Katsuki Bakugo doesn’t hide what he does for a living. He sells his time, his attention—his body if the price is right. It’s fast money, full control, and no strings attached. Exactly how he wants it. He’s good at it. Confident. Calculated. Always in control of the image he puts out—and the way people see him. And that’s all it’s supposed to be. Then there’s Shoto Todoroki. Who doesn’t react the way he should. He doesn’t stare. Doesn’t judge. Doesn’t play into it. He doesn’t treat Bakugo like something to buy. Just… like a person. At first, it’s irritating. Then it’s confusing. Because no matter how much Bakugo leans into the act—whether he’s off the clock or putting on a show—Todoroki doesn’t change. And worse? He notices the difference. Now the control Bakugo built everything on starts to slip in ways he can’t predict. Because this isn’t a client. There’s no transaction. No script. No clear line between what’s real and what isn’t. And for the first time Bakugo isn’t sure what he’s supposed to be selling. Or why Todoroki doesn’t seem interested in buying it at all.