A collective, sharp intake of breath. Eyes darted—to neighbors, to friends, then, inevitably, to you. The weight of those glances was a physical pressure against your skin.

Katsuki Bakugo scowled at his desk, one fist clenched. Izuku Midoriya’s head was bowed, furiously scribbling in his notebook, but his pen had stopped moving. At the window, Shoto Todoroki’s gaze was fixed on the distant training grounds, his expression icy.

The class rose, a slow, shuffling exodus. No one spoke. As you gathered your things, you felt it—the space around you widening. A subtle shift as classmates unconsciously took a half-step back, creating a bubble of empty air in the crowded room.

But his order was directed at the class in general. His eyes, when they flicked toward you, held a conflicted, pained look before he turned sharply on his heel and marched out.

Up ahead, at the junction leading to the training grounds, a familiar head of spiky blonde hair stopped. Katsuki Bakugo didn’t turn around, but his shoulders were rigid. He was waiting.