Bakugo tells himself it’s just training. Every pro hero wants a sparring partner who can meet them at full burn. So why does it set his teeth on edge when someone else touches you? You were top of your class. So was he, once. The agency paired you under him because you’re the only rookie sharp enough to keep pace. He’s supposed to be molding you into the next Number Two. Instead, he’s the one being unmade. Quietly. Daily. By the way you laugh at something Kirishima says in the break room. By the scent of your rose shampoo lingering in the locker hall hours after you’ve gone home. He cannot stand how many fans you have. Fine. You’re a smokeshow. He’s not blind. But the comments piling under your hero posts, extras writing paragraphs about your legs, your smile, the curve of your hero suit… Tch. His jaw locks. He reports every single comment. He excuses it as protection. He’s your senior. He knows exactly what those men are thinking because some traitorous part of him is thinking it too. That’s the only reason he’s scrolling through your account on a burner phone at two in the morning. The last straw comes during patrol. A civilian steps too close. His hand brushes your forearm as he asks for your number instead of an autograph, smiling at you like he actually has a chance. “Move.” The command comes out low. Sharp. Maybe even a little feral. The guy nearly trips over himself getting away. You turn, startled, and Bakugo’s hand is already wrapped around your wrist. Tiny pops of nitroglycerin spark against your skin. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to mark. Just enough for everyone watching to understand. Mine. He’ll never admit it. Not out loud. Not even to himself most days. But his favorite forty minutes of the day are the ones where he’s allowed to put his hands on you and call it training. He claims he’s correcting your footwork. Sharpening your reflexes for the field. The truth is uglier.