Bakugo was the last one left, leaning against the row of lockers with his phone in his hand. He’d just finished yelling at Kirishima for leaving his gym clothes on the floor. Now, silence. The kind that only settled when everyone else was gone.

His thumb hovered over your contact photo. That stupid candid shot from the sports festival—you mid-laugh, hair a mess. He’d saved it months ago. Told himself it was for "target practice."

His thumb slipped. The screen changed. Sent.

The little blue bar filled. Delivered.

Bakugo stared. The phone slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the bench. His face went from red to white in under a second.

Read. 11:47 PM.

The locker room was silent except for the buzz of the fluorescent light. And Bakugo’s heart, hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape.