⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 katsuki accidentally overhears your girl talk conversation with the girls… and his name comes up. but he can’t bring himself to move away from his hidden spot in the doorway.
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@whisp_windThe common room clock reads 11:47 PM when the conversation finally turns to the inevitable. The TV flickers in the corner, casting a pale blue glow over the scattered manga, the forgotten homework, the half-empty cups of cocoa that have long gone cold.
It's one of those late nights where the dorms feel smaller than they are. Where the weight of training, of hero work, of the looming future, dissolves into something softer. Laughter echoes against the high ceilings, tangled in the scent of detergent and the faintest trace of Jirou's vinyl records spinning forgotten in the background.
Mina Ashido
perched on the arm of the couch, legs crossed, gesturing wildly Okay, okay, but hear me out—what about Kaminari? Like, yes, he's a himbo, but he's OUR himbo.
Ochaco Uraraka
giggling, pulling her knees to her chest He did try to explain the difference between AC and DC to me last week and got it wrong twice. It was kind of endearing.
Tsuyu Asui
blanket wrapped around her shoulders, finger pressed to her chin I think he's sweet, but he'd definitely short-circuit during a fight and I'd have to carry him home. Too much work.
Jirou Kyouka
drumming her chopsticks against the rim of her ramen cup I'm not dating a guy who calls me 'Jirou-chan' like I'm his grandma.
The laughter that follows is warm, easy. The kind that settles into your bones and makes you forget the bruises from today's training, the ache in your shoulders, the pressure that never quite leaves your chest.
And then Mina turns to you. Her eyes glitter with something dangerous.
Mina Ashido
leaning in, stage-whispering Alright, Y/n. Your turn. You've been suspiciously quiet this whole time. There's gotta be someone. Someone you think about at night when you should be doing homework.
Jirou Kyouka
smirking Yeah, spill. You always dodge this question.
Ochaco Uraraka
eyes brightening, nudging your shoulder with her foot Come on, spill! We won't judge!
Tsuyu Asui
tilting her head Don't worry. We're really good at keeping secrets.
The common room goes quiet. The TV still flickers, some late-night hero news segment droning on about a recent mission, but all eyes are on you. The air feels warmer than it did a second ago. The cushion under you suddenly feels too soft, too unstable.
Mina's grin widens, sensing your hesitation like shark in open water.
Mina Ashido
sing-song Somebody's got a cruuush. Is it a notable someone? A recognizable someone? A someone with spiky hair and an anger problem—
The sound of a door opening cuts through the conversation like a blade.
You don't need to turn to know who it is. The footsteps are distinct. Heavy. Deliberate. The kind of footsteps that don't ask for permission. The kind that make the conversation die in your throat.
Katsuki Bakugo stands in the doorway to the boys' hall, still in his training clothes—dark tank top clinging to his chest, sweatpants hung low on his hips. His hair is damp at the edges, like he just came from a late shower. His eyes are half-lidded, tired, scanning the room with practiced disinterest.
He catches Mina's words mid-sentence. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He doesn't look at you. He doesn't look at you, and that's the problem. That's always been the problem.
Bakugo Katsuki
gruffly, crossing the room toward the kitchen The hell are you extras gossiping about at this hour?
Mina Ashido
unfazed, grinning Nothing you'd be interested in, Bakugo. Unless you're interested in Y/n's crush?
The words hang in the air like a live wire. Bakugo's hand pauses mid-reach for the fridge handle. A single beat. Almost imperceptible. Then he's opening the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water, the plastic crinkling in his grip.
Bakugo Katsuki
without turning around Don't give a shit about your girly gossip.
His voice is flat. Dismissive. But there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before. A stiffness that betrays something else.
The fridge light spills across his back, outlining the sharp cut of his shoulder blades, the corded muscle of his forearms. He cracks the bottle open, takes a long drag, and glances back at the group—his eyes briefly landing on you, then away just as fast.
Bakugo Katsuki
muttering Go to bed before you idiots start singing or some shit.
He leaves the kitchen, but he doesn't walk past you. He takes the long way around the couch, heading down the opposite hall. The purposeful detour doesn't go unnoticed by Jirou, whose eyebrow arches the moment his footsteps fade.
Jirou Kyouka
low, to you Huh. He took the long way.