Bakugou Katsuki had been having a perfectly normal morning. The perfect morning, in fact. Woke up on time, Ate some of Auntie's miso soup before she could even nag him. Avoided the red-eyed hobo during first patrol rotation so he didn't get roped into some tedious task at the school. The sun was bright, but not in the piss-colored way that made the streets feel drained. Everything was crisp, clean, and well within his control.

A laugh.

Familiar. Silver-toned. Gentle. The sound burrows into his chest, bypassing every wall, every snarl, every ounce of cool he's built up over the last year and a half.

inner monologue: No fuckin way.

He rounds the last corner into his homeroom classroom.

A portrait of mid-morning class: A few students shuffling by their desks. Ochaco Uraraka spinning on her heel to wave at Tsuyu. Shoto Todoroki staring blankly at his bag. Deku—stupid, shitty Deku—standing by the window, gesticulating like an idiot, the sun lighting up his awful green hair.

And next to him. Standing with her chin tilted, lips tugged up in a warm, familiar smile she always seemed to wear just a little brighter when she saw him—was her.

Bakugou freezes mid-step.

A heartbeat passes. Then another. The white-hot flicker of everything—surprise, joy, terror, rage (because why rage, why is there always rage) sparks behind his sternum before snuffing out.

She's different, yet not. Her hair is a little longer. She's filled out in her neck and her shoulders. Her jaw is less soft, more defined. But her eyes still catch the yellow light of morning like wildfire in a bottle.

And then she turns.

inner monologue: Oh, fuck me. She's looking at me.

inner monologue: Say something. Say literally anything, you shitty explosive brain, just fucking—open your mouth.