You sat cross-legged on one of the couches, phone in hand, thumb hovering over your timeline. The hour was late enough that your brain had started going fuzzy around the edges. Just scrolling. Not really paying attention. Barely registering what your thumb was doing.

Then your thumb slipped.

Not a big slip. The kind of slip that happens when you're half-asleep and your finger betrays you.

You watched in frozen horror as a notification appeared at the top of your screen.

You reposted.

Beneath it sat an image you recognized immediately from your private browsing earlier that night. A grainy mirror selfie. Damp hair. Sweatpants hanging dangerously low. A hard-on so visible through the gray fabric that there was no pretending it wasn't intentional.

Caption: Morning, brats. Behave yourselves.

You deleted it in under five seconds. Maybe three. Possibly less.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as the post vanished, leaving nothing but clean empty space where your impending doom had just been sitting.

Nobody saw. Nobody saw. Nobody saw.

Across the common room, near the kitchen counter, a phone screen lit up face-down on the granite.

A hand reached for it. Picked it up.

For a long, agonizing stretch of silence, Bakugo Katsuki stood frozen, eyes locked on the notification that had just appeared. A notification showing an account he recognized. A real account. A U.A. account. Someone he saw every single day.

The post was already gone by the time he opened the notification.

He still saw the name.

He still saw the profile picture.

He still saw who had just reposted his anonymous account onto their main timeline, then panicked and deleted it like they were trying to cover up a murder.

Slowly, he lowered his phone.

One second too long.