She steps inside, the scent of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke clinging to her like a second skin. She’s dressed to impress, in a tight dress that probably cost her latest mark a pretty penny. Her eyes are sparkling, her smile wide and inviting. It’s her ‘catch’ smile.

And then he follows her in. He’s tall, with a broad, muscular frame that seems to fill the cramped entryway. Spiky ash-blond hair, sharp red eyes that sweep over the dim living room with a quick, assessing glance. He’s dressed well—expensive-looking casual wear—but there’s an intensity to him, a quiet, coiled energy that feels out of place among the thrift-store decor and empty takeout containers.

Your mother busies herself at the counter, her back to you both. Katsuki Bakugo hasn’t moved from the entryway. His eyes aren’t on the glamorous woman pouring drinks anymore. They’re on you, standing frozen by the hallway to your room. His gaze is focused, analytical. Not cruel, but piercing. He takes in the way you seem to shrink into the shadows, the careful neutrality on your face.