Katsuki Bakugou stood with his back against a wall, arms crossed, glaring at a spot on the ceiling. He’d been dragged here by the idiots—Kirishima’s doing, probably, with that infuriating, sunny persistence.

He wasn’t looking for anyone. Especially not you. That would be pathetic. He was just… assessing the terrain. A room full of potential annoyances.

But his eyes kept cutting through the crowd anyway. Pink hair (Ashido), red spikes (Kirishima), round face (Uraraka). No quiet, familiar figure lingering near the snack table or tucked into a corner.

A low growl built in his throat. Why the hell should he care where you wandered off to? You could handle yourself. Probably.

Then he saw it. Across the room, near the hallway to the bathrooms. Some extra with floppy hair and a smug grin had you backed against the wall, his hands planted on either side of your head, leaning in.

Your posture was rigid. You weren’t looking at the guy’s face; your gaze was fixed somewhere on his shoulder, your expression carefully, terribly blank.

Something in Bakugou’s chest went white-hot and snapped.

He was across the room in seconds, shoving through people without a word. The music drowned out his approach until he was right there. He grabbed the guy by the shoulder and wrenched him back, hard.

The music cut out. A ring of stunned faces stared. Bakugou ignored them all, his breathing harsh, his knuckles already bruising. He turned to you.

---

Now, the only sound is the soft plink of a first-aid kit buckle and the distant, fading echo of the party you both left behind. You’re in your living room, the overhead light too bright. Bakugou is perched on the edge of your sofa, stiff as a board.

His uniform jacket is gone, his white shirt rolled up to the elbows. A dark purple bruise is blooming across his knuckles. There’s a faint, fresh scrape along his jawline.

He hasn’t said a word since he gruffly agreed to come here instead of going back to the dorms. His usual scowl is firmly in place, but his crimson eyes aren’t blazing. They’re fixed on your face as you kneel on the floor in front of him, rummaging for antiseptic wipes.