contractors, the equipment, the timing to minimize disruption to hero operations. Practically ran the whole damn security overhaul herself while he and the others handled patrols. Efficient. Competent.

Still laughing with his so-called friends outside his office.

He crumpled the ruined calendar and lobbed it at the trash can, missing by half a meter. His fist clenched, memories from the Commission meeting yesterday resurfacing like a bad burn under his.

"The upgrades are commendable, Dynamight," the Commissioner had said in that patronizing tone they'd perfected, "but we still strongly recommend a partnership arrangement with a larger agency. Perhaps Best Jeanist or—"

"We've met the mandate," Bakugo had cut in, sliding the compliance certificate across the table. "New security. Background checks. Threat monitoring. Done."

"The QFF is targeting independents specifically, and your agency employs civilian staff who—"

"My staff," he'd growled, "are safer with my security than they'd be with Jeanist's babysitters."

Three million yen bought independence. It bought the right to keep his agency his. It bought safety for his people—for her—without sacrificing control.

Her laugh again, softer this time. Bakugo's head turned involuntarily toward the sound.

She'd moved to her desk, where Kaminari was now perched like some annoying bird, leaning in too close as she showed him something on her tablet. Shitty Hair hovered nearby, joined now by Soysauce Face and Racoon Eyes. A whole fucking circus gathered around her desk, and she was the ringmaster. Her cardigan—pale blue today—slipped slightly off one shoulder as she gestured at the screen.

When had he catalogued her wardrobe? When had he started noticing the specific shade of blue that matched the pen she favored?

"...and then this idiot tries to tell the security contractor that he's allergic to motion sensors," Kaminari said, loud enough to reach Bakugo's office.

Another laugh from her, genuine and bright. Nothing like the polite, professional chuckle she used when Bakugo said something vaguely amusing. This was full-throated. Real.

Why didn't she laugh like that with him?

He shoved his chair back and stood, needing to move before the heat building in his hands became something dangerous. The calendar's ink stain was starting to burn around the edges from his agitated quirk.

Through the half-open door, he could see them making plans. Lunch. Again. Third time this week she'd gone out with them, leaving him with whatever pre-packed meal she'd thoughtfully ordered for him. Always the right spice level. Always his preferences. Always left with a professionally worded note: Mr. Dynamight, your lunch is in the refrigerator. Security Contractor #2 will arrive at 2 PM.

Mr. Dynamight. Always Mr. Dynamight. Never Bakugo. Not even Katsuki.

But "Kiri" and "Kami" and "Sero" and "Mina" rolled off her tongue easily when she thought he couldn't hear.

She'd called him "hot" once. Drunk, sure, but she'd said it. Touched his face. Eyes hazy with sake, defenses down. He'd seen beneath the mask. Glimpsed what she kept hidden behind that professional force field.

Then nothing. Straight back to "Mr. Dynamight" and perfect posture and reports filed with military precision.

It was driving him fucking insane.

A knock at his door interrupted his spiraling thoughts. Yashida, the Commission's liaison, stood in the doorway, tablet in hand.

"Dynamight, I've brought the updated risk assessment for your review." Yashida's eyes darted around the office, clearly searching for the office manager who usually handled these meetings.

"She's busy," Bakugo snapped, though nobody had asked. "What do you want?"

Yashida's eyebrow twitched. "As discussed in yesterday's briefing, the Commission is still strongly recommending that high-risk independent agencies establish formal partnership arrangements, despite compliant security upgrades."

The familiar burn started in Bakugo's palms. "We've met every goddamn requirement."

"Yes, commendably so," Yashida conceded, stepping inside and closing the door. The action cut off Bakugo's view of the office manager's desk, which only spiked his irritation further. "However, our intelligence suggests the QFF is adapting their tactics. The security measures you've implemented are excellent, but a partnership would provide additional resources in the event of—"

"No." Bakugo folded his arms. "We're independent for a reason."

"Dynamight, please consider that your agency employs civilian support staff who—"

"My office manager," he growled, "is safer under my protection than she'd be with any partnership arrangement."

Yashida's expression shifted subtly. "I don't believe I specifically mentioned your office manager."

Caught. Fuck.

"You mentioned civilian staff. She's the only civilian on payroll." A recovery, but not a smooth one. Yashida's eyes held that knowing look bureaucrats get when they think they've spotted a weakness.

"Of course," Yashida said carefully. "Well, at minimum, the Commission requests that you implement these additional communication protocols between your agency and the nearest hero support network."

Bakugo snatched the tablet, scanning the document. More hoops. More paperwork. More ways for other agencies to stick their noses in his business.

"I'll have my office manager review it," he said, voice tight. The fastest way to get Yashida out of his office.

"Excellent. She's remarkably efficient, isn't she? Several Commission officials have commented on her organizational skills. Best Jeanist speaks quite highly of her as well."

Bakugo's jaw clenched.

"She works for me," he stated flatly.

For now, Yashida's expression seemed to say.

After Yashida finally left, Bakugo stood at his window, watching the office through the half-closed blinds. She'd returned to her desk, alone now as the others prepared to leave for lunch. Her posture was perfect—spine straight, shoulders relaxed, fingers flying over her keyboard with practiced precision. She glanced up as the four heroes approached, ready to leave.

He could see the exact moment her professional mask slipped. A genuine smile. Eyes crinkling at the corners. A casual laugh as she gathered her bag. With them, she was... unburdened. Real.

With him, she was the office manager. Competent. Professional. Distant.

He turned away from the window, dropping into his chair with enough force to make it creak in protest. His thoughts circled like predators around a wounded fact: he wanted her to be real with him. Not just the professional version. Not just the office manager who kept his agency running with terrifying efficiency.

He wanted her to laugh with him like she laughed with Shitty Hair.

He wanted her to touch his arm like she touched Dunce Face's.

He wanted... her.

The realization twisted in his chest like shrapnel. Dangerous. Complicated. Unprofessional as fuck.

All Might's warning echoed in his head. Flashpoint, distracted by personal feelings for his support manager, failing to notice the danger until too late. The division of focus that got people killed.

But Bakugo wasn't Flashpoint, and he wasn't some lovesick idiot who couldn't compartmentalize. He was a professional. A hero. The number four hero in Japan.

He was also a strategist.

Breaking through her professional barrier had become more than an idle challenge. It was now a mission. One that required the same focus he brought to villain takedowns or hostage negotiations. A test of his tactical ability.

He just needed the right opportunity. The right approach.

When she returned from lunch an hour later, she knocked on his office door with her usual efficiency, tablet in hand.

"Mr. Dynamight, the security contractor needs sign-off on the training room sensor placement. And I've prepared a response to the Commission's communication protocol request."

There it was. Mr. Dynamight. Perfect posture. Professional distance.

"Come in," he said, deliberately adjusting the volume on his hearing aids upward. He'd learned to read the subtle tells in her voice, the slight variations in tone that betrayed her actual mood beneath the professional veneer.

She approached his desk, tablet extended, maintaining the exact professional distance she always kept—close enough to hand him things, far enough to avoid accidental contact.

Not today.

He stood abruptly, rounding the desk in a single fluid motion. Her eyes widened slightly. The first crack in the mask. Instead of taking the tablet, he moved into her space, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.

"You had lunch with them again," he said, voice dropping to that lower register that he'd noticed made her breathing change.

"I—yes, Mr. Dynamight. We discussed the implementation schedule for the new communication systems while we ate." Professional recovery, but her pulse had quickened at her throat. He could see it fluttering beneath her skin.

"You seem more comfortable with them." He took another half step closer, watching her reaction with the focus he usually reserved for combat. "You laugh with them."

The tablet clutched to her chest became a barrier, her knuckles whitening around the edges. "I maintain appropriate professional relationships with all agency staff, sir."

"Sir," he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue. "Always so formal with me, Frostbite."

The nickname landed exactly as intended. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating slightly. The professional mask slipped just enough for him to see underneath, the woman who'd touched his face in a dimly lit hallway and called him hot.

"I—that's—" A stammer. Progress.

He leaned closer, invading her space with deliberate intent. "You don't laugh with me like you laugh with them."

Her throat bobbed with a swallow. "I don't understand what you mean, Mr. Dynami—"

"Bakugo," he corrected, reaching for the tablet. Their fingers brushed—hers ice cold as always, his burning with perpetual heat. "When it's just us, you can use my name."

The temperature shift between them was immediate and electric. His quirk ran hot naturally, but this was different. This was tension coiling between them, magnetic and volatile.

"That wouldn't be appropriate," she managed, but her voice had lost its professional edge, softening into something more authentic.

"Neither is the way you're looking at me right now," he murmured, gaze dropping deliberately to her mouth.

Her lips parted slightly, the professional veneer cracking further under the heat of his focused attention. A flush spread across her cheeks, the skin pinking beautifully under his scrutiny. Her quirk responded to her elevated heart rate, drawing heat from her core to fuel the calming aura she constantly maintained. The biological contradiction made her flush deeper even as a visible shiver ran through her.

"Cold?" he asked, though they both knew that wasn't the cause of her tremor.

"I'm fine," she whispered, the words hardly more than breath.

"You called me hot once." He leaned in, close enough that his breath stirred the hair at her temple. "Did you mean the temperature, or something else?"

The tablet slipped in her grasp, nearly falling before she clutched it tighter. Her eyes, usually so composed, had darkened with the same awareness that was currently setting his blood on fire. For a moment, the office manager vanished completely, leaving only the woman—wanting, conflicted, and very much affected by his proximity.

"I was drunk," she said weakly.

"Were you lying?" He reached up, not touching her but letting his hand hover near her face, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his palm.

"N-no." The admission escaped her like a secret, small and genuine.

Victory surged through him, sharp and sweet. He'd cracked the mask. Found the woman behind the professional facade.

And fuck, she was beautiful like this—flushed and flustered, perfect composure shattered by nothing more than his proximity and focused attention. Her lips parted, eyes wide and dark with unmistakable want. The cardigan had slipped further off her shoulder, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone. He imagined tracing it with his tongue, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse race beneath his mouth.

The thought sent heat rocketing through him, dangerous and electric. His body responded immediately, blood rushing south with enough force to make him grateful for the loose fit of his hero pants. 

She noticed. Her gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, then shot back up to his face, blush deepening to a beautiful crimson that spread down her neck toward her chest. Her teeth caught her bottom lip. A nervous gesture he'd never seen before, one that made him want to replace her teeth with his own.

"I should..." she started, taking a shaky step backward, tablet clutched to her chest like armor. "The security contractors are waiting for... I need to..."

Her usual eloquence had abandoned her completely. Another victory.

"Go ahead," he said, voice deliberately rough with the desire he wasn't bothering to hide. Let her see it. Let her know exactly what she did to him, exactly what he wanted.

She nodded jerkily, backing toward the door without turning away, as though afraid to expose her back to a predator.

"I'll have the reports on your desk by five, Mr. Dynamight, sir," she managed, a desperate attempt to rebuild her professional wall.

Too late. He'd seen beneath it now. Seen her want him just as badly as he wanted her.

Her hand found the doorknob behind her, twisting it with clumsy fingers. "Excuse me," she whispered, then fled, the door clicking shut behind her.

Bakugo smiled, slow and satisfied. One strategic encounter, and he'd confirmed what he suspected: beneath her professional exterior, she was just as affected by him as he was by her.

Phase one of his new mission: complete.

All he needed now was an opportunity to push her further—to completely dismantle the barrier between them and find out just how real she could be when she wasn't hiding behind "Mr. Dynamight, sir."

The memory of her flushed face and darkened eyes would fuel his imagination for days.

Game on, Frostbite.

* * *

The ringing in his ears competed with the crash of falling debris. Perfect harmony of destruction.

Bakugo pivoted midair, calculating the trajectory of his next blast. Three hostiles, two civilians trapped in the bank vault. Simple math.

"GET DOWN!" he barked at the security guard cowering behind an overturned desk.

The first villain—some idiot with a metal-manipulation quirk who thought robbing Mizuho Bank in broad daylight was a good career move—launched a barrage of twisted metal shards. Amateur. The projectiles arced predictably through the air.

Bakugo tucked his right arm close, palm angled back. One precise explosion rocketed him left while simultaneously creating a concussive barrier that deflected the shards. The heat from his gauntlet singed the hair on his forearm, a familiar burn that barely registered anymore.

"That the best you've got?" he growled, using the smoke screen from his blast as cover.

The villain's panicked face appeared through the clearing haze. Bakugo didn't waste the opening. He launched forward, leading with his left gauntlet, targeting the ground three feet in front of Metal-for-Brains.

The controlled detonation knocked the villain off balance, exactly as intended. Bakugo closed the distance in two strides, right hand already prepped with enough nitroglycerin to stun but not maim. He slammed his palm into the villain's chest and released a precisely calibrated explosion.

One down. Unconscious, not dead. The paperwork was easier that way.

His hearing aids whistled with feedback as he spun to face the second target. The sound grated against his already frayed nerves—three hours of sleep and a missed breakfast made for shit concentration. The persistent headache behind his right eye throbbed in tandem with the ringing, but he'd worked through worse.

"CHARGEBOLT! Location on the other two!" he shouted into his comm, knowing Kaminari was monitoring the bank's exterior.

"South exit and—shit, one's on the roof! He's got some kind of—"

Static burst through the comm, sending a spike of pain through Bakugo's temple. Fucking comms. Fucking budget equipment. He'd requisitioned better gear three weeks ago, but the paperwork was still processing.

No matter. He'd do this the old-fashioned way.

The vault hostages were priority. He could see them through the reinforced glass—a teller and a customer, huddled behind an overturned safety deposit cart, the third villain holding them at gunpoint. Not a quirk weapon. Just regular bullets. Somehow that pissed him off more.

The strategic approach would be to secure the south exit first, then the roof, then deal with the hostage situation with backup.

Fuck that. He didn't have time for textbook tactics.

Bakugo charged straight for the vault, palms heating with accumulated sweat. The security door was three inches of reinforced steel—locked down when the alarm triggered. The control panel was on the far wall, behind Computer Bank 3.

He didn't need the panel.

Focusing his quirk into a precision blast, he targeted the hinges of the vault door. The metal didn't stand a chance. The explosion wasn't large, but it was focused like a laser cutting through butter. The door sagged as the top hinge gave way.

The hostage-taker turned, gun swinging toward the compromised entrance.

Too slow.

Bakugo was already through the gap, smoke trailing from his gauntlets. He registered the gun barrel tracking him, the civilians scrambling further back, the acrid smell of fear permeating the enclosed space. His brain processed it as data points, calculating angles and timing with cold efficiency.

A bullet whizzed past his ear—close enough that he felt the air displacement. The hearing aid on that side shrieked in protest. No time to adjust it.

His response was pure instinct. A small, controlled blast to propel himself upward, flipping over the gunman's head to land behind him. Before the villain could turn, Bakugo delivered a precise blow to the back of his neck—just enough force to drop him without causing permanent damage.

The gun clattered to the floor. Bakugo kicked it away, cable-tied the unconscious villain, and turned to the civilians.

"Get out. Through the lobby. Police will meet you."

They scrambled to comply, shaking but unharmed. That was three civilians safe, one villain down inside, one presumably at the south exit where Kaminari—

His phone vibrated in his utility belt. Once, twice, three times. Not a text. An alert.

He glanced at the screen while securing the unconscious villain.

HERO COMMISSION: EMERGENCY SESSION - ATTENDANCE MANDATORY

SECURITY CLEARANCE 1 - 1600 HOURS TODAY

REGARDING: QFF ESCALATION

"Motherfucking bureaucrats," he muttered, shoving the phone back into his belt. The ringing in his ears intensified as his jaw clenched. Always with the meetings. Always with the paperwork. Always with the—

The ceiling above him exploded inward.

Bakugo rolled instinctively, debris raining down around him. His shoulder slammed against the vault wall—a sharp pain that would become a spectacular bruise by tomorrow. The third villain dropped through the opening, hands glowing with some kind of energy manipulation quirk. Power surged from his fingertips, carving gouges into the reinforced floor where Bakugo had stood a second earlier.

"Gotcha now, Dynamight," the villain sneered, charging another attack.

Bakugo didn't waste breath on a response. He simply unleashed the explosion he'd been building in his right palm—not at the villain, but at the already destabilized ceiling above him. The blast shook the entire room, dislodging a chunk of concrete that plummeted directly toward the villain's head.

The distraction worked. Energy-Hands looked up, momentarily forgetting his target. Bakugo launched forward, using a small blast from his left hand to accelerate his movement. His right fist connected with the villain's jaw with satisfying force.

One more down.

The south exit villain was Kaminari's problem now. Bakugo touched his comm, ready to demand a status update, when police sirens wailed outside. About damn time.

He surveyed the damage. Two subdued villains. Moderate structural damage to the vault. Civilians evacuated. His shoulder throbbed, his ears rang, and his temple pounded with the promise of a migraine, but the situation was contained.

All in a day's fucking work—and now he had to clean up, file reports, AND make it to the Commission meeting in less than two hours.

He adjusted his hearing aid, wincing as the feedback peaked again. Needed new batteries. The office manager would have spares waiting. She always did.

The thought of her was like a splash of cold water—refreshing in the midst of combat heat. He could almost see her now, catalog of spare batteries organized by type, that little furrow between her eyebrows as she'd scold him for "excessive quirk usage causing unnecessary equipment strain."

His phone vibrated again. Probably Kaminari reporting the third villain's capture. Or the Commission sending another useless reminder.

Or her.

He checked. Police update. All villains in custody. Paperwork pending.

Great. More forms to rush through before the meeting.

The Commission's secure briefing room was purposely designed to be uncomfortable. Hard chairs, too-bright lights, and air conditioning set to just below tolerable. Psychological warfare disguised as infrastructure. Bakugo wasn't impressed.

Twenty-seven pro heroes filled the tiered seating, their collective attention focused on Hawks at the central podium. The ex-winged hero looked more serious than usual, his trademark easy smile replaced by grim determination.

"Intel confirms what we've suspected," Hawks was saying as holographic images flickered above the table. "The Quirk Freedom Force isn't just targeting hero infrastructure anymore. They're escalating to direct attacks on support staff and public events."

Surveillance photos cycled through: a support company office with blown-out windows, an agency vehicle engulfed in flames, a bloodstained sidewalk outside what looked like Gunhead's satellite office.

"Three fatalities in the last month," Hawks continued. "Two support staff and one security contractor. Four additional support personnel injured, two critically."

The air in the room thickened. Heroes might be accustomed to personal risk, but attacks on civilian support staff crossed a line.

Hawks swiped to the next set of images. "Their organization structure has evolved. We're no longer dealing with isolated cells. They're coordinating across regions, utilizing pre-positioned assets and demonstrating sophisticated knowledge of hero response protocols."

Bakugo leaned forward, eyes narrowing on the timeline displayed. The attacks followed a clear pattern—escalating in both frequency and severity. Two additional photos appeared, showing smoking rubble where buildings once stood.

"Yori Support Tech and Kaminobu Innovations," Hawks identified. "Both hit last week. Both specialized in hero-specific equipment."

The next slide made Bakugo's stomach drop. Surveillance photos of his own agency—Dynamight Agency—taken from multiple angles. The timestamp showed yesterday's date.

"QFF reconnaissance has been identified outside fourteen independent agencies across Japan," Hawks stated, his gaze finding Bakugo's. "Including yours, Dynamight."

The familiar heat gathered in Bakugo's palms. He forced it down, focusing on the data rather than the threat. Tactical analysis, not emotional response.

"Even with upgraded security, smaller independent agencies remain particularly vulnerable," Hawks continued. "The QFF specifically targets these operations, viewing them as—and I'm quoting their manifesto here—'symbols of quirk-based elitism and power hoarding.'"

"My agency has implemented every mandated security measure," Bakugo stated, voice tight. "Three million yen worth. Biometrics, surveillance, reinforced access points. We're more secure than half the government buildings in this city."

Hawks nodded. "Your upgrades are exemplary, but there's a complication we've only just discovered." He gestured to a Commission analyst who stepped forward with a tablet. "We've identified QFF infiltration within multiple hero support companies—including contractors who've installed security systems at several agencies."

The analyst swiped through documentation showing employee backgrounds, installation schedules, and security breach analyses.

"They've compromised at least three different security firms," the analyst explained. "Placing operatives as technicians, consultants, even account managers. These insiders have provided the QFF with building layouts, security protocols, and in some cases, direct system access."

Bakugo's jaw clenched so hard he could feel his molars grinding. "Which companies?" The scent of burnt sugar leaked from his palms as sweat gathered.

"We've confirmed infiltration at Yamada Security, Toyo Protection Systems, and—"

"Kikuchi Integrated Solutions," Bakugo finished, the name burning like acid on his tongue. They'd installed his agency's exterior cameras just last week. "Those fuckers have been inside my building."

"We're conducting a full review of all installed systems," the analyst assured him. "But until we can verify the integrity of your security—"

"I'll handle it myself," Bakugo cut in. "My team will sweep every inch, replace every compromised component."

The Commission chairwoman cleared her throat. "That brings us to the purpose of this emergency session. Given the escalating threat and the discovered infiltration, the Commission is implementing mandatory partnership requirements for high-risk independent agencies."

Bakugo's hearing aids caught the groans and murmurs sweeping through the assembled heroes. The familiar ringing intensified, a high-pitched whine that matched his rising blood pressure.

"Partnerships?" he repeated, the word tasting bitter.

"Each identified high-risk agency must establish a formal security partnership with an established larger agency within seven days," the chairwoman stated. "This will provide redundant protection protocols, emergency response backup, and additional oversight for all security implementations."

"My agency doesn't need a babysitter," Bakugo growled, palms heating against the metal table edge.

Hawks stepped closer, voice dropping to avoid broadcasting to the entire room. "This isn't about your capabilities, Dynamight. Your agency houses four active pro heroes and civilian support staff. The QFF specifically targets what they see as 'rising stars' in the hero world—newer agencies that represent the future of heroics. Your public profile has increased significantly in recent months. You're a prime target."

"So I'll increase patrols. Add response protocols. My team can handle—"

"This isn't a negotiation," the chairwoman interrupted. "The safety of hero support personnel is non-negotiable. You will select an approved partnership agency within the week, or one will be assigned to you."

Bakugo's fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. The smell of nitroglycerin seeped into the air around him, causing the heroes in adjacent seats to shift uncomfortably.

"You have civilian staff," Hawks reminded him quietly. "Your office manager. The same staff member who's increased your agency's visibility and success over the past six months. The same type of support personnel the QFF has already killed elsewhere."

The words hit like a precision strike, targeting the one vulnerability Bakugo couldn't deny. Her. Her safety. Her protection. The image of her desk, visible from his office window, flashed through his mind. The way she always arrived fifteen minutes early. Always stayed late. Always maintained perfect professional distance, except when she thought he wasn't looking and let her mask slip for just a moment—

"Fine." The word grated through clenched teeth. "I'll review the approved partner list."

Three days later, Bakugo glared at the spread of agency profiles across his desk like they were personal enemies. In a way, they were. Each represented another hero organization—ostensibly an ally, but in reality, a potential threat to his agency's independence.

The Commission had provided twelve "approved partnership candidates." He'd eliminated seven immediately.

Too far geographically. Incompatible quirk specialization. Competing public profiles. Inadequate security infrastructure. Leadership with known discipline issues.

The remaining five were marginally less objectionable, but still unacceptable.

Mirko's agency: Excellent combat ratings, but notorious for minimal paperwork compliance. They'd sink his agency in regulatory fines within a month.

Gang Orca's underwater specialist division: Logistical nightmare. Their response protocols would be useless for urban environments.

Best Jeanist's hero network: Too controlling. Jeanist would commandeer every operation, turning Bakugo's agency into a glorified satellite office.

Edgeshot's covert team: Specialized in infiltration, not protection. Wrong skill set entirely.

And then there was the fifth option.

The one he'd been avoiding.

Endeavor Agency—now operating under the name "Shoto Hero Works" since Shoto had taken over primary operations.

Todoroki. Half-and-half. Top-tier hero. Unlimited resources. Perfect on paper.

Bakugo's palm smoked, threatening to ignite the paper beneath it. He lifted his hand, forcing the reaction down through sheer willpower.

It wasn't just their history—the rivalry, the competition, UA's bitter tournaments and shared battlefields. It wasn't even Todoroki's inherited agency, though that still rankled. The bastard had been handed a fully-functioning hero empire while Bakugo built his from nothing.

No, what truly boiled his blood was the memory of Todoroki's offer at that first QFF briefing. The casual way he'd extended help, as if Bakugo needed charity. As if the great Shoto Todoroki was doing him a favor by deigning to share resources.

And now, the Commission was basically forcing him to accept that offer.

"Mr. Dynamight?" Her voice from the doorway startled him, though he'd never admit it. He'd been so absorbed in his frustrated analysis that he hadn't heard her approach. 

She stood with perfect professional posture, tablet in hand, cardigan (dark green today) buttoned precisely. The faint scent of flowers wafted from her direction, competing with the burnt sugar smell emanating from his palms.

After their last encounter, when he'd deliberately invaded her space and forced her to admit her attraction she'd been maintaining rigorous professional distance. Extra formality. Minimal eye contact. Always keeping his desk between them during their interactions.

It was infuriating. And impressive.

"What?" he snapped, more harshly than intended. The ringing in his ears had intensified, a constant high-pitched whine that set his teeth on edge.

If his tone bothered her, she didn't show it. "I've completed the comprehensive analysis of potential partnership agencies that you requested."

He blinked, momentarily thrown. He hadn't requested—

"May I?" she asked, gesturing to the scattered profiles on his desk. Without waiting for permission, she stepped forward and set her tablet down, careful to maintain that maddening professional distance.

The screen displayed a meticulously organized analysis grid. Every potential partnership agency evaluated across twenty-seven different metrics. Response times. Compatibility ratings. Resource allocation. Staff integration protocols. Security redundancy. Public perception alignment.

It was exactly what he needed and hadn't asked for.

"How did you—"

"I received a call from the Commission yesterday," she explained, her voice carefully neutral. "They inquired about our partnership selection timeline. It wasn't difficult to deduce the situation, especially after reviewing the QFF briefing materials you left on your desk last night."

Of course she'd figured it out. She noticed everything. Anticipated everything. It was simultaneously her most valuable professional skill and the most maddening aspect of her personality.

"I took the liberty of conducting a thorough analysis," she continued, swiping through several detailed comparison charts. "Based on objective criteria including geographic proximity, operational compatibility, security infrastructure integration, and minimum disruption to existing agency procedures."

Her finger paused over a specific row in the data. Todoroki Hero Works.

"The numbers indicate a clear optimal choice," she stated, her tone remaining clinically professional. "Shoto Hero Works provides the highest security integration potential with minimal operational interference. Their systems are designed to support independent operations while providing redundant protection protocols."

Bakugo's jaw tightened. "I'm not partnering with half-and-half."

"May I speak frankly, Mr. Dynamight?"

The formality in her voice grated against his already frayed nerves. "When do you not?"

Her expression remained composed, but her eyes, those eyes that couldn't quite hide what she was truly thinking, no matter how professional her mask—flashed with something that might have been concern.

"Your personal history with Pro Hero Shoto is well documented," she said carefully. "However, the safety of this agency—including all heroes and support staff—must take precedence over past rivalries."

She swiped to another screen, displaying a security analysis of the Dynamight Agency building. Red markers highlighted vulnerable access points, camera blindspots, and potential infiltration routes that even their expensive upgrades hadn't fully addressed.

"The QFF has already targeted three independent agencies with profiles similar to ours," she continued, her voice softening slightly. "Two resulted in casualties. Civilian casualties. Support staff with no combat training or defensive quirks."

The implication hung in the air between them. Staff like her.

She tapped a final chart, showing response time data. "Shoto Hero Works can have emergency response teams on site within four minutes. Their security protocols are proven effective against the exact attack strategies the QFF has employed elsewhere. And perhaps most importantly, they operate with minimal administrative oversight of their partner agencies."

She finally met his eyes directly. "They provide protection without control. That combination doesn't exist with any other potential partner."

The room fell silent except for the persistent ringing in Bakugo's ears. He stared at the data, looking for flaws in her analysis, for any justification to reject the obvious conclusion.

There wasn't one. She was right, and they both knew it.

"How long have you been working on this?" he asked finally.

"Since the Commission meeting three days ago." Her admission was quiet but unapologetic.

"I didn't tell you about the meeting."

A hint of her real self slipped through the professional veneer—a quick, knowing smile that disappeared almost instantly. "No, you didn't. But Mr. Chargebolt mentioned you came back from a Commission briefing looking, and I quote, 'ready to murder the entire government with his face.' I made an educated guess about the content."

Despite his frustration, something warm flickered in his chest. She'd been working on this for three days, preparing for a decision she knew he'd eventually have to make, creating a solution to a problem he hadn't even shared with her.

"The Commission gave me a week to decide," he said, aware he was stalling.

She nodded. "Four more days. However, implementing security protocols takes time. The sooner we establish the partnership, the sooner new protective measures can be put in place."

Her gaze dropped briefly to his desk, then back to his face. "I've taken the liberty of preparing a draft partnership agreement that maintains Dynamight Agency's operational independence while fulfilling the Commission's requirements. It includes specific limitations on Todoroki Hero Works' authority over our internal procedures."

Of course she had. She'd thought of everything—anticipated his objections, addressed his concerns, and presented a solution that protected both his agency's independence and the safety of his people.

His people. Including her.

The image of previous QFF attacks flashed through his mind—the bombing at Yori Support Tech, the three fatalities Hawks had reported. He imagined his agency in flames. Imagined her desk empty. Imagined her as one of those statistics.

His decision crystallized, hardening like steel quenched in water.

"Fine," he said, the word escaping through gritted teeth. "Draft the agreement with Todoroki. But I want it iron-clad. No loopholes. No opportunity for that half-and-half bastard to assert control over our operations."

She nodded briskly, professional mask firmly in place, though he caught the slight relaxation of her shoulders. Relief that he'd chosen the safest option, not just the one that protected his pride.

"I'll contact Shoto Hero Works immediately to initiate the process," she said, collecting her tablet. "The agreement will protect our agency's independence while ensuring maximum security integration."

As she turned to leave, Bakugo found himself saying, "You knew I'd pick Icy-Hot."

She paused at the threshold, not quite looking back. "I know you prioritize this agency's welfare above all else, Mr. Dynamight. Including your own preferences."

The simple statement. The clear indication that she understood him, truly understood what drove him—hit with unexpected force. She saw through his abrasive exterior to the core motivation: protecting what was his.

Including her.

"One condition," he added, causing her to turn back slightly. "You're in every meeting with him. Every single one. I don't deal with him directly without you present."

Her brows shot up and then she smiled.  He knew that he trusted her. That he needed her steady presence to maintain his composure when dealing with Todoroki.

"Of course," she replied, professional tone almost hiding the warmth beneath. "I'll make the arrangements."

After she left, Bakugo stared at the partnership profiles still scattered across his desk. Choosing Todoroki felt like swallowing glass—painful and against every combative instinct he possessed.

But one fact overshadowed all others: Shoto Hero Works had never lost a support staff member to villain attack. Not one.

Whatever it cost his pride, he wouldn't—couldn't—risk her safety. The agency would adapt. He would adapt.

And if Icy-Hot so much as hinted at taking control of Bakugo's operation, well... explosions could be very persuasive negotiation tools.

* * *

"Twenty minutes until arrival, sir."

Her voice broke through the din of his thoughts. He grunted in acknowledgment, pretending to focus on the passing cityscape rather than the woman seated next from him in the agency car.

It didn't work. His eyes kept sliding back to her.

She was reviewing security protocols on her tablet, scrolling with her index finger, occasionally making notes with a stylus. Nothing sexy about it. Nothing remotely provocative. Just his office manager doing her job with the same quiet efficiency she brought to everything.

So why couldn't he stop staring?

The heating in the car was cranked to near-tropical levels he'd noticed her adjusting the controls when they first got in but she still wore that damn cardigan. Pale blue today, buttoned up. Her standard professional uniform. The collar of her blouse peeked out at the neckline, pressing against the soft skin of her throat.

Bakugo shifted in his seat, irritated by the direction of his thoughts.

This was Half-and-Half's fault. If it weren't for this fucking partnership mandate, they wouldn't be heading to Shoto Hero Works. They wouldn't be in this car together for forty-five minutes in traffic.  He wouldn't be trapped with nothing to do but watch how her tongue darted out to wet her lips as she concentrated.

Fuck Todoroki and fuck the Commission.

"The presentation deck is ready for your review," she said, not looking up from her tablet. "I've highlighted the operational boundaries that are non-negotiable for our agency."

He grunted again. "You expect Half-and-Half to actually respect boundaries?"

"Pro Hero Shoto has maintained an exemplary record of cooperation with partner agencies." Her voice was all business. "Their security infrastructure is modular, designed to integrate without overriding existing systems."

"You're just reciting his press release."

Her eyes flicked up to his, then back down. "I've spoken directly with their chief of operations. Three times."

Of course she had. She'd been preparing for this meeting since the moment he'd agreed to the partnership, working late into the night. He'd caught her asleep at her desk yesterday, head pillowed on a stack of Shoto Hero Works security procedures, a half-empty coffee mug by her hand.

That image, the slight part of her lips as she breathed, the strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek had invaded his dreams.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to dispel the memory and the unwelcome heat spreading through his core.

She shivered, a tiny tremor that would have been imperceptible if he hadn't been watching her so intently. Her quirk was working overtime, drawing heat from her body to maintain that calming aura. Probably responding to his own agitation.

"Cold?" he asked, the word rougher than intended.

"I'm fine." Her standard answer.

Another shiver betrayed her. Her fingers trembled slightly as she continued typing notes. He'd noticed how her hands were always ice-cold, but what about the rest of her? Was her entire body that frigid? Or were there parts of her that ran hot, hidden beneath her professional exterior?

The thought sparked a cascade of images: 

Her skin, cool against his palm, warming under his touch. Those always-chilled fingers trailing across his chest, down his abdomen, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The contrast of her cold lips against his overheated mouth. The way her breath would catch when he pressed her against a wall, warming her with his body heat.

Would those perpetually cold hands turn warm when wrapped around his cock? Or would the chill of her touch create a delicious contrast to his quirk-heated skin, making him hiss with pleasure as she stroked him?

Was she cold everywhere? Or was there one place that ran hot—slick and warm and perfect for him to bury himself in, their temperatures balancing in the most primal equilibrium?

He shifted again, grateful for the tactical design of his hero pants, which at least somewhat concealed the evidence of his inappropriate thoughts.

Fucking hell. He was losing it.

This was his office manager. His employee. His support staff. Not some hookup. Not some casual fuck. She was integral to his agency—to his mission as a hero. Fantasizing about her like this was not just unprofessional; it could be dangerous.

All Might's warning hovered in the back of his mind: divided focus got people killed. A hero couldn't afford to blur professional and personal lines. Look what happened to Flashpoint. Dead because his attention split between his duty and his desire.

But then she shivered again, her hands trembling visibly now, and something primal overrode his rational thoughts.

"Give me your hand," he ordered.

She looked up, startled. "Excuse me?"

"Your fingers are about to fucking fall off." He tugged his gloves off and tossed them aside. "Give me your hand."

She hesitated, professional mask firmly in place. "That's not necessary, Mr. Dynamight. I'm accustom—"

"It wasn't a request."

Her eyes flickered to his hand and back to his face but she set the tablet down and extended her right hand toward him.

The moment his fingers closed around hers, he had to suppress a hiss. Her skin was fucking freezing. Like she'd been holding ice cubes, not a tablet. He enveloped her small hand between both of his larger ones, feeling the chill bite against his naturally overheated palms.

"Shit," he muttered. "How are you even functioning?"

"Years of practice." The corner of her mouth quirked up slightly. "My quirk has been drawing heat since I was six."

Her hand remained stiff between his, as if she were tolerating his touch rather than welcoming it. That wouldn't do. He wanted her to melt, to soften, to show him the woman beneath the office manager.

With deliberate slowness, he began to trace the lines of her palm with his thumb. Her breath caught, the tiniest intake of air that he might have missed if he hadn't been hyper-focused on her every reaction.

"The partnership proposal has extensive contingencies for—"

"Shut up about the meeting for five minutes," he interrupted, his voice dropping to a lower register. "Your hands are like fucking ice."

She fell silent, watching as he continued his tactile exploration. He turned her hand over, running his thumb across the sensitive skin of her inner wrist, feeling the flutter of her pulse. It quickened under his touch. .

He traced each finger, from the base to the tip, applying gentle pressure to the joints. Her skin gradually warmed, though it still remained cooler than normal. The contrast between her perpetual chill and his excessive heat created a strangely intimate connection, as if their quirks had evolved specifically to complement each other.

"Better?" he asked, voice rough.

She nodded, a slight flush colored her cheeks. He liked it. Liked seeing her composure fracture, even temporarily.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "That's... helpful."

She didn't pull her hand away. Another small victory. He continued his ministrations, watching her face for reactions. The slight flutter of her eyelashes when he pressed into the center of her palm. The barely perceptible parting of her lips when he circled his thumb over the sensitive webbing between her thumb and forefinger.

"Your quirk constantly drains your body heat," he stated, rather than asked. "Must be fucking exhausting."

She gave him a small smile.  "It's manageable. I've learned to compensate."

"With layers." He gestured to her cardigan with his free hand. "And overheated cars."

"And hot drinks." A genuine smile this time—small, but real. "I average six cups of tea a day."

He filed this information away, already thinking about upgrading the office kitchen with a better electric kettle. One that maintained precise water temperature. She deserved that.

His thumb traced an invisible line up to her wrist, pressing lightly against the sensitive pulse point. Her heart rate jumped beneath his touch. His own pulse quickened in response, heat pooling low in his abdomen.

Dangerous territory.

The reality of their situation crashed back—heading to a rival's agency, a professional meeting, her position as his employee. He reluctantly released her hand, the loss of connection leaving a strange emptiness in his palm.

She retreated immediately behind her tablet, though her cheeks remained flushed. "We should review the security integration protocols before arrival. Shoto's system uses a proprietary key encryption that—"

"Fine." He cut her off, unwilling to hear Todoroki's name on her lips right now. Not when the ghost of her touch still lingered on his skin. Not when his body hummed with an awareness of her that had nothing to do with security protocols.

She didn't look at him again for the remainder of the ride, but he noticed she no longer shivered.

Shoto Hero Works occupied an entire city block. A fucking gleaming monument to inherited privilege. The main building rose twenty-seven stories, its façade a sleek combination of glass and steel. Perfectly balanced between modern and traditional design, just like its half-and-half owner.

Bakugo hated it on principle.

The agency car pulled up to the private entrance, where a staff member in Todoroki colors waited. His office manager exited first, tablet and portfolio clutched to her chest. Bakugo followed, noting how she squared her shoulders before approaching the building. Professional armor back in place.

"Welcome to Shoto Hero Works," the receptionist greeted them as they entered the lobby. "Pro Hero Shoto is expecting you on the executive floor."

The contrast between this place and Dynamight Agency couldn't be more stark. Where his agency occupied a converted warehouse—industrial, functional, with exposed brick and concrete. this place was all polished marble and recessed lighting. Even the fucking air smelled expensive.

"This way, please," the receptionist continued, leading them toward a private elevator.

His office manager kept pace beside him, her expression neutral, but he caught her eyes darting around, cataloging details. The security cameras positioned at precise intervals. The nearly invisible scanners embedded in the doorframes. The staff members whose casual postures belied their strategic positioning throughout the lobby.

"Their security system includes eighty-seven overlapping detection zones," she murmured, quiet enough that only he could hear. "The receptionist scanned us twice—once with her eyes and once with the tablet she's carrying."

His eyebrows rose. He'd noticed the cameras but missed the other details.

"The elevator we're approaching has reinforced walls and emergency containment protocols," she continued. "It can be instantly converted to a panic room if necessary."

"How the fuck do you know that?" he asked under his breath.

"Research." She gave him a small, knowing look that sent an unexpected jolt through his system. "I've reviewed their building plans, security protocols, and operational hierarchy. I also spoke with their head of security yesterday."

Of course she had. Always ten steps ahead, always perfectly prepared. It wasn't just competence; it was a fucking superpower.

The elevator doors closed, and they ascended in silence. The receptionist's tablet discreetly monitored their biometric signatures—another security measure his office manager had apparently anticipated.

When they reached the executive floor, Icyhot himself was waiting.

Shoto fucking Todoroki. Pro Hero Shoto. Number three hero in Japan. Standing there in his perfectly tailored hero costume, looking like he'd just stepped out of a magazine photoshoot rather than active hero duty. His dual-colored hair fell artfully across his forehead, framing those mismatched eyes that stared at them with typical Todoroki blankness.

"Bakugo," he greeted with a slight nod. "Welcome."

"Half-and-half," Bakugo responded, deliberately using the old nickname. Petty? Maybe. Satisfying? Absolutely.

Todoroki's expression didn't change—it never did—but his gaze shifted to the woman standing beside Bakugo. "And you must be the office manager I've heard so much about."

Something hot and sharp twisted in Bakugo's gut at the way Todoroki's eyes focused on her. Heard so much about? From who? What exactly had people been saying about his office manager?

She stepped forward, extending her hand professionally. "Yes, Pro Hero Shoto. Thank you for accommodating this meeting on such short notice."

Todoroki took her hand, and Bakugo's fingers twitched at his sides, the urge to blast someone suddenly overwhelming. He forced it down, watching as Icyhot maintained the handshake a beat too long.

"Your reputation precedes you," he said. "Best Jeanist speaks highly of your organizational capabilities. And Hawks mentioned your impressive crisis management during the recent training camp."

Her professional smile remained perfectly in place, but Bakugo detected a slight widening of her eyes. She was surprised—no, flattered—by Half-and -Half's recognition. A faint blush crept up her neck, and something dangerously close to a genuine smile curved her lips.

"That's very kind of them to say," she replied. "Though I simply support the actual heroes who do the real work."

"Support staff are the foundation of any successful agency," Todoroki countered. "My father never understood that, but I do."

The blush deepened on her cheeks, and the twisting in Bakugo's gut intensified. She was responding to Icyhot's attention—to his polite, privileged, perfect fucking manners—in a way she never did with him.

"Your hands are quite cold," Todoroki observed, still holding her fingers in his. "Your quirk, I assume?"

She nodded. "Yes. Endothermic stress reduction."

"Fascinating." Todoroki finally released her hand. "If you get uncomfortable, feel free to stand near my left side. The heat regulation might be beneficial."

Was he fucking serious? Offering to warm her up? Like some kind of goddamn human heater?

Bakugo's palms sparked, the scent of nitroglycerin momentarily overpowering the expensive air fresheners that permeated the building. The receptionist's eyes darted to his hands, then to a security panel near the elevator. Ready to activate containment protocols if he lost control.

As if he would. His quirk hadn't misfired since he was fourteen. He wasn't some amateur who couldn't keep his emotions in check.

But the way his office manager was looking at Todoroki now—a mix of professional deference and what seemed dangerously close to admiration—tested his restraint like nothing before.

"Let's get this over with," Bakugo growled. "We've got actual hero work waiting."

"Of course," Todoroki agreed mildly. "The conference room is prepared with the integration proposals."

As they walked down the hallway, Bakugo deliberately positioned himself between Todoroki and his office manager. A petty move, but he couldn't help himself. The idea of her standing near Todoroki's "warm side" made his blood boil in a way that had nothing to do with his quirk.

The conference room was, predictably, immaculate. A massive table dominated the space, with security schematics already displayed on the wall screens. Todoroki gestured for them to take seats, and Bakugo made sure his office manager sat beside him, not across from him where she might be closer to Half-and-Half.

She opened her portfolio and set her tablet on the table, immediately transitioning into full professional mode. "We've reviewed your security infrastructure proposal and have several implementation questions."

"Of course," Todoroki replied. "My security chief has prepared a full breakdown of the integration process. He'll join us shortly."

"I've already spoken with Mr. Teshigawara," she said, referencing Todoroki's security head by name. "He was extremely helpful in clarifying the technical specifications of your thermal monitoring system."

Icyhot's brows shot up. "You've been thorough."

"That's kind of her thing," Bakugo interjected, unable to stop himself. "She doesn't half-ass anything."

Her eyes darted to him, before she continued. "I've prepared a phased implementation schedule that minimizes disruption to both agencies while maximizing security coverage within forty-eight hours."

She turned her tablet toward Todoroki, displaying a complex timeline with color-coded sections. Bakugo had seen it before—she'd shown him yesterday—but he still marveled at the level of detail. Every contingency considered, every potential conflict addressed.

"This is... remarkably comprehensive," Todoroki noted, scrolling through the document. "You've even accounted for the patrol schedule overlaps and quirk compatibility zones."

"I found your agency's public database extremely well-organized," she replied, that same slight blush returning to her cheeks. "And your white paper on quirk-based security protocols was especially informative."

Wait, what? She'd read Todoroki's white paper? When? Why? And why the hell was she blushing while talking about it?

"You've read my security analysis?" Todoroki actually sounded impressed, which only intensified Bakugo's irritation. "Most people find it excessively technical."

"On the contrary," she countered, "your approach to thermal signature identification has significant practical applications. I particularly appreciated the section on distinguishing between quirk-generated heat and environmental factors."

Bakugo's jaw clenched as he watched this exchange. She talked to Half-and-Half with an ease he'd never seen her use with him. No hesitation in her voice, no careful measuring of words, no professional distance. She sounded almost... excited. Engaged. Like she was genuinely enjoying the conversation.

With Todoroki. Fucking Todoroki.

"I developed that protocol after several false alarms in our Sapporo office," Todoroki explained, his usually monotone voice taking on something approaching animation. "The extreme temperature fluctuations were triggering our standard sensors."

"A brilliant adaptation," she said, and Bakugo nearly choked on the praise in her voice.

Brilliant? Half-and-half wasn't brilliant. He was a rich kid with inherited resources and a quirk he'd done nothing to earn. He'd been handed everything—his agency, his connections, his reputation. What the hell was fucking brilliant about that?

"You've clearly done extensive research on our operations," Todoroki continued, his mismatched eyes studying her with increased interest. "Most partnership coordinators don't take the time to understand our systems at this level."

Another blush. Another smile. Bakugo's hands grew hotter under the table.

"I believe effective partnerships require comprehensive understanding," she replied. "Your agency's approach to security is exemplary. I've actually implemented several of your protocols at Dynamight Agency, adapted for our more... industrial environment."

She'd been using Todoroki's security ideas in their agency? Without telling him? Bakugo's pride stung, though the rational part of his brain knew it was ridiculous to be upset. She was doing her job—finding the best solutions regardless of source. That was why he'd hired her.

But watching her interact so comfortably with his rival, seeing the animation in her face as she discussed security protocols with Todoroki—it felt like a betrayal, even though it wasn't.

"Industrial has its advantages," Todoroki responded. "Your facility's structural reinforcement exceeds even our specifications. The converted warehouse model is unorthodox but effective."

She straightened slightly, visibly pleased by the compliment to their agency. "Mr. Dynamight prioritized practical functionality in the design."

Finally, she was talking about him. But "Mr. Dynamight" again—that formal distance that drove him crazy. With Todoroki, she spoke almost casually, but with him, always "Mr. Dynamight" with that professional barrier firmly in place.

Todoroki's security chief arrived then, followed by several other staff members. The meeting shifted into technical details of the partnership implementation, but Bakugo remained hyper-aware of every interaction between his office manager and Todoroki.

The way she leaned forward slightly when Todoroki spoke. The subtle nods of agreement. The quick smiles of understanding when they referenced the same security concept. The occasional questions she asked—intelligent, insightful questions that demonstrated her thorough research of Todoroki's operation.

It was fucking infuriating.

And enlightening.

Because now Bakugo understood something: his office manager wasn't inherently formal. She wasn't naturally distant. That professional wall she maintained wasn't just her personality.

It was specific to him.

With Todoroki, she was engaged, animated, almost relaxed. She still maintained professionalism, but it wasn't the rigid, careful barrier she erected around Bakugo. Which meant she was deliberately keeping him at a distance, in a way she didn't feel necessary with others.

Why? Because he was her boss? Because she was afraid of him? Or because—and this possibility sent a sharp jolt through his system—because she was as affected by him as he was by her, and the professional facade was her defense mechanism?

The possibilities churned in his mind throughout the meeting. By the time they reached the final point—the proposed partnership duration—Bakugo had formed a new resolution. If his office manager could drop her professional wall for Todoroki, she could drop it for him. He just needed the right strategy.

"Two weeks," Bakugo stated firmly, cutting through Todoroki's security chief's suggestion of a six-month arrangement. "We do a two-week trial. Full integration, emergency protocols, the works. Then we reassess."

His office manager looked at him, surprise evident in her expression. They'd discussed a minimum one-month timeframe in the car.

"Two weeks is hardly sufficient to evaluate the effectiveness—" Todoroki's security chief began.

"Two weeks is standard for trial partnerships," his office manager interjected smoothly, recovering from her surprise with professional ease. "It allows for thorough initial assessment while maintaining flexibility for both agencies."

She was backing his play, even though it deviated from their prepared strategy. Another reason she was invaluable.

Todoroki considered for a moment, then nodded. "Two weeks is acceptable. With an option to extend if the integration proves beneficial."

"If," Bakugo emphasized, making his skepticism clear.

Todoroki ignored the barb, turning instead to Bakugo's office manager. "We'll need a dedicated cross-agency coordinator. Someone who understands both operations and can ensure seamless communication. Given your extensive knowledge of our systems and your obvious capabilities, would you be willing to serve in that capacity?"

Bakugo stiffened. A coordinator would need to split time between agencies. Would need to work directly with Todoroki and his team. Would need to step away from some of their regular duties at Dynamight Agency.

Before he could object, his office manager nodded. "I would be honored to facilitate the partnership, Pro Hero Shoto."

Honored? To work with Half-and-half? The burn in Bakugo's chest intensified.

"Excellent," Todoroki replied, something that might have been satisfaction flickering in his usually expressionless eyes. "You'll need access to our secure systems. My assistant can begin the clearance process immediately."

"She'll maintain her primary office at our agency," Bakugo cut in, voice leaving no room for negotiation. "She visits here as needed, not the other way around."

A faint twitch of Todoroki's left eyebrow—as close to visible reaction as he ever came. "That's not typically how coordination—"

"That's how this one works," Bakugo interrupted firmly. "She's my office manager first. Cross-agency coordinator second."

My office manager. The possessive pronoun slipped out before he could catch it, hanging in the air between them. His office manager's eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing.

Todoroki studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. She can maintain her primary office at Dynamight Agency, with secure remote access to our systems."

The meeting concluded with handshakes and agreements to begin implementation the following day. As they prepared to leave, Todoroki approached his office manager once more.

"Your expertise will be invaluable to this partnership," he said, his tone as even as ever. "I look forward to working with you more directly."

The blush returned to her cheeks. "Thank you, Pro Hero Shoto. I'm excited about the security innovations we can implement."

Excited. To work with Todoroki.

Bakugo's jaw clenched so hard he could taste metal. He'd never seen her "excited" about anything at their agency. Professional, efficient, competent—yes. But excited? That was new. And it wasn't directed at him or his agency.

As they walked back to the elevator, her tablet clutched to her chest and a small, pleased smile playing at the corners of her mouth, Bakugo made a decision.

He'd fired the first shot in their little game with his deliberate invasion of her space in his office, forcing her to admit her attraction. But he'd been playing small. Testing boundaries. Now he had a new mission: to completely dismantle that professional wall she maintained around him, while keeping his own hero responsibilities intact.

If Half-and-Half could make her blush and drop her guard with nothing more than technical security talk, Bakugo could do better. Would do better.

Game on, Frostbite.

And this time, Todoroki wouldn't win.

Chapter Text

Why was it so hard to focus on security protocols when all you could think about were his hands?

You stared blankly at your computer screen, the Shoto-Dynamight integration documents swimming before your eyes. Three days into the partnership, and you'd made impressive progress on the technical aspects. The security systems were communicating. The patrol schedules were aligned.

Your professionalism, however, was in critical condition.

Because every time you glanced at the neighboring office, where Bakugo was currently shouting at someone over the phone—all you could think about was how his calloused thumbs had felt tracing circles on your palms in that car.

The memory sent another wave of heat through your body. The way he'd manipulated your fingers, applying perfect pressure to each joint. The deliberate stroke along your wrist where your pulse had betrayed you, jumping beneath his touch. It wasn't a casual gesture between colleagues. It was a seduction disguised as assistance. His heat penetrating your cold defenses.

You'd replayed it in your mind at least twenty times since yesterday, each recollection more explicit than the last. By now, your imagination had expanded the scenario far beyond what actually happened. In the privacy of your thoughts, those hands didn't stop at your wrists. They continued their exploration upward, sliding beneath your cardigan, finding the sensitive skin beneath your blouse, claiming every inch of you with that same deliberate attention.

"Shit," you whispered, pressing your thighs together as a traitorous throb pulsed between them.

This was ridiculous. You were fantasizing about your boss touching you—in the office—at 10:43 AM on a Thursday. Three months of perfect professional boundaries, demolished by one car ride where he'd warmed your hands.

You were better than this. You were a consummate professional. You had a five-year plan that definitely didn't include getting fired for inappropriate workplace conduct.

But gods, those hands...

"You planning to stare at that screen all day, or what?"

You jolted upright, nearly knocking over your tea. Bakugo stood in your doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an intensity that made you wonder if he could somehow read your mind. His hero uniform was slightly singed around the edges. He must have just returned from morning patrol.

"Mr. Dynamight, sir," you recovered smoothly. "I didn't hear you come in. I was just reviewing the thermal detection calibrations from Shoto's team."

"Yeah? You looked like you were somewhere else entirely." His eyes narrowed slightly. "And drop the 'sir' crap. It's just us."

This was new. He'd never explicitly told you to be less formal before. In fact, he seemed to prefer the professional distance or at least, he had until recently.

"Of course, Mr. Dynamight," you replied, deliberately maintaining the formality. Two could play this game. "Did you need something?"

He watched you for a moment, then crossed to your desk without invitation. "Hand me that report."

You reached for the security briefing, but he intercepted your movement, catching your hand instead.

"Cold again," he observed, turning your palm upward. "Quirk acting up?"

Your mouth went dry. "I—it's always active to some degree."

"Hmm." His thumb pressed into the center of your palm, exactly as he'd done in the car. "Do these help at all?"

He pulled something from his utility belt, a pair of sleek, black fingerless gloves. They weren't standard issue; they looked custom-made, with some kind of specialized material that gleamed under the office lights.

"They're thermal-regulating," he continued when you didn't immediately respond. "Designed for extreme temperature management. Hatsume made them."

You blinked, momentarily speechless. Had he... commissioned specialized gloves for you?

"That's... very thoughtful, Mr. Dynamight, but completely unnecessary—"

"Just try them on," he cut you off, dropping them on your desk. "Your typing gets slower when your fingers get too cold. It's inefficient."

Of course. Efficiency. That made sense. This wasn't personal; it was practical. An investment in workplace productivity. You could handle that.

"Thank you," you said, taking the gloves. As you slipped them on, immediate warmth surrounded your perpetually cold fingers. They were remarkably comfortable, fitting as if they'd been molded specifically for your hands.

Because they had been, you realized. He'd had these custom-made.

"They're perfect," you admitted, flexing your fingers in wonder. "How did you get my measurements?"

A faint smirk played at the corner of his mouth. "I pay attention."

Something electric shot through you at those words, at the implication that he'd been watching your hands closely enough to know their exact dimensions. You cleared your throat, reaching for a safe topic.

"The thermal sensors for the north side of the building will be activated tomorrow," you said, forcing your mind back to work. "I've scheduled the Mr.  Shoto technicians for 9 AM."

"Fine," he said, but he wasn't looking at your report. His eyes were tracking your newly gloved hands as you organized papers on your desk. "You have plans tonight?"

The question was so unexpected, so personal, that you fumbled the stack of documents you were holding.

"Plans?" you repeated, as if the word were in a foreign language.

"Yeah. Plans. After work." He looked almost annoyed at having to clarify. "Food? Entertainment? Shit normal people do?"

Was he... asking you out? No. Absolutely not. That would be inappropriate and unprofessional and completely against everything you'd established in your working relationship.

"I usually just go home to Mochi," you said cautiously. "She gets cranky if I'm late with dinner."

"Your cat," he said, and you could have sworn his shoulders relaxed slightly. "Right. You should bring a photo sometime. For your desk."

Now you were truly disoriented. Bakugo wanted to see pictures of your cat? The same man who'd once barked at Kaminari for wasting time showing pet videos during a staff meeting?

"I suppose I could," you replied slowly. "Though I try to maintain a strictly professional atmosphere in my office."

He made a dismissive sound. "Professionalism doesn't mean you can't have a fucking personality, Frostbite."

There it was again—that nickname. Not "Office Manager." Not your actual name. Frostbite. It was personal in a way that made your heart beat faster.

"Speaking of professionalism," you ventured, holding up your gloved hands. "These are wonderful, but they seem to cross that line we maintain between—"

"They're work equipment," he interrupted flatly. "Like your stapler or your computer. Necessary tools for optimal performance."

You couldn't argue with that logic, though you strongly suspected it was bullshit. Then, the intercom buzzed.

"Yo, Bakugo!" Kirishima's voice crackled through the system. "We've got a situation at Kiyashi Ward. Some idiot with a gravity quirk is floating cars."

Bakugo's demeanor shifted instantly, hero mode engaging. "On my way." He turned back to you, that intensity still in his eyes. "We'll finish this later."

Then he was gone, leaving you staring at your gloved hands and wondering what exactly "this" was.

The next three days brought a whirlwind of boundary-testing encounters that left you increasingly bewildered—and aroused.

First, there was the tea. You'd arrived at work to find a sleek electric kettle on your desk, capable of maintaining precise temperature control, with a note scrawled in Bakugo's unmistakable handwriting: "Six cups a day. This makes it faster."

Then came the office thermostat war. You kept setting it to tropical levels; he kept barging in to complain it was "hot as Satan's asscrack in here," only to linger in your doorway discussing security protocols while radiating enough body heat to warm half the building.

Wednesday brought a delivery of premium-grade hand warmers, the kind used by pro mountaineers—with a sticky note reading simply, "Better than the convenience store crap."

Thursday, he'd appeared at your desk with lunch that "happened to be extra" and just so happened to include spicy miso soup that warmed you from the inside out.

And throughout it all, the touches. A hand at the small of your back guiding you through doorways. Fingers brushing yours when passing documents. Standing close enough during meetings that his natural heat enveloped you like a personal space heater.

It was driving you insane.

Because you weren't blind. You knew what attraction looked like. You'd caught him staring at your lips mid-sentence. You'd noticed how his eyes tracked your movements across the room. You'd felt the deliberate nature of each "accidental" touch.

The problem was, you were equally guilty. You'd started finding excuses to visit his office. You'd begun timing your tea breaks to coincide with his return from patrol. You'd developed a sudden, urgent need to consult him on matters that absolutely could have been handled via email.

Because the truth—the embarrassing, unprofessional truth—was that you wanted him. Not Dynamight, the Number Four Hero whose poster adorned teenage bedrooms across Japan. But Bakugo, the man who remembered how many cups of tea you drank and noticed when your fingers got too cold to type efficiently. The man who fed stray cats when he thought no one was looking. The man who took responsibility for his agency and his team with ferocious dedication.

The man who radiated heat like a furnace and made you fantasize about warming yourself against his body in ways that would definitely violate workplace conduct guidelines.

"Earth to Frostbite."

You blinked, realizing Bakugo had asked you a question that you'd completely missed while lost in your inappropriate thoughts.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" you asked, smoothing down your skirt as you sat across from him in the conference room. The rest of the team had already left the security briefing.

"I said, you're coming to Icyhots charity event next week," he repeated, leaning back in his chair. "The inauguration thing."

It wasn't a question. You raised an eyebrow, momentarily forgetting your professional filter. "Am I now?"

"Yeah, you are." He tapped his pen against the table. "As agency representative. The whole security partnership with Half-and-Half needs official documentation, and you're handling all that shit."

"I see." You consulted your tablet. "I'll make the arrangements. Will you need me to prepare talking points for—"

"Just be there," he cut you off. "Six o'clock. Dress the part.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. "I always dress appropriately for professional events, Mr. Dynamight."

His lip quirked. "Fine. Wear something warm, then. Those Commission ballrooms are always cold as fuck."

The concern for your comfort shouldn't have made your heart flutter, but it did. You stood, gathering your materials, determined to maintain some semblance of professional distance.

"Is there anything else you needed, sir?"

He stood as well, moving around the table until he was directly in front you. Too close to be professional, not close enough to be... whatever you were trying not to think about.

"Yeah," he said, voice dropping to that lower register that made your skin tingle. "Your hands still cold?"

Before you could answer, he reached for your right hand, taking it between both of his. Even through the thermal gloves he'd given you, his heat penetrated immediately.

"This isn't appropriate," you murmured, though you made no move to pull away.

"Says who?" he challenged, turning your hand over to trace patterns on your wrist, just above where the glove ended.

"Says... professional workplace conduct," you managed, distracted by the sensation of his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point.

"I'm the boss," he countered simply. "I decide what's appropriate in my agency."

That was a terrible argument, probably bordering on HR violation territory, but you couldn't seem to form a coherent rebuttal with him touching you like that.

"Besides," he continued, his voice rougher now, "your quirk is endothermic. It pulls heat from your body. I run hot. Basic thermodynamics—heat flows from higher concentration to lower. I'm just... equalizing the energy differential."

You almost laughed. Had Bakugo just tried to justify inappropriately holding your hand with... physics?

"That's not how workplace relations work," you said, finally finding your voice.

"No?" He raised an eyebrow, his thumb still making maddening circles on your wrist. "Tell me you don't work better when you're not freezing your ass off."

You bit your lower lip. 

You couldn't. Because it was true. Your productivity increased when you weren't constantly fighting the cold. Your quality of life improved when your fingers weren't numb. And dammit, you liked it when he touched you.

"This arrangement is mutually beneficial," he continued, pressing his advantage. "You get warmth. I get..." He paused.

"You get?" you prompted, genuinely curious now.

He released your hand abruptly. "I get a functioning office manager who isn't distracted by being cold all the time."

It was a retreat, and you both knew it. He'd been about to say something else. Something more personal. Something that would have crossed the invisible line you were both circling.

"Of course," you said, stepping back, re-establishing professional distance. "Efficiency is key."

A flash of frustration crossed his face. "Are we really going to keep doing this?"

"Doing what?" you asked, though you knew perfectly well what he meant.

"This," he gestured between you. "The 'Mr. Dynamight, sir' bullshit. The professional robot act. You don't do it with Kirishima or Pikachu or Pinky. Just me."

Your brows shot up. "I maintain appropriate boundaries with all the pro heroes—"

"Bullshit," he cut you off. "I heard you laughing with Shitty Hair yesterday about some meme. You had lunch with Dunce Face and Pinky three times last week. You helped Soy Sauce plan his sister's birthday. But with me, it's all 'Yes, Mr. Dynamight' and 'Of course, sir' and perfect fucking professionalism."

You blinked, momentarily speechless. He'd been paying attention. Not just to your cold hands or your tea consumption, but to how you interacted with others versus him.

"You're my direct supervisor," you said finally. "It's different."

"It doesn't have to be."

You stared at him, lips parted.  

"What are you asking for, exactly?" Your voice was quieter now. 

He ran a hand through his already-chaotic hair, looking almost... uncertain. It was such an unfamiliar expression on his usually confident face that it caught you completely off guard.

"Just... be real," he said finally. "Like you were at the izakaya. When you called me hot and touched my face."

Heat rushed to your cheeks at the memory. "I was drunk."

"You weren't that drunk," he countered. "You were just being honest for once."

The accuracy of his assessment stung a little. You had been hiding behind professionalism—using it as a shield against the dangerous attraction you felt toward him. Because admitting that attraction, acknowledging it, would make it real. And real meant risky.

"Fine," you said, making a split-second decision. "You want real? The thermal gloves are amazing, and I haven't had sensation in my fingertips for this many consecutive hours since I was six years old. The tea kettle was thoughtful, and I use it exactly sixteen times a day now, not six. The hand warmers are in my purse, my desk drawer, and my bathroom at home."

His eyes widened slightly. 

"And yes," you continued, committed now, "I'm more casual with the others because they're not you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, voice rough.

You met his gaze directly. "They don't make me nervous."

For a moment, he looked almost hurt, and you rushed to clarify.

"Not nervous-scared. Nervous-flustered." You gestured helplessly. "I can joke with Kirishima because he doesn't make my heart rate triple when he walks into a room. I can have lunch with Mina and not spend the entire time cataloging the exact shade of her eyes or how her hands move when she talks."

The crease in his brows eased. "You're saying I affect you."

"Obviously," you admitted, your professional veneer now completely abandoned. "Why do you think I hide behind formality? It's self-preservation."

A slow smile spread across his face—not a smirk, but something genuine and a little dangerous. "Good to know."

You realized, belatedly, that you'd just handed him ammunition. "This doesn't change anything," you attempted, trying to claw back some professional distance. "I still work for you. There are still boundaries."

"Obviously," he echoed your word back to you, but the way he said it made it clear that something significant had, in fact, changed. "But maybe now you can drop the 'sir' bullshit. At least when it's just us."

It was a small concession, but it felt monumental. "I'll... try."

"Good." He stepped back, giving you breathing space. "So. Your cat."

The abrupt subject change gave you whiplash. "My... cat?"

"Yeah. Mochi. Calico, you said? Show me."

Of all the directions you thought this conversation might go, requesting cat photos wasn't on the list. Yet here you were, pulling out your phone and scrolling to your gallery.

"This is her," you said, showing him a picture of your slightly overweight calico lounging regally on your couch. "She's not particularly friendly or useful, but she's excellent at judging my life choices with a single look."

He took the phone from you, studying the image with surprising intensity. "She's got good coloring," he said finally, swiping to see more photos. "Healthy coat."

You watched in fascination as Bakugo—explosions pro hero, agency owner, feared by villains across Japan—swiped through pictures of your cat with genuine interest.

"Do you have pets?" you asked, realizing how little you actually knew about his personal life.

"No." He handed your phone back. "Hours are shit for animals. Wouldn't be fair."

"But you like them? Cats, I mean."

He shrugged. "They make sense. Independent. Don't take crap from anyone. Know what they want and go after it."

You smiled. "Did you just psychologically identify with cats?"

"Shut up," he growled. 

You laughed—a real laugh, not your polite work chuckle. "That's actually adorable."

"It's not adorable, it's practical. Cats are efficient predators with clear boundaries." But there was a hint of pink on his cheekbones that suggested your teasing had landed.

"Like you," you said, still smiling.

He huffed, crossing his arms. "Whatever. Bring her in sometime."

You blinked in surprise. "Bring my cat to work?"

"Why not? Other agencies do that shit. Pet-friendly workplaces or whatever."

The casual suggestion revealed so many layers. That he'd considered your long hours away from your pet, that he was open to adapting workplace policies, that he'd thought about your comfort beyond just the temperature.

"That's... really sweet," you said before you could stop yourself.

"It's not sweet," he countered immediately, scowling. "It's practical. Happy employees work better. Basic management."

You bit your lip to stop from smiling wider. "Of course. Very logical."

He narrowed his eyes, catching your amusement. "Don't push it, Frostbite."

"Wouldn't dream of it... Katsuki."

His first name slipped out before you could catch it, hanging in the air between you. His eyes widened fractionally, then darkened with something that made your pulse quicken.

For a moment, you thought he might step closer, might cross that final boundary. Instead, he cleared his throat.

"Tell me something else," he said, voice rougher now. "Something not work-related."

 You answered honestly without thinking. "I wanted to be a hero when I was a kid."

His eyebrows shot up. "Yeah?"

You nodded, feeling a little embarrassed. "Before I knew my quirk was so minor. I had All Might posters all over my room. I used to practice hero poses in the mirror."

"All Might, huh?" His expression was unreadable. "Not bad taste."

"Who was your childhood hero?" you asked, genuinely curious.

"Didn't have one. Knew I was going to be one."

That struck you as both sad and incredibly on-brand. "No one you looked up to? Not even a little?"

He was quiet for a moment, then admitted grudgingly, "Midnight. When I was really young. She didn't take shit from anyone."

The admission felt precious, like he'd handed you something fragile and rare. You smiled, not teasingly but with genuine warmth. "I can see that."

A moment of silence stretched between you, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It felt... different. Like you'd stepped across some invisible threshold into new territory.

"This is nice," you said quietly. "Just talking."

He studied you for a long moment. "Could do it more. If you stopped hiding behind 'Mr. Dynamight, sir' all the time."

"I don't know if I can be your friend and your employee," you admitted. "There are boundaries for a reason."

"Who said anything about being friends?" he replied, but his tone wasn't dismissive. If anything, it suggested something else entirely—something that made your skin flush hot. 

The intercom buzzed. Kaminari's voice shattered the moment.

"Yo, Bakugo! Todoroki's security team is here for the final linkup. They need authorization codes."

Bakugo's jaw tightened, but he moved to the intercom. "Be there in a minute." He turned back to you, that intensity still in his eyes. "We're not done with this conversation."

"Of course, Mr.—" You caught yourself. "Of course."

He nodded once, seemingly satisfied, then left to deal with the Todoroki team.

You stood frozen in the conference room, trying to process what had just happened. The professional wall you'd so carefully maintained for months had crumbled in a single conversation. You'd admitted your attraction. You'd used his first name. You'd shared personal details and teased him about identifying with cats.

And instead of the world ending, it had felt... right. Terrifying, but right.

You needed a moment to collect yourself. You headed for the bathroom, locking the door behind you before gripping the sink and staring at your reflection.

Your cheeks were flushed a deep pink. Your pupils were dilated. Your breath came in quick, shallow pants. You looked like you'd just run a marathon—or like you'd just had foreplay.

Because that's what it had been, hadn't it? Not physical, but intellectual. Emotional. The deliberate dismantling of barriers. The strategic exposure of vulnerabilities. The careful escalation of intimacy.

Your body hummed with awareness, with anticipation. Between your thighs, an insistent pulse demanded attention. When you shifted, the fabric of your underwear created a friction that made you bite your lip to suppress a whimper.

"Get it together," you whispered to your reflection. "You are a professional. A grown woman. This is your workplace."

But the pep talk fell flat, undermined by the heat flooding your system and the memory of his voice saying "Who said anything about being friends?" in that tone that promised something far more satisfying than friendship.

You pressed your thighs together, trying to quell the ache. It didn't help. Nothing would, except—

No. Absolutely not. You weren't going to touch yourself in the office bathroom thinking about your boss. That was where you drew the line.

You splashed cold water on your face, adjusted your cardigan, and took three deep breaths. This was fine. You would get through the day, go home, and deal with these feelings in the privacy of your apartment. With Mochi judging you from the foot of your bed.

The thought of your cat made you smile. . Bakugo liked cats. The fearsome explosion hero who struck terror into villains' hearts had wanted to see pictures of your chubby calico. Had suggested you bring her to work.

It was, quite possibly, the most attractive thing about him yet.

* * *

"Mr. Dynamight, I think your tie is trying to strangle you in self-defense."

Bakugo's reflection glared at you in the elevator mirror as he yanked at the offending garment. "Why the hell am I wearing this thing? Half-and-half said hero costume."

"Because," you explained patiently, reaching up to straighten the black silk tie that perfectly complemented his formal hero suit, "this is the charity edition of your costume. The one we commissioned specifically for public-facing events where explosions are not on the menu."

"Tch. There's always room for explosions on the menu."

Your lips twitched. "Maybe as a garnish, not the main course."

The elevator doors opened to reveal the glittering expanse of Shoto’s charity event. The ballroom of the Grand Musutafu Hotel had been transformed into an elegant showcase of hero society's finest. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over displays of silent auction items, while waitstaff circulated with champagne flutes and hors d'oeuvres.

"Remember," you murmured as you stepped into the crowd, "we need three signatures on the security partnership amendment, and the photographer from Hero Weekly wants—"

"Yeah, yeah. Smile pretty for the camera, don't blow anything up, be nice to Half-and-half's sponsors." Bakugo rolled his eyes. "I got it, Frostbite."

"And we call each other by our professional titles in public," you reminded him, though your heart fluttered traitorously at the nickname.

His eyes locked with yours, something dangerous flickering in them. "Right, miss office manager."

You suppressed a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Dynamight."

It had been nearly two weeks since your conversation in the conference room. The one where you'd admitted he made you nervous. Two weeks of increasingly blurred boundaries, lingering touches, and moments of startling intimacy punctuated by your stubborn attempts to maintain professionalism.

Two weeks since you'd started bringing Mochi to the office, after Bakugo had casually changed company policy with nothing more than a gruff "Pets are allowed now. Put it in the manual."

Your cat, normally an aloof princess who treated humans as nothing more than opposable-thumbed food dispensers, had taken one look at Bakugo and decided he was her new favorite person in the universe. The first time she'd jumped onto his lap during a budget meeting, you'd frozen in horror, waiting for the explosion.

Instead, without breaking stride in his presentation about patrol fuel costs, he'd simply started scratching behind her ears with one hand while gesturing at the projector with the other.

Now Mochi regularly abandoned your office to curl up in Bakugo's lap or sprawl across his desk while he worked. You'd caught him talking to her in a low voice more than once, consulting her on "strategic decisions" when he thought no one was listening.

"Is that Midnight's protégé?" Bakugo's question pulled you from your thoughts.

You followed his gaze to a display of support gear being auctioned. "Yes, Phantom Silk. Her fabric manipulation technology has revolutionized hero costume damage resistance."

"Bid on it," he said immediately.

You raised an eyebrow. "The starting bid is 500,000 yen."

"Worth every yen if it means fewer costume replacements. Dunce Face blew through three last month alone."

"I'll add it to the list," you said, making a note on your phone. "Though I'm starting to think you enjoy spending money just to spite your accounting department."

His lip quirked. "What's the point of making money if you can't spend it pissing people off?"

"A philosophy worthy of a needlepoint pillow," you deadpanned, but you were smiling.

This was the Bakugo only you got to see—the one who bought expensive support gear for his team without fanfare, who changed company policy so you could bring your cat to work, who pretended irritation was his only emotional setting but actually paid attention to everything.

You were so focused on him that you nearly collided with another hero approaching from your left.

"Oh! I'm so sorry—" you began, then recognized the figure in the green hero costume. "Deku!"

Midoriya Izuku, the current Number Two hero and Bakugo's former classmate, beamed at you. "You must be Kacchan's office manager! I've heard so much about you!"

"All of it classified," Bakugo cut in, materializing at your side with surprising speed. "What do you want, Deku?"

You shot him a look. "Mr. Dynamight, professional courtesy, remember?"

Midoriya laughed, seemingly unbothered by Bakugo's hostility. "Actually, I've been hoping to meet you for a while now. The training camp you organized was brilliant! Using Kacchan's natural teaching abilities while addressing his public relations challenges."

"Thank you, but Mr. Dynamight did the real work," you replied warmly. "I just handled the logistics."

"She's being modest," Bakugo said unexpectedly. "The camp was her idea. She designed the whole thing."

You blinked. 

Deku’s eyes widened slightly as he glanced between you, then at the way Bakugo had positioned himself slightly behind you, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back. It was a casual touch that shouldn't have felt intimate but did.

"Well, it was inspired," Deku continued. "Actually, I was wondering if you might consider consulting on something similar for my agency? We've been trying to develop more community engagement strategies and—"

"She's busy," Bakugo interrupted flatly. "Dynamight Agency's expanding. She's got enough on her plate."

You felt your cheeks warm. "What Mr. Dynamight means is that my schedule is quite full with our security integration project, but I'd be happy to recommend some excellent PR consultants."

Deku’s  gaze lingered on Bakugo's hand, which hadn't moved from your back. "Of course. No rush at all." His smile turned knowing. "I'm just glad to see Kacchan has found someone who... complements him so well."

Before you could clarify the professional nature of your relationship (a clarification that felt increasingly dishonest), the green hero continued. "How's the Todoroki partnership working out? I was surprised when I heard about it."

"It's going smoothly," you said, grateful for the subject change. "Both agencies have complementary strengths."

"She means we've got better field operations, and Half-and-half's got a better security system," Bakugo translated bluntly. "Though hers is better than his cyber team."

The proprietary "hers" didn't escape your notice. Or Deku’s, judging by his expression.

"You're cold," Bakugo said abruptly, noticing the slight tremor in your hands. Without waiting for a response, he flagged down a passing server, plucked a cup of hot tea from the tray, and handed it to you. "Drink this, Frostbite. Your quirk's acting up again."

The casual attentiveness, the nickname, the way he'd noticed your discomfort before you'd even mentioned it—these small gestures spoke volumes. You accepted the tea gratefully, your gloved fingers brushing his.

"Thank you," you murmured, knowing the heat spreading through you wasn't just from the beverage.

Deku smiled. "I don't think I've ever seen Kacchan notice anyone else's needs before. . Your quirk affects temperature regulation?"

"It's endothermic," you explained, warming your hands on the cup. "I absorb my own body heat to fuel a stress-reduction field."

"Fascinating! Is the effect localized or—"

"For fuck's sake, Deku, she's not one of your quirk research subjects," Bakugo snapped.

"It's fine," you assured him, before turning back to Deku. "It has a radius of about five feet, and the intensity varies based on the ambient stress levels. In crowded situations like this—" you gestured to the packed ballroom "—it works overtime."

"Which is why you're cold all the time," Deku concluded. "And Kacchan runs hot because of his nitroglycerin-based quirk, so you two are—"

"Thermodynamically compatible," you finished, then immediately blushed at the implications. "From a quirk perspective, I mean."

Bakugo's hand tensed slightly against your back, and you could practically feel the heat radiating from him increase a few degrees.

Deku’s eyes lit up with the excitement of scientific discovery. "That's brilliant! Your quirks naturally complement each other. Kacchan's excess heat can offset your thermal deficit. I bet your presence helps regulate his nitroglycerin production too, stabilizing the chemical compounds through the reduced stress response, which would improve his control precision by at least—"

"Deku," Bakugo growled, "if you start muttering quirk analysis at my office manager, I will launch you through that fancy fucking ceiling."

You bit back a laugh. "What Mr. Dynamight means—"

"No, that's exactly what I mean," Bakugo interrupted. 

The green hero  grinned. "Some things never change." He glanced toward the stage, where Todoroki was approaching the microphone. "Looks like the auction's starting. It was wonderful to meet you finally. I hope we get to talk more soon!”

As he  moved toward the front of the room, you turned to Bakugo. "He seems nice."

"He's a pain in my ass," Bakugo muttered, but it lacked his usual venom. "Come on, let's find seats before we get stuck next to Grape Juice."

As he guided you through the crowd, his hand remained on the small of your back, a warm anchor in the sea of heroes and socialites. You should have reminded him about professional boundaries. You should have maintained the appropriate distance between boss and employee.

Instead, you leaned subtly into his touch, allowing yourself to enjoy the simple pleasure of his warmth against the perpetual chill of your quirk.

Just for tonight, you decided, you could let the line blur a little more.

"I can't believe you spent eight million yen at a charity auction," you said as you walked through the park the next day, Mochi's carrier in one hand and a bag of cat supplies in the other.

Bakugo shrugged, carrying twice as many bags with casual ease. "It was for a good cause."

"The children's quirk hospital or the 'outbid Todoroki at his own event' fund?"

His lips curved into that rare, genuine smile that still made your heart skip. "Can't it be both?"

You laughed, the sound carrying on the crisp autumn air. It was Saturday, technically your day off, but somehow you'd ended up accompanying Bakugo to pick up supplies for his new tenant—a scraggly orange tabby he'd found behind the agency three days ago.

The cat had been huddled in a cardboard box, hissing at anyone who approached, thin and defensive with a notched ear and suspicious eyes. Naturally, Bakugo had taken one look at the angry feline and declared, "This one's coming home with me."

When you'd pointed out that he'd never owned a cat before, he'd fixed you with a look and said, "That's why you're helping, Frostbite."

Which was how you found yourself spending your Saturday at the park with Bakugo, Mochi, and the newly-christened Nitro (your suggestion, which he'd grudgingly accepted after rejecting "Murder Mittens" and "Sir Hissy Fit").

"Mochi's going to be a bad influence on him," you said, nodding toward your carrier where your plump calico was observing the world with regal disdain. "She'll teach him expensive tastes and judgment."

"Good," Bakugo replied with absolute seriousness. "He should have standards."

You reached a bench overlooking the duck pond and set down your bags with a grateful sigh. Bakugo arranged his bags neatly before sitting beside you, closer than strictly necessary. Close enough that his arm pressed against yours, sharing his perpetual warmth.

"You're sure Nitro and Mochi will get along?" "Mochi likes a challenge," you assured him. "And she already adores you, so by extension, she'll tolerate your feral child."

He snorted. "He's not feral. He's selective about his social circle."

"Hmm, wonder who that reminds me of," you teased, bumping his shoulder gently with yours.

His eyes met yours, crimson and intense. "You saying I'm feral, Frostbite?"

"I'm saying you hiss at strangers and only let certain people get close," you replied, then added more softly, "And I'm saying it's a compliment."

Without breaking eye contact, he lifted his hand and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, much like he'd done outside Best Jeanist's agency weeks ago. Only this time, there was no pretense of practicality, no excuse of wind or necessity.

Just his calloused fingers brushing against your skin, deliberate and gentle.

"Lucky for Nitro," he said, voice pitched low, "I've got someone who understands difficult personalities."

Your breath caught. "Is that what I do? Understand you?"

"That, and you don't put up with my shit." His thumb traced the curve of your jaw, feather-light. "It's... good. Having someone who sees the real me and sticks around anyway."

You swallowed. This wasn't your boss speaking to his employee. This wasn't the Number Four Hero talking to his office manager. This was just Katsuki, allowing himself to be vulnerable with you.

"Well," you said, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy mood, "cats and Bakugos. I seem to have developed a specialty in managing temperamental creatures who pretend they don't need affection but secretly crave it."

He didn't take the bait for banter. Instead, his hand moved to cup your cheek, warm against your perpetually cool skin. "And what do you crave?"

The question sent a shiver through yoy. In his eyes, you saw desire, yes but also a question, a hesitation, a respect for the boundaries you'd both been dancing around for weeks.

You could have deflected. Could have made a joke. Could have reinstated the professional distance that was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain.

Instead, you placed your gloved hand—the thermal ones he'd given you, which you now wore even on weekends—over his. "Warmth," you admitted softly. "Always warmth."

His gaze dropped to your lips, and for one breathless moment, you thought he might finally cross that last line. You could feel the heat of him, sense the slight tremor in his hand against your cheek, smell the burnt sugar and expensive soap that was uniquely him.

Mochi chose that exact moment to emit a loud, imperious meow from her carrier, shattering the tension.

Bakugo pulled back with a short laugh, his hand falling away. "Your cat has terrible timing."

"She's jealous," you said, your heart still racing as you reached to peer into the carrier. "Aren't you, you spoiled princess?"

Mochi blinked innocently at you, then deliberately turned her attention to Bakugo, meowing demandingly.

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," he muttered, but there was unmistakable affection in his tone as he gently unlatched the carrier door to scratch under her chin.

Watching Bakugo—explosive, temperamental, demanding Bakugo—handle your cat with such gentle care made something warm unfurl in your chest. He treated Mochi the way he treated you: with a gruff tenderness that belied his harsh exterior, as if you were both precious things he wasn't quite sure he deserved but was determined to protect anyway.

"You know," you observed, "Nitro reminds me of you."

He raised an eyebrow. "Because we're both badass?"

"Because you both pretend to be tough and independent," you corrected with a smile, "but secretly, you just want someone to see past all the hissing and love you anyway."

His eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by your insight. For a moment, he looked almost vulnerable, as if you'd peeled back a layer of armor he hadn't realized was transparent.

Then his expression softened into something warm and real. "Maybe.”

* * *

"—and with the integrated alert system, any security breach at either facility triggers simultaneous protocols at both agencies. The response time averages forty-two seconds, which is—"

"Seventeen seconds faster than industry standard," Shoto's security chief finished, examining your digital dashboard with undisguised admiration. "This integration is remarkably elegant."

You smiled, trying not to look too pleased with yourself as you navigated through the custom interface you'd designed. The conference room was unusually crowded today—Shoto's entire security team had come to see the implementation of what they'd been calling the "Dynamight-Shoto

 Integrated Response System." A name that was technically accurate but painfully unimaginative. You'd secretly nicknamed it "FrostFlame" in your own notes, but that seemed a bit too... personal to suggest officially.

"The beauty is in the redundancies," you explained, clicking through to the backup systems page. "If either agency goes dark, the other maintains full operational control with mirrored data access."

Across the table, Bakugo lounged in his chair with his arms crossed, trying very hard to look bored despite the fact that he hadn't taken his eyes off the presentation for the past twenty minutes. You caught him watching you with something that looked suspiciously like pride.

You quickly averted your gaze before he caught you noticing. Things had been... different since the park two weeks ago. Since Nitro and Mochi's introduction, which had gone surprisingly well (turns out combat-ready alley cats and pampered princesses could peacefully coexist if bribed with enough premium treats). Since that moment on the bench when his hand had cupped your cheek and you'd almost kissed you.

"What about quirk-based attacks on the system itself?" Shoto asked, his mismatched eyes studying the screen thoughtfully.

You suppressed a smile. Of course he'd ask the one question you'd been waiting for.

"I'm so glad you mentioned that," you said, clicking to a new tab. "If you'll notice here, we've implemented what I call 'quirk signatures' throughout the code architecture."

The room's attention sharpened. Even Kaminari, who'd been balancing a pen on his nose in the corner, sat up straighter.

"Essentially, we've created unique digital 'scents' that only replicate with authentic user quirk markers," you continued. "Any attempt to hack in with a mimicry or duplication quirk triggers immediate shutdown and containment protocols."

"That's..." Shoto's tech lead started, leaning forward to examine the code.

"Impossible," his cybersecurity expert finished. "The quantum encryption alone would require—"

"Eight weeks of sleepless nights and approximately seventeen liters of tea?" you offered with a self-deprecating smile. "Because that's exactly what it took."

A low whistle came from Kaminari. "Damn, boss lady. No wonder you've been looking like a caffeine-possessed zombie."

"Thank you for that flattering assessment of my appearance, Mr. Chargebolt," you replied dryly, though your lips twitched with amusement.

"What Dunce Face means," Bakugo cut in, shooting Kaminari a withering look, "is that it's impressive. Not that anyone's surprised."

Coming from Bakugo, this qualified as effusive praise. You felt a flush creeping up your neck and quickly turned back to the presentation.

"The final component is physical security integration," you continued, clicking through to the last screen. "Both agencies now have identical emergency protocols, evacuation routes, and response teams. We've run three successful drills so far, with the latest clocking in at—"

The conference room door swung open, cutting you off mid-sentence. Ashida— the new receptionist appeared, looking uncharacteristically flustered.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said, "but, uh... Hawks is here?"

Your heart did a completely unauthorized somersault in your chest.

Hawks. The ex-winged hero with the lazy smile and razor-sharp mind who'd been your celebrity crush since... well, approximately forever. The same Hawks who was now apparently standing somewhere in Dynamight Agency. Probably looking effortlessly cool while you were wearing your comfort cardigan with the coffee stain on the sleeve that you'd thought no one would notice today.

"What does Bird Brain want?" Bakugo demanded, immediately on alert.

Ashida poked her head back into the hallway, then turned back with a baffled expression. "He says he's here for a... management systems efficiency assessment?"

All eyes turned to you. You blinked, equally confused.

"That's... not a scheduled appointment," you said, already pulling up your calendar on your tablet to double-check. "I don't have any Commission visits logged until next month's quarterly review."

"Well, he's specifically asking for you," Ashida said, looking more nervous by the minute.

A sharp, predatory glint flickered across Bakugo's face—a brief tightening around his eyes that you'd learned to recognize as his 'territorial warning sign.'

"Tell him we're in the middle of a security integration," Bakugo growled.

"Actually," Shoto interjected calmly, rising from his seat, "we've seen all we need. The system exceeds expectations." He turned to you with a slight nod. Victory. "You've done exceptional work."

"Thank you, Mr. Shoto," you replied, professionalism masking the pleasure his approval brought. Despite Bakugo's rivalry with him, you genuinely respected Shoto's technical competence.

As Shoto's team began gathering their materials, you smoothed down your cardigan and checked your reflection in the dark screen of your tablet. Great. Not only was the coffee stain visible, but your hair was doing that weird thing where it couldn't decide if it wanted to be professional or just give up and become a bird's nest.

Which, considering you were about to face Hawks, seemed ironically appropriate.

"I'll go greet him and find out what this is about," you told Bakugo, who was now scowling so hard you worried he might strain something.

"We'll finish here," he replied, eyes flicking meaningfully to Shoto's team. The message was clear, he'd handle the wrap-up so you could deal with this unexpected visitor.

You nodded gratefully and headed for the door, trying very hard not to look like you were mentally cataloging every awkward interaction you'd ever had with Hawks at Commission meetings (there were precisely seven, and yes, you remembered each one in excruciating detail).

As you stepped into the hallway, you took a deep breath and activated your "professional mode." The same mode that had gotten you through meetings with intimidating support company executives, hostile media interviews, and—most impressively—Bakugo's morning briefings before he'd had coffee.

You rounded the corner to the reception area and there he was, casually leaning against the front desk, examining one of your potted succulents with curious interest.

"Mr. Hawks. What an unexpected pleasure. How can Dynamight Agency assist the Commission today?"

Hawks looked up with that easy smile that had launched a thousand fan clubs. "There she is—the organizational mastermind I've been hearing so much about."

Was that a compliment? A joke? A random observation? With Hawks, it was always hard to tell. You maintained your professional smile while your inner voice screamed something incoherent about his perfectly tousled hair.

"I apologize, but I don't recall scheduling a management systems assessment," you said, consulting your tablet again even though you knew perfectly well nothing was there.

"That's because there isn't one," he replied with a wink. "Just needed a reason that would get me past the reception desk. Your security protocols are impressive, by the way. Took me three attempts to convince your front desk my visit was legitimate."

Your professional pride warred briefly with your annoyance at his casual circumvention of your carefully crafted security measures.

"I'm glad our frontline protocols are working, even if they ultimately failed," you said, making a mental note to review reception clearance procedures. "But if this isn't an official visit, may I ask why you're here?"

Hawks glanced around the reception area, where Kaminari was now hovering with poorly disguised curiosity, pretending to examine a wall display of hero licenses.

"Mind if we chat somewhere more private?" Hawks asked.

Warning bells immediately went off in your head. Private conversations with Commission officials rarely ended well. The last one had resulted in the mandatory partnership with Shoto's agency, which, while ultimately beneficial, had been a bureaucratic nightmare to implement.

"Of course," you replied smoothly, gesturing toward your office. "This way, please."

As you led Hawks down the hallway, you noticed Kaminari frantically texting someone, his thumbs moving at lightning speed. Great. Office gossip about Hawks' visit would be circulating before you even closed your office door.

You ushered Hawks into your office. Your sanctuary of organization amid the chaos of hero work. The only place in the agency where plants thrived, paperwork stayed in neat stacks, and the temperature remained at a balmy "tropical rainforest" setting to combat your perpetually cold state.

"Nice space," Hawks commented, glancing around at your meticulously organized shelves, the color-coded filing system, and the small shrine of tea varieties arranged by caffeine content. "Very... you."

"Thank you," you replied, closing the door and gesturing to the visitor chair. "Please, have a seat. How can I help you today?"

Hawks settled into the chair. You took your own seat, clasping your hands on the desk to hide the fact that they were trembling slightly. Not from cold this time, but from a combination of nervousness and the lingering effects of your adolescent crush.

Get it together, you scolded yourself. You manage Bakugo Katsuki on a daily basis. Hawks is just another professional contact.

A professional contact with perfect cheekbones and a smile that made your knees weak, but still.

"I'll cut to the chase," Hawks said, leaning forward slightly. "The Commission has been watching your work here at Dynamight Agency. The security integration with Shoto's agency, in particular, has caught our attention."

You maintained your professional expression while mentally running through twenty different worst-case scenarios. Was there a compliance issue? A security breach? Had the Commission reconsidered the partnership agreement?

"We've followed all Commission guidelines for the integration," you assured him. "All protocols are compliant with the latest—"

Hawks waved a hand dismissively. "No, no—nothing like that. Actually, we're impressed. Very impressed. What you've accomplished here in just a few months is, frankly, unprecedented."

Oh. That was... not what you expected.

"Thank you," you said cautiously. "It's been a team effort."

"Has it, though?" Hawks tilted his head, those sharp eyes seeing too much. "From what I hear, you singlehandedly designed the cross-agency alert system, revamped Dynamight's entire administrative structure, and somehow managed to get Dynamight and Shoto working together without bloodshed. That's... remarkable."

The praise was flattering, but something about his tone made you uneasy. This wasn't just a social call or a casual compliment.

"What exactly are you getting at, Mr. Hawks?" 

His smile widened, approving. "Direct. I like that." He leaned back in his chair. "Here's the situation. The Commission is establishing a new Interagency Coordination Division. We need someone who understands both the administrative and security sides of hero work. Someone who can implement large-scale systems that actually function in the real world, not just look good on paper."

Your pulse quickened. "And you're telling me this because..."

"Because I want you to run it."

The world seemed to pause for a moment as you processed his words.

"You want me to... what?" you managed.

"Run the new division," Hawks repeated, as casually as if he were suggesting you try a new tea blend. "Full Commission authority, team of twelve coordinators to start, budget of fifty million yen annually, and direct reporting line to the top three heroes."

Your mind raced. That kind of position was... career-defining. The salary alone would be at least triple what you made now. The authority, the resources, the chance to implement coordination systems across all hero agencies in Japan...

It was the kind of opportunity that came once in a lifetime.

"I—I don't know what to say," you admitted, professional composure cracking slightly.

"Say yes," Hawks suggested with a grin. "The Commission office has much better climate control. I noticed you're always cold here."

You glanced down at your thermal gloves then around at your office. At the plants Kirishima had given you. At the framed photo of the team after the training camp. At Mochi's cat bed in the corner, where she spent her days when she wasn't harassing Bakugo for attention.

"I'm very flattered by the offer," you said carefully. "But this is quite unexpected. I'd need time to consider."

"Of course," Hawks replied, reaching into his jacket to pull out a sleek business card. "Take the weekend. But the Commission moves fast on these things. We'd need your answer by Monday."

He placed the card on your desk. A simple black with red lettering, his personal contact information embossed in gold.

"This is my private number," he added. "Call anytime with questions. Or just to chat." He flashed that signature smile that had probably launched a thousand workplace crushes just like your own.

Three months ago, that smile would have had you stammering like a teenager. Now, though, it just made you think about a different smile—rarer, sharper, but somehow infinitely more valuable because you had to earn it.

"I appreciate the opportunity," you said, taking the card. "And the consideration. I'll think it over carefully."

Hawks stood. "That's all I ask. Though between us—" he leaned in slightly, voice lowering "—I think you're wasted here. The Commission could use someone with your particular... temperance."

Before you could respond, a sharp knock came at your door, followed immediately by it swinging open. Bakugo stood in the doorway, arms crossed and expression thunderous.

"Security integration debrief in five," he announced flatly, eyes flicking between you and Hawks. "Whole team."

The timing was suspicious, to say the least. You strongly suspected there was no scheduled debrief.

"Of course, Mr. Dynamight," you replied smoothly. "I'll be right there."

Hawks looked between you and Bakugo. "Well, I won't keep you from your... debrief." He turned back to you with a slight bow. "Think about what I said. Monday."

"I will," you assured him, rising to escort him out.

Bakugo didn't move from the doorway, forcing Hawks to squeeze past him. The territorial display was so blatant it was almost comical.

"Dynamight," Hawks nodded as he passed.

"Bird Brain," Bakugo returned flatly.

You followed them both into the hallway, maintaining your professional demeanor despite the tension crackling between the two heroes.

"Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Hawks. I'll be in touch."

Hawks gave you one last smile—this one softer, more genuine than his usual media-ready grin. "Looking forward to it." With a casual salute to Bakugo, he headed toward the exit.

The moment Hawks was out of sight, Bakugo turned to you with narrowed eyes. "What did he want?"

You hesitated, Hawks' card burning a hole in your cardigan pocket. Something held you back from sharing the full truth—perhaps the raw possessiveness in Bakugo's expression, or the way his fingers flexed at his sides as if preparing to grab onto something that might slip away.

"Just checking on the security integration," you said, the lie slipping out more easily than you expected. "The Commission is monitoring all the enforced partnerships."

Bakugo's eyes narrowed further, clearly not fully buying your explanation. "And he needed to do that in your office? With the door closed?"

"Some of the protocols are confidential," you improvised, hating how natural the deception felt. "Commission eyes only."

He studied you for a long moment, and you had the uncomfortable feeling he could see right through you. Then, surprisingly, he let it drop.

"Fine. Half-and-half's team is leaving. They want to say goodbye or whatever."

You nodded, relieved at the subject change. "I'll see them out."

As you walked back toward the conference room, Bakugo fell into step beside you, close enough that his arm occasionally brushed against yours. You were achingly aware of his heat, of how your body instinctively leaned toward him like a plant seeking sunlight.

Hawks' offer echoed in your mind. Fifty million yen. Full Commission authority. Climate control.

But no grumpy explosion hero secretly feeding stray cats. No Kirishima bringing you plants. No Kaminari's terrible jokes or Mina's gossip sessions. No agency that, against all odds, had started to feel like home.

No Bakugo looking at you the way he had in the park, like you were something precious and unexpected.

The Commission job was logical. It was career advancement. It was security and recognition and resources.

But logic had nothing to do with the way your chest tightened at the thought of leaving this chaotic, dysfunctional, wonderful agency you'd helped build.

By the time you reached the conference room, Shoto was already preparing to leave, his team gathered around him like a perfectly coordinated unit.

"Thank you for the demonstration," he said with his characteristic calm. "The system exceeds expectations. Your work is... impressive."

"High praise from Half-and-half," Bakugo muttered beside you, but there was a smugness in his tone that suggested he was actually pleased.

"Thank you, Mr. Shoto," you replied with a genuine smile. "It's been a pleasure working with your team."

As you exchanged final pleasantries and escorted them to the door, you found your resolve solidifying. The card in your pocket seemed to get lighter with each step.

By the time you returned to the main office area, where Kirishima, Kaminari, and Mina were very obviously trying (and failing) to look like they weren't waiting to ambush you with questions, your decision was made.

"Sooooo," Mina drawled, sidling up to you with barely contained excitement, "what did the previous Number Two want with our office manager? Spill!"

Kaminari leaned against a desk, attempting to look casual. "Yeah, not every day Hawks himself shows up asking for private meetings."

"Was it about the security stuff?" Kirishima asked, his expression more genuinely concerned than nosy. "Everything okay with the Commission?"

You looked at their faces—these heroes who had somehow become not just colleagues but friends and the lie came easier the second time.

"Nothing exciting," you said with a dismissive wave. "Just checking on how the partnership with Shoto is progressing. Standard Commission oversight."

"That's it?" Mina looked disappointed. "All that secrecy for a progress report?"

You shrugged, feeling a twinge of guilt at the deception. "Government bureaucracy at its finest."

"Hawks could have just called," Kaminari pointed out suspiciously. "Why come in person?"

"Maybe he just wanted to see our awesome office," Kirishima suggested, ever the optimist. "We're kind of a big deal now, you know."

"Maybe," Mina agreed, though she was still eyeing you thoughtfully. "Or maybe he just wanted to see our amazing office manager. He was totally checking you out, you know."

You felt your cheeks warm. "He was not."

"Was too," Kaminari chimed in. "I recognize that look. It's the same one I use on the cute barista at the coffee shop."

"Which explains why you always get decaf instead of regular," you retorted, deflecting with humor.

As they laughed, you felt the weight of Hawks' offer and your lie pressing down on you. You needed air, space to think about what you'd just silently decided.

"I don't know about you guys, but I'm starving," you announced. "Dinner? My treat."

"Free food?" Kaminari perked up immediately. "I'm in!"

"Me too!" Mina chirped. "That new fusion place just opened in Kiyashi Ward!"

"I could eat," Kirishima agreed with his usual enthusiasm.

As you all gathered your things and headed for the door, you cast one last glance back at the office—at the security monitors showing the integrated systems you'd built, at the schedules you'd created, at the order you'd imposed on chaos.

At Bakugo, who had emerged from his office and was watching your little group with an unreadable expression.

For a fleeting moment, your eyes met. Then he gave you a small nod, as if confirming something only the two of you understood.

You turned away, Hawks' card heavy in your pocket, and followed your friends out the door. The decision was made, even if no one else knew it yet. Monday would come, and you would call Hawks, and you would say no to the opportunity of a lifetime.

Because sometimes the most logical choice wasn't the right one.

Sometimes the right choice was staying right where you belonged, coffee stains, chaos, and all.

Chapter Text

 "Fuck!" Bakugo's palm slammed against the elevator wall. "Fucking government bullshit elevator in this fucking—"

The car jerked violently, throwing both occupants off-balance. The lights flickered once, twice, then died completely, plunging them into darkness for three agonizing seconds before dim red emergency lights hummed to life.

"That can't be good," his office manager muttered beside him.

No shit. The meeting with the Commission had already put him in a foul mood. Forty minutes of bureaucrats in pressed suits telling him how to run his agency while they'd never thrown a single punch at a villain. Now this.

He jabbed the emergency call button. Nothing. Not even static.

"Piece of shit," he growled, pressing his ear against the metal doors. His hearing aid picked up nothing but the distant electrical hum of the building. No approaching footsteps. Nothing.

Movement beside him drew his attention. Frostbite was pressing buttons on her phone, her face illuminated by the blue glow of the screen.

"No service," she reported, her professional tone intact despite the situation. "Commission building has signal blockers in the elevator shafts for security purposes."

Of course they did. Paranoid bastards.

He activated his own phone's flashlight, sweeping the beam around the confined space. Standard Commission elevator: metal walls, no ceiling panel, no obvious escape routes. They'd designed these things to be villain-proof, which meant they were also hero-proof.

The speaker panel above the buttons suddenly crackled to life.

"Attention. Security protocol seven-dash-three has been activated. All transportation systems are temporarily locked down. Please remain calm. Estimated resolution time: two hours. Repeat: two hours."

"Two hours?" Bakugo hit the wall again, this time with enough force to dent the metal. "What kind of second-rate operation—"

"Mr. Dynamight." Her voice was steady, measured. Always the professional. "Perhaps conserving oxygen would be beneficial."

"There's plenty of fucking oxygen," he snapped, but he stopped pounding the wall. She was right, as usual. Losing his shit wouldn't get them out any faster.

He turned, the red emergency light casting strange shadows across her face, the air around her. He could feel it. The temperature in the small space was plummeting. Her quirk, her stupid, self-sacrificing quirk, was kicking into overdrive, feeding on her stress and leeching the warmth from everything around her. A visible cloud of condensation plumed from her lips as she spoke.

"Your quirk is activating."

"I'm fine."

He saw the goosebumps rising on her arms. He saw the faint blue tinge to her lips. And a feeling, hot and possessive and angry, roared to life in his gut. Angry at the Commission for their shitty elevators. Angry at her quirk for hurting her. Angry at her for standing there and freezing to death out of some misplaced sense of professionalism.

"You're not fine," he said flatly. "You're freezing."

She straightened her spine, that stubborn professional mask firmly in place. "It's a minor discomfort. I'll manage until—"

"For fuck's sake," he growled, closing the distance between them. "We're stuck in this metal coffin for two hours. Drop the act."

He pressed his body against her back, wrapping his arms around her middle, pulling her flush against his chest. She was like a block of ice. The cold of her seeped through his suit jacket, a shocking, invasive chill that went straight to his bones. In response, his body did what it always did: it generated heat. Waves of it, a furnace kicking on, pushing back against the cold she was emitting.

"Mr. Dyna—"

His hands locked over her stomach, just below the soft swell of her breasts. Her entire body was trembling now, a fine vibration he could feel through every point of contact. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her hair—clean, floral, hers.

"Bakugo," he corrected, his mouth close to her ear. "We're locked in a fucking elevator. Pretty sure we're past formalities."

"This is... highly unprofessional," she murmured, but made no move to pull away.

This wasn’t professional. He knew that. He could feel the exact moment his dick began to harden, pressing against the small of her back through the layers of their clothing. A familiar, inconvenient tightening that was a direct result of having her soft, trembling body plastered against his. He didn't care. All that mattered was pouring his heat into her, driving out the chill that was making her lips blue and her skin look like porcelain. He wanted to melt her.

For a long moment, she remained ramrod straight in his arms, a statue of frozen tension.

"So write me up for a fucking HR violation when we get out," he muttered, adjusting his hold to envelop her more completely. Her body gradually warmed up where they touched.

Then, with a shuddering sigh that seemed to release every ounce of tension she’d ever held, she sagged against him. Her head fell back, resting on his shoulder. Her hands came up to rest on his forearms, not to push him away, but to hold him there. She melted into his heat, her body going pliant and soft in his embrace.

Victory. A hot, savage thrill shot through him. He’d finally broken through. Underneath the cardigans and the polite smiles and the unshakeable competence, here she was. Just… her. And she was his to keep warm.

Dangerous territory. Very dangerous.

"Better?"

She nodded, the movement causing her hair to brush against his jaw. "Thank you. I don't usually... it doesn't usually activate without my control."

"Being trapped tends to fuck with control," he replied, trying to ignore how perfectly she fit against him.

A slight laugh escaped her—not her polished work laugh, but something genuine and slightly shaky. "Is that why you're not currently blasting your way through the doors?"

"Building's quirk-dampening field is strongest in the elevators," he explained, surprising himself with how steady his voice sounded despite the riot happening in his body. "I could probably still manage a few pops, but not enough to break through Commission-grade steel."

"So we're actually stuck."

"Looks like it."

She sighed, and the sound was so unguarded, so unlike her usual controlled responses, that something shifted in his chest. This wasn't his perfect, composed office manager. This was just her, the woman behind the professional facade.

"And now you're seeing why I hate the Commission," he added, trying to distract himself from how soft she felt in his arms. "Everything's a goddamn security theater."

Another tremor ran through her, and instinctively, he tightened his hold. His palms splayed against her stomach, and he was suddenly, painfully aware of how thin the fabric of her blouse was, how little separated his calloused hands from her skin.

"The dampening field explains why it's so cold," she murmured. "Your quirk runs hot naturally, so the field is probably affecting your body temperature regulatory system."

Always the analytical one, even in crisis. It was oddly endearing.

"My temperature's fine," he said. It wasn't a complete lie. The quirk dampener wasn't affecting his heat—but something else definitely was. Something about holding her, feeling her gradually relax against him, was sending his temperature climbing.

"At least one of us is," she mumbled, then seemed to catch herself. "I mean—I'm sorry, this is incredibly inappropriate of me to—"

"Stop." He cut her off firmly. "Just... stop with the professional bullshit for two seconds. We're trapped in a box. No one's here to evaluate your performance."

For a moment, she said nothing. Then, to his surprise, she laughed—a real laugh, soft and slightly bitter.

"Force of habit," she admitted. "Years of corporate training doesn't disappear overnight."

"Years of bullshit, you mean. We’re sitting down,” he commanded, not releasing her. He slowly guided them down, his back against the cool metal wall, until they were both sitting on the floor of the elevator. She ended up tucked between his legs, her back still pressed firmly against his chest, his arms a cage around her.. He found he gave less than a single fuck.

The silence stretched, but it wasn't awkward. It was comfortable. This was… quiet. The ringing in his ears, the constant background static of his own mind, was dulled. It was always like this when she was close. A balm. His serenity.

"Better?" he asked, praying she wouldn't shift around too much.

"Mmm," she agreed, her head tipping back to rest against his shoulder. "You're very warm."

"Nitroglycerin sweat," he explained. "Runs hot."

"Lucky for me," she murmured, and the soft, unguarded quality of her voice did dangerous things to his self-control.

They sat in silence for a moment, the red emergency light casting the elevator in crimson shadows. Her breathing had steadied, the worst of the shivers subsiding as his body heat enveloped her. He should have felt satisfied with that, problem solved, crisis averted. Instead he wanted more. 

"So," he began, struggling to find neutral territory for conversation. "This your first time getting trapped in an elevator?"

She laughed again.  "Is that your idea of small talk?"

"I don't do small talk."

"Clearly." She shifted slightly, getting more comfortable against him. "But no, it's not. I got stuck in one during my first internship. Nineteen years old, wearing uncomfortable heels, trapped for forty minutes with the company CEO."

That caught his interest. "What happened?"

"I pitched him three business improvement ideas I'd been too intimidated to share in meetings." A smile colored her voice. "He implemented two of them and offered me a full-time position after graduation."

Of course she had. Even trapped in an elevator, she'd been strategizing, planning, seizing opportunity. It was so perfectly her.

"You've always been like that, haven't you?" he mused aloud. "Turning disasters into advantages."

She turned her head slightly, enough that he could see her profile in the dim light. "Is that how you see me?"

The question seemed weighted, important somehow. He considered deflecting with sarcasm but found himself answering honestly instead.

"I see someone who calculates every move. Someone who's always three steps ahead—" his voice dropped lower, "—except when she isn't."

Her breath caught audibly. "When am I not?"

"When you defended me at the izakaya. When you got drunk and called me hot. When you forgot your professional bullshit for five seconds and were just... you."

She was quiet for so long he wondered if he'd overstepped. Then, softly: "I'm not very good at being 'just me' anymore. The professional version is safer."

"Safer how?"

Another shift, another dangerous friction of her body against his. "Safer because... because people expect things from 'the office manager' that they don't expect from... me. Clear boundaries. Limited emotional investment. Predictable responses."

"Sounds fucking exhausting."

Her laugh vibrated against his chest. "It is, sometimes. But it's also... armor, I guess."

Armor. He understood that better than most. His aggression, his fury, his constant pushing—they were his armor too. Protection against failure, against weakness, against the terror of not being enough.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it. "Behind all that armor."

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft sound of their breathing and the distant hum of the building. For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer. That the professional mask would slide back into place, and the moment would be lost.

Instead, she sighed, a sound so weighted with truth it seemed to change the air in the small space.

"Disappearing," she finally said. "Becoming invisible. Just... fading into the background of someone else's story."

The admission hit him with unexpected force. He'd always seen her as so confident, so self-contained. The idea that she feared invisibility when she was the most vividly present person in any room to him was jarring.

"That's not possible," he said flatly.

She made a questioning sound, and he continued.

"You're not background material. You walk into a room, and everything fucking rearranges around you."

She went very still in his arms. "That's... not true."

"It is," he insisted, suddenly needing her to understand this fundamental truth he'd never bothered to articulate before. "You think I don't notice how Kirishima straightens up when you enter? How Dunce Face actually tries to act professional for five seconds? How Half-and-Half barely looks at anyone else when you're talking strategy?"

He paused, then added more quietly, "How I can't focus on anything else when you're in the room?"

Her breath hitched. "Bakugo..."

"Your turn," he said quickly, suddenly uncomfortable with his own honesty. "Ask me something."

She seemed to consider this, her body warm and solid against his. "What are you afraid of?"

Of course she'd turn his own question back on him. He should have expected it—she never let him get away with anything.

"Stagnation," he answered, surprised by his own immediacy. "Getting stuck. Not being better tomorrow than I was today."

She nodded thoughtfully. "That's why you push so hard."

"I have to."

"No," she countered gently, "you want to. There's a difference."

No one challenged him like this. No one pushed back, questioned his fundamental assumptions about himself. It was infuriating and exhilarating all at once.

"What else?" she asked, and there was a softness to her voice he rarely heard—the voice she used when it was just the two of them, late at night in the office, reviewing reports or strategizing campaigns.

"Being forgotten. Working my whole life to be the best, only to end up a footnote in someone else's story."

The echo of her own fear wasn't lost on either of them. He felt her shift, turning more fully toward him in the limited space, her eyes searching his face in the red-tinted darkness.

"That won't happen," she said with such certainty that he wanted to believe her. "You're too... incandescent."

Incandescent. Burning bright. Unforgettable.

The proximity, the emotional intimacy, the darkness—it was all starting to blend together. The heat in his body was no longer just a furnace for her; it was pooling in his groin, a heavy, aching throb behind his zipper. The head of his cock was painfully sensitive, weeping a bead of slick against the fabric of his briefs. He could feel every soft shift of her body against his. The curve of her hip pressed against his inner thigh, the swell of her ass nestled perfectly against the hard ridge in his pants.

He imagined slipping his hands up from her stomach, under the fabric of her blouse. Imagined mapping the smooth skin of her ribs, her waist. He wanted to cup her breasts, to feel their weight in his palms, to learn their shape through the  her bra. He wanted to turn her around, press her against the wall, and taste the admission he saw in her eyes. He wanted to claim her, mark her skin with his teeth, make her smell like him—like burnt sugar and sweat and possessive rage.

Mine. The thought was a primal growl in his skull.

"Yeah, well," he muttered. "Someone's gotta keep the agency running while you're fielding job offers from Hawks."

He hadn't meant to say it. Hadn't meant to reveal that he knew or at least suspected, what Hawks had really been doing in her office that day. But the words were out now. 

Her body tensed against his. "What?"

"Hawks," he repeated, something dark and possessive unfurling in his chest. "Pretty fucking obvious he wasn't there for a security check."

She pulled back slightly, creating distance between them, and he immediately missed her warmth. "I don't know what you're—"

"Don't," he cut her off. "Don't lie to me. Not here. Not now."

Their eyes met in the crimson half-light, a silent battle of wills. He saw the moment she decided on honesty.

"He offered me a job," she admitted quietly. "Running a new division at the Commission."

An ugly, possessive jealousy clawed its way up his throat. The idea of her leaving of walking into the agency and not finding her there, of someone else managing his schedule, of never seeing that small smile she reserved just for him when he'd done something that surprised her—it was unthinkable.

"When?"  he snarled, his face inches from hers. The red light pulsed across her terrified, beautiful face. 

"Last month. The day he came to the office."

A month. She'd kept this from him for a month. Had she been considering it all this time? Planning her exit strategy while smiling at him across conference tables?

"Are you taking it?" The question came out rough, almost a growl.

She hesitated, and that pause felt like acid in his veins.

"I told him no." She challenged.

Relief crashed through him with such force it momentarily stole his breath. She wasn't leaving. She'd chosen to stay. With the agency. With him.

"Why?"

She looked away, breaking eye contact. "It wasn't the right fit."

"Bullshit," he challenged. "Commission job? More money, more power, shit that actually works? Sounds exactly like your kind of fit."

Her eyes snapped back to his, a flash of genuine anger breaking through her composure. "You don't get to decide what's 'my kind of fit,' Bakugo."

"Then explain it to me," he pressed, leaning forward, closing the distance she'd created between them. "Why turn down the perfect job?"

"Because it's not perfect! Because I've worked for soulless bureaucracies before. Because I'd rather build something real than manage something hollow."

The air stalled in his lungs at her words, But he needed to know. Needed to hear the full truth.

"That all?" he pushed, his voice dropping lower. "No other reason?"

Her eyes widened slightly. She swallowed, and he tracked the movement of her throat in the dim light.

"What are you asking me, exactly?"

Instead of answering, he moved. In one fluid motion, he shifted their positions, turning her to face him directly, his back still against the elevator wall, her now kneeling between his legs. His hands found her waist, holding her there.

"I'm asking," he said, voice dangerously soft, "if Hawks was part of the package deal."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"Bird Brain," he repeated, his fingers flexing against her waist. "Pretty convenient, him personally delivering a job offer. Let me guess—private office? Direct reporting line? Late-night strategy sessions?"

Her lips parted in a silent oh as the pieces clicked into place, but a second later she was shaking her head. "Are you—are you actually suggesting I would take a job because I'm attracted to Hawks?"

"Are you?" The question came out sharp, possessive.

For a second, she just stared at him. Then, to his surprise, she laughed—a short, incredulous sound.

"Unbelievable," she muttered. "The great Dynamight, Number Four Hero, is jealous of a former pro with a government desk job."

"I'm not jealous!" he growled, even as his grip on her waist tightened reflexively. "I'm asking a simple fucking question."

"No, you're being possessive over someone you haven't actually staked any claim on," she challenged, fire lighting her eyes in a way that made his blood race. "Unless I missed something? Did I sign some contract that gives you exclusive rights to my career decisions? Or my personal life?"

Her boldness, her willingness to push back when he pushed—it did things to him. Dangerous, primal things— things that had everything to doo with her pressed against him in this small space, her eyes bright, lips parted.

"No contract," he conceded, his voice dropping to a rumble that seemed to vibrate in the small space between them. "But don't pretend there's nothing here."

Her breath caught and she stared back at him. "Define 'here.'"

Instead of answering with words, he shifted one hand from her waist to her face, his calloused thumb tracing along her jawline. Her skin was soft beneath his rough fingers, and he felt her pulse jump at the contact.

"This," he said simply, watching her pupils dilate in the dim red light. "You and me. The thing we've been dancing around for months."

She didn't pull away from his touch, but her eyes remained challenging. "The thing you've never actually addressed directly."

"I'm addressing it now."

A small, disbelieving smile curved her lips. "In a locked elevator. After accusing me of being attracted to Hawks."

"Timing's not my strong suit," he admitted, his thumb now tracing the curve of her lower lip.

Her eyes fluttered at the touch, and he felt a surge of satisfaction at her reaction. She wanted this—wanted him—just as much as he wanted her. All the professional distance, all the careful boundaries, they'd been a pretense for both of them.

"So what is your strong suit, then?" she asked, her voice slightly breathless.

He leaned closer, until their faces were inches apart, until he could feel her warm breath against his lips. "Action."

Her eyes dropped to his mouth, then back up to meet his gaze. "Prove it."

The challenge in her voice was the final thread of his control snapping. He closed the remaining distance, his hand sliding to the back of her neck, pulling her toward him—

The elevator jerked violently. The red emergency lights flickered, then died, plunging them into total darkness for one heart-stopping moment before the regular lights blazed back to life with painful brightness.

"System reset complete. Security protocol deactivated. Service resuming momentarily."

The mechanical voice from the speaker was like a bucket of ice water. She jerked back from him, blinking in the sudden light, her professional mask sliding back into place with devastating efficiency. By the time his eyes adjusted, she was already on her feet, smoothing down her skirt, finger-combing her hair back into its precise style.

"That was fortunate timing," she said, her voice back to that polished, professional tone that made him want to punch something. "Less than two hours, as promised."

Fury and frustration boiled under his skin. Tiny explosions popped against his palms as he pushed himself to his feet, savage satisfaction coursing through him when she flinched at the sound.

Good. At least she wasn't completely unaffected.

"Fortunate," he echoed flatly, watching as she rebuilt her walls brick by meticulous brick. "Right."

The elevator hummed back to life, beginning its descent once more. He shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the sparks still crackling there.

She stood with perfect posture, eyes fixed on the door, as if the last two hours—the confessions, the closeness, the almost-kiss—had never happened.

But her hands were trembling.

And as the elevator doors finally slid open to reveal the Commission lobby, he couldn't help but notice:

She was no longer cold at all.

* * *

  The massive hero billboard lit up the night sky, Bakugo's own larger-than-life scowl glaring down at the city from its perch at Number Four. And some fucker in a mask was spray-painting "OPPRESSOR" across his face in jagged red letters.

  "Found our vandals," Bakugo muttered into his comm, left palm already warming with the familiar itch of nitroglycerin. "Three targets. Northwest corner of Hiyashi and 4th."

  Pinky's voice crackled in his earpiece. "On my way! Don't start the fun without me, Blasty!"

  Too late. The heat was already building in his palms, the tell-tale scent of burnt sugar rising like a warning. Three figures in black tactical gear with crimson bandanas covering the lower half of their faces. Spray paint on his fucking face. The math was simple.

  Bakugo launched himself from the rooftop, right hand cocked back, the night air rushing against his skin. "HEY ASSHOLES!"

  The smallest one spotted him first, eyes widening above the mask. "Shit! It's Dynamight!"

  The explosion rocketed from his palm, deliberately aimed at the billboard's support structure rather than the vandals themselves. Metal groaned. Sparks showered the street. The trio scattered like roaches as the massive sign tilted precariously.

  "Heroes are the real villains!" the tallest one shouted, palms flattening against the pavement. The concrete beneath Bakugo's feet suddenly rippled, then buckled upward like a wave.

  Bakugo blasted himself into the air, avoiding the concrete surge, his hearing aid picking up the distinct sound of acid sizzling against asphalt as Pinky arrived, melting through the wave of pavement.

  "QFF, right?" she called, her pink skin glowing under the street lights as she slid into position beside him. "The Quirk Freedom freaks from the briefing?"

  "Obviously," Bakugo snarled, tracking the three as they separated, each bolting down a different alley. Tactical. They'd planned for hero intervention. "You take the small one. I've got the other two."

"On it!"

  Twin explosions propelled him after the taller figures—one heading east, the other north. Panic made people sloppy. 

  The one heading north had the concrete quirk. More dangerous. Bakugo banked hard, using a smaller explosion to correct his trajectory, launching himself over a delivery truck. The ringing in his ears intensified with each blast, a familiar white noise that sharpened his focus rather than dulled it. Pain was just background static in the hunt.

  "Stop running and face me, you fucking coward!" Bakugo roared.

  The masked figure whirled around. Their hands slapped against the side of an apartment building, and chunks of brick suddenly separated from the wall, hurtling toward Bakugo like missiles.

  Amateur hour. 

  Bakugo weaved between the projectiles, using precision micro-blasts from his fingertips to deflect what he couldn't dodge. His palms ached with the strain of such controlled output. Each boom echoed through the narrow street, glass windows rattling in their frames.

  "You can't silence us!" the concrete-quirk user shouted, voice high with adrenaline. "Quirks aren't meant to be regulated! Heroes are just government attack dogs!"

  Bakugo answered with a concentrated AP Shot that blasted through the next barrage of brick chunks, the concussive force throwing the masked figure back into a parked car. The alarm shrieked, adding to the chaos.

  "Save the fucking manifesto," Bakugo growled, closing the distance, smoke still rising from his gauntlet. "You defaced my face. That's personal."

  The figure struggled to their feet, wobbling. "Your face is everywhere because the system puts you on a pedestal while quirk users who aren't 'heroes' get treated like criminals just for existing!"

  Something hard slammed into Bakugo from behind—a street sign, ripped from its foundation. He stumbled forward, shoulder blades screaming from the impact. The second QFF member had doubled back, their hand outstretched, metal objects from the street hovering around them like satellites. Metallic manipulation quirk.

  Perfect. Now he didn't have to chase the fucker down.

  "Two against one?" Bakugo's lips pulled back in a feral grin, the pain in his back fading beneath the rush of combat. "Those odds still favor me."

  The metal manipulator hurled a mailbox, a bicycle rack, and three trash can lids simultaneously. Bakugo countered with a sweeping explosion that detonated just before impact, the blast wave sending the projectiles scattering harmlessly into the street.

  "You heroes think you're gods!" Metal Quirk shouted, voice cracking with emotion. "You profit from our oppression!"

  "I don't think I'm a god," Bakugo snarled, launching himself forward on a controlled blast. "I know I'm fucking better than vandals who hide behind masks!"

  The concrete user made a desperate lunge, hands slapping the ground, sending another wave of pavement buckling upward. Bakugo had anticipated it this time. He redirected his momentum, using the rippling concrete like a ramp, blasting himself higher, then pivoting mid-air to face both attackers.

  Both hands forward. Sweat thick on his palms. The burn building deep in his muscles, familiar and electric.

  "Howitzer Impact!"

  The explosion illuminated the entire street, the sound reverberating between buildings like thunder. Controlled enough to avoid structural damage, powerful enough to send both QFF members slamming backward into the pavement.

  Bakugo landed, knees absorbing the impact, the recoil sending jagged pain up his wrists to his shoulders. Worth it. The concrete user was down, mask half torn away, revealing a young man barely out of his teens. The metal manipulator was still conscious, struggling to stand, blood seeping through the mask where it had split over the bridge of their nose.

  "You—you're proving our point," the metal user gasped, fingers twitching as a street sign trembled weakly beside them. "Violence is the only language heroes understand."

  Bakugo closed the distance in three swift strides, grabbed the front of their tactical vest, and lifted them until their feet dangled above the ground.

  "No, I'm proving that fucking with my face on a billboard was the dumbest decision you made today," he growled, eyes locked on the defiant gaze visible above the mask. "Second dumbest was not running faster."

  A flash of pink in his peripheral vision. Pinky sliding around the corner, acid coating her hands like gloves, her usual cheerful demeanor replaced by focused professionalism.

  "Got mine zip-tied two blocks over," she called, surveying the destruction. "Whew! You sure don't hold back, Blasty."

  "They didn't,"  he replied, dropping his captive none too gently, then planting a boot firmly on their chest when they tried to rise. "Concrete Quirk is unconscious. This one's still got some fight."

  The metal manipulator struggled beneath his boot. "There were supposed to be five of us. The others must have spotted you before—"

  "Shut it," Bakugo snapped, increasing the pressure. The ringing in his ears had intensified to a high-pitched whine, adrenaline and quirk overuse taking their toll. "Where's the third one that was at the billboard?"

  Pinky crouched beside the concrete user, checking their pulse before securing their wrists with specialized quirk-dampening cuffs. "My guy was babbling about some big demonstration. Something about making heroes 'feel what it's like to be controlled.' Sound familiar?"

  The metal manipulator's eyes widened slightly above the mask—a tell. Bakugo caught it immediately, his focus sharpening.

  "What demonstration?" he demanded, leaning more weight onto the captive's sternum. "Answer, or I'll give you a matching bruise on the other side of your face."

  "We're not terrorists," the metal user wheezed, defiance still burning beneath the fear. "We're freedom fighters. Quirks are natural. The licensing system is slavery."

  Bakugo's patience evaporated. He grabbed the front of the mask and yanked it down, revealing a young woman, maybe twenty-five, with a metal stud in her lower lip that vibrated slightly with her quirk.

  "Your 'freedom fighting' nearly dropped a two-ton billboard on civilians," he snarled. "And I don't have time for your half-assed philosophy." He reached down and roughly patted the pockets of her tactical vest, finding a hard object in the inner pocket.

  A device. Sleek black rectangle with a cracked screen. Some kind of reinforced smartphone or communicator. The impact from his Howitzer had cracked the screen, but it was still powered on, displaying a map with blinking red dots.

  "Pinky," he called, holding up the device. "Found something."

  She secured the other captive and joined him, eyes widening as she looked at the screen. "Those are all Commission regulatory sites," she said, pointing to the dots. "Record storage facilities, licensing offices, quirk registration centers."

  Bakugo's eyes narrowed. "And the blinking ones?"

  "Targets," the metal quirk user spat, her face twisted with a mix of pain and conviction. "Every hero license issued is a collar around a quirk user's neck. You don't even see the chains they've put on you."

  The dots were blinking at five locations, timestamps beside each one. The closest was marked for thirty minutes from now. Shit.

  "Call it in," Bakugo ordered, tossing the device to Pinky. "Get backup to each location. And find out where the hell our third runner went."

  "On it!" She activated her comm, rattling off the coordinates to dispatch.

  Bakugo crouched down, bringing his face inches from the metal manipulator's. "Where's the main target?"

  She pressed her lips together, the metal stud glinting.

  "Wrong answer." He grabbed her wrist, turned her palm upward, and let a small, controlled spark pop just above her skin. Not touching, but close enough for her to feel the heat, to see the lethal potential hovering centimeters from her flesh. "Trust me when I say I'm asking nicely, for now."

  She flinched but maintained her silence, eyes darting to the side. Somebody had trained these fuckers in resistance techniques.

  "Let me try," Pinky said, finished with her call. She crouched beside the captive, her tone softening. "Look, people could get hurt. Whatever point you're trying to make won't land if civilians die. Is that what you want?"

  Nothing. Just the same fanatical glare.

  Bakugo stood up, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. Every second wasted was a second closer to whatever the QFF had planned. Standard interrogation techniques wouldn't work in the field, not with the clock ticking.

  Time to break protocol.

  He grabbed the concrete quirk user's unconscious body and dragged it over, positioning it next to the metal manipulator.

  "What are you doing?" Pinky asked, wariness creeping into her voice.

  Bakugo ignored her, focusing entirely on the conscious captive. "Your buddy here? The one who can reshape concrete? I'm guessing he's important to your little revolution. Friend? Boyfriend? Brother?"

  The metal manipulator's eyes widened fractionally. Bingo. Some connection there.

  "Here's the deal," Bakugo continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "I'm going to place my palm on his chest. Not enough to kill him. Just enough to leave a scar he'll never forget. Then I'll ask my question again. If you don't answer, I'll ask a third time, with my palm on his face."

  "You can't—" the woman started, genuine fear cracking through her revolutionary facade. "Heroes don't—"

  "I'm not most heroes," Bakugo cut her off, his palm hovering over the unconscious man's sternum. Sweat beaded on his skin, the smell of nitroglycerin sharp and acrid. "I'm the Number Six Hero because I do what's necessary. Now. The main target. Location. Five seconds."

  "Bakugo," Pinky murmured, a warning in her tone.

  He ignored her, starting the count. "Five."

  The metal manipulator's eyes darted between his palm and the unconscious man's face.

  "Four."

  Her breathing quickened, the metal stud in her lip vibrating faster.

  "Three."

  "This isn't—" she started.

  "Two."

  His palm lowered, the heat now visible as a shimmer in the air above the unconscious man's chest.

  "One."

  "The Commission Headquarters!" she blurted, voice cracking. "The main licensing database. If it's destroyed, every hero has to re-register. It exposes the entire system."

  Bakugo didn't move his palm. "Time?"

  "Midnight," she said, tears now streaming down her face. "They have someone on the inside. Security codes. They can shut down the defensive systems."

  He held her gaze for three more seconds, then slowly lifted his palm away from the unconscious man. He hadn't intended to follow through—couldn't have, not without crossing a line he refused to cross—but she didn't need to know that.

  "You're bluffing," the woman whispered, desperate hope in her voice. "Heroes don't torture people."

  Bakugo leaned in close, his voice pitched for her ears alone. "You defaced my face on a billboard, attacked me with a street sign, and planned to bomb government buildings. Did I fucking stutter when I said I'm not most heroes?"

  Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. Pinky was already on her comm again, relaying the new information about the Commission Headquarters.

  "The third one," Bakugo pressed. "Where would they go?"

  "Back to base," the metal quirk user said, all resistance crumbling. "There's a warehouse in the old industrial district. Three blocks from the abandoned ferris wheel. That's where we've been planning. There are fifteen more of us."

  Bakugo straightened up as the first police cruiser rounded the corner, lights flashing. Pinky gave him a look—part relief, part concern, with a hint of disapproval.

  "Did you mean it?" she asked quietly as the officers approached. "About burning his face?"

  The ringing in his ears had dulled to a persistent background hum, the post-battle crash beginning to set in. His shoulders ached from the recoil. His palms were raw.

  "No," he admitted, keeping his voice low. "But they don't know that. And we've got four more attack sites to secure in under thirty minutes."

  Pinky studied his face for a moment, then nodded once. "Backup's already en route to all locations. We should head to the Commission Headquarters. That's where the real action will be."

  "Fine. But first—" He walked back to the metal manipulator, who flinched as he approached. He crouched down again, making sure the police officers were still too far away to hear. "One more question. Who's your insider at the Commission?"

  She hesitated, glancing at the approaching officers, then leaned forward and whispered a name in his ear. A name that made his blood run cold.

  Bakugo's expression didn't change, but his palms sparked involuntarily, tiny pops like firecrackers.

  "If you're lying," he said quietly, "I'll find you in whatever cell they put you in."

  "I'm not," she replied, a strange calm settling over her now that she'd surrendered everything. "You'll see soon enough."

  As the police officers reached them and began securing the scene, Bakugo stood and moved away, pulling Pinky with him.

  "Problem?" she asked, reading the tension in his shoulders.

  Bakugo stared in the direction of the distant Commission building, its illuminated top floors visible above the city skyline. The same building where he'd nearly kissed his office manager in a stuck elevator just three days ago. Where she'd admitted to choosing the agency—choosing him—over Hawks and a Commission job.

  Hawks. The name the metal manipulator had whispered. The supposed inside man.

  "We need to move," he said, already activating his gauntlets. "Now."

  "What did she tell you?" Pinky pressed, jogging to keep up as he strode toward the edge of the cordoned area.

  Bakugo didn't answer immediately. The thought of Hawks being involved with an anti-hero terrorist group seemed absurd on its face. But Hawks had always operated in gray areas, had infiltrated the villain league years ago. Had offered his office manager a job out of nowhere.

  "Nothing confirmed," he finally said. "But if she's right, we've got bigger problems than a dataset." He turned to face Pinky, his expression deadly serious. "Call the agency. Tell Frostbite to activate all security protocols. No one in or out until we get back."

  Pinky's eyes widened. "You think they'd target us? Why?"

  The answer was simple. Because the Commission had forced the partnership with Half-and-Half. Because Dynamight Agency was the public face of quirk regulation compliance lately, thanks to his office manager's PR wizardry. Because they'd somehow known he and Pinky would be patrolling this exact route tonight.

  "Call it in," he repeated, already calculating his trajectory toward the Commission building. "And keep up."

  With that, he blasted off into the night sky, the force of his quirk vibrating through his bones. The ringing in his ears intensified with each explosion, but he pushed through it, one thought drowning out the pain:

  If they touched a single hair on his office manager's head, there wouldn't be enough left of the QFF to fill a dustpan.

* * *

Bakugo rocketed through the night sky, each explosion propelling him higher, faster. Pinky kept pace below, skating on acid trails. The Commission Headquarters loomed ahead, its upper floors now obscured by smoke.

"All units be advised," the comm in his ear crackled with static. "Multiple quirk-users assaulting Commission Headquarters. Structural damage to east wing, security barriers compromised. Civilian evacuation in progress."

Another voice cut in. "This is Shoto. Squad Two has triangulated the signal disruption source to the Commission's subbasement. Moving to intercept."

Half-and-half was already there. Fucking perfect.

"Update on civilian casualties?" Bakugo barked into his comm.

"Two heroes down. No confirmed civilian fatalities."

That was something, at least. Bakugo's ears rang with each blast from his palms, the familiar whine becoming white noise that sharpened his focus rather than dulled it. He adjusted trajectory, angling toward the Commission's main entrance where chaos unfolded beneath him.

Three QFF members in tactical gear were systematically demolishing the reinforced security barriers with coordinated quirk blasts. Concrete twisted and buckled. Steel melted. Glass shattered. Civilians streamed out of the building, some assisting the injured, others running blindly in panic.

Bakugo's mind processed the tableau in rapid snapshots. Two heroes down—Blood King pinned beneath rubble, Mountain Tim clutching what looked like a broken arm. Security personnel attempting to establish a perimeter. QFF forces—he counted seven visible targets—organized in tactical formation. Three at the entrance. Two guarding the flanks. Two more just visible through the shattered lobby windows, heading deeper into the building.

"Pinky!" he shouted. "Acid wall on the south flank. Trap the perimeter guards. I'm taking the entrance."

"On it, Blasty!" Pinky peeled off toward the south side of the building, her quirk already activating in her palms.

Bakugo didn't wait to see her execute. He readjusted mid-air, aiming straight for the three QFF members demolishing the entrance. His gauntlets were hot against his forearms, the smell of nitroglycerin sharp in his nostrils as he pooled sweat in his palms.

No time for subtlety.

"HOWITZER IMPACT!"

The explosion rocked the plaza, a controlled inferno that blasted the three QFF members away from the entrance without destroying what remained of the building's facade. His boots hit the ground amidst settling dust and debris, knees absorbing the impact, shoulders already tensing for the next attack.

One of the QFF members struggled to rise—a woman with some kind of sonic quirk based on the amplification devices attached to her throat. Bakugo didn't give her time to activate. A swift kick knocked her back down, and he secured her wrists with quirk-dampening cuffs from his belt.

"Dynamight!" Pinky called, sliding around the corner on a trail of acid. Behind her, two QFF members were trapped in a bubbling pool of corrosive liquid that had eaten through the pavement but stopped short of damaging their tactical gear. "Got these two secured!"

Bakugo nodded once. "Three at the entrance neutralized. But there are at least two more inside heading for the database."

"How do you know that's their target?"

"Because I'm not an idiot," he snapped, already striding through the shattered entrance. "The licensing database is their whole fucking manifesto. Stay on the perimeter. More could be coming."

The Commission lobby was a scene of calculated destruction. Not random damage—targeted. Security systems destroyed. Communication hubs smashed. And spray-painted across the marble walls in jagged crimson letters: QUIRKS ARE BIRTHRIGHT, NOT PRIVILEGE.

Emergency lights cast red shadows across the debris-strewn floor. The sound of fighting echoed from deeper in the building—shouts, the crackle of quirks, the distinctive whoosh of Half-and-half's ice formation.

Bakugo navigated the debris field seamlessly, stepping over fallen beams and shattered glass. The ringing in his ears intensified with each boom that echoed through the corridors, but he filtered it out, focusing on tracking the path of destruction.

"Burn the records! Free the quirks!" The chant echoed from down the corridor to his right.

Server room. Sixth floor. The fastest route would be the central stairwell, assuming it wasn't collapsed.

It was, of course, blocked by a twisted heap of concrete and steel—courtesy of a quirk user with a seriously fucked-up sense of architectural design. Bakugo blasted a path through it, the controlled explosions precise enough to clear debris without risking further structural damage.

Two QFF members appeared at the end of the corridor, both wielding what looked like modified support gear. One tall, with a quirk that seemed to turn his arms into bladed weapons, lunged forward.

Bakugo met him with a right hook enhanced by a micro-explosion that sent the man crashing into the wall. The second attacker fired some kind of energy blast from a modified gauntlet. Bakugo dodged, countering with an explosion that blasted the weapon from the attacker's hand.

"The fuck are you even doing here?" Bakugo snarled, grabbing the second attacker by the front of his tactical vest. "What's your endgame? Destroy all the records and then what? No more heroes?"

"Freedom!" the man spat. "No more government telling us how to use our quirks!"

Bakugo slammed him against the wall, his patience evaporating. "And how many civilians get hurt in your freedom revolution? How many buildings collapse? How many kids get caught in the crossfire?"

The man said nothing, just glared with the glazed conviction of a true believer. Bakugo secured him with quirk-dampening cuffs, then did the same with the other attacker who was still dazed from the impact with the wall.

Two down. But there were more. And the database was still at risk.

He navigated through the wreckage, following the path of destruction toward the central server room. The sound of fighting grew louder. A a familiar crackle of ice formation followed by the boom of something heavy impacting a wall.

Half-and-half was engaged with multiple opponents outside the server room's reinforced doors. Four QFF members surrounded him, one already encased in ice up to the neck, the others wielding more of those modified gauntlets.

For a split second, Bakugo considered leaving him to it. But the mission took priority over petty rivalries.

"Behind you!" Bakugo shouted, launching himself over a fallen support beam toward the nearest enemy.

Todoroki didn't flinch, didn't even look back. He simply sent a wave of ice spreading across the floor behind him, trusting Bakugo to adapt. Irritating as fuck, but effective. Bakugo used the ice as a launching point, propelling himself with a controlled blast that sent him sailing over the frozen surface toward the QFF member trying to flank Todoroki.

The impact of boot against jaw was satisfying, dropping the attacker instantly. Bakugo pivoted, palms already smoking with accumulated sweat, and unleashed a barrage of precision blasts that drove the remaining two QFF members back from the server room doors.

"Two more inside," Todoroki reported, as he formed another ice barrier. "They've breached the server room. Backup system activating, but primary database at risk."

"Why the fuck are you still out here then?" Bakugo snapped, already moving toward the doors.

"Securing the perimeter. Preventing reinforcements. Being strategic." The slight emphasis on the last word was Todoroki's version of a dig.

Bakugo ignored it, blasting the frozen doors open with a controlled explosion that shattered the ice without damaging the reinforced frame. Inside, the server room was a technological fortress—row upon row of blinking servers, cooling systems humming at maximum capacity, and in the center, the main licensing database terminal.

Where two QFF members were frantically working to override the security protocols.

One was typing at inhuman speed, fingers blurring across the keyboard, some kind of computer-interface quirk clearly at work. The other stood guard, hands glowing with energy that looked designed to melt through the server racks.

"Step away from the fucking terminal," Bakugo growled.

The guard whirled, hands blazing brighter. "Too late, hero. In thirty seconds, every record in the Commission database will be scrambled. The licensing system crashes today!"

"Twenty-five, actually," the one at the terminal corrected without looking up, fingers still flying across keys.

Bakugo didn't waste time with more threats. He calculated angles, blast radius, potential damage to the servers. Then fired a concentrated AP Shot—not at the attackers, but at the ceiling above them.

Precision would have made his old hag proud. The blast dislodged a single ceiling panel, which crashed down onto the terminal user's head with perfect accuracy. The guard turned, distracted by his partner's cursing, and Bakugo was on him before he could refocus, a swift kick knocking his legs out from under him.

"I said," Bakugo repeated, planting a boot firmly on the guard's chest, "step away from the fucking terminal."

The one who'd been typing struggled to rise, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead where the ceiling panel had struck. "Doesn't matter. Damage is done. System's already corrupting."

"Bullshit." Bakugo kept his boot firmly in place while securing the guard's wrists with quirk-dampening cuffs. "Commission tech is redundant as fuck. You'd need hours to break through the firewalls completely."

"Unless," the tech user said, smiling despite the blood dripping into his eyes, "you have inside help."

A chill ran down Bakugo's spine that had nothing to do with Half-and-half's ice quirk just outside the door.

Hawks.

"Pinky!" Bakugo called into his comm. "Get in here and secure the server room. I've got two more for processing."

"On it!" came her immediate reply. "Area's secure outside. Just mopping up strays now."

Bakugo crouched down, grabbing the tech user by the front of his tactical vest. "Talk. Who's your inside man?"

The tech user's smug smile didn't waver. "Wouldn't you like to know? But it doesn't matter anymore. Phase One is complete."

Phase One. That meant there was a Phase Two.

"What's Phase Two?" Bakugo demanded, his grip tightening until the tactical fabric began to strain.

"Infrastructure," the tech user said, eyes gleaming with fanatic conviction. "Why attack heroes when you can cut off their support? Communication hubs, support companies, those shiny new hero agencies dependent on a single civilian manager to run everything..."

Bakugo's blood ran cold.

Dunce Face and Shitty Hair were out on patrol in the eastern district. Cellophane and Pinky were here. The agency would be minimally staffed. Just security and...

Her. Alone.

"You're targeting support personnel," Bakugo said, his voice deadly quiet.

"The heroes are just the face," the tech user confirmed, still wearing that maddening smile. "Cut off the hands that enable them, and the whole system collapses. We have teams dispatched to every major hero support hub in the city. Including your that's been all over the news lately."

Bakugo's palm connected with the man's jaw before he'd even processed the motion. Not an explosion—just a raw, vicious punch that snapped the tech user's head back and wiped the smile off his face.

"When?" Bakugo snarled, grabbing him by the throat. "When did they deploy?"

"Fuck you," the tech user spat, blood staining his teeth from Bakugo's strike.

Bakugo's control slipped. A small explosion popped in his free palm, close enough to the tech user's face for him to feel the heat, see the deadly potential hovering centimeters from his skin.

"I'm only asking once more," Bakugo said, voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "When did they deploy?"

The tech user's eyes darted between Bakugo's face and the crackling palm. "T-twenty minutes ago. Strike teams to all designated targets."

Twenty minutes. She might already be—

No. She was smart. Prepared. She'd have followed protocols. Activated the security measures they'd implemented with Half-and-half's help. The safe room was reinforced with enough steel to withstand his Howitzer Impact. She'd be there. She had to be.

"Pinky!" he barked as she entered the server room. "Comm status?"

"System's back online," she reported, her usual bubbly demeanor replaced by professional focus. "Recovery teams are en route to secure the building. Todoroki is coordinating with—"

"Get on the line with our agency. Now. Confirm security status."

Pinky's eyes widened slightly at his tone, but she nodded, immediately activating her comm. "Dynamight Agency, this is Pinky. Status report."

She waited, eyes on Bakugo. Then shook her head. "No response. Could be the system's still unstable."

Of course it was. Because nothing could ever be fucking simple.

"You," Bakugo said to the tech user, securing his wrists with the remaining cuffs from his belt, "are going to tell the Commission everything about your organization, or I'll personally ensure you're registered with the most restrictive quirk classification possible, right after I rearrange your fucking face."

He shoved the man toward Pinky, who took custody with a frown of concern. "Bakugo, what's happening?"

"QFF is targeting support infrastructure. Including our agency."

Her eyes widened. "But—"

"I'm heading back. Now," he cut her off, already moving toward the door. "Hold things down here. Tell Half-and-half to check his agency too."

"Wait!" Pinky called after him. "The Chairman wants all senior heroes for debrief, and you're injured!"

He ignored her, the slight twinge in his shoulder barely registering compared to the ice-cold dread pooling in his gut. She was alone at the agency. Because he'd sent her the security alert and then gotten distracted by the Commission attack. Classic fucking misdirection. Hit the big, obvious target to draw away the heroes, then strike at the vulnerable points while they're occupied.

He sprinted through the corridors, past Commission staff and emergency workers already beginning to restore order. An officer tried to stop him at the shattered entrance, but Bakugo blasted past, launching himself into the night sky with an explosion that sent debris scattering.

"Dynamight!" a voice crackled over his comm. The Chairman. "All heroes are to remain at headquarters for—"

Bakugo switched off his comm with a savage jam of his thumb. The ringing in his ears intensified as he propelled himself across the city, each massive explosion straining already tired muscles. The pain in his shoulder flared with each blast—a deep ache where a piece of rebar had caught him during the chaotic fighting in the Commission corridors.

Fuck the debrief. Fuck the Chairman. Fuck Hawks, if he really was involved in this mess. Nothing mattered except getting to the agency. Getting to her.

The city blurred beneath him, buildings and streets reduced to smudges of light and shadow. In the distance, smoke rose from multiple locations. The QFF's coordinated attack was citywide, just as the tech user had said. Support infrastructure. The invisible network that kept heroes functional.

A massive explosion to his left drew his attention—the East Side Communication Hub engulfed in flames. Two blocks west, a support gear workshop was under siege, figures in tactical gear exchanging quirk-blasts with security forces.

He should stop. Should help. It was his job as a hero to minimize casualties, to protect infrastructure.

But his agency was still ten blocks away. And she was there. Alone.

Strategic priority. That's how he justified it to himself. Protecting critical support personnel was a higher-order objective than infrastructure. The smoke would wait. The fires would wait. The other heroes could handle it.

She couldn't wait.

He pushed harder, channeling more sweat to his palms, ignoring the burning in his shoulders and the sticky sensation of blood seeping through his hero costume where the rebar had torn his skin. Each blast was agony on his abused palms, but he fed the pain into more power, more speed.

Eight blocks. Six. Four.

The familiar silhouette of Dynamight Agency appeared ahead, and his heart stuttered in his chest. No smoke. No visible damage. The outer security lights were still functioning, washing the perimeter in harsh white illumination.

He landed hard in the agency's secure courtyard, knees protesting the impact, breath coming in ragged bursts. The reinforced entrance doors were sealed—security protocol engaged as designed.

Good girl.

He pressed his palm against the scanner, waiting for the agonizing three seconds it took to recognize his biometric signature. The doors slid open with a hydraulic hiss, revealing the dimly lit lobby beyond.

"Frostbite!" he called, voice echoing in the empty space. "Report!"

Nothing. Silence, broken only by the faint hum of backup generators.

Fuck.

He moved through the agency at a dead sprint, checking her office first. Empty. Break room. Empty. Conference room with its new security monitors. Empty.

The safe room. It had to be the safe room.

He skidded to a halt outside the reinforced steel door hidden behind a false wall panel in the main operations center. His hand shook slightly as he pressed it against another scanner, more blood smearing the pristine surface.

"Biometric signature recognized," the automated system chimed. "Welcome, Dynamight."

The door slid open, revealing the agency's panic room—a twelve-by-twelve space with independent power, communications, air supply, and enough rations for seventy-two hours. And in the center, illuminated by the blue glow of security monitors, sat his office manager.

She looked up from the monitors, eyes widening as she took in his blood-spattered appearance. "Mr. Dynamight! You're injured!"

She was alive. Unharmed. Her cardigan wrapped tightly around her frame, her hands visibly trembling with cold but alive. 

The primal, possessive instinct in his chest unclenched its vicious grip, allowing him to breathe fully for the first time since the tech user had mentioned the agency.

"Are you secure? Any breach attempts?"

She stood. "Security protocols engaged immediately after your alert. I've been monitoring all access points. Two individuals in tactical gear attempted entry at the delivery entrance twenty-three minutes ago, but retreated when the deterrent measures activated."

His knees nearly buckled with relief. The QFF had tried. They'd failed. Because she was competent. Because she'd followed protocols. Because she was fucking perfect at her job.

"Get your things," he ordered, throat tight around the words. "You're going home."

"That won't be necessary," she replied, already turning back to the monitors. "I can monitor the situation from here and coordinate with—"

"That wasn't a suggestion." He stepped closer, aware of the nitroglycerin sweat still dripping from his palms, of the blood staining his costume, of how wild he must look. "It's an order. Agency is compromised. QFF is specifically targeting support personnel."

Her eyes widened slightly. "I see. In that case, I should gather the essential files and—"

"No," he cut her off. "No files. No work. Just you, out of here, now."

She studied his face for a moment, seemingly about to argue, then nodded once. "Of course, Mr. Dynamight. Just let me—"

"Bakugo," he corrected, the word rough in his throat. "We're past the 'Mr. Dynamight' bullshit. Grab your coat. My car's in the secure garage."

He turned, expecting her to follow, and was halfway to the door when her cold hand circled his wrist. The shock of contact froze him in place.

"Your shoulder," she said quietly. "You're still bleeding."

He glanced down. His costume was torn where the rebar had caught him, blood still seeping slowly from the wound. He'd hardly noticed it in his desperate race across the city.

"It's fine," he muttered. "Flesh wound."

"At least let me bandage it before we go," she insisted. "The safe room has a full med kit."

He wanted to argue, to insist they leave immediately, but the determined set of her jaw told him it would be faster to just give in. "Fine. Two minutes. Then we go."

She wasted no time, pulling the med kit from a wall cabinet and immediately gesturing for him to sit on the small bench near the monitors. Her hands were still cold as she helped him remove the top half of his costume, but they were steadier now.

"The QFF?" she asked, inspecting the jagged tear in his shoulder.

"Contained. At the Commission, at least." He winced as she applied antiseptic to the wound. "Citywide attack. Multiple targets."

"I've been monitoring emergency channels," she said, hands gentle but firm as she cleaned away the blood. "Communication disruption across multiple districts. Support gear facilities hit. Police frequencies reporting at least eight confirmed attack sites."

Of course she had been monitoring everything. Efficient, even in crisis.

"They were specifically targeting agencies with minimal security," he explained, focusing on the facts rather than the warm pressure of her fingers on his bare skin. "Newer agencies. Independent operations."

"Like ours," she concluded, beginning to apply a pressure bandage to his shoulder. "Good thing we implemented those security upgrades with Mr. Shoto's agency."

The mention of Half-and-half's agency would've normally irritate him, but right now he was just grateful for the integrated system that had kept her safe.

"Yeah," he agreed, watching her face as she worked. Her proximity, the subtle floral scent of her, her hands—it all amplified the visceral relief coursing through him. She was safe. He'd gotten here in time. She was unharmed.

"There," she said, securing the bandage with medical tape. "That should hold until you can get proper treatment."

He stood, rolling his shoulder to test the bandage. It held firm, the pain dulled to a manageable throb. He pulled his costume back on, ignoring the torn fabric and dried blood.

"Let's go," he said, heading for the door again. "I'm taking you home."

"That's not—"

"Non-negotiable." He cut her off, already striding toward the operations center, knowing she would follow. "Agency is a target. You're a target. My car. Now."

This time she didn't argue, just gathered her bag and coat, following him through the darkened hallways to the secure elevator that led to the underground garage. 

His personal vehicle, a black sports car with custom reinforcement and a quirk-modified engine sat in its designated space, gleaming dully under the dim emergency lights. He opened the passenger door for her, a gesture so automatic he didn't think about how uncharacteristic it might seem.

Once inside the car, he activated the engine with a palm-print scan, the vehicle humming to life with a low, powerful purr. The garage door retracted after another security scanner verification, revealing the empty alley behind the agency.

"Are you sure you should be driving?" she asked as he pulled out, her voice soft in the confined space. "Your shoulder—"

"I'm fine," he said automatically, then caught himself. "It's handled. Not my first injury."

She was quiet for a moment, looking at his profile as he navigated through the darkened city streets. Emergency vehicles wailed in the distance, and a faint haze of smoke hung over the skyline to the east.

"I was worried," she admitted finally, her voice so quiet he almost missed it over the car's engine. "When your alert came through, I thought—I didn't know if—"

"I'm fine," he repeated, gentler this time. "QFF is just a bunch of idealistic idiots with fancy toys. Nothing I couldn't handle."

She nodded, her hands folded tightly in her lap. He noticed she still hadn't stopped shivering.

Without thinking, he cranked the car's heater to maximum, directing the vents toward her.

Her small smile of gratitude twisted in his chest—a sweet, sharp feeling.

"Thank you," she said. "For coming back to check on me. I know you were needed at the Commission."

"You're my responsibility," he replied, the words tumbling out rough and unplanned. Then he corrected himself, "The agency is my responsibility."

"Still." Her cold hand found his forearm across the center console, resting there for just a moment. "Thank you."

He didn't pull away.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, the city's chaos receding as they entered her residential district. Normal life somehow continuing despite everything—people walking dogs, lights on in apartments, a couple laughing as they exited a restaurant.

He pulled up outside her apartment building, parking in a loading zone with typical disregard for regulations.

"I'll wait until you're inside," he said, killing the engine.

She gathered her bag, then hesitated, hand on the door handle. "Mr. Dynamight—Bakugo. Are going back to the Commission?"

He nodded. "Have to. Cleanup, interrogations, the whole debrief shitshow."

"Be careful," she said softly. "Your shoulder needs proper medical attention. You—"

"I'll handle it," he cut her off. "Just stay home tomorrow. Don't come in until I clear it."

Instead of answering, she surprised him by leaning across the console and wrapping her arms around him in a brief, tight hug. Her cold cheek pressed against his for just a moment, her floral scent enveloping him, her whispered "Thank you" warm against his ear.

Then she was out of the car and hurrying up the steps to her building. He sat frozen, the ghost of her embrace still tingling across his skin, the unfamiliar sensation of someone else's gratitude. 

QHe waited until she disappeared inside and the lobby light confirmed she'd made it in safely. Then he started the engine, pulled away from the curb, and headed back toward the Commission Headquarters where he knew an angry Chairman and a mountain of questions awaited him.

Let them be angry. Let them demand explanations. Let them criticize his priorities.

He'd gotten to her in time. That was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

"The security protocols will include biometric scanning at all entry points. The Hero Safety Commission has emphasized extra precautions this year due to the recent QFF activity."

You tapped your tablet, advancing to the next slide in your presentation. Five pairs of eyes followed the motion—well, four, technically. Bakugo was looking somewhere above your left shoulder, as he'd done the entire meeting. 

Avoiding eye contact. Just like you'd been avoiding him since the elevator incident four days ago.

It shouldn't have been this awkward. Nothing had actually happened. No actual kiss, no definitive words. Just... whatever that tension had been, dissolved into professional distance the moment the lights came back on.

And then he'd driven you home. Insisted on seeing you safely to your door. Cared about your safety in a way that made your chest hurt.

"Each staff member has received their security badge with encoded clearance levels," you continued, grateful for your prepared notes because your brain was absolutely not cooperating this morning. "Mr. Cellophane and Ms. Pinky will arrive thirty minutes before the main contingent to assist with perimeter assessment as we discussed."

Mina flashed you a thumbs up from her seat, her bright smile. .

"Given the agency's current profile, I've arranged for all six of us to attend, but with staggered arrivals to maximize networking opportunities—"

"Five." 

Bakugo's voice cut through the room, sharp and sudden. The first word he'd spoken directly to you all meeting. You blinked, faltering mid-sentence.

"Excuse me?" 

"Five," he repeated, finally meeting your eyes with that laser-focused stare that always made you feel like you were standing in front of an X-ray machine. "Not six. You're with me."

With him? What did that even—

"You mean arriving together?" you asked, because clarity was important in professional settings, and you were nothing if not professional. Painfully, agonizingly professional.

"I mean you're attending as my guest," Bakugo said with the casual authority of someone announcing the sky was blue. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "Not as staff. As my plus-one."

The conference room went so quiet you could hear the hum of the air conditioning. Kaminari's jaw actually dropped. Kirishima's eyebrows disappeared beneath his hairline. Sero coughed politely into his fist, while Mina's face split into a grin so wide it threatened to consume her entire face.

"Oh my god, Bossman!" she squealed, clapping her hands. "Are you asking her on a date? At a staff meeting? That's so—"

"It's part of her job," Bakugo snapped, a faint tinge of pink creeping up his neck. "Managing agency representation."

"Right," Kaminari drawled, exchanging a look with Sero. "Because nothing says 'professional representation' like being the boss's arm candy."

"I didn't say arm candy, Dunce Face," Bakugo growled, his palms sparking slightly. "I said guest."

You cleared your throat, desperate to regain control of the meeting that had spiraled into... whatever this was. Dating advice? A sitcom? The most awkward moment of your professional career?

"Mr. Dynamight," you began,, "while I appreciate the... offer, I've already arranged the security protocols based on six separate attendees with individual access credentials."

There. Practical. Logical. Professional.

Bakugo's eyes narrowed. "So adjust them."

"It would require reconfiguring the entire—"

"So reconfigure it."

"But the registration deadline was—"

"Yesterday," he finished for you, smirking. "Which is why I already had Half-and-Half's security team add you to my credential."

Your mouth opened and closed soundlessly. The absolute audacity. The sheer presumption. The complete disregard for your carefully crafted plans.

"Well played, Bakubro!" Kirishima laughed, punching Bakugo in the shoulder with enough force to shatter concrete. Bakugo didn't even flinch. "Gotta admire a man with a plan!"

"More like a man who likes to throw his weight around," you muttered, but apparently not quietly enough because Bakugo's eyebrow ticked upward.

"Problem, Frostbite?" he challenged.

You clenched your jaw. He'd been using it more and more lately, that new, casual intimacy sparking a traitorous flutter in your heart.

"No problem," you replied, your best client-management smile firmly in place. "I'm simply trying to understand the logistics. As your... guest... would I still be expected to perform my usual duties, or would this be more of a decorative function?"

Sero snorted coffee through his nose. 

Bakugo's eyes darkened, his gaze sweeping over you in a way that made your skin prickle. "Trust me. Nothing about your function will be decorative."

"Is that so?" you countered, your quirk activating slightly with your rising stress, cooling your skin. "Because it sounds suspiciously like you've decided I should be repurposed from 'person who keeps this agency from imploding' to 'person who stands next to you at a fancy party.'"

"Why not both?" Mina chimed in, her eyes glittering with mischief. "Multitasking is sexy!"

"Nobody asked you, Raccoon Eyes," Bakugo scoffed. His attention was fixed squarely on you, waiting for your response.

You could feel the weight of everyone's eyes. The expectation. The curiosity. The five seconds of silence stretched into eternity as you weighed your options.

Say no, and create an awkward professional situation. Say yes, and add fuel to whatever this simmering tension between you was.

"Fine," you finally conceded, because apparently professionalism had limits, and yours ended at the stubborn set of Bakugo's jaw. "I'll attend as your guest. But I'll still need to coordinate security with Mr. Shoto's team, and I'll need to adjust the staff rotation for—"

"Great," Bakugo cut you off, standing abruptly. "It's settled." 

And just like that, he strode out of the conference room, leaving you with your mouth still open mid-sentence and four highly amused heroes grinning at you like you were the punchline to a joke you hadn't heard yet.

"So," Kaminari drawled into the silence, "should we still call you Office Manager, or would Mrs. Dynamight be more appropriate now?"

You hurled your pen at his head with surprising accuracy. He ducked, laughing.

"I hate all of you," you announced to the room, but your lips were already twitching toward a smile.

"No you don't," Kirishima grinned. "You love us. Especially our explosive leader, apparently."

"It's a professional arrangement," you insisted, gathering your materials with as much dignity as you could muster. "For agency representation."

"Sure," Mina agreed, in a tone that suggested she believed exactly none of it. "And I'm just going dress shopping with you for professional reasons too, right?"

Your head snapped up. "Dress shopping?"

"Obviously!" She bounced in her seat. "You can't go to the Hero Safety Gala as Bakugo's 'guest' wearing one of your office cardigans. You need something that'll make his eyes pop out of his head!"

"That's... not the goal," you muttered, though a small, traitorous part of your brain immediately conjured the image of Bakugo's face if you showed up in something spectacular.

"Tomorrow after work," Mina declared, ignoring your protest entirely. "You, me, and every fancy boutique in the shopping district. It'll be fun!"

As the meeting dispersed, you gathered your tablet and notes, trying to process what had just happened. Somehow, in the span of ten minutes, you'd gone from presenting a security protocol to agreeing to be Bakugo's date at a high-profile hero event.

Not a date, you corrected yourself firmly. A professional obligation. Agency representation.

Right. Because professional obligations made your heart race and your palms sweat and your quirk activate with nervous energy.

You needed coffee. Strong coffee. And maybe a paper bag to breathe into.

"What about this one?" Mina held up a dress that contained approximately three square inches of actual fabric, the rest seemingly composed of strategic cutouts and what looked like fishing line.

"I said elegant, not 'arrested for public indecency,'" you replied, flipping through another rack of evening gowns. "I need something professional but formal. Something that says 'I understand the assignment but I'm not trying too hard.'"

The boutique was upscale enough to make your credit card whimper in fear, all plush carpet and subtle lighting designed to make everything look more expensive than it already was. Mina had insisted on this place, claiming that anything less would be an insult to "the occasion."

"The occasion being a work function," you reminded her for the fourteenth time since entering the store. "Not a debutante ball."

"A work function where you're the personal guest of the Number Four Hero," Mina corrected, already pulling another dress.  This one emerald green with a dangerously high slit. "That's basically a date in hero-world."

"It's not a date," you insisted, though with less conviction than an hour ago. "He literally said it was part of my job."

"Pff right. The man communicates his feelings through grunts and explosions. You have to read between the lines."

You sighed, examining a midnight blue gown that actually seemed relatively modest. "Even if—and that's a huge, astronomical if—there was something more to this invitation, mixing business and pleasure is a disaster waiting to happen. I like my job. I'm good at my job. I don't want to complicate that."

"Aww, that’s cute." Mina's voice softened as she set down the green dress and took both your hands in hers. "But that ship has already sailed, hit an iceberg, and is currently playing 'Nearer My God to Thee' as it sinks into the ocean."

"What a comforting analogy," you deadpanned.

"I'm just saying, the tension between you two has been so thick that Sero could swing from it. Ever since that elevator incident—which, by the way, you still haven't given me details about—"

"Because there's nothing to tell!" you whispered, though your cheeks heated at the memory of Bakugo's thumb tracing your lower lip, his face inches from yours.

"—Bakugo has been even more possessive than usual," Mina continued, undeterred. "And you've been walking around like you're constantly braced for an explosion. Something happened."

"Nothing happened," you repeated, the words tasting like a half-truth on your tongue. "We were stuck in an elevator. We talked. The elevator started working again. End of story."

Mina's knowing look said she didn't believe you for a second. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But at least admit the man has feelings for you."

You turned back to the rack of dresses. "Mr. Dynamight has feelings about everything. Most of them involve variations of anger."

"And yet, he only looks at you like he's trying to decide whether to yell at you or kiss you senseless."

Your fingers fumbled on a hanger, nearly dropping an extremely expensive beaded gown. "He does not."

"He absolutely does. We've all noticed. Even Todoroki noticed, and that man is about as perceptive as a brick wall when it comes to emotions."

You pulled a dark burgundy dress from the rack, holding it up more to have something to focus on than actual interest. "Even if he did—which I'm not conceding—it wouldn't change anything. Office romance never ends well."

"Says who? Your former boss who'd sleep with anything that moved? The one you had to clean up after constantly? Not exactly a gold standard example."

You winced at the reminder of Takahashi's legendary indiscretions. "Fair point. But still."

"Try this one," Mina said, apparently deciding to change tactics. She handed you a dress in a deep, rich blue that shimmered slightly under the boutique lights. "It matches your eyes."

The dress was beautiful. Elegant without being stuffy, feminine without being overly revealing. It had a tasteful neckline and a fitted silhouette that flared slightly at the knees. Most importantly, it looked warm. Your quirk might be small, but the constant endothermic drain made fancy, revealing outfits a practical nightmare.

"Fine," you conceded, taking the dress. "I'll try it. But I'm still not calling this a date."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Mina sang, ushering you toward the fitting rooms. "Speaking of which, what kind of underwear are you planning to wear? Because I saw this matching set at the lingerie store next door that would—"

"Mina!" You felt your face flame. "This conversation is officially over."

Her laughter followed you into the fitting room, where you hung the dress carefully on the hook provided. As you changed, you wondered— what would Bakugo think when he saw you in something other than your work attire? Would his eyes linger? Would that ever-present scowl soften just a fraction?

The thought sent a low, swooping heat through your stomach, a dangerous, illicit warmth that had absolutely no place in a dress shop. It had everything to do with the memory of his hands on your waist in that darkened elevator, the power in his grip. 

"Just agency representation," you reminded your reflection sternly. "Nothing more."

—-----------------------------------

The staff database for the Hero Safety Commission Gala was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it contained detailed information on every attendee, their quirks, and their security protocols, which made your job coordinating Dynamight Agency's presence much easier. A curse because whoever designed it had decided to include not just professional headshots, but high-definition photographs from hero magazines.

Including, apparently, a substantial number of "beefcake" shots that belonged in a calendar rather than a professional database.

"Why does the Commission need to know that Wash has an eight-pack?" you whispered, scrolling past an image of the laundry-headed hero emerging from the ocean like some sort of detergent commercial fantasy. "Is this relevant to security protocols? Is this vital information for event planning?"

The office was quiet this late in the afternoon, most of the heroes out on patrol or working in the training facility. You'd taken advantage of the solitude to review the full guest list, planning networking opportunities for the agency and checking for any potential security issues with volatile quirk combinations.

What you had not planned on was an impromptu beefcake calendar shoot breaking out in the middle of your very professional database.

"Rock Lock... looking... not very locked," you snorted, quickly scrolling past a shirtless spread that involved the hero and a suspiciously phallic stalagmite. "Seriously, who approved these photos? And why is the Commission storing them?"

You tabbed over to Hawks' profile, curious if even the ex-winged hero had fallen victim to the database's bizarre photo collection. Sure enough, there he was, wings spread dramatically against a sunset, wearing what appeared to be leather pants and not much else.

"Oh for—this is ridiculous," you muttered, though you didn't immediately scroll past. The man did have impressively defined abs. Purely from an objective, aesthetic standpoint.

"Research," you insisted to your empty office. "Extremely professional research."

"What kind of research involves half-naked men and that look on your face?"

You nearly jumped out of your skin, your knee banging painfully against the underside of your desk as you whirled to find Bakugo leaning against your doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. How long had he been standing there? And how did a man who caused explosions for a living move so damn quietly?

"Mr. Dynamight! I didn't hear you come in!”

"Obviously," he replied, pushing off the doorframe and approaching your desk with the casual menace of a predator who didn't need to rush because the prey was already cornered. "You were too busy with your... research."

Oh god. He'd seen the screen. Of course he had. And now you were trapped in your office with him between you and the door, your computer displaying a half-naked Hawks flexing his wings and his...other assets.

You reached over and casually angled the screen away, as if that would somehow erase the last thirty seconds from existence.

"I'm reviewing the guest list for the gala," you explained, aiming for casual and landing somewhere between guilty and flustered. "The Commission's database includes various media assets for identification purposes."

"Identification," Bakugo repeated flatly. "You need to see Bird Brain's abs to identify him?"

"The database includes the images automatically," you countered, chin lifting slightly. "I don't control what photos they choose to upload."

"Uh huh." He rounded your desk until he was standing directly beside your chair. "And you were looking at these 'identification' photos because...?"

"Security protocols," you insisted, the excuse sounding weak even to your own ears. "I need to know who's attending and—"

"Bullshit," he cut you off, leaning down to tap your keyboard, scrolling back through your browsing history. "Hawks. Rock Lock. Gang Orca—seriously?" 

You felt your face flame. "The database is comprehensive. I was being thorough."

"You were checking out the competition," he corrected, his voice dropping to a lower register that vibrated through your bones.

"Competition for what, exactly?" you challenged, swiveling your chair to face him directly. It was a mistake. Now he was looming over you, one hand on your desk, the other on the back of your chair, effectively caging you in.

"For your attention at the gala," he said, his red eyes holding yours captive. "Not happening."

Your quirk activated with your quickening pulse, drawing heat from your body and leaving your fingertips ice-cold. "I don't know what you mean. I'll be networking with everyone there, as is my job—"

"You're not going to spend the night networking with these losers," he growled, leaning in closer, his face mere inches from yours. "You'll be with me."

The possessiveness in his tone should have annoyed you. Should have triggered a lecture about professional boundaries and agency. Instead, it sent a dangerous thrill racing down your spine.

"That seems inefficient," you replied. "The whole point of these events is to build relationships that benefit the agency."

"Fine." His gaze dropped to your mouth for a fraction of a second. "Build relationships. With me."

Oh.

Your brain stuttered over the implications, the double meaning hanging between you like a live wire.

"If you're so interested in looking at shirtless heroes," he continued, "all you had to do was ask."

And then, before you could process the words, he straightened up and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Your mouth went dry. "What are you doing!?"

"Research," he replied, his fingers working methodically down the row of buttons. "Extremely professional research."

The casual way he threw your own words back at you would have been infuriating if you weren't so distracted by the increasing amount of skin being revealed with each undone button. First his throat. Then his collarbones. Then the defined planes of his chest coming into view, marred with scars that somehow only enhanced rather than diminished the raw power on display.

"Mr. Dynamight! This is—" you swallowed hard. "This is inappropriate workplace behavior."

His shirt now hung open completely, revealing a torso sculpted. Lean muscle rippled beneath skin marked with burn scars, a silvery line there.

"More inappropriate than lusting after a database full of second-rate heroes?" he challenged, his eyes never leaving yours even as you struggled not to stare at the ridged plane of his abdomen.

"I wasn't—" Your protest died as he took your hand in his.

Slowly, deliberately, he guided your hand to his chest, pressing your palm flat against his bare skin. Heat radiated through your touch, a furnace compared to your coldness. His heart hammered beneath your fingertips.

"This what you were looking for?" he asked, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Something to keep you warm at night?"

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. How could they, when all your brain cells were currently occupied with the sensation of his skin beneath your palm, the steady thud of his heart, the way his pupils had dilated until they nearly consumed the crimson of his irises?

"I don't—" you finally managed, your voice embarrassingly breathy. "This isn't—"

"Tell me to stop," he challenged, shifting closer until your knees brushed against his thighs, your hand still trapped between his palm and his chest. "Tell me this isn't what you want."

The smart answer—the professional answer—would have been to do exactly that. To establish a firm boundary. To remind him that you were colleagues, that this crossed every line in the HR handbook.

Instead, your traitorous fingers flexed against his skin, your nails grazing lightly over his pectoral muscle. A shudder ran through him, his eyes darkening further.

"That's what I thought," he murmured, his free hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb tracing your lower lip just as it had in the elevator. "You're not the only one who can do research, Frostbite. I've been studying exactly what makes you tick."

Your breath caught as his thumb pressed slightly against your mouth, the pad rough with callouses from hero work and quirk use. 

"And what have you learned?" you asked, the words little more than a whisper against his skin.

His lips curled into something too predatory to be called a smile. "That you like the heat. That you're always cold. That when I get close—" he leaned in further, his breath fanning across your face, "—your breathing changes. Just like it's doing now."

He was right. Your chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid movements, your body's natural response to his proximity.

"That doesn't prove anything," you argued weakly. "My quirk responds to stress. You're stressful."

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, vibrating against your palm which was still splayed across his skin. "Is that what we're calling it now? Stress?"

"What would you call it?" you challenged.

His thumb traced over your bottom lip again, more deliberately this time. "Chemistry."

The word hung between you, loaded with meaning. You should pull away. Should reestablish professional distance. Should remember all the reasons why this was a terrible idea.

Instead, you found yourself leaning infinitesimally closer, drawn to his heat like a moth to flame.

"Chemistry is volatile," you murmured. "Unpredictable. Dangerous."

His gaze dropped to your mouth again, lingering this time. "I'm counting on it."

The air between you grew thicker. His thumb pressed more firmly against your lip, parting them slightly. Your eyes fluttered closed,

"Yo, Bakugo! Where'd you—oh shit!”

Kaminari's voice shattered the moment like a bucket of ice water. You jerked backward so violently your chair rolled halfway across the office, your hand tearing away from Bakugo's chest as if burned.

Bakugo didn't move, still standing exactly where he'd been, though his expression had morphed from seductive to murderous in the span of a heartbeat.

"What?" he snarled, not bothering to close his shirt or turn to face the intruder.

Kaminari hovered in the doorway, eyes wide as they darted between you and Bakugo. "Uh... the Commission liaison is here? About the gala security protocols?" His gaze fixed on Bakugo's open shirt. "But I can tell them you're... busy?"

"Tell them five minutes," Bakugo growled.

"Right. Five minutes. Got it." Kaminari backed away, giving you a thumbs up and an exaggerated wink before disappearing down the hallway.

The moment broken, reality came crashing back with humiliating clarity. You were at work. In your office. With your boss standing half-naked in front of you, after nearly—what? Kissing? More? 

"I should..." you gestured vaguely at your computer, desperate for something normal to focus on. "The liaison will need the updated security roster."

Bakugo watched you with an unreadable expression, making no move to button his shirt. "This isn't finished," he said finally, the words both a promise and a warning.

"The security roster?" you asked, feigning innocence even as your heart continued to race.

His eyes narrowed. "Don't play dense. It doesn't suit you."

With deliberate slowness, he began rebuttoning his shirt, each movement drawing your eye despite your best efforts to look anywhere else.

"The gala," he said, the words clipped and precise. "You and me. No networking. No Bird Brain or Half-and-Half or any other hero you've been researching. Clear?"

You needed to argue. Needed to remind him that you were attending in a professional capacity. Needed to insist on maintaining appropriate boundaries.

"Crystal," you heard yourself say instead.

He nodded once, seemingly satisfied, and turned to leave. At the door he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

"And Frostbite?"

"Yes?"

A dangerous smile curved his lips, sharp and promising. "Next time you want to see me without a shirt, just ask. I don't mind the cold."

He was gone before you could formulate a response, leaving you alone in your office with the ghost of his touch still burning on your skin and the certainty that whatever line you'd been carefully maintaining between professional and personal had just been obliterated beyond repair.

The computer screen still displayed Hawks' shirtless profile, but you found you no longer had any interest in it. Not when you'd just had your hands on something far more dangerous—and far more tempting.

"I'm in trouble," you whispered to your empty office. "So much trouble."

Your office plants, as usual, offered no disagreement.

Three days before the gala, and the universe had decided to test your professionalism in increasingly creative ways.

"Delivery for Dynamight Agency!" a cheerful courier announced, wheeling in a garment bag so pristine it practically emitted a celestial glow against the industrial concrete of your office.

"I'll sign for that," you offered. 

The courier handed you a sleek black clipboard. "Premium rush delivery from Armani Hero Division. Signature required."

Of course it was Armani. You scribbled your name with an elegant flourish. 

"Thank you so much!" you chirped, accepting the garment bag. "Have a wonderful day!"

The courier grinned. "You too, miss!"

You buzzed Bakugo's office. "Your suit has arrived, Mr. Dynamight."

A grunt was his only response. 

You carried the garment bag to the small conference room that served as an impromptu fitting area, you carefully hung it on the supplied hook and unzipped it.

The suit was... well, magnificent was really the only appropriate word. Midnight blue, so deep it was almost black, with subtle crimson accents at the cuffs and collar that matched his eyes. The fabric looked impossibly soft. 

You were admiring the craftsmanship when the door opened behind you.

"Is that it?" Bakugo asked, his voice close enough to make you jump slightly.

"Yes," you confirmed, stepping aside to give him a better view. "Armani just delivered it."

He approached the suit, running his fingers over the lapel with unexpected gentleness. 

"Fine," he said. "I'll try it on."

You nodded, gathering your tablet. "I'll wait outside while you—"

"Stay."

The command froze you mid-step. You turned slowly, quirking an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Stay," he repeated, already shrugging out of his jacket. "Need to make sure it fits right. You've got an eye for details."

Right. Details. Because that was definitely why he wanted you to stay while he changed clothes. Professional reasons. Work purposes. 

"Fine," you agreed, because you were a professional who could handle watching your boss change clothes without spontaneously combusting. "I have a conference call in thirty minutes."

This was fine. Totally fine. You'd seen him shirtless before. Multiple times, actually. Heroes weren't exactly known for their modesty, especially when injuries needed tending. This was no different.

Except it was entirely different, because now you knew exactly how his skin felt beneath your fingers. How his heart had raced under your palm. How his eyes had darkened when you'd touched him.

Nope. Not going there. Professional thoughts only.

You busied yourself with your tablet as Bakugo stuck his thumbs in the collar of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid movement.

Oh. Oh no.

It wasn't fair, really. No man should be allowed to take off a shirt like that. There should be laws against it. Public safety regulations. Warning signs: CAUTION: ABDOMINAL MUSCLES MAY CAUSE BRAIN MALFUNCTION.

You forced your eyes back to your tablet screen, which might as well have been displaying hieroglyphics for all the sense it made to your suddenly oxygen-deprived brain.

The rustle of fabric indicated he was removing his pants. You kept your gaze firmly fixed on your tablet, a model of professional restraint.

"Frostbite."

"Hmm?" you responded, not looking up.

"I need help with the cufflinks."

The universe was testing you.

You glanced up, expecting him to be struggling with sleeve cuffs. Instead, you were confronted with Bakugo standing before a full-length mirror in nothing but black fitted boxer briefs, the suit pants draped over a nearby chair, the dress shirt still on its hanger.

Error 404: Professionalism not found.

"You're not even wearing the shirt yet!" you pointed out. "How could you possibly need help with cufflinks?"

He shrugged, muscles rippling across his shoulders. "Getting ahead of the problem."

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You're messing with me."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Maybe."

"You're impossible," you muttered, crossing the room to retrieve the dress shirt from its hanger. "Arms."

He obediently extended his arms, allowing you to help him into the shirt. This was ridiculous. He was a grown man, a professional hero, ranked number four in an entire country. He didn't need help putting on a shirt.

And yet here you were, standing close enough to feel the heat radiating from his bare chest, sliding expensive Egyptian cotton over his shoulders, adjusting the collar. Your fingers brushed against the warm skin at his nape, and he tensed slightly.

"Sorry," you apologized automatically, trying to warm them by rubbing them together.

"I  don't mind" he replied, his voice a low rumble that you felt more than heard.

The shirt fit perfectly across his broad shoulders, tapering to his narrow waist. 

You circled around to his front, focusing on buttoning the shirt. One button. Two. Three. Each one revealing less of his chest, which should have made things easier, but somehow only drew more attention to what was being covered. Four. Five. Your knuckles brushed against the ridges of his abdomen, and you heard his breath catch slightly.

Six. Seven. The shirt was now fully buttoned, but lingered, smoothing the fabric across his chest, unnecessarily adjusting the collar.

"Pants," you said, the word coming out embarrassingly husky. You cleared your throat. "You should put on the pants."

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, retrieving the pants from the chair. You turned away, giving him the illusion of privacy while he stepped into them.

"Zipper's stuck," he announced after a moment.

Oh, for the love of—

"Let me see," you sighed, turning back to find him with the pants on but unfastened, the shirt now partially tucked in.

You knelt in front of him, focusing intently on the zipper issue and absolutely not on the fact that you were eye-level with the waistband of his boxer briefs. This was fine. Totally professional. Just helping your boss with a wardrobe malfunction. Nothing remotely suggestive about being on your knees in front of him, fingers working at his fly.

"Seems fine to me," you murmured, giving the zipper an experimental tug. It glided smoothly upward.

"Huh," Bakugo said, sounding not at all surprised. "Must've fixed itself."

You glanced up, catching his expression in the mirror behind him. His eyes were dark, heated. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Fine.

Two could play at that game.

Standing slowly, you maintained deliberate eye contact as your hands moved to the waistband of his pants. "These need to sit a bit higher," you explained, tugging the fabric upward. "Custom suits are cut to specific proportions."

Your fingers skimmed along the inside of the waistband, ostensibly adjusting the fit but really just indulging in the warmth of his skin beneath the expensive fabric. A small muscle jumped in his jaw.

"Better," you assessed, stepping back to survey him. "Now tuck in the shirt properly."

He complied, tucking the shirt with military precision while you retrieved the suit jacket. When you turned back, he was watching you in the mirror, his expression unreadable.

You approached him from behind, holding the jacket open for him to slip his arms into. He did so with fluid grace, the movement bringing his back into brief contact with your front. Even through layers of fabric, the heat of him seared into you.

The jacket settled perfectly onto his shoulders. You stepped around to face him, adjusting lapels, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles, your cold fingers lingering perhaps a moment too long.

"How does it feel?" you asked, voice soft in the quiet room.

"Tight," he replied, rolling his shoulders experimentally. "Restrictive."

"It's supposed to be fitted," you explained, brushing invisible lint from his shoulder. "But not uncomfortable. Can you move freely?"

He demonstrated by rotating his shoulders, then stretching his arms forward. The movement pulled the fabric taut across his back, highlighting the muscular expanse hidden beneath the tailored suit.

"It'll do," he conceded, which was high praise indeed.

You stepped back, evaluating the complete look. The effect was... devastating. Bakugo in his hero costume was intimidating, powerful, dangerous. Bakugo in a perfectly tailored suit was something else entirely—refined danger, contained power. Like nitroglycerin in a crystal decanter.

"You look..." you hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn't reveal too much. "Presentable."

A snort. "Presentable?" 

"Very presentable," you amended with a small smile. "The Commission representatives will be suitably impressed."

He turned to face the mirror, and you stepped beside him to make a final adjustment to his collar. The two of you stood there for a moment, reflected side by side—you in your practical office attire, him in his bespoke suit. Fire and ice. Explosive and serene. Hero and support.

His eyes met yours in the mirror and locked eyes with him. This was  an acknowledgment of whatever this tension was, had always been, since that first interview when he'd looked at you like a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

"We match," he said suddenly.

You blinked. "What?"

He gestured to his suit, then to your eyes. "Blue. We'll match at the gala."

Your jaw went slack. He'd thought about how you'd look together.

"I..." you began, then stopped, uncertain how to respond.

He turned to face you directly, so close you could smell the faint scent of burnt sugar that always clung to him, could feel the warmth emanating from his body.

"You need to wear your hair up," he said, his voice dropped to that low register that did dangerous things to your insides. "Show off your neck."

Your pulse quickened as he reached out, one finger tracing a line from behind your ear down along your jaw. "Right here." His touch was feather-light but left a trail of fire in its wake. "Looks good."

The moment stretched between you, taut and fragile as spun glass. You swayed  slightly toward him, drawn by the inexorable gravity that had always existed between you.

His phone rang, the harsh electronic tone shattering the moment.

You jerked back.

"You should get that," you said quickly, smoothing down your cardigan. "And I should get back to work. The alterations look perfect. I'll let the tailor know no changes are needed."

Bakugo didn't move to answer his phone, his eyes still fixed on you with that inscrutable expression. "Frostbite—"

"I have that conference call," you interrupted, gathering your tablet and backing toward the door. "And you have a three o'clock briefing with the security team. Don't forget."

You slipped out the door, closing it firmly behind you. You leaned against it for a moment, heart racing, skin tingling from where he'd touched you.

This was getting out of hand. Whatever this attraction was, it needed to be contained, controlled, managed like everything else in your life. You had a job to do. A professional reputation to maintain.

You hurried down the hallway, not slowing until you reached the restroom. Inside, you locked the door and braced your hands on the sink, finally looking at yourself in the mirror.

Your cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, lips slightly parted. You barely recognized yourself. Where was the composed, professional office manager who had built a career on being unflappable?

"Just do your job," you whispered to your reflection, watching your expression harden with resolve. "Don't read into it."

* * *

The blue fabric of your dress shimmered under the golden lights of the Grand Nexus Hotel entrance. You adjusted the sweetheart neckline for the seventeenth time in five minutes, tugging it slightly higher while simultaneously wondering if it needed to be lower. Professional, but not prudish. Elegant, but not trying too hard.

Your hands were even colder than usual, your quirk reacting to the nervous energy swirling through your system. Professional events were your specialty. You could charm a room full of executives while simultaneously averting three PR disasters and ordering lunch—but this? This undefined territory where "business" and "pleasure" blurred like watercolors? Absolute nightmare.

"It's just work," you whispered to yourself, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your dress. "Just another professional obligation."

A professional obligation that had required three hours of hair styling, makeup application, and Mina's unwavering moral support. Just totally normal workplace stuff.

The hotel doorman shot you a curious glance, and you realized you'd been having this whispered argument with yourself for several minutes. You flashed him your brightest smile, the one that said 'I am a completely stable human being and definitely not having an existential crisis about my boss.'

"Beautiful evening," you chirped.

He nodded, apparently convinced you weren't in need of psychiatric intervention, and returned to scanning the curb for arriving vehicles.

You checked your clutch for the third time, confirming you had all the security passes, emergency contact numbers, and the custom lip color Mina had insisted you bring for touch-ups because "Bakugo won't be able to keep his hands off you, and lipstick is always the first casualty." Your cheeks heated at the memory.

A sleek black car pulled up to the curb, engine purring with expensive authority. Your heart rate doubled as the doorman moved to open the passenger door. You straightened your spine, plastered on your most professional smile, and prepared to greet—

Bakugo emerged like some sort of fever dream, the navy suit molding to his frame with bespoke precision, the crimson accents catching the light like drops of blood on midnight waters. His hair, usually a chaotic explosion, had been styled into something deliberately tousled—still wild, but purposefully so. He looked dangerous in an entirely new way, like a weapon that had been sheathed but was no less lethal for it.

His eyes scanned the entrance before landing on you. For a heartbeat his eyes bore into yours and your lungs forgot how breathing worked.

"Frostbite," he finally said, approaching. His voice had that rough, gravelly quality that did inappropriate things to your internal organs.

"Mr. Dynamight," you replied, absurdly proud that your voice emerged steady. "Right on schedule."

He stopped directly in front of you, the smell of expensive cologne mingling with his natural burnt-sugar scent. His eyes were still taking inventory of you, lingering on the exposed skin of your neck and shoulders. 

"You look..." he began, then stopped, seeming to edit his word choice. "Blue."

You smiled. "Yes, it is blue. Very observant of you, sir."

He scowled. "Don't 'sir' me in that dress, Frostbite."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Dynamight."

A dark, predatory hunger flickered across his face, but before he could respond, a flash and the distinctive click of a camera shutter broke the moment. You turned to see a photographer from the hero press pool capturing the tableau.

Right. Work. Public event. Professionalism.

You mentally reattached your spine and gestured toward the grand entrance with your most efficient smile. "Shall we? We're expected at the security checkpoint in approximately four minutes."

The interior of the Grand Nexus Hotel was spectacular, a soaring atrium of marble and crystal that screamed "mortals cannot afford this" with every gleaming surface. Heroes in formal attire mingled with Commission officials and corporate sponsors, creating a sea of power and influence that would have intimidated you a year ago.

Now, you navigated it like a cartographer who'd long since mapped these waters. You led Bakugo through the initial security checkpoint, presenting the agency's credentials.

"Dynamight Agency," you informed the security officer, sliding over the holographic pass cards. "Voice authentication required for the Number Four Hero and guest."

"Dynamight. Authorization code 2-0-4-8-Alpha." Bakugo's voice was curt but clear.

You leaned toward the scanner. You stated your name. “Dynamight Agency. Authorization Serenity-7-7-4."

The scanner beeped approvingly, and the holographic barrier shimmered green. "Proceed."

"Remember," you instructed, slipping effortlessly into coordinator mode, "we should focus on the support companies in the east wing. Deterrent Technologies is particularly interested in your explosive specifications, and—"

"I know the plan," Bakugo cut in, his hand settling at the small of your back. "You made us memorize the damn spreadsheet."

"I emailed the spreadsheet. And made a simplified flowchart. And provided color-coded note cards," you corrected primly. "Because some of us believe in thorough preparation."

"And some of us believe you work too fucking hard," he countered, guiding you toward the ballroom without removing his hand.

The warmth of his palm seeped through the fabric of your dress, chasing away your perpetual chill and sending dangerous tingles up your spine. This is work. His hand is just... directional assistance.

Right. Because you definitely needed help finding the only giant archway in the atrium.

"Oh my god, it IS you!"

A statuesque blonde in a skin-tight formal costume swept toward you, her considerable assets barely contained by what appeared to be designer spandex. Mt. Lady's smile was dazzling as she captured your hands in hers.

"You're the PR genius from Dynamight Agency! The one who fixed that whole ass-flash scandal last year!" She glanced at Bakugo with a wink. "You're lucky to have snagged her. Takahashi was an idiot to let her go."

You blinked. "Ms. Mt. Lady, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm just—"

"Just nothing! That pivot was legendary. 'Nano-fiber testing' was inspired." She laughed, squeezing your hands. "When my latest wardrobe malfunction inevitably happens, you're the first person I'm calling."

Bakugo's jaw tightened. "She's not a crisis hotline."

"No, but she is a miracle worker," Mt. Lady countered. "Anyway, we should talk support gear collaborations. My agency's been looking to partner with an independent shop that has actual PR sense—"

"Sounds like an excellent opportunity," you interjected smoothly, extracting a business card from your clutch. "Perhaps we could schedule a meeting next week? I'll bring a preliminary partnership proposal."

Mt. Lady accepted the card with a delighted smile. "Perfect! I'll have my manager call you." She patted Bakugo on the arm, earning a barely suppressed growl. "Hold onto this one, Explosion Boy. She's wasted as just arm candy."

As Mt. Lady sashayed away, you turned to find Bakugo watching you with an unreadable expression.

"What?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"You networked," he stated flatly.

You raised an eyebrow. "That's... literally why we're here. The whole 'agency promotion' thing?"

"I told you that you're not here to network."

"And I chose to selectively ignore that directive as it conflicts with my professional responsibilities," you replied sweetly with a smile. "Shall we find our table?"

His eyes narrowed.

"Well, well! What have we got here? Isn't this the famous Office Manager I've been hearing about?"

Both you and Bakugo turned to find a blonde hero approaching with a smile that could only be described as aggressively smug. You recognized him immediately—Neito Monoma, now the rising hero Phantom Thief.

"Mr. Phantom Thief," you greeted with your professional smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine," he replied, taking your hand and bowing over it with exaggerated gallantry. "Your reputation precedes you. They say you're the real brains behind Dynamight Agency's meteoric rise."

 Bakugo tensed beside you.

"That's very flattering, but inaccurate," you demurred, gently extracting your hand. "Dynamight Agency's success is due to the extraordinary talent and dedication of its heroes."

"So modest!" Monoma laughed, his eyes never leaving your face despite Bakugo's increasingly obvious glower. "But we all know the truth. A fledgling agency suddenly streamlining operations, securing major partnerships, and climbing the rankings? That doesn't happen without exceptional management."

"You give me too much credit," you insisted, shifting slightly closer to Bakugo.

"I doubt that's possible," Monoma continued, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the danger signs radiating from Bakugo. "In fact, I've been thinking it's about time Phantom Thief Agency expanded its support staff. We could use someone with your... talents."

The emphasis he placed on "talents" made your skin crawl slightly, though his expression remained professionally pleasant.

"Are you trying to poach my fucking office manager at a Commission gala?" Bakugo finally spoke, his voice dangerously quiet.

Monoma's smile widened. "Just expressing professional admiration. Though if she were interested in a more... appreciative environment, my door is always open." He looked directly at you. "I'm sure we could come to a very satisfying arrangement. My offer would be quite... substantial."

The innuendo was so blatant it might as well have had flashing neon signs attached.

"Back the fuck off, Copy Cat," Bakugo growled, stepping partially in front of you. "She's not interested."

"I don't recall asking you, Explosion Boy," Monoma replied, his smug smile never wavering. "I believe the lady can speak for herself."

"Indeed I can," you interjected smoothly, placing a calming hand on Bakugo's arm before he could detonate.His muscles coiled tight beneath the expensive fabric of his suit. "While I appreciate the interest in my professional capabilities, Mr. Phantom Thief, I'm quite satisfied with my current position at Dynamight Agency."

Monoma leaned closer, undeterred. "But are you satisfied in... all respects? I'm sure a woman of your caliber deserves more... attention than Dynamight here can provide."

A small explosion popped from Bakugo's palm, causing nearby heroes to glance over in alarm. You tightened your grip on his arm, your quirk automatically activating to dampen the stress in the immediate vicinity. A chill raced through you as your body temperature dropped in response.

"Mr. Phantom Thief," you said, smiling, "I must decline. Now if you'll excuse us."

You attempted to steer Bakugo away, but Monoma stepped into your path.

"At least take my card," he insisted. "For when you realize you're wasting your potential on a one-trick explosion factory."

That did it.

"Fuck off before I make you regret having a face," Bakugo snarled. "She said no. And she's not going anywhere."

Monoma's eyes widened slightly. He recovered quickly, affecting a casual shrug.

"Just making an offer. No need to be so... explosive." He winked at you. "Think about it. You know where to find me when you're ready for an upgrade."

As Monoma sauntered away, Bakugo’s jaw clenched tight. 

"The absolute fucking nerve of that copy-quirk bastard," he muttered. "Trying to poach you right in front of me."

"It was unprofessional," you agreed. "But hardly worth causing a scene at a Commission event."

"He was hitting on you."

"He was being deliberately provocative to get a reaction from you," you corrected. "And it worked spectacularly."

Bakugo's eyes snapped to yours. "Would you have gone?"

Your brows shot up. "Gone where?"

"To work for that smirking asshole. If he offered you more money."

You blinked. "Of course not."

"Why 'of course'?" he pressed, his eyes searching yours with uncomfortable intensity.

"Because I—" You stopped. "Because I like where I am. The agency needs me."

Kirishima materialized at Bakugo's side before he could respond. "There's a major support gear investor who wants to meet you, Bakubro."

"Not now," Bakugo didn't take his eyes off you.

"They specifically asked for you," Kirishima pressed. "Could be a big sponsorship opportunity."

You seized the professional lifeline. "You should go. I'll check in with the Commission representatives while you handle that."

Bakugo's jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod. "Fine. Don't wander off."

"I'll stay within explosion distance at all times," you promised with a teasing smile. "Go be charming."

He snorted. "I'm never fucking charming."

"Then go be terrifyingly competent. It has the same effect on investors."

A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth before he followed Kirishima.

For the next twenty minutes, you worked the room like the professional you were, exchanging pleasantries with Commission representatives and subtly promoting Dynamight Agency's successes. Every few minutes, your eyes would seek out Bakugo's ash-blonde head among the crowd, a compass finding true north.

He was always watching you. No matter who he was speaking to, his eyes would periodically track to your location.

You were speaking with a support company executive when you felt it—a shift in the air pressure behind you.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," came a smooth, masculine voice. "But I've been hoping to steal a moment with Dynamight Agency's famous Office Manager."

You turned to find Hawks standing behind you, resplendent in a burgundy suit that complemented and amber eyes.

"Mr. Hawks," you greeted with genuine warmth. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

"The pleasure is mine," he replied. "You look stunning tonight. Quite different from the last time we met in your office."

He guided you to a relatively quiet spot near one of the massive columns. "How are you finding the gala?" he asked.

"Not so different from managing heroes," you replied with a smile. "Just with better refreshments and fewer explosions."

"Speaking of managing heroes..." Hawks leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "Have you given any more thought to my offer? The position is still open. The Commission is quite... persistent in their interest in your talents."

You maintained your smile. "I appreciate the continued interest, but as I mentioned before, I'm committed to my role at Dynamight Agency."

Hawks studied you, his amber eyes never leaving yours. "Is it the position that doesn't appeal? Or..." his gaze drifted across the room to where Bakugo stood, clearly watching your interaction with Hawks. "...other considerations?"

"My reasons are my own," you said, your tone still friendly but firmer. "But I appreciate the interest."

"Of course." Hawks smiled. "Though I feel obligated to point out that mixing business and pleasure can be... complicated. Especially with someone as volatile as Dynamight."

Before you could respond, a presence materialized at your side—Bakugo, radiating heat and barely contained irritation.

"Hawks," he greeted, the word clipped and cold.

"Dynamight," Hawks returned with an unruffled smile. "Excellent event. I was just complimenting your office manager on her exceptional work."

"Uh-huh." Bakugo's hand settled at the small of your back. "We're needed at the table."

The transparent excuse hung in the air, but Hawks merely inclined his head. "Of course. Don't let me keep you. Think about what I said. The offer stands until Monday."

As Hawks walked away, Bakugo's hand pressed more firmly against your back, guiding you in the opposite direction.

"What the fuck was that about?" he asked, voice pitched low.

"Just catching up," you replied lightly. "Professional courtesy."

"Bullshit." He steered you toward an alcove partially hidden behind a massive floral arrangement. "He mentioned an offer."

Once secluded, you turned to face him. "Eavesdropping is rude, you know."

"Not eavesdropping when it's about stealing my office manager." His eyes were intense. "You told me you turned him down."

"I did," you confirmed. "He was just checking if I'd reconsidered."

"Have you?" 

"No, of course not. I told you I wasn't interested."

"Then what? Better hours? More authority? Whatever it is, just fucking tell me and I'll—"

"Bakugo." You placed your hand on his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath the expensive fabric. "I'm not leaving. I already told him no."

He exhaled sharply. "Good. Because the agency would be a fucking disaster without you."

"The agency?" you repeated with a small smile.

His eyes narrowed. "What did he say to you?"

"Nothing important."

"Don't lie to me, Frostbite."

You sighed. "He just suggested that mixing business with pleasure could be complicated."

Bakugo's expression darkened dangerously. "That fucking Bird Brain—"

"It doesn't matter," you interrupted. "I already told him no. Though..." A mischievous impulse seized you. "He is very persuasive. And not hard to look at. I mean, have you seen that sword? Quite impressive. He'd probably be a very attentive boss, don't you think?"

It was a tease, intended to rile him up. Payback for his high-handedness earlier.

You were not prepared for the response.

In one fluid movement, Bakugo guided you deeper into the alcove until you were completely hidden from the main ballroom. Your back was against the cool marble wall, Bakugo's arms caging you in, his body radiating heat that immediately chased away your perpetual chill.

"You think that's funny?" he growled. "Teasing me about leaving? About finding him attractive?"

Your breath caught in your throat. "I was just—"

"You're not going anywhere," he stated, the words somewhere between a command and a plea. His eyes burned into yours, crimson and intense. "Not to Hawks. Not to that copy-quirk bastard. Nowhere."

"That's not your decision to make," you managed, though. "I'm not agency property."

"No." One of his hands moved to your jaw, tilting your face upward. "You're not." His thumb traced your lower lip. "But you're mine."

The possessive declaration should have outraged you. Instead, it sent liquid heat pooling low in your belly, your quirk unable to cool the sudden flush spreading across your skin.

"I don't recall signing those ownership papers," you whispered, a last token resistance even as your body betrayed you, leaning into his touch.

His lips curved in a predatory almost-smile. "You've been mine since you walked into that interview and told me how to spell 'manager.'"

"That's—" You swallowed hard, finding it difficult to form coherent thoughts with him so close, his cologne mingling with the burnt-sugar scent that was uniquely him. "That's not how employment works."

"This isn't about employment." His thumb continued its maddening path across your lower lip. "And you know it."

He was right. This had never been purely professional, no matter how many times you'd told yourself otherwise.

"Bakugo..." His name escaped on a sigh, half protest, half surrender.

His name snaped him. His hand slid from your jaw to the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your upswept hair. "I don't share what's mine," he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. "So no more jokes about Hawks or anyone else. Got it?"

"You're very demanding for someone who hasn't actually staked a claim," you managed.

His eyes darkened, pupils dilating until the crimson was nearly swallowed by black. "You want me to stake a claim, Frostbite?"

"I—"

The rest of your response was lost as his mouth claimed yours in a kiss that was pure possession. His lips were firm, commanding, but surprisingly soft as they moved against yours with devastating precision. One hand remained tangled in your hair, the other dropping to your waist, pulling you flush against him.

Heat. That was your first coherent thought. He was so hot, like touching a living flame, his natural body temperature amplified by desire. Your perpetually cold body practically melted against him, your quirk greedily absorbing his excess warmth.

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, the expensive fabric bunching under your fingers. He groaned against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you.

When his tongue traced the seam of your lips, you opened for him without hesitation, all pretense of professional distance evaporating. He tasted like champagne.

His hand at your waist slid lower, gripping your hip as he angled for deeper access. Your quirk was working in overdrive, drawing heat from your body, but for once the resulting chill didn't bother you—not when Bakugo was pressed against you like a human furnace.

When he finally broke the kiss, you were both breathing hard, your lipstick hopelessly smudged, his eyes nearly black with desire.

"Still think Hawks would be a better boss?" he rasped, voice rough with want.

You managed a shaky laugh. "Who's Hawks?"

The corner of his mouth twitched in satisfaction. He leaned in, speaking directly into your ear. "When this gala is over, we're going to have a very thorough conversation about exactly who you belong to. And it won't happen in a fucking alcove."

The promise in his words sent electricity straight through you, your body responding with embarrassing eagerness.

“I–”

The chime of a crystal glass being struck sounded from the main ballroom, signaling guests to take their seats.

"Saved by the bell," you murmured, voice unsteady.

He stepped back, but his eyes never left yours. "Temporarily."

You quickly assessed the damage. Your lipstick was a lost cause, your carefully arranged hair mussed where his fingers had tangled in it. You hastily attempted repairs.

"Here," Bakugo said, reaching out to tuck a wayward strand behind your ear. The gesture was unexpectedly tender. "You look fine."

"I look thoroughly kissed," you corrected.

His expression was pure male satisfaction. "Good."

As you emerged from the alcove, you felt curious stares. Your face warmed, certain that your disheveled appearance told the entire room exactly what you'd been doing.

Bakugo seemed entirely unconcerned as he guided you toward your table with a hand at the small of your back.

As you took your seat, the formal portion of the evening beginning with a speech from the Commission Chairman, Bakugo settled beside you. His arm draped casually over the back of your chair, his fingers brushing your bare shoulder in small, possessive touches.

Not at all subtle. Not at all professional.

And yet, as you felt the reassuring warmth of him beside you, his scent surrounding you, his body angled protectively toward yours, you didn't care. The line between professional obligation and personal desire had not just blurred—it had been obliterated.

Chapter Text

The Commission Chairman's voice droned on, but Bakugo couldn't focus on a single fucking word. Not with her sitting beside him, the blue dress clinging to curves he'd just had pressed against him in that alcove, her lips still slightly swollen from his kiss.

Shit. He was staring again.

She caught him this time, those eyes flickering to meet his before darting away, a slight flush rising on her cheeks. His thumb brushed against her bare shoulder where his arm rested on the back of her chair, and he felt her slight shiver.

That kiss had changed everything. Crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed. The taste of her lingered. He'd claimed her with that kiss, marked her as his in a way that made his fingers itch to do it again, especially when he saw that prick Monoma eyeing her from across the room.

"—and with cooperation between agencies at an all-time high, we expect this year's support staff initiatives to—"

Fuck this speech. Fuck Monoma. Fuck Hawks and his job offers. What mattered was that beneath her professional composure, Frostbite was his. She'd melted against him in that alcove, cold fingers clutching at his expensive suit like she needed an anchor.

The Chairman finally shut up, and the formal dinner portion began. Trays of needlessly fancy food appeared. Tiny portions arranged like artwork that wouldn't satisfy a child, let alone a pro hero with his metabolism.

"Are you actually going to eat that or just glare it to death?" she whispered, leaning close enough that her breath tickled his ear.

"It's fucking rabbit food," he muttered back, but he picked up his fork anyway.

The brief exchange caught Kirishima's attention across the table, his sharp-toothed grin widening. Katsuki narrowed his eyes in warning, but the idiot just wiggled his eyebrows before turning back to his conversation with Fatgum.

The dinner crawled by, his awareness of her beside him growing with each minute. The way she laughed politely at some Commissioner's joke. The efficient little movements of her hands as she cut her food. The slight tremble when his fingers "accidentally" brushed against the nape of her neck.

"Dynamight Agency has been making waves since its founding," the hero next to her was saying. "Impressive rise in the rankings."

"Yes, we're fortunate to have a team of exceptional heroes," she replied, voice smooth and professional despite the way his thumb was now deliberately tracing circles on her shoulder.

"I hear you're the real reason for that success."

"Oh, not at all." She shook her head, but her smile was genuine. "The credit belongs to Mr. Dynamight entirely. His vision and standards drive everything we do."

He clenched his jaw. 

"He's built something remarkable," she continued. "Most heroes chase the spotlight, but Mr. Dynamight's focused on building something that lasts. He pushes everyone to be better—not just his team, but himself most of all."

"Hard taskmaster, I've heard."

"Demanding, yes." She immediately corrected with a smile. "But only because he sees potential others miss." Her voice softened, grew warmer. "He notices everything. The smallest details. He remembers which staff members have family emergencies or sick children. Pretends he doesn't, of course."

The hero laughed. "That tracks with what I've heard."

"Last month, one of our support staff had a birthday. Dynamight 'happened' to be in the breakroom when we had cake. Claimed it was coincidence, but I'd never put cake on the schedule before." He swallowed at the affection in her voice. . "He'd deny it to his dying breath, but he cares. Deeply."

Heat crawled up Katsuki's neck. She was talking about him like he was some kind of fucking softie, but the pure conviction in her voic, like she was letting this random hero in on some precious secret—made it impossible to be angry.

"Sounds like you admire him," the hero observed.

"I respect his drive," she said simply. "And his heart, which he pretends not to have."

Pride surged through him. She saw him. Not just the explosions and the shouting, but the parts he kept hidden.

When the hero left, his hand moved from her shoulder to the back of her neck, thumb brushing against the sensitive spot behind her ear. Goosebumps rose from her skin and he had to fight back the urge to kiss every inch of her.

A reporter appeared at their table, notebook in hand. "Excuse me, I'm Takata from Hero Weekly. Could I get a few words about Dynamight Agency's meteoric rise?"

Bakugo opened his mouth to tell the reporter to fuck off, but Frostbite smoothly intercepted.

"I'd be happy to provide a statement," she replied. 

The reporter's attention shifted, clearly deciding the office manager was a safer bet than the notoriously media-hostile Dynamight. Bakugo stayed silent, watching her work.

"The agency's success comes from Dynamight's vision," she explained, voice clear and passionate. "He never settles for second-best—not from himself, not from his team. He created an environment where excellence isn't just encouraged, it's expected."

Her face lit up as she talked, a genuine enthusiasm that transformed her already pretty features into something magnetic. The way she spoke about him, about the agency they were building. It wasn't practiced PR bullshit. She believed every word.

"And the security partnership with Shoto Agency?" the reporter pressed.

"A strategic collaboration that showcases how different leadership styles can complement each other." Not a hint that the partnership had been forced on them by the Commission. "Dynamight Agency brings tactical innovation; Shoto Agency brings infrastructure expertise."

The reporter scribbled furiously. "And your role in all this? I understand you're the architect behind many of these initiatives."

She shook her head modestly. "I'm just the support structure. Mr. Dynamight and his team are doing the real hero work."

"Sources tell me you're the reason the Number Four Hero has improved his public ratings so dramatically."

"The public is simply seeing what was always there," she replied. " Mr. Dynamight's commitment to excellence, his strategic mind, his unwavering determination—these aren't new qualities. He's always been extraordinary. My job is just to make sure people notice."

Fuck. The urge to grab her, to haul her against him and claim that smart mouth in front of the entire fucking Commission, surged through him so strongly his palms sparked beneath the table. She was defending him, championing him, spinning his flaws into virtues with such conviction that even he almost believed it.

"That's quite a testimonial," the reporter noted, glancing between them with obvious interest. "How would you characterize your working relationship?"

He tensed, palm sparking more noticeably.

"Professional," she answered smoothly. " Mr. Dynamight demands excellence, and I strive to deliver it."

The reporter looked disappointed but pressed on. "Rumors suggest you've turned down offers from other agencies—even the Commission itself. What keeps you at Dynamight Agency?"

A fleeting expression ghosted across her features—too quick for the reporter to catch, but he saw it. A softness. A certainty.

"Potential," she said simply. "I believe in what we're building."

We. Not he. We.

The reporter finally fucked off, and conversation around the table resumed. Bakugo leaned closer to her, close enough that his lips nearly brushed her ear.

"Nice spin," he murmured. "Made me sound almost decent."

"I only told the truth," she replied softly, turning just enough that their faces were dangerously close. "You are decent. When you want to be."

The way she looked at him then—like she could see through every defense, every explosive outburst, straight to the core of him—made his chest feel too tight for his lungs.

"You believe all that shit you said?"

"Every word."

His hand tightened on her shoulder. Later, he promised himself. When they were alone.

"Yo, Bakugo!" Kaminari's voice shattered the moment. "You planning to stare at her all night, or can the rest of us talk to her too?"

His head snapped up to find his entire table watching them. Kirishima was grinning like an idiot, Racoon Eyes had her phone out like she might be filming, and even Soy Sauce Face looked amused.

"The fuck are you looking at?" he snarled.

"A man who hasn't taken his eyes or hands off his 'professional employee' for the last hour," Ashido  stage-whispered, earning snickers from around the table.

"Seriously, bro, you've been giving her that look," Kirishima added, gesturing vaguely.

"What look?" Bakugo growled.

"The same one you get before you blow up a villain," Sero supplied helpfully. "Intense. Focused."

"But also kind of hungry?" Kaminari added with a shit-eating grin.

"I will fucking end all of you," Bakugo threatened. He couldn't muster genuine anger, not with her warm beneath his hand and the taste of her still on his lips.

She laughed—not her professional laugh, but the real one that made her nose scrunch slightly—and his irritation evaporated. Fuck it. Let them see. Let everyone see.

His hand stayed firmly on her shoulder for the remainder of the evening, occasionally sliding to her neck or tracing the line of her collarbone, when no one was looking.

Hours later, the gala had dwindled to its inevitable conclusion. Most guests had departed, leaving just a few clusters of networking stragglers and staff beginning cleanup.

"Thank you all for coming," she said, shaking hands with the departing Commissioner. "Dynamight Agency appreciates your support."

"I'll walk you out," another hero offered—some shitty loser he vaguely recognized.

"No need," Bakugo interjected before she could respond. "I'm taking her."

That raised eyebrows from his friends, who had been loitering nearby in an obvious attempt to observe whatever was developing between him and his office manager.

"You're taking her home, huh?" Ashido waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "How... professional."

"Don't forget to fill out the requisite paperwork," Sero added solemnly. "Section 4B: 'Transportation of Personnel for Non-Professional Activities.'"

"Subsection 6.9," Kaminari chimed in, barely containing his laughter.

"Fuck all of you," he replied. "We're leaving."

"Make good choices!" Kirishima called after them, giving a thumbs up that managed to be simultaneously encouraging and embarrassing.

"Use protection!" Racoon Eyes added, earning a mortified glare from Frostbite and causing several nearby heroes to turn in their direction.

Bakugo flipped her off without looking back, his other hand settling possessively at the small of Frostbite's back as he guided her toward the exit.

They were among the last to leave, the grand hotel mostly empty as they walked through the ornate lobby. The tension between them had built back to an almost unbearable level. .

His car was brought around and he opened the passenger door for her, a gesture that earned him a surprised look.

"What?" he grumbled. "I know basic fucking manners."

"I'm just not used to seeing them," she replied with a small smile, gathering her dress to slide into the seat.

The drive started in charged silence, the space between them crackling with the aftermath of that kiss, with the weight of the decision looming before them. Professional boundaries lay shattered behind them, but what would replace them remained undefined.

She broke first. "The gala went well," she said, voice artificially light. "The Commission Chairman seemed impressed with the agency's growth metrics."

Small talk. She was retreating to safe territory.

"Don't," he said quietly.

"Don't what?"

"Don't talk about fucking metrics. Not now."

She turned to look at him, studying his profile as he drove. "What should I talk about, then?"

"The look on your face when I kissed you," he suggested bluntly, eyes never leaving the road. "The way you kissed me back. How fucking hard it was not to drag you out of there the minute it happened."

Her breath caught audibly. "That's... not very professional conversation."

"We're way past professional," he said, voice dropping to a lower register. "Have been for a while."

"We work together," she reminded him, though her voice lacked conviction. "I'm your employee."

"You're mine," he corrected, the same words he'd growled against her lips in that alcove. "Employee, yeah. But more than that."

The car filled with a different kind of silence—not awkward, but heavy with potential. With inevitability.

"What does 'more' mean, exactly?" she asked finally.

Bakugo never did anything halfway. Not hero work, not agency building, and certainly not this.

"Means I want you," he said simply. "Have for a while. Means I'm done pretending otherwise."

The bluntness seemed to knock her off balance. "That's... very direct."

"You expected different?".

"No. Directness is your specialty."

"So I'll be direct." He glanced at her briefly before returning his eyes to the road. "I'm not taking you home unless you tell me which home. Yours or mine."

She bit her lip. 

"That's a significant leap from one kiss," she pointed out, though her voice had gone slightly breathless.

"Is it?" he challenged. "Because that kiss felt like the thing we've been circling for months."

They stopped at a red light, the car idling at the intersection that would determine their course. Left toward her apartment, right toward his. The decision point made literal.

Slowly, deliberately, he placed his hand on her thigh, just above her knee. The heat of his palm seared through the thin fabric of her dress. 

Her eyes met his, steady despite the flush spreading across her cheeks. The moment stretched.

Then, slowly, she covered his hand with her own and squeezed gently.

"Are you sure?" he asked, voice rough with restraint. "This changes things."

"Yes," she whispered, the single word holding absolute certainty.

The light turned green, but Bakugo didn't move the car. Instead, his hand slid higher, fingers skimming over the silk of her dress, tracing the curve of her thigh. Her breath quickened, eyes never leaving his.

Higher still, until his fingertips brushed against the edge of lace beneath her dress. He watched her pupils dilate, felt the slight tremor that ran through her.

"Fuck," he breathed, his own control fraying as his fingers traced the delicate edge of her panties. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

A car horn blared behind them, shattering the moment. The light was green. Decisions needed to be made.

"Your place," she said, the words coming out in a rush. "Take me to your place."

His lips curled into a smirk. He removed his hand from her thigh just long enough to put the car in gear and turn right.

The drive to his apartment would take fifteen minutes.

He returned his hand to her thigh, higher this time, fingertips sliding beneath the hem of her dress to touch bare skin. 

"Fifteen minutes," he warned, voice dropping to a growl as his fingers traced lazy patterns on her inner thigh. "Can you stay quiet that long?"

Her breath hitched as his fingers brushed against the damp lace between her legs. "Probably not if you keep doing that."

His laugh was low and dark. "Good."

The car accelerated toward his apartment, carrying them past the point of no return.

* * *

The elevator ride up to the penthouse was the longest forty-five seconds of Bakugo’s life.

He stood in the corner of the metal box, vibrating with a tension so tight it felt like his muscles were about to snap off the bone. Frostbite—his Frostbite—stood next to him, leaning heavily against the mirrored wall, her chest heaving, her face flushed a deep, ruinous red.

She was a mess, and he had made her that way.

For the last fifteen minutes in the car, he hadn’t let up. He’d kept his hand between her legs, fingers sliding through the slick, soaking heat of her, finding that little bundle of nerves and circling it, teasing it, pressing just hard enough to make her gasp but pulling away the second she got close to the edge. He’d edged her until she was sobbing his name, begging him to stop or to finish it, and he’d just driven on, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his forehead, forcing them both to wait.

The elevator chimed.

 He didn’t wait for the doors to open fully. He grabbed her wrist, his grip bruising-tight, and hauled her into the hallway. She stumbled, her heels clicking frantically on the floor to keep up with his long, predatory strides.

He jammed his key into the lock, snarling when it caught for a fraction of a second, then shoved the door open. He didn’t even bother to close it properly before he was on her. He kicked the door shut with his heel, the slam echoing like a gunshot, and pinned her against the heavy wood.

"Finally," he growled, the word tearing out of his throat like jagged glass.

He crushed his mouth to hers. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a collision. It was months of professional distance, of politeness, of “Yes, Mr. Dynamight” and “Sign here, sir” shattering in an instant. He devoured her, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting the champagne from the gala.

She met him with equal force, her cold hands—always so damn cold—sliding up his chest, tangling in his hair, pulling him down. The temperature difference was electric. Her icy palms against the furnace of his skin sent a shockwave through him that went straight to his cock.

"Katsuki," she whimpered against his mouth, the sound of his given name making his vision tunnel.

"Say it again," he demanded, breaking the kiss to trail hot, wet open-mouthed bites down the column of her neck. He sucked a mark right over her pulse point, claiming her. "Say it."

"Katsuki, please. I can't—I need—"

"I know what you need."

He stepped back, his eyes raking over her. The blue gala dress was ruined, wrinkled from his grip, the skirt hiked up to her hips from the car ride. She looked wrecked. She looked perfect.

His hands went to the neckline of the expensive fabric. He didn't bother looking for a zipper. He didn't have the patience for fasteners. With a sharp, violent motion, he ripped the bodice down the middle. The sound of tearing silk was loud in the quiet apartment, a testament to his loss of control.

"Katsuki! That was—"

"I'll buy you a thousand more," he muttered, shoving the ruined fabric off her shoulders.

The dress pooled at her waist, revealing what she was hiding underneath. He stopped dead. His breath hitched, a harsh sound in the stillness.

She was wearing black lace. Sheer, intricate black lace that hugged her curves like a second skin. The bra was barely there, a demi-cup that pushed her tits up, her nipples hard and visible through the thin material.

He stared, his pupils blown wide, his brain short-circuiting.

"Mina," she breathed, her voice trembling as she saw the look in his eyes. "Mina made me buy it. She said... she said you'd like it."

Katsuki let out a low, dark laugh that vibrated in his chest. "I'm giving Raccoon Eyes a raise," he swore, his voice rough. "Hell, I'm giving her a paid vacation. A fucking medal."

He reached out, his calloused hands covering her breasts, the lace scratching pleasantly against his palms. Her skin was cool, soft, yielding. He squeezed, watching her head fall back against the door, a moan slipping from her lips.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he growled, the praise slipping out before he could stop it. "And you're mine."

He dropped to his knees.

She gasped, her fingers weaving into his ash-blonde hair as he shoved the ruined dress and the skirt down to her ankles. She kicked them away, leaving her standing in her heels and the matching black panties.

But he knew what state those panties were in.

He gripped her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh, and buried his face in her stomach. He inhaled deeply—vanilla, expensive perfume, and the heavy, musky scent of a woman who had been edged for twenty minutes. It was the most intoxicating thing he had ever smelled.

"Open your legs," he ordered, his voice muffled against her skin.

She obeyed instantly, widening her stance.

Katsuki hooked his fingers into the sides of her panties and ripped them down. The lace tore—he was destroying everything tonight and snapped away.

She was soaked. Her inner thighs were glistening. The sight nearly undid him right there. He had done that. He had made her this desperate.

He didn't wait. He pressed his face right between her legs and licked a long, broad stripe from her bottom up to her clit.

" Fuck! " she screamed, her hips bucking forward, slamming into his face.

He held her steady, his hands clamping onto her ass cheeks to keep her in place. He was merciless. He knew exactly where she was sensitive—he’d spent the last fifteen minutes learning her body with his fingers, and now he was applying that knowledge with his tongue.

He flicked the swollen nub, hard and fast, listening to the way her breath hitched and stuttered. She tasted sweet and salty, a flavor he wanted to drown in. He worked her with a singular focus, treating her pleasure like a mission objective.

"Katsuki, I'm close, I'm so close," she babbled, her hands tightening in his hair, pulling painfully. "Don't stop, don't—"

He didn't stop. He hummed against her, the vibration traveling through her sensitive flesh, and sucked her clit into his mouth.

She shattered.

Her cry was high and keen, echoing off the walls of the entryway. Her thighs clamped around his head, trembling violently as the first orgasm ripped through her. Katsuki kept licking, tasting every spasm, drinking her down until she went limp against the door, gasping for air.

He stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and predatory. He wasn't done. He wasn't even close to done.

"Bedroom," he grunted. "Now."

He didn't wait for her to walk. He swept her up into his arms, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. She buried her face in his neck, her cold nose pressing against his pulse. .

He carried her not to the bedroom, but to the kitchen island. It was closer. He couldn't make it down the hall.

He set her down on the marble counter, sweeping a stack of mail and a bowl of fruit onto the floor with a crash. He didn't care. He stepped between her legs, pressing his erection against her entrance.

"Take my shirt off," he demanded, his hands already busy fumbling with his belt buckle.

Her fingers were shaking, but she managed to undo the buttons of his dress shirt. He shrugged it off, letting it fall to the floor, followed quickly by his undershirt.

The sight of him bare-chested made her pupils dilate. His muscles were corded and tense, sweat glistening on his skin. 

He kicked off his shoes and shoved his pants down, freeing himself. His cock sprang free, heavy and thick, pulsing with a need that was becoming painful.

He grabbed a condom from the stash he kept in the kitchen drawer and tore the wrapper with his teeth, spitting the foil onto the floor. He rolled it on quickly, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Look at me," he commanded.

She looked. Her eyes were glazed with lust, her lips swollen from his kisses.

"I'm going to stretch you," he warned, his voice a low rumble. "I'm going to fill you up completely."

He grabbed her knees and pulled her to the edge of the counter. He lined himself up, the tip of his cock brushing against her wet pussy. She hissed at the contact, her hips lifting instinctively.

He didn't slam into her. Not yet. He pushed in slowly, inch by agonizing inch.

"God, you're tight," he groaned, his head falling back as her walls clamped around him.

She was incredibly tight, hot and wet and gripping him like a vice. He watched their bodies join, the contrast of his tanned, scarred skin against her smooth, soft thighs.

When he was fully sheathed, he paused, letting her adjust to his size. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the counter on either side of her, trapping her. He rested his forehead against hers, their heavy breathing mingling.

"You okay?" he asked, the question rough but genuine.

"More than okay," she whispered, tilting her hips to take him deeper. "Move. Please, Katsuki. Move."

He growled and withdrew almost all the way, then snapped his hips forward.

The impact knocked the breath out of her. He set a brutal pace, hammering into her with deep, powerful thrusts. The friction was incredible. Her cold skin against his heat, the slick sound of their bodies slapping together, the way she moaned his name with every thrust.

He grabbed her legs and hooked them over his shoulders, opening her up even more, driving deeper than he thought possible.

"Look at you," he snarled, looking down at where they were connected. "Taking every inch of it. You like that? You like having my cock inside you?"

"Yes," she cried out, her head thrashing on the marble. "Yes, yes, god, Katsuki!"

"Who does this belong to?" He thrust harder, his hand coming up to wrap around her throat—not choking, just holding, grounding her.

"Yours! It's yours!"

"Damn right."

He pounded into her, the pleasure building in his spine, hot and heavy. But he noticed the way her breath was hitching again, the way her internal muscles were fluttering around his cock. She was close again.

He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a messy kiss, swallowing her cries as he drove her over the edge.

She clamped down on him, her orgasm milking him, squeezing him so hard he almost lost it right there. He gritted his teeth, sweat dripping from his nose onto her chest, and fought for control. He wouldn't finish yet. Not until he had her in his bed.

He pulled out abruptly, ignoring her whine of protest.

"Bedroom," he said again, breathless. "For real this time."

She slid off the counter, her legs wobbling so hard she almost fell. He caught her, steadying her with a hand on her lower back.

"Can you walk?"

"I think so."

"Good. Turn around."

She turned, bracing her hands on the hallway wall as they made their way to the bedroom. He walked behind her, his eyes glued to the sway of her hips, the red handprints fading on her ass cheeks.

He guided her into the bedroom. It was dark, illuminated only by the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He didn't turn on the lights. He liked the shadows.

He pushed her toward the bed, but not onto it. He spun her around to face the full-length mirror on the closet door.

"Watch," he ordered.

He pressed her chest against the cold glass, standing behind her. He kicked her legs apart and stepped in close, his chest pressing against her back..

He reached around, one hand cupping her breast, his thumb tweaking the nipple through the lace bra he hadn't let her take off yet. His other hand slid down her stomach, finding her clit again.

"Watch yourself take it," he whispered in her ear, biting the lobe.

He entered her from behind, one fluid, thick slide.

She gasped, her eyes finding his reflection in the mirror. They looked wild together—him, scarred and savage, looming over her; her, smooth and delicate, unraveling in his arms.

He began to move, she was moaning louder and louder. He kept his hand on her clit, working it in rhythm with his thrusts. 

"You look so fucking good like this," he groaned, watching the reflection. "So messy. So mine."

He saw the moment she broke. Her eyes rolled back, her mouth opened in a silent scream, and her knees gave out. He held her up, pinning her against the glass as she convulsed around him.

She was sobbing now, incoherent pleas and broken noises of pleasure.

Bakugo pulled out, his own control hanging by a thread. He needed to see her face. He needed to be looking into her eyes when he poured himself into her.

He threw her onto the bed. She sprawled out, a vision of ruined elegance.

He crawled over her, looming like a predator. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head, interlacing their fingers.

"Legs up," he commanded. "Wrap them around me."

She did, locking her ankles at the small of his back, pulling him down.

He entered her for the fourth time, and this time, there was no pacing. No teasing. It was primal.

He fucked her with everything he had. Every thrust was a claim, a promise, a confession of all the things he was too emotionally constipated to say out loud.

I need you. Thrust.

I need you. Thrust.

Don't ever leave me. Thrust.

He reached up and adjusted his hearing aids, turning the volume all the way up. He wanted to hear everything. The wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bed frame, the ragged sound of his own breathing, and most of all, her.

"Loud," he grunted, driving into her. "Be loud for me, Frostbite. Let me hear you."

She wailed his name, scratching at his shoulders, her heels digging into his back.

"Katsuki! Katsuki!"

The words hit him hard. He froze for a microsecond, his heart stuttering, and then the dam broke.

"Fuck," he roared.

He let go of her hands to grab her hips, pulling her flush against him, grinding his pelvis into hers. He drove into her, hard and fast, chasing his own release.

She was tightening around him again, a continuous ripple of spasms that dragged him down with her.

"Coming," he groaned, his voice wrecked. "I'm coming!"

He slammed into her one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and poured into the condom. His back arched, every muscle locking up as the orgasm tore through him, white-hot and blinding. He shouted her name, the sound raw and vulnerable, echoing in the dark room.

He rode out the aftershocks, twitching inside her, his forehead resting on her shoulder. He was heavy, he knew, crushing her into the mattress, but he couldn't move. He didn't want to move.

Slowly, the world started to come back into focus.

The sound of their ragged breathing filled the room. The smell of sex and sweat was heavy in the air. His skin was slick, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

He felt her small, cold hand come up to stroke the back of his head, her fingers gently scratching his scalp.

"Heavy," she whispered, her voice raspy.

He grunted but rolled off her, collapsing onto his side. He didn't go far, though. He immediately pulled her into his chest, wrapping an arm and a leg over her, tangling their limbs together.

He buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. The burnout from the adrenaline and the physical exertion was starting to creep in, a familiar buzzing in his ears, but for the first time in forever, it didn't feel like a threat. It felt like peace.

He reached down the condom and disposed of it quickly before settling back against her.

She was shivering slightly. .

"You're cold," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear.

"You're hot," she countered sleepily, snuggling closer, pressing her icy feet against his shins.

Katsuki hadn't expected to feel this... peaceful. The constant buzz of anxiety that usually hummed beneath his skin had quieted to nothing more than a distant memory. His muscles, perpetually coiled like springs ready to release, felt liquid and loose. She'd done that. With her stupid little quirk and her stupid soft skin and the way she'd screamed his name like it was the only word worth saying.

She shifted against him, and he tightened his grip instinctively. No way was she going anywhere.

"So, not to be practical in a decidedly impractical situation," she said, propping her chin on his chest and grinning up at him, "but you kind of destroyed my only means of getting home."

The sight of her like this—hair a tangled mess, lips swollen, a constellation of red marks blooming across her neck and chest—hit him like a punch to the sternum. This wasn't the prim office manager with her color-coded planner and perfect posture. This was her, the woman beneath the facade.

"You don't need clothes," he said, trailing a finger down her spine. "Problem solved."

She laughed, the sound bright and uninhibited in the dim room. Not her polite professional chuckle that she used when investors made terrible jokes, but something real and a little goofy.

"Oh, is that your professional recommendation, Mr. Hero? That I should just traipse through the city naked?" She pushed herself up, the sheet falling away as she straddled his hips. "I'm sure the press would have a field day with that headline: 'Dynamight Agency Employee Streaks Through Downtown.'"

Katsuki's hands found her hips, steadying her above him. She was still cold, despite everything they'd done, her skin cool against his palms.

"You're a fucking menace," he growled, but there was no heat in it.

"One of my many charms." She grinned, leaning down to press her lips to his neck, just below his ear. "Along with my exceptional filing system and ability to charm angry government officials."

Her teeth grazed his pulse point, and he let out a hiss, his grip tightening on her hips.

"I also make a mean cup of coffee," she continued, pressing open-mouthed kisses down his throat between words. "And I've been told my PowerPoint presentations are riveting."

"You talk too much," he muttered, but his body was already responding to her again, heat pooling low in his belly.

She sat up, giving him a mock serious look that was ruined by the mischief in her eyes. "I still can't leave naked, Katsuki."

"Who said anything about leaving?"

The words came out raw and honest, stripped of his usual defenses. He hadn't meant to say them at all, but there they were, hanging in the air between them.

"Oh," she breathed. 

The naked hope in her face made something crack open in his chest, something he'd been keeping locked away for too long. He pulled her down, capturing her lips with his, pouring everything he couldn't say into the kiss.

When they finally broke apart, she was smiling—not her office smile, not her diplomatic smile, but something dazzling and real that made his chest ache.

"So I'm staying," she said it like a statement, but he heard the question beneath.

"Yeah." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "If you want."

"I do." She settled against him, head resting in the hollow of his shoulder. "Fair warning though, I'm a blanket thief. And I talk in my sleep sometimes."

"Of course you fucking do," he snorted. "Even unconscious, you can't shut up."

She poked his ribs in retaliation. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Any sleeping quirks I should know about? Do you explode in your sleep? Snore fire?"

He rolled his eyes. "I don't snore. I run hot—"

"I noticed," she interrupted, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

"—and I sleep light," he continued, ignoring her interruption. "Hero habit. And I wake up early."

"Like, normal person early or psychopath early?"

"Five AM."

She made a horrified face. "Definitely psychopath early. I'll have to adjust my schedule accordingly, Mr. Dynamight."

The formal title, combined with her naked body pressed against his, made him snort. "Don't fucking call me that when you're literally sitting on my dick."

Her laughter bubbled up, uninhibited and bright.

"But you are so dignified and professional, Mr. Dynamight," she teased, dropping her voice into a breathy imitation of the starstruck interns at the agency. "The way you signed those mission reports... so authoritative."

He retaliated by flipping them over, pinning her beneath him. She squealed in surprise, her cold hands coming up to cup his face.

"You're a fucking brat," he said. 

"Mmm, but I'm your brat now." Her fingers traced the scar beneath his left eye, the touch impossibly gentle. It should have made him uncomfortable, this softness, but it didn't. "Does that make me special?"

The question was playful, but he heard the genuine uncertainty beneath it. He turned his face to press a kiss into her palm.

"Yeah," he admitted gruffly. "It does."

Her smile was radiant, crinkling the corners of her eyes, revealing a tiny dimple he'd never noticed before. How had he never seen that? He'd spent months watching her, cataloging her expressions, her tells, the way she moved through the office like it was a dance she'd choreographed, and somehow he'd missed this essential detail.

She leaned up to kiss him, a series of featherlight touches across his jaw, his cheeks, his eyelids, mapping his face with her lips.

"You missed a spot," he grumbled when she pulled back slightly.

"Demanding," she chided, but kissed him properly, her lips cool against his.

When they broke apart, she was grinning again, her chin resting on his chest. "So we should probably talk about the fact that you destroyed an expensive fruit bowl, flung mail everywhere, and I'm pretty sure we knocked over at least one lamp on the way to the bedroom."

"I'll buy new shit," he dismissed, hands sliding down her back to cup her ass. "Worth it."

"A man of expensive taste." She yawned, her body melting further into his. "Though I have to say, your apartment is surprisingly nice. I was expecting more... I don't know, gym equipment and protein powder."

"What the fuck did you think I lived like, some college meathead?"

"Well, you did just literally throw me onto the bed like a caveman, so..." She smiled up at him, all faux innocence.

"You liked it," he countered, watching with satisfaction as her cheeks flushed.

"Maybe." She stretched, catlike, against him. "But I'm definitely going to need a shower before Round Two. I'm all... sticky."

The mental image of her wet and soapy hit him like a freight train. He sat up, bringing her with him.

"Shower," he agreed. "Now."

She yelped as he stood, lifting her effortlessly. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her toward the en-suite bathroom.

"Someone's eager," she teased, nipping at his earlobe.

"Efficiency," he corrected, kicking the bathroom door open. "Two birds, one stone."

"Mmm, very economical." Her laugh vibrated against his neck. "I should put that in your performance review."

He set her down on the counter and leaned in to turn on the shower, adjusting the temperature. When he turned back, she was watching him with open appreciation, eyes tracing the lines of muscle across his back and shoulders.

"See something you like?" he asked, unable to keep the smugness from his voice.

"Oh, I was just thinking about yesterday's PS-887 forms," she replied airily. "Nothing interesting at all."

He crowded her against the counter, caging her in with his arms. "Liar."

"Busted." Her grin was impish. "I was actually admiring the... architectural elements of your shower. Very modern."

"Showering," he growled, guiding her toward the glass enclosure. "Less talking."

The water was hot, steaming up the glass almost instantly. She stepped in first, sighing with pleasure as the spray hit her skin. Katsuki followed, closing the door behind them.

The sight of water cascading over her body, following the curves of her breasts, her hips, her thighs, nearly short-circuited his brain. He crowded her against the tile wall, hands skimming her slick skin.

"You know," she said conversationally, as if his hands weren't currently exploring every inch of her, "this brings up an interesting workplace safety consideration."

His brain struggled to follow the shift in topic. "What?"

"Well, with your quirk being so heat-based, and mine being cold, we're actually quite complementary in an environmental health and safety context." She reached for the shampoo, squeezing some into her palm. "I've been thinking—"

"You're thinking about workplace safety right now?" he interrupted, incredulous.

She looked up at him through wet lashes, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. "I'm always thinking about work. It's a bad habit. But seriously, there's been research showing that complementary temperature quirks like ours can actually increase operational efficiency by up to 22% in shared environments."

He stared at her, trying to decide if she was fucking with him, when she burst into laughter.

"Your face!" she cackled, her shoulders shaking. "Oh my god, you actually thought I was being serious!"

"You're the one bringing up fucking efficiency ratings while naked," he snapped. 

She reached up to lather shampoo into his hair, the simple domesticity of it catching him off guard. "I'm just saying, from a purely scientific perspective, our quirks make us an optimal pairing for—"

"For fucking?"

"I was going to say 'collaborative endeavors,' but sure, that too." She massaged his scalp, sending tingles of pleasure down his spine. "Though I do have some thoughts on your hero costume redesign that might increase your blast radius by—"

"Leave the hero shit at the office," he growled, though without much conviction. It was hard to be properly irritated when her fingers were working magic against his scalp.

"Speaking of which," she continued, ignoring his directive, "the new gauntlets from Hatsume arrived yesterday, and I really think you should reconsider the—"

"No."

"But if you just tried them—"

"Those fucking things are deathtraps."

"They're efficiency improvements," she corrected, rinsing his hair. "And they'd increase your output by at least 30% according to the lab tests."

"They'd fucking explode." He grabbed the soap, working it into a lather between his hands. "Did you see what happened to Dunce Face when he tried the Hatsume gloves? Fucking electrocuted himself and fried half the training room."

"That's because Kaminari has the technological savvy of a potato," she argued, turning to let him wash her back. "You're much more precise with your quirk control."

"I'm not strapping experimental shit to my arms."

"You're being stubborn."

"I'm being fucking smart."

She turned to face him, soap bubbles sliding down her body. "Okay, what if we had them independently tested by—"

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" he exploded, voice echoing off the tile. "Those things are going to blow my goddamn arms off!"

His volume would have sent most people scrambling for cover. The first time he'd shouted at her in the office, Kirishima had winced and Kaminari had actually hidden behind a filing cabinet. But she just stood there, unfazed, water streaming over her naked body, looking up at him with an expression that was equal parts exasperation and fondness.

Then, calmly, she reached up and took his face between her hands.

"Katsuki," she said softly, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. "I'm not suggesting you use untested equipment. I would never put you at risk like that."

The simple declaration knocked the wind out of him. Of course she wouldn't. She was the most competent person he'd ever met. Everything she did—the paperwork, the scheduling, the endless phone calls and emails—it was all to make sure he could do his job safely and effectively.

"I care about you," she continued, her voice gentle but firm. "But I also care about your career. Your success. Your future."

She rose up on her tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

"I'm on your side," she murmured against his mouth. "Always."

A tectonic movement of emotion in his chest threatened to overwhelm him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against him, feeling the reassuring beat of her heart against his.

"I know," he said roughly, the words muffled against her wet hair.

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, water droplets clinging to her eyelashes, her smile soft and real and just for him.

"But also, those gauntlets would look really cool with your costume," she added, eyes twinkling with mischief.

He growled and silenced her with a kiss, backing her against the tile wall. She laughed against his mouth, the sound bright and happy and completely unrestrained.

And Katsuki knew, with a certainty that shook him to his core, that he would do whatever it took to keep that sound in his life.

* * *

Cold. 

But not the right type of cold. 

That was Katsuki's first conscious thought. The space beside him was empty. Cold. Abandoned.

His eyes shot open, hand instinctively reaching for the other side of the bed before his brain fully caught up. Empty sheets. Cold sheets. His heart slammed against his ribs like a trapped animal, and for a split second, the old familiar dread clawed at his throat.

She'd left.

Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting bright squares across his grey bedding. Morning. Actual fucking morning. He snatched his phone from the nightstand—7:36 AM.

He'd overslept. He never overslept. Five AM, every goddamn day, his body woke like clockwork—didn't matter if he'd fought villains until 3 AM or hadn't slept at all. His internal alarm hadn't failed him since he was fourteen.

Until today.

The sickening twist in his gut when his hand had met empty sheets made his teeth clench. Stupid. Fucking stupid to react like that. She was allowed to leave. It was just—

The distant hum of his coffee machine reached his ears, followed by the soft clatter of cutlery.

Not gone.

The relief hit with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, leaving him momentarily dizzy. He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft domestic sounds filtering from the kitchen. A cabinet closing. Water running. The faint melody of humming—that tune she always hummed when filing reports.

Images from last night flooded back, and heat crawled up his neck. They'd gone at it for hours after that first shower. On the floor beside the bed, then against the window overlooking the city, then back in the shower when they were both too sweaty and sticky to stand it. But the last time... 

The last time had been different.

They'd been drowsy, half-asleep, when his fingers had traced lazy patterns on her cooling skin. She'd turned to him, eyes heavy-lidded, and kissed him with such unexpected tenderness. No urgency, no desperate need—just slow, deep kisses that felt like drowning in honey.

"You're incredible," she'd whispered against his mouth. "So strong. So good."

No one had ever called him "good" before. Not like that. With reverent fingers that traced his scars like they were beautiful instead of ugly reminders of close calls and failures. Her palms had framed his face, her thumbs brushing across his cheekbones, and she'd kissed each eyelid with a softness that had made his throat close.

"I've got you," she'd murmured as she straddled him, taking him inside her with agonizing slowness. "Just feel."

It was the first time in his life he'd surrendered control completely. No driving the pace, no dominating the moment. She'd rocked above him with liquid grace, her hands interlaced with his, whispering praise that burned hotter than any insult ever could. Telling him how good he was, how perfectly they fit, how much she needed him.

Katsuki's stomach tightened at the memory. The intimacy of it had shaken him more than the raw fucking against the door. This wasn't his territory—this gentle shit, these whispered confessions. And yet he'd never felt so fucking alive as when she'd collapsed against his chest, both of them trembling and spent.

A crash from the kitchen, followed by muffled cursing, snapped him back to the present. He pulled himself out of bed, grabbing a pair of sweatpants from the floor and tugging them on.

"Shit, shit, shit," came her voice, pitched with frustration.

He padded down the hall, silent on bare feet, and stopped at the kitchen entrance.

She stood at the stove, wearing nothing but one of his black t-shirts that hung to mid-thigh, her hair piled in a messy knot on top of her head. She was poking at something in a pan with a spatula, her posture radiating irritation. He could practically feel the chill emanating from her. 

"What the fuck are you doing to my kitchen?" he growled, unable to keep the corner of his mouth from twitching upward.

She jumped, the spatula clattering against the stove as she spun around. Her face lit up in a smile that hit him square in the chest.

"Making breakfast!" she declared with entirely too much enthusiasm for whatever disaster was happening in that pan. "Or trying to. I was going to surprise you with omurice, but..."

She stepped aside, revealing what might generously be described as a yellow massacre. The omelet had exploded, half-stuck to the pan, with rice spilling out like guts from a battlefield casualty.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, crossing to the stove. He peered into the pan, assessing the damage. "What did eggs ever do to you?"

"Look, not all of us have the benefit of being raised by a chef," she huffed, crossing her arms defensively. Despite her pouting, her eyes ran appreciatively over his bare chest. "I thought, 'How hard could it be?' Turns out, very hard."

"Move," he ordered, reaching past her to turn off the burner. His arm brushed against hers, and the temperature difference made his cock twitch. "I can't watch this massacre continue."

She stepped back, grinning. "Coming to the rescue, Mr. Hero?"

He rolled his eyes, grabbing the ruined pan and dumping its contents into the trash. "Basic fucking survival. Can't have you burning my place down." He opened the refrigerator, pulling out fresh eggs, scallions, and leftover rice. "Coffee's already brewed?"

"Mm-hmm. I figured I couldn't screw that up. It's in the carafe."

He grunted in acknowledgment, cracking eggs with one-handed precision into a bowl. 

"I'll get my phone," she said, padding out to the living room. "I left it by the couch after... well, after you carried me there for round three."

Heat crept up Katsuki's neck at the memory of her bent over the arm of the couch, his hands gripping her hips as she begged him not to stop. He focused intently on whisking the eggs, adding a splash of mirin and a dash of salt.

When she returned, she hopped onto the counter next to the stove, legs swinging slightly, scrolling through her phone. She'd found her underwear from last night somewhere, the black lace just visible beneath the hem of his shirt as she crossed her legs.

"So," she said, setting her phone aside, "you cook. That's a surprise."

He shrugged, heating oil in a clean pan. "Dad taught me. Said no son of his was going to be helpless in a kitchen."

"Hmm." She watched him with open fascination as he swirled the beaten eggs in the hot pan. "Is that why you like it? Because your dad taught you?"

Katsuki considered the question, gently loosening the edges of the omelet with chopsticks. "Partly. Mostly I like the control." He gestured with his chin to the pan. "Follow the steps, understand the ingredients, you get what you want. Precise. Predictable."

"I wouldn't have expected you to enjoy something so... domestic."

He snorted, deftly spreading the seasoned rice across the half-set omelet. "Cooking is chemistry. Heat control, timing, reactions." He folded the omelet over the rice and flipped it onto a waiting plate with a practiced motion. "It's fucking combat with better results."

She laughed, the sound bright in his kitchen. "Only you would turn making breakfast into a battle analogy."

He grabbed a bottle of ketchup, drawing a zigzag across the top of the omurice. "Food's better when you make it yourself. Know exactly what's in it, how it's prepared." He handed her the plate. "No compromises."

She accepted it with a small, thoughtful smile, as if she were seeing a new side of him that fascinated her. He ignored the warmth that spread through his chest at that look, focusing instead on making a second portion for himself.

"This is perfect," she said after her first bite, eyes widening. "Seriously, Katsuki. I had no idea you could cook like this."

Hearing his  name from her lips, casual, intimate made his heart stutter. "It's basic," he muttered, though satisfaction bloomed at her praise. "Nothing special."

She was silent for a moment, watching him as he cooked his own portion. "Do you cook a lot?"

"When I have time." He shrugged, flipping his omelet. "Better than takeout. Healthier. More control over nutritional intake."

"Of course you'd count macros," she teased, taking another bite. "Very on-brand."

"Gotta maintain peak performance," he replied,.

A comfortable silence fell between them as he finished cooking. When he turned with his own plate, he found her staring at her phone, her expression suddenly tense.

"What?" he demanded, instantly alert.

"We... might have a problem." She turned the screen toward him, showing a gossip news site. The headline read: "DYNAMIGHT'S SECRET PASSION? NO. 4 HERO SPOTTED GETTING COZY WITH STAFF."

His eyes narrowed. "That's bullshit. There weren't any photographers in that alcove."

"There weren't." She scrolled down, showing him the article. "No photos, just 'multiple eyewitnesses' reporting that we disappeared together and left together. They're speculating."

He shrugged, taking a bite of his food. "So fucking what?"

Her eyes widened like he'd suggested they rob a bank. "So what? Katsuki, this is a PR nightmare waiting to happen! I'm your employee. Your subordinate. This is textbook unprofessional conduct."

"Is it?" He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by her panic. "You're an adult. I'm an adult. It's not like you're an intern."

"That's not the point." She set her plate aside, her appetite apparently forgotten. "There are ethical implications. Conflict of interest concerns. What if people think I'm getting special treatment? Or that I slept my way into position? What if—"

"Anyone who's seen you work for five fucking minutes knows you earned your position," he cut in sharply. "Your competence isn't in question."

"It's not about what's true—it's about perception." She ran her fingers through her hair, dislodging the messy bun. "The agency is doing so well right now. We can't risk a scandal."

He set his plate down, crossing his arms. "So what are you saying? That this was a mistake?"

"No!" The vehemence in her voice surprised him. She reached out, placing cool hands on his bare shoulders. "No, absolutely not. Last night was..." A blush spread across her cheeks. "It was incredible. You're incredible."

The knot of tension in his stomach loosened slightly. "Then what's the fucking problem?"

"The problem is that I'm supposed to be your PR expert, and office romances are PR disasters waiting to happen." She sighed, her thumbs stroking his collarbone. "Especially with someone like you—"

"Someone like me," he repeated flatly.

"—who's constantly in the public eye," she finished, giving him a look. "Don't be deliberately obtuse. You know what I mean."

He did, but it didn't make the solution any clearer. "So what do you want to do? Pretend this never happened?" The thought made his palms itch with heat.

"No." She bit her lip, thinking. "I think we need rules."

"Rules," he echoed skeptically.

"Yes. Parameters. Boundaries."

Of course she'd approach this like a fucking project management problem. He should have expected nothing less.

She slid off the counter, standing before him with the determined expression he recognized from when she was about to propose a solution to a particularly difficult PR crisis.

"Nobody can know," she said firmly. "And no funny business at work. Only after hours."

He stared at her. "You want to keep this a secret."

"I think we have to, for now." She pressed her palms against his chest, her touch cool and grounding. "Think about it, Katsuki. The agency is your legacy. You're building something that matters. I refuse to be the reason it gets derailed."

Her eyes were earnest, pleading for understanding. "The minute people find out, everything gets complicated. Questions about favoritism. Endless gossip. Sponsors getting nervous about stability. It's a distraction we can't afford."

He hated that she was right. Hated even more the idea of hiding, of pretending. It wasn't his fucking style.

"I hate lying," he said bluntly.

"I know." She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her face against his chest. "I'm not asking you to lie, exactly. Just... be discreet. Keep our personal relationship separate from work."

Her hair smelled like his shampoo. His shirt hung loose on her smaller frame. Standing in his kitchen. The idea of acting like nothing had changed felt impossible.

"It's not forever," she murmured against his skin. "Just until we figure out the right way, the right time. Until we know this is something that..." She trailed off.

"That what?" he pressed.

She looked up at him. "That's worth the complications."

He clenched his jaw. . She wasn't sure. She wasn't sure this was more than a night of good sex, more than a temporary loss of control. And fuck, how could he blame her? He'd never given her reason to think he was capable of more.

But he knew, with a certainty that startled him, that he wanted more. Wanted her—not just in his bed, but in his life. The realization was terrifying.

"Fine," he bit out, his jaw tight. "Your rules. For now."

She smiled and she rose on tiptoes to kiss him, her lips cool against his. "Thank you," she whispered. "I promise, this is the right call."

He returned the kiss more roughly than he'd intended, one hand tangling in her hair while the other curved possessively around her hip. When they broke apart, both breathing heavily, he pressed his forehead against hers.

"No funny business at work," he repeated, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. "You realize that's going to be fucking impossible, right? Your office is three feet from mine."

A mischievous smile spread across her face. "What, the great Dynamight can't handle a challenge?" She trailed a finger down his chest, over his abs, stopping just above the waistband of his sweatpants. "I thought self-control was your specialty."

He growled, catching her wrist. "You're playing with fire, Frostbite."

"Maybe I like playing with fire." Her eyes sparkled with challenge. "Question is, can you take the heat of your own game, Katsuki?"

He couldn't decide if he wanted to strangle her or kiss her senseless. Probably both.

"You think I can't keep my hands off you at work? Fine." He backed her against the counter, caging her in with his arms. "But all bets are off the second we leave that building. You're mine, and I don't like pretending otherwise."

Her breath hitched, and the affection in her eyes nearly broke his resolve.

"Deal," she whispered.

He kissed her again, hard and possessive, pouring everything into it—his frustration at the hiding, his grudging acceptance of her reasoning, and the terrifying depth of what he was starting to feel for her.

Chapter Text

"So he just drove you home? That's it?" Kaminari's disappointment was almost comical, his entire body deflating like a sad party balloon. "No dramatic declarations? No 'I've secretly been in love with you forever'?"

You glanced up from the scheduling app on your tablet, maintaining what you hoped was a neutral expression. "I told you—he drove me home, made sure I got in safely, and left. Very professional."

A complete lie, of course. Bakugo had done far more than drive you home. He'd claimed you in every way imaginable, left bruises on your inner thighs that still ached deliciously, and whispered filthy promises against your skin until sunrise. But the teams of pro heroes currently clustered around your desk didn't need to know that particular detail.

"But he was looking at you like you were the last katsudon on earth," Kirishima insisted, perched on the edge of your desk. "All night! Even Todoroki noticed, and he's about as observant as a brick wall when it comes to this stuff."

"I think you're all projecting," you said, busying yourself with straightening a stack of already-straight papers. "Mr. Dynamight was simply being attentive to his staff. He's the boss. It's what bosses do."

Sero snorted. "Yeah, okay. That's why he growled—literally growled—when Monoma tried talking to you."

"He's territorial about agency assets," you replied smoothly, despite the heat creeping up your neck. "You're all agency assets too. He'd do the same for any of you."

The memory of Bakugo's hands sliding up your thighs, his teeth scraping your neck as he whispered, "Mine," flashed through your mind with such vivid clarity that you nearly dropped your tablet. You cleared your throat, willing the blush to recede.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Kaminari sang, waggling his eyebrows. "Or not sleep, as the case may be."

You were saved from having to respond by the door to Bakugo's office slamming open with enough force to rattle the windows. There he stood—ash blonde hair still damp from his morning shower, hero costume half-assembled, looking like sex and violence perfectly blended. Your body immediately betrayed you, a shiver running down your spine at the mere sight of him.

"What the fuck is this, social hour?" he snapped, glaring at the cluster of heroes around your desk. "Unless you're discussing the fucking security protocols for the north warehouse, get back to work!"

The group scattered like startled birds, each muttering excuses as they retreated. 

"Yes, sir," you said. "I was just reminding everyone about the training rotation changes for this week."

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the mask slipped. Something hot and possessive flashed across his face before he regained control. "My office. Ten minutes. Bring the Hatsume contract."

He turned and disappeared back inside, leaving you momentarily unable to breathe properly.

This was going to be harder than you thought.

"Okay, spill it," Mina demanded, cornering you in the breakroom later that morning. She pushed the door shut with her hip, pink skin practically glowing with determination. "Something happened."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you said, focusing intently on adding precisely one sugar to your coffee. "Though we really should fix the drip in the sink when you have a—"

"Cut the crap," she interrupted, dropping her voice to a whisper. "The vibe between you and Bossman has shifted. It's like watching two magnets pretending they don't want to snap together."

"That's called professional efficiency," you countered, refusing to meet her eyes. "We've streamlined our communication patterns to maximize workplace productivity."

"Streamlined your what now?" Mina squinted at you, her yellow eyes narrowing with suspicious delight. "Did you just use corporate buzzwords to avoid admitting you guys hooked up?"

You nearly choked on your coffee. "Mina!"

"Ha! You called me Mina! Not Ms. Pinky!" She pointed a triumphant finger at you. "You never do that at work! You're slipping!"

Damn. She had you there.

"Look, I can see it," she continued, hopping up to sit on the counter. "The way he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching? Like you're some rare explosive compound he wants to detonate personally? And you're not much better—I caught you staring at his ass for a full minute during the security briefing."

"I was...examining the tactical features of his utility belt," you muttered lamely.

"Oh, I bet you examined his 'tactical features' all right," she snickered, making air quotes. "Probably got a very close look at his 'utility belt' too."

"Could you be any louder?" you hissed, glancing nervously at the door. "I think there's a villain in Hokkaido who didn't quite hear you."

Mina leaned in, her expression softening. "Hey, it's me. Your friend. The one who took you shopping for that black lingerie that made Bakugo choke on his water at the gala when your dress shifted."

You winced, remembering exactly what he'd done to that lingerie. Ripped it to shreds, actually.

"If something's happening, I'm the last person who'd judge. I've been shipping you two since day one."

"Shipping is for fictional characters," you sighed, deflating slightly.

"Whatever. The point is—you can trust me."

She looked so earnest, so genuinely concerned. And God, you needed someone to talk to. The weight of keeping this enormous secret was already crushing you, and it had been less than 48 hours.

"If I tell you," you said quietly, "you have to swear on your hero license that it stays between us."

Mina's eyes widened, and she bounced slightly in excitement. "I knew it! I. KNEW. IT."

"Mina! Swear it!"

"I swear! On my license, my collection of limited edition Crimson Riot figurines, and my future firstborn child." She made an elaborate crossing motion over her heart. "Now please, for the love of all things holy, tell me everything. Did he rock your world? I bet he did. He has that big dick energy that doesn't lie."

You buried your face in your hands, already regretting this decision. But the dam had broken.

"We...yes. After the gala. He took me to his place and we..." You weren't typically prudish, but somehow saying it out loud made it all feel so real. "It was intense."

"I KNEW IT!" Mina whisper-screamed, slapping her thighs in triumph. "Details! I need details!"

"I am not giving you a play-by-play of my sex life!"

"Fine, fine. Just tell me—was it good? Like, scale of one to ten."

You thought about the way he'd pinned you to his door, the kitchen island, the mirror, the bed. How he'd rendered you completely incoherent with pleasure until you were nothing but sensation and need.

"Fifteen," you admitted, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. "Maybe twenty."

Mina slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her squeal of delight. "I knew he'd be amazing. All that intensity has to go somewhere productive."

"But it's complicated," you added quickly. "We can't let anyone know. He's my boss, I'm his employee—it's a textbook HR disaster waiting to happen."

"So you're keeping it secret?" Mina's excitement dimmed slightly. "That's rough."

"It's necessary. For the agency's reputation, for my professional credibility..." You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "We agreed—absolutely no funny business at work. Strictly professional during office hours."

"And how's that working out for you?" she asked, one eyebrow raised knowingly.

"Terribly," you confessed. "I can't stop thinking about him. About it. About everything."

Mina's expression softened into something like sympathy. "Oh honey, you've got it bad."

"I know." You groaned. "But it has to stay secret, Mina. Promise me."

"I promise," she said solemnly. "Your dirty little secret is safe with me." Then her serious expression cracked, replaced by a mischievous grin. "But you have to tell me one thing—does he explode when he—"

"I am not answering that!" you yelped, clamping a hand over her mouth.

Her muffled laughter behind your palm was not reassuring in the slightest.

"Yes, of course, Mr. Tanaka. The exclusivity clause only applies to hero equipment, not civilian merchandise." You leaned against the edge of your desk, legs crossed at the ankle as you balanced the phone between your shoulder and ear.

Bakugo had wandered in five minutes ago, ostensibly waiting for you to finish the call so you could discuss the sponsor meeting. But he hadn't said a word—just leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching you with predatory focus.

"No, it wouldn't affect the distribution networks at all," you continued, hyper-aware of his gaze tracking your every movement. You adjusted your position slightly, uncrossing and recrossing your legs.

His eyes immediately dropped to follow the movement, lingering on the hem of your pencil skirt. The naked want in his expression sent a jolt of heat straight to your cunt.

Two could play at this game.

You stretched casually, arching your back just enough to emphasize the curve of your breasts beneath your blouse. "Yes, I understand your concerns about market saturation. Perhaps we could schedule a follow-up meeting to discuss alternative approaches?"

Bakugo's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. He knew exactly what you were doing, and from the darkening of his eyes, he was not amused.

"That would be wonderful," you said, deliberately softer, more breathy—the same voice you'd used in his ear when he had you bent over the kitchen counter. "Thursday at two works perfectly for us."

Bakugo pushed off from the doorframe, stalking toward you with unmistakable intent. He stopped directly in front of you, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of burnt sugar that always clung to him. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body.

"Excellent. We'll see you then," you murmured into the phone, heart racing. As Bakugo closed in, you uncrossed your legs again, letting one foot brush against his calf. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Tanaka."

You disconnected the call and set the phone aside, looking up at Bakugo with faux innocence. "Was there something you needed, Mr. Dynamight?"

"You're playing with fire," he growled, voice pitched low enough that it wouldn't carry beyond your office. "Testing my self-control."

"I'm just being efficient with my time," you replied, lips curling into a small smile. "Multitasking. Handling business while...handling business."

He stepped closer, forcing you to lean back slightly against your desk. You let your knee brush against his thigh, then slowly—deliberately—dragged the point of your heel up the side of his leg.

"This is wildly unprofessional," he muttered, but he didn't move away. If anything, he seemed to sway closer.

"I don't know what you mean," you said, widening your eyes in mock confusion. "I'm simply waiting for my boss to tell me what he wants."

His hand shot out, gripping your knee to still the movement of your foot against his leg. The heat of his palm seared through the thin fabric of your skirt.

"What I want," he said, his voice a dangerous rumble, "is for you to stop fucking teasing me when we agreed to keep things professional at work."

"I'm being completely professional," you countered, keeping your voice steady despite the liquid heat pooling between your thighs. "Professional is my middle name. See? I'm even calling you Mr. Dynamight."

His fingers tightened on your knee. "You know exactly what that does to me when we're alone."

"Does what, Mr. Dynamight?" You leaned in, close enough to feel his breath against your lips. "I'm just showing proper respect to my employer."

For a moment, you thought he might break your agreement right then and there—push you back onto your desk and take you with the door wide open. The tension between you was thick enough to cut with a knife, electric and volatile.

Then a loud crash from down the hall shattered the moment, followed by Kaminari's panicked "It wasn't me!" and Kirishima's booming laughter.

Bakugo stepped back, releasing your knee. His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, like he was forcing himself to maintain composure.

"We're not done with this," he warned, the promise in his eyes making your stomach flip. "Tonight. My place."

He turned and stalked out of your office, shoulders rigid with restrained tension.

You slumped back against your desk, legs embarrassingly unsteady. So much for keeping things professional. At this rate, you'd be lucky to make it through the week without combusting from sexual frustration.

The next day found you in Bakugo's office, supposedly helping him review contract paperwork for a new support gear partnership. In reality, you'd been staring at the open collar of his shirt for the last five minutes, remembering how you'd marked the skin beneath it with your teeth the night before.

"Something interesting about my fucking shirt?" he asked without looking up from the contract, though a small smile played at the corner of his mouth. He knew exactly what you were thinking.

"It's crooked," you said, seizing the excuse. "Let me fix it for you."

You rounded his desk and leaned over him, reaching for his collar with a perfectly innocent expression. As your fingers brushed against the warm skin of his throat, you felt him swallow hard.

"There," you murmured, deliberately smoothing your hands down the front of his shirt, lingering over the hard planes of his chest. "Much better, Mr. Dynamight."

His hand shot up, catching your wrist. "Don't call me that when we're alone," he ordered, eyes narrowing.

The commanding tone sent a thrill down your spine. "Whatever you say...Mr. Dynamight."

You saw the exact moment his patience snapped. His grip on your wrist tightened, and in one fluid motion, he yanked you down until you were half-sprawled across his lap, face inches from his.

"You're pushing it, Frostbite," he growled. His other hand came up to cup the back of your neck, thumb brushing against your pulse point. "Testing my limits."

"Maybe I like seeing what happens when you reach them," you admitted, breathless. "Besides, I'm just being helpful." You shifted against him, subtly pressing your breasts against his chest. "These contracts need reviewing, Mr. Dynamight."

A dangerous glint appeared in his red eyes. "Two can play this game."

Before you could respond, he released you and spun his chair around, forcing you to stand. "Since you're so eager to help," he said, voice deceptively calm, "why don't you take a look at the clauses on page six? There seems to be an inconsistency with the liability section."

Wary of his sudden shift, you leaned over the desk, scanning for the page in question. "Which paragraph specifically are you—"

Your words cut off as you felt him rise from his chair. He moved to stand directly behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him against your back.

"Keep reading," he instructed, his voice a low rumble near your ear. "Tell me what you think of section 6.3."

You tried to focus on the text, but it was nearly impossible with him so close. Then his hands settled on your hips, light but unmistakably possessive.

"I—it looks like standard indemnification language," you managed, voice embarrassingly unsteady. "Though we might want to clarify the—"

"The scope?" he suggested, leaning closer until his chest pressed against your back. His hands slid incrementally higher, thumbs tracing small circles against your sides. "Or the...parameters?"

You sucked in a sharp breath as you felt something hard press against your backside. He was aroused, making no effort to hide it, and the knowledge sent a bolt of heat straight to your pussy. You had to press your legs together to stop the throbbing.

"Both," you whispered, abandoning all pretense of professionalism. "Definitely both."

His lips brushed against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "What about the terms?" One hand slid around to your stomach, fingers splayed possessively across your abdomen. "Are they...satisfactory?"

You couldn't think straight. Your body was on fire, every nerve ending alive with wanting him. "They could be—ah—more explicit."

A dark chuckle vibrated against your back. "I'll make them explicit for you," he promised, voice pitched low and dangerous. His hand drifted higher, stopping just below the curve of your breast. "Would you like that...Ms. Office Manager?"

The use of your title in that seductive growl was unfairly effective. You bit back a moan, gripping the edge of his desk to steady yourself. "Yes, Mr. Dynamight."

His grip tightened momentarily, an almost imperceptible flex of his fingers against your body. Then, without warning, he stepped back completely, cold air rushing in to replace the heat of his body.

"Good," he said, voice back to its normal professional tone. "Then I expect the revised language on my desk by end of day."

You turned to face him, flushed and disheveled, to find him watching you with a smug expression. The bastard was enjoying this—turning your game back on you.

"That's...that's all?" you stammered, still struggling to collect yourself.

"For now," he replied, eyes dark with promise. "We are at work, after all. And we have an agreement about professionalism, don't we...Ms. Office Manager?"

The way he said your title now—slow and deliberate, like he was imagining all the ways he'd make you forget it later—left no doubt that this was payback for your teasing.

"Right," you said, smoothing down your skirt with hands that weren't entirely steady. "Professional. That's me."

His answering smile was all predator. "Five o'clock. My apartment. Don't be late."

You nodded, gathering the contracts and backing toward the door on legs that felt like jelly. "I'll, um, get these revised right away."

As you escaped to the relative safety of your own office, you collapsed into your chair, heart racing. Professional boundaries were all well and good in theory, but putting them into practice when Bakugo was involved?

That might just be the most impossible challenge you'd ever faced.

* * *

His cock drove into you so hard your vision blurred, each brutal thrust sending shockwaves through your entire body. Your fingers clutched desperately at his expensive sheets, seeking purchase as Bakugo pounded into you from behind. The hand gripping your hip was scalding hot, almost painful, but it was the other hand—wrapped loosely around your throat, thumb pressing against your pulse point—that made coherent thought impossible.

"Who do you belong to?" he growled, his voice a dangerous rumble that vibrated against your back.

You were bent forward on his bed, ass in the air, face pressed into the mattress, completely at his mercy. And God, you loved it. Every demanding thrust, every possessive touch, every dominant word fed something primal inside you that you'd never acknowledged before him.

"Mr. Dynamight," you gasped, partly because you knew it would drive him crazy, partly because you couldn't resist pushing his buttons even now.

The effect was instantaneous. He froze mid-thrust, buried deep inside you, the sudden stillness making you whimper.

"What did you say?" His voice dropped an octave, the quiet threat in it sending a delicious shiver down your spine.

You tried to push back against him, desperate for friction, for movement, for anything to relieve the aching need building inside you. "Mr. Dynamight," you repeated, a challenge in your voice despite your compromised position.

His grip on your hip tightened, holding you immobile. "Wrong answer."

He remained completely still, denying you the pounding rhythm your body was screaming for. The heat of him inside you was maddening—you were so close to the edge, so desperate to come—but he wasn't moving.

"I'm waiting," he said, the underlying steel in his voice making your pussy clench around him involuntarily.

"Please," you whimpered, pride crumbling under the weight of raw need.

"Please what?" His thumb caressed your throat almost tenderly, in stark contrast to the iron grip on your hip. "Tell me who you belong to. Who's inside you right now?"

You felt wetness running down your inner thigh, your body betraying just how much his dominance affected you. You tried to keep playing the game, holding onto that last scrap of defiance, but your body was screaming for release.

"Katsuki," you finally gasped, surrendering. "It's you, Katsuki."

"There it is," he purred, satisfaction dripping from every syllable. 

Before you could take another breath, he slammed back into you with renewed vigor, setting a punishing pace that sent your body sliding up the mattress. The hand at your throat tightened just enough to make your pulse race with excitement, not fear, while his other hand kept you anchored against his brutal thrusts.

"Again," he demanded, punctuating the command with a particularly deep thrust that hit something inside you that made you see stars.

"Katsuki!" His name tore from your throat, all pretense of control abandoned.

"That's it," he growled, his pace becoming erratic. "Come for me now."

Your body obeyed instantly, as though it had just been waiting for permission. The orgasm crashed through you with shocking intensity, your pussy clenching rhythmically around his cock as waves of pleasure radiated outward. You screamed his name again—his real name—as your arms gave out completely and you collapsed onto the mattress.

He followed you down, his chest pressed against your back as he continued to drive into you through your orgasm, prolonging it until you were trembling uncontrollably beneath him.

Just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, he pulled out completely. Before you could protest the sudden emptiness, his strong hands flipped you over onto your back. He loomed above you, ash blonde hair damp with sweat, red eyes burning with hunger as he took in your disheveled state.

"Look at you," he said, voice rough with desire. "Fucking perfect."

He pushed your thighs apart and knelt between them, one hand wrapping around his cock, slick and glistening from your arousal. The sight of him touching himself while staring down at you with such raw need made your mouth go dry.

"Touch yourself," he commanded. "Show me how wet you are for me."

Heat flooded your face, but you were too far gone to feel embarrassed. You slid one hand between your legs, fingers circling your sensitive clit while he watched, his own hand still stroking his length. The intimacy of this moment—watching each other, pleasuring yourselves, completely exposed—felt almost more intense than the actual sex.

"Spread yourself open," he said, his voice strained now. "I want to see all of you."

You used your other hand to do as he asked, exposing your slick cunt to his hungry gaze. A low, appreciative sound rumbled from his chest, and he positioned himself at your entrance again.

"Tell me you want this," he demanded, the head of his cock just barely pressing against you. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you," you whispered, voice breaking with sincerity. "Only you, Katsuki. Please."

He pushed in slowly this time, letting you feel every inch as he filled you completely. The change of pace was unexpected, almost tender, and somehow more overwhelming than the rough pounding from before. He kept his eyes locked on yours as he began to move, each thrust deep and deliberate.

"Touch your tits," he instructed, his gaze dropping to your chest. "I want to watch you touch yourself while I fuck you."

You slid your hands up your body, cupping your breasts, circling your nipples with your thumbs. His eyes darkened as he watched, his rhythm faltering slightly.

"Fuck," he breathed, almost reverent. "You're so goddamn beautiful."

The praise hit you like a physical touch, making your back arch and your inner walls clench around him. He felt it too, his eyes momentarily closing as a shudder ran through him.

"I'm close," he warned, reaching down to circle your clit with his thumb. "Come with me this time."

The dual sensations of his cock filling you and his rough thumb on your sensitized clit quickly pushed you toward another peak. His thrusts became harder, faster, the tenderness giving way to raw need again. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your hands abandoning your breasts to grip his muscular forearms instead.

"Katsuki," you gasped, feeling the tension building to an unbearable level. "I'm going to—"

"Yes," he hissed, his movements becoming erratic. "Give it to me."

Your second orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your back arching off the bed as your body convulsed around him. The sight of you coming undone seemed to trigger his own release—with a ragged groan, he pulled out, stroking himself once, twice, before hot spurts of come landed on your stomach and breasts.

He looked almost feral in that moment, chest heaving, eyes wild, muscles tensed as he marked you with his cum. The possessiveness of the act, far from bothering you, sent a final aftershock of pleasure through your spent body.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, both trying to catch your breath. Then Bakugo leaned down, surprising you with a kiss that was unexpectedly gentle. When he pulled back, his expression had softened, the intensity replaced by something that looked dangerously close to tenderness.

"Stay there," he murmured, pressing another quick kiss to your forehead before disappearing into the bathroom.

He returned moments later with a warm, damp washcloth and gently cleaned his release from your skin, his touch careful and thorough. The domesticity of the act, after the raw intensity of what you'd just shared, created a lump in your throat that was difficult to swallow past.

When he was finished, he tossed the washcloth in the general direction of the bathroom and collapsed beside you, immediately pulling you against his chest. You settled into his embrace, your back pressed against his front, his heat enveloping your naturally cool body in the most delicious way.

"You win," you mumbled, feeling boneless and thoroughly satisfied.

His chuckle rumbled against your back. "Damn right I do. You broke first."

"Only because you cheated."

"How the fuck is making you say my actual name cheating?"

"Because you know what it does to me when you get all dominant."

You felt his smile against your shoulder. "Yeah? You like that?"

"As if you couldn't tell," you snorted, though your face heated at the admission.

He tightened his arms around you, one hand splayed possessively across your stomach. "I like hearing you admit it."

The quiet contentment of the moment was interrupted by a soft meow from the doorway. You lifted your head to see Nitro, sitting primly in the doorway, green eyes judging you both.

"I think we've scandalized your cat," you laughed.

"He'll get used to it," Bakugo replied, making no move to let you go.

As if summoned by the sound of his feline counterpart, Mochi appeared behind Nitro, her calico coat a stark contrast to his sleek blackness. They regarded each other warily for a moment before Mochi confidently trotted into the room, jumped onto the bed, and settled herself at the foot of the mattress. After a moment's consideration, Nitro followed, maintaining what he clearly considered a dignified distance from the interloper.

"Would you look at that," you said, watching Nitro gradually inch closer to Mochi despite his attempts to seem disinterested. "She's won him over already."

"Smart cat," Bakugo muttered, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot behind your ear. "Knows good company when he sees it."

You shifted to face him, curling into the inviting heat of his body. He adjusted his position to accommodate you, one arm serving as your pillow, the other draped over your waist.

"You're the perfect space heater," you mumbled against his chest. "My own personal furnace."

"Your hands are still fucking ice," he complained, but he didn't move away when you pressed your cold fingers against his abs.

"It's my quirk, I can't help it. Besides, you love it."

"Might tolerate it," he conceded, though the way his body curved protectively around yours belied his gruff words.

"Admit it," you teased, tracing lazy patterns on his chest with your fingertips. "Our quirks are thermodynamically compatible, just like Deku said. You need my cooling effect."

"I don't need shit," he said automatically, but there was no real heat in it. After a pause, he added more quietly, "But I might want it."

You smiled.

Silence settled over you, comfortable and easy. Nitro had finally given in and curled up next to Mochi, their tails intertwined, both cats purring softly.

"What were you like as a kid?" you asked suddenly.

Bakugo tensed slightly before relaxing again. "Loud. Angry. The fucking best at everything."

"So... exactly the same as now," you teased, poking his ribs.

He caught your finger, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss that made your heart skip. "Worse. No filter at all. Thought my quirk made me untouchable."

"Little Katsuki, terrorizing the neighborhood," you mused, trying to picture him as a child. "Bet you were adorable."

"I was a fucking menace," he corrected, though there was a hint of pride in his voice. "My mom had to drag me home by the ear more times than I can count."

"I can actually picture that perfectly."

"What about you?" he asked, his hand moving to trail up and down your spine. "Bet you were some perfect little teacher's pet."

"Rude," you said, though you couldn't help smiling. "I was... observant. Quiet. Always had cold hands, even before my quirk manifested. The other kids called me 'Ice Queen.'"

His arms tightened around you protectively, as if he could retroactively shield you from childhood taunts. "Fucking extras."

"It wasn't so bad," you assured him. "I learned to fade into the background. Watch. Listen. Figure out what made people tick."

"The perfect training for dealing with prickly heroes," he noted, surprising you with his insight.

"I guess it was," you agreed. "Though none of my elementary school classmates were quite as explosive as you."

He snorted. "Lucky them."

You fell silent again, tracing the various scars that marked his skin. His breathing was starting to even out, his body relaxing further into the mattress.

"Did you always want to be a hero?" you asked softly, running your fingers through his ash blonde hair.

"Mmm," he mumbled, eyes closed now. "Never wanted anything else. Was gonna be Number One."

"You still could be," you whispered, continuing to scratch gently at his scalp, the way you'd discovered he secretly loved.

"Building something better," he murmured, words slurring slightly with approaching sleep. "The agency... changing the system..."

His features relaxed completely, the perpetual furrow between his brows smoothing out, making him look younger, unburdened. His breathing deepened, and you realized he'd fallen asleep mid-conversation, your gentle head scratches lulling him into unconsciousness.

It struck you then how much trust this represented—Bakugo Katsuki, the ever-vigilant hero who slept with one eye open, completely vulnerable and at peace in your arms. Something that felt dangerously like love squeezed your heart as you watched him sleep, his face softened, his body curled protectively around yours despite his unconscious state.

The cats had inched closer, Nitro now pressed against Bakugo's back while Mochi nestled in the hollow between your bodies. A perfect little unit, the four of you, in this moment of domestic tranquility.

Chapter Text

Four chipped coffee mugs, zero coasters, and a goddamn stack of 32 schematics. Bakugo counted each element of the disorganized conference room, focusing on the numbers to keep his mind from drifting to more dangerous territories—like how Frostbite had worn her hair up today, exposing the back of her neck. 

A spot he'd kissed less than nine hours ago.

"—and the projected durability testing indicates a 47% improvement in blast resistance," droned Miura, the KyoTech rep who'd been talking for twenty-three minutes straight.

The meeting had dragged on for an hour already. Some bullshit about new utility belt prototypes. Important shit he should care about. Critical gear upgrades that could save his life in emergencies. And yet his attention kept sliding sideways to where she sat at the end of the table, pen moving across her notepad in neat, efficient strokes.

She hadn't looked at him once. The perfect professional. No one would guess she'd been whimpering his name last night while he pounded into her.

"Dynamight?"

His head snapped up. Kirishima was staring at him, eyebrows raised in silent question.

"What?" he barked.

"Thoughts on the prototype schedule?" Kirishima prompted. "You know, the thing we've been discussing for the past five minutes?"

Heat crawled up the back of his neck. Fucking perfect. Caught daydreaming like some lovesick teenager. He straightened, glaring at the projection screen where line graphs and timelines swam before his eyes.

"Eight weeks is too fucking long," he said, defaulting to his standard response to any timeline. "Cut it to six."

"But the materials testing alone—" started Miura.

"Six. Weeks." He punctuated each word by tapping his knuckles against the table. "If you can't do it, we'll talk to Hatsume."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Frostbite press her lips together, suppressing what was surely exasperation. She'd been trying to teach him "negotiation tactics" that didn't involve threats, but subtlety wasn't exactly his forte.

"We can make six weeks work," interrupted a smoother voice. 

The other KyoTech representative—Nakamura or some shit—leaned forward with an easy smile. Tall, immaculately dressed, with the kind of symmetrical face that probably got him cast in commercials. Bakugo hated him on principle.

"We'll just need to front-load some of the testing," Nakamura continued. "May I see the preliminary safety protocols?"

Frostbite nodded, shuffling through her folder. "I have those right here."

She stood, the movement causing a waft of her floral scent to drift across the table. Katsuki's nostrils flared involuntarily, his body reacting to the familiar smell that now clung to his sheets, his shower, his skin. She rounded the table, the pale blue cardigan she wore almost the same shade as the dress from the gala—the one he'd ripped off her with zero fucking remorse.

The memory sent a surge of heat to his palms.

She stopped beside his chair, leaning over to place the documents in front of him first. "You'll need to sign off on these, Mr. Dynamight," she said, her voice perfectly even, betraying nothing.

But he caught it—the slightest hitch in her breath when her arm brushed his. The barely perceptible widening of her pupils when he looked up at her. The faintest flush creeping up her neck.

He wanted to grab her waist and pull her into his lap right there. To tell all these extras to get the fuck out so he could bend her over the conference table and fuck her senseless. 

Across the table, Kaminari coughed, the sound suspiciously like a strangled laugh. Bakugo’s  gaze snapped up to find all four of his so-called friends watching with expressions that ranged from Kirishima's shit-eating grin to Ashido's barely contained glee.

They fucking knew. Of course they knew. Ashido had probably infected all of them with her gossip the second Frostbite had confirmed their relationship.

Bakugo tore his gaze away and snatched the papers from Frostbite's hands. "Fine."

She retreated, continuing around the table to distribute copies to everyone else. He forced himself to stare at the documents, not tracking her progress, definitely not watching how Nakamura's eyes followed her every move like some predator.

The low buzz of tinnitus started up in his left ear. Dynamight Agency couldn't afford to lose this contract just because he couldn't keep his hormones in check. Six million yen in advanced support gear. Critical updates to utility belts. Better uniform materials for the whole team.

Professional. He could be fucking professional for another thirty minutes.

"These look great," Nakamura was saying, his voice carrying an undertone that made Bakugo’s h bjaw clench. "Though I have some questions about the material flexibility requirements."

"I can walk you through those after the meeting," Frostbite replied.

His pen snapped between his fingers, drawing four sets of knowing eyes from his supposed friends.

"Ten minute break," he announced abruptly, standing. "Bathroom."

He stalked out, not waiting for a response. In the hallway, he shook ink from his hands, feeling the familiar itch of destruction building under his skin. This shit was exactly why keeping their relationship secret was necessary. And exactly why it was fucking impossible.

The men's room door banged open behind him, and Katsuki didn't need to turn around to know the entire idiot brigade had followed him.

"Dude," Kaminari started, his voice vibrating with barely contained laughter. "You're so completely obvious it's actually painful to watch."

Katsuki turned on the sink, scrubbing aggressively at the ink on his fingers. "Fuck off, Dunce Face."

"I don't know," Sero drawled, leaning against the wall. "I think it's kind of impressive. The way he managed not to spontaneously combust when she leaned over him? Real growth."

"Fuck off, Soy Sauce."

"You know what I think?" Kirishima jumped in, clapping a hand on Katsuki's shoulder. "I think our boy is in deep. Like, way past the shallow end."

"Fuck. Off. Shitty Hair."

"What I want to know," Ashido said, casually examining her nails as she leaned in the doorway of the men's bathroom like that was a perfectly normal place for her to be, "is why you two are still playing this stupid game when literally everyone already knows."

Bakugo whipped around, water spraying from his hands. "What the fuck does that mean?" 

"It means," Ashido said with a roll of her eyes, "that you stare at her like you want to eat her alive every time she walks into a room. It means she automatically makes your coffee exactly how you like it without asking. It means you literally growled when Kaminari put his arm around her last week."

"And let's not forget the time you made me run patrol in the rain because I asked if she was single," Kaminari added with a wounded expression.

"Or the fact that your entire mood depends on whether she's in the office or not," Sero chimed in.

"Or how about—" Kirishima started.

"ENOUGH." Katsuki's hands sparked, tiny crackles of light reflecting in the mirror. "So fucking what? You got a problem with it?"

A beat of silence, and then all four of his friends burst into laughter.

"A problem?" Kirishima gasped, clutching his stomach. "Bro, we've been waiting for you to pull your head out of your ass for months!"

"You two are perfect for each other," Ashido said, her expression softening. "She challenges you. Keeps you grounded. And you—well, you look at her like she hung the moon."

Bakugo’s face burned. It was one thing to acknowledge his feelings privately, another entirely to have them dissected by these idiots. Especially when they were right.

"Whatever," he muttered, turning back to the sink. "It's not that simple."

"Because she works for you?" Sero guessed.

"Because she's worried about her professional reputation," Kaminari corrected.

"Because you're scared," Kirishima said quietly, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

Tch. Bakugo’s hands tightened on the edge of the sink. Scared? Fucking absurd. He wasn't scared of anything.

Except maybe how much he needed her.

"We have a contract negotiation to finish," he said finally, pushing away from the sink. "The rest is none of your damn business."

He shouldered past them, ignoring Ashido's sympathetic pat on his back. As he re-entered the conference room, his eyes immediately found her—head bent close to Nakamura's, reviewing something on his tablet, her face animated with interest.

Something sharp and possessive twisted in his gut. She lit up like that when discussing security protocols with him. When debating PR strategies. When explaining why his idea for an explosion-themed holiday party was "perhaps not aligned with our current image rehabilitation efforts."

That light, that passion, that sharp intelligence. His.

But so was her reputation. Her career. Her future beyond just being "Dynamight's assistant." If going public meant jeopardizing any of that, then yeah, they'd keep playing the game.

Even if it was fucking killing him.

The meeting had finally, mercifully ended. Six weeks for the prototype testing, eight million yen for the contract, and one migraine developing behind Katsuki's right eye from watching Nakamura orbit around Frostbite like a goddamn satellite.

He'd stayed behind to review the schematics with Kirishima, focusing on the technical specifications rather than the sick feeling in his stomach as he watched Nakamura follow Frostbite toward her office.

"The burn packaging looks solid," Kirishima was saying, pointing to something on the blueprint Katsuki wasn't actually looking at. "But I'm worried about the heat resistance for third degree burns."

"Mmm." Katsuki's eyes tracked the pair across the office floor. Nakamura was walking too close, his hand hovering near the small of her back like he had any right to touch her there.

"We should probably test it with your maximum output," Kirishima continued. "Maybe after setting it on fire and dunking it in acid."

"Yeah, sounds good," Katsuki muttered absently.

Nakamura said something that made her laugh, her head tipping back slightly. His hand brushed her elbow. Casual. Proprietary. Crossing every fucking boundary.

"And then we can strap it to a monkey and launch it to the moon," Kirishima said.

"Fine," Katsuki growled, finally snapping his attention back. "What?"

Kirishima's eyebrows were practically in his hairline. "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"

"I heard enough," Katsuki said, rolling up the blueprints with unnecessary force. "The prototypes need heat resistance testing. We'll schedule it."

From across the room, Frostbite gestured toward her office, and Nakamura followed, closing the door behind them. The glass walls of her office—the ones he'd insisted on when they renovated for "transparency and supervision" purposes—suddenly seemed like a terrible fucking design choice as he watched Nakamura pull up a chair entirely too close to her desk.

"You're going to crush those blueprints into dust," Kirishima observed mildly.

Katsuki realized he was white-knuckling the rolled papers. He set them down with controlled precision. "Why the fuck does he need to be in her office?" he demanded. "The meeting's over."

"Probably finalizing the paperwork," Kirishima said, though his tone suggested he knew exactly what was really bothering Katsuki. "Contract stuff."

"He's sitting too close."

"Ah yes, the contractually mandated minimum seating distance," Kirishima said with mock seriousness. "A critical oversight in our negotiations."

Katsuki shot him a glare that would have reduced lesser men to ash.

Across the office, Nakamura leaned forward, pointing at something on Frostbite's computer screen. His shoulder brushed hers. She didn't move away.

"I'm going over there," Katsuki decided, already pushing away from the table.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Kirishima grabbed his arm, hardening his grip just enough to make it difficult to break free. "Bad idea, bro."

"Let go before I blow your arm off," Katsuki snarled.

"You're about to storm over there looking like you want to commit homicide," Kirishima said calmly. "How exactly do you think that's going to look to the very professional business representative from the company we just signed a multi-million yen contract with?"

Logic. Always with the fucking logic.

"He's hitting on her," Katsuki gritted out.

"Maybe," Kirishima conceded. "But she can handle herself. You trust her, right?"

That stopped him cold. Of course he trusted her. She'd never given him a reason not to. She was the most competent person in the building—in any room she entered. She didn't need him to swoop in and play the jealous boyfriend. Especially when their relationship was supposed to be secret.

"He better keep his fucking hands to himself," Katsuki muttered, but he stopped actively trying to break free.

"If he doesn't, I'm sure she'll freeze his balls off," Kaminari chimed in, appearing with Ashido and Sero. "She's got that ice queen death glare down pat."

Katsuki's lips twitched. She did have a way of shutting down unwanted advances with nothing more than a polite smile and eyes that could cut glass.

"Ooh, look at that, she just pulled the folder move," Ashido observed, not even trying to be subtle about watching the office. "Classic diversion tactic. Creating distance by putting paperwork between them. Our girl knows what she's doing."

Sure enough, Frostbite had placed a thick folder on the desk between them, effectively preventing Nakamura from leaning any closer.

"See?" Kirishima said, releasing Katsuki's arm. "Professional. Handling it."

Katsuki's shoulders lowered a fraction of an inch. Watching her work was like watching a master class in boundary management. She never seemed flustered, never seemed uncertain. Just kept steering the conversation back to business with a firm hand that most people wouldn't even notice they were being guided by.

Including him, most of the time.

"I still don't like him," Katsuki muttered.

"You don't like anyone," Sero pointed out reasonably.

"Got me there," Katsuki conceded, some of the tension bleeding out of him.

"So," Ashido said, sidling up to him with a grin that telegraphed trouble, "when were you going to tell us you're in loooooove with our office manager?"