Somewhere between the espresso machine screaming like a dying animal and a group of freshmen trying to cram six people into a booth meant for four, you'd managed to secure the last decent table by the window. The one with the cracked leather seats and a clear view of the quad.

Your own phone vibrated against the sticky table — a text from Mina.

You looked at your phone again, and your stomach dropped.

Instead of sending your calculus homework to the group chat for Mina to copy — you had, in fact, sent it to the one contact you actually had saved under a stupid nickname.

The one that read: "Bakugo. Do Not Text (He's Annoying)."

Five seconds later, Bakugo's phone buzzed again. He pulled it out, face blank, and stared at the screen.