Archive of Our Own

Bakugo had worked in that damned office for five years, and every single one of those days felt like the same miserable loop.

He came in early, scowled his way through meetings, barked at anyone who made the mistake of lingering near his desk, and left without a goodbye.

People got the message quickly.

No one tried to chat him up, no one dared to sit next to him in the breakroom, and certainly no one had wanted the cubicle beside his for the past two years. The empty space was like a warning sign: approach at your own risk. 

He preferred it that way. 

At least until the company hired a ball of sunshine with red hair and the brightest grin Bakugo had ever seen.

Kirishima walked in on his first day with a smile so wide it looked painted on, and Bakugo hated that his heart did a stupid lurch the second he realized this cheerful idiot was being guided right to the empty cubicle beside him.

He told himself it didn’t matter, because people always started too bright before the monotony broke them. The kid would dim down in a week, two if he was stubborn, but then Kirishima leaned over the divider with a grin and said, “Hey, cubicle buddy!” and Bakugo’s soul left his body.

It got worse.

On that very first morning, Kirishima brought him a coffee. A coffee. Bakugo should have snarled at him to mind his own business, but instead he froze when the cup was thrust into his hand with such enthusiasm that it felt like an ambush.

He took one sip and nearly gagged, because it was liquid sugar, some unholy mix of caramel syrup and whipped cream that had no right to call itself coffee. But Kirishima was watching him so eagerly, waiting for approval, that Bakugo forced the entire thing down, grimacing with every gulp.

He even tried to cover it with a cough, pretending it was fine.

(it wasn’t fine.)

He thought his teeth were going to rot on the spot.

Kirishima, however, just beamed, completely oblivious to Bakugo’s suffering.

The next day, though, something changed. A plain black coffee appeared on his desk, no syrup, no cream, not even a grain of sugar. Just bitter, dark, perfect coffee. Kirishima leaned against the cubicle wall and said, “Figured yesterday’s wasn’t really your thing.”

That was the moment Bakugo knew he was doomed. 

He didn’t say thank you, couldn’t make the word come out, but he clutched the cup and drank it in three gulps.

After that, the routine began.

Every morning, there was a cup of black coffee or, sometimes, tea waiting for him, always with that easy grin that made Bakugo’s stomach twist. He told himself it was just a coincidence, that Kirishima probably bought coffee for everyone, but then he noticed no one else got one. Just him. Only him. That thought kept him awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering why the hell someone so bright and friendly would bother with him.

Bakugo became obsessed in the most humiliating way possible.

He found himself waiting for the sound of Kirishima’s footsteps in the morning, the cheerful greeting that floated over the divider, the way his laugh bounced around the office like sunlight breaking through clouds. He hated meetings now, not because of the work, but because Kirishima wasn’t next to him when he had to sit through them. 

He started memorizing Kirishima’s schedule, the times he went to the copy machine, the moments he slipped away to the breakroom. He always ended up finding excuses to wander there too, just to catch a glimpse.

He tried to keep it subtle, but he wasn’t subtle at all. He caught himself staring when Kirishima was talking to someone else, scowling harder than usual whenever anyone laughed too much at his jokes. The thought of other people enjoying his cubicle neighbor’s sunshine felt like a theft, like they were stealing something that belonged to him.

Not that Kirishima belonged to him.

He just wished he did.

The difference was small and miserable.

Every day brought something new to fuel his fixation. The way Kirishima scrunched his nose when concentrating, the way he twirled a pen around his fingers absentmindedly, the way his cheeks went pink whenever someone praised his work. Bakugo noticed it all. He noticed too much. He started dreaming about it, about those pink cheeks and that grin and the way he always seemed to carry warmth into the cold, fluorescent office.

The worst part was that Kirishima kept being kind specifically to him.

Whenever he passed out candies, he left the bitter dark chocolate on Bakugo’s desk. When he made copies, he always grabbed Bakugo’s too without being asked. When the office gossip swirled, he never dragged Bakugo into it, just gave him a look that said he knew better. Bakugo wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t used to anyone noticing him without flinching. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he turned it into obsession, into the kind of consuming focus that made everything else feel like static.

One afternoon, Kirishima leaned over the divider and said, “You always look like you’re about to fight the printer. I can help with that, you know.”

Bakugo’s face went hot.

He barked something about minding his own damn business, but the truth was his heart was pounding so hard he could barely hear his own words.

He didn't know what to do with his heart.

And he, strangely, didn't hate it.

Bakugo had been working like a madman that Friday, eyes burning from staring at the same stack of papers all day, fingers cramping from typing and rewriting the same damned reports.

He wanted nothing more than to finish before five so he could escape before his boss popped his head out and asked who was willing to stay late for the so-called “urgent deadlines” that somehow appeared every Friday like clockwork.

He was grinding his teeth, thinking about the walk to the train station and the blissful silence of his apartment, when he realized something unusual: Kirishima was nowhere around.

Bakugo leaned back in his chair, listening. Usually by this time the idiot’s laugh was bouncing across the cubicles, like he had no clue they were trapped in corporate hell, but now it was silent.

Then Bakugo remembered the sight he had caught earlier of Kirishima chatting with the cleaning ladies in the corridor, leaning on his elbow like they were all old friends. He had made them giggle like school kids, their hands covering their mouths as if they weren’t decades older than him.

When he finally spotted Kirishima again, it wasn’t with that stupid grin plastered across his face. He was walking fast, eyes wide, mouth in a thin line, and Bakugo felt his stomach drop before he could even ask if something was wrong.

Kirishima stopped at his cubicle, bent into the wall, and said, really, really loud, “Are you ready to leave, love?”

Bakugo blinked very slowly, as if he had just been transported into an alternate universe. Maybe he had eaten something weird at lunch. Maybe there was mold in the air vents. Maybe he had been poisoned by rat droppings in the breakroom microwave. Nothing else explained what he had just heard.

The redhead’s face was uncomfortable, a shade he had never seen before, cheeks tense instead of pink with laughter. Before Bakugo could demand what the hell was happening, Kirishima straightened and, with an even brighter smile than usual, declared even louder, “Don’t forget I made reservations for us later. That restaurant you love. To celebrate our two months' birthday.”

That was when Bakugo’s brain collapsed.

His thoughts tangled into static, and all he could do was stare at the idiot pretending like this was perfectly normal. Then his ears betrayed him as he turned toward the office doors to hide it, but that was when he saw Monoma standing there.

Monoma, the most annoying bastard in the finance department, a guy who had once argued with Bakugo for twenty minutes over a stapler. Now, his mouth was hanging open like a fish, clearly trying to process what he had just overheard.

Something in Bakugo’s survival instinct kicked in, then.

He nodded mechanically, like a robot trying to learn human behavior. He forced the words to his mouth, chewing on them before they could come out, and finally said, “I didn’t forget it, baby.”

Bakugo almost gagged on the word. It sounded so wrong in his voice, so unnatural, like he had been forced at gunpoint to say it, but Kirishima’s cheeks went red, and that ruined him even more.

He was too obsessed not to notice, not to think about it for days, not to memorize how it looked when that sunshine face actually flushed with embarrassment.

Kirishima recovered quickly, though, straightening with the kind of energy that only made Bakugo’s head spin harder. He grabbed both of their coats in one swift motion, swinging Bakugo’s over the cubicle wall as if it had always belonged draped over his arm. “We should be going,” he said, voice raised just enough for the whole floor to hear. Then, even louder, like he was performing in a play, “I booked our tables for six p.m.!”

Bakugo stood, shut down his computer even though the report in front of him was only half-done, and slid his arms into his coat without a fight, like he had been rehearsing this moment in secret. 

And when he was walking at Kirishima’s side, down the aisle between desks, every eye on them. He felt them all, actually. The disbelief, the whispers already forming, the laughter people were choking back as they watched their department’s demon storm off hand-in-hand with the new sunshine boy... Except there was no hand-holding, thank god, because Bakugo thought he might combust if there had been.

The elevator doors closed, and the world fell quiet. Kirishima leaned back against the wall, his whole body sagging like a balloon that had lost its air. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed so heavily it echoed off the metal. “I’m so, so sorry for this.”

Bakugo stood stiff in the middle of the car, staring at him like he had just grown another head. His brain was still running that scene on a loop: the loud “love,” the fake dinner plans, the heat crawling up the other’s neck.

Kirishima finally lifted his eyes, and said, “This guy, Monoma, you know him, he’s been asking me out since I started here five months ago. I was running out of excuses, so I told him I was seeing someone from my department and, well...” He gestured vaguely between them. “We’re here now.”

Bakugo made a strangled noise in his throat. “You... What the hell, five months?”

“I thought it’d fizzle out, but he kept pressing, and today he cornered me at lunch, so I just... Look, I panicked. You were the first person that came to mind.”

“The first person?” He repeated, voice caught between outrage and disbelief.

“Yeah!” Kirishima said, too brightly, like he could smooth it over with enthusiasm. “I mean, come on. You’re scary enough that no one’s gonna question it.”

Bakugo wanted to grab him by the collar and shake some sense into him, but his eyes betrayed him and slipped lower. The collar of Kirishima’s shirt was open, as it always was, one or two buttons left undone like he had never cared to finish the job. Freckles were scattered across his throat, as if someone had brushed them there by hand. His long red hair was pulled back into a messy bun that made him look both put together and careless at once. His fists curled tight at his sides.

“You’re a goddamn idiot,” he groaned, because if he didn't do what he was used to, he would put both of his hands on the other guy's face and smash their mouths together.

Kirishima grinned, looking relieved, though his ears still burned pink. “I know. I owe you, big time. Dinner’s on me tonight, if you actually wanna go. Doesn’t have to be fancy, just... I mean, you did play along.”

The word slipped out before he could stop it. “Yes.” 

He had been planning to drag himself home, maybe burn a frozen pizza, and collapse into bed. Instead, somehow, he had agreed to dinner with the one person who made his pulse stumble every time he walked into the room.

The grin he got in return was blinding. “Awesome! I know a good place. You’ll like it, I swear. Not fancy-fancy, but good food, clean tables, and no creepy waiters who judge you for ordering extra rice.”

That last part made him frown. “You’ve been judged for rice?”

“Too many times,” Kirishima answered, almost solemn, though he smiled. “One guy I was seeing even raised his eyebrow like I was ordering a third boyfriend.”

The word hit harder than it should have.

Boyfriend.

Dropped into the air as casually as if it were nothing more than another item on a grocery list. Bakugo’s mind snagged on it, circling it again and again, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do with this new piece of information. He kept his face blank, or at least he tried to, but the word clung to him all the way out the door.

They left side by side, and on the subway platform, he tried to convince himself it didn’t matter, that the warmth next to him wasn’t making his skin prickle. The train arrived with a screech and the two of them were pushed inside, swallowed by the crowd, but it wasn’t the strangers pressing against him that set his nerves on fire, no, of course not. It was the way Kirishima’s shoulder kept brushing his, the solid warmth of his arm every time the car jolted.

He stared hard at the map above the door, neck burning. The faint scent of soap and coffee clung to his cubicle neighbor, and Bakugo thought he might choke on it before their stop came.

A few stations later, they spilled out into the evening air. The place was tucked between a laundromat and a flower shop, small but neat, windows glowing with light. The menus taped to the glass looked handwritten, some of the ink smudged. Kirishima pulled the door open and bowed with exaggerated flair. “After you, love,” he whispered, like it was a private joke.

The tips of Bakugo’s ears went hot. “Shut the hell up,” he whispered, brushing past him.

A booth by the window became theirs.

Menus in hand, they studied the choices. Kirishima’s expression was one of fierce concentration. “Okay, so here’s the deal. Pork cutlet here is the best thing in the city. Crispy, golden, basically life-changing. But the ramen’s amazing too. Big portions, broth so good you’ll want to drink it straight from the bowl.”

That earned him a raised brow. “You sound like you’ve been here fifty times.”

“Sixty-three.” Not a pause, not a flicker of hesitation. When Bakugo shot him a flat look, he cracked into laughter. “Fine. Maybe more like five. Still. Worth it.”

The waitress came and went, leaving behind the promise of pork cutlet, ramen, and extra rice. Drinks followed quickly, and with them Kirishima’s questions.

“So, do you actually cook?”

A scowl found its way to Bakugo’s face. “Sometimes.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes either.”

The chuckle that came in response was low and bright. “Come on, give me something. Do you at least make instant noodles without burning them?”

“Yes,” he snapped back, too fast, too defensive.

“Progress!” Kirishima raised his glass in triumph, as though this was cause for celebration.

Food arrived steaming, filling the booth with the kind of smells that made conversation pause. He told himself to focus on the noodles, on the broth, on anything that wasn’t the person across the table, but his eyes kept straying, because Kirishima ate like each bite was a gift, and Bakugo’s chest ached watching him.

Halfway through, the redhead spoke with his mouth full. “So, what’s your favorite food? Wait, let me guess. Something spicy, right? You look like a spicy guy.”

He almost choked. “What the hell is a ‘spicy guy’ supposed to look like?”

“You,” came the simple, grinning answer.

Bakugo shoved a mouthful of ramen into his mouth, grateful for the excuse not to reply.

“Okay, okay, but seriously. Favorite food?”

“Ramen,” he admitted at last. “Simple. Doesn’t need fancy crap. Just good broth, good noodles.”

That earned him a clap of hands and a beam so bright it might’ve lit the whole place. “See? Spicy guy with simple taste. Makes sense.”

Bakugo pushed another mouthful of noodles around his bowl, pretending not to notice the way Kirishima’s smile lingered on him longer than necessary.

“So, ramen guy, does that mean if I challenge you to a ramen crawl around the city, you’d say yes?”

Bakugo scoffed. “That sounds stupid.”

“Not a no,” Kirishima said quickly, grinning like he’d won something.

“It’s not a yes either,” he shot back, though his ears felt hot.

“You’re killing me here. I offer you the perfect date idea and you call it stupid.”

Bakugo choked on his drink. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Ramen crawl,” Kirishima said smoothly, shrugging. “You, me, ten bowls of ramen, a night of questionable decisions. That’s a date if I’ve ever heard one.”

“You’re insane.”

Kirishima dug into his pork cutlet, humming happily. “At least I’d make sure you had fun. Can’t have you working all day, scowling at spreadsheets, and then going home to eat frozen food every night.”

Bakugo snapped his eyes up. “How do you know I eat frozen food?”

The redhead smirked. “Because you don’t pack lunch. And every time you microwave something, it smells like disappointment.”

“It does not!”

“It does. I’ve smelled sadness before, and I’m telling you, those frozen dumplings reek of despair.”

His face burned. “Shut the hell up.”

Kirishima leaned in closer, voice dropping in mock seriousness. “Don’t worry, I’ll save you. I’ll take you out more. I can’t let my fake boyfriend starve.”

The words sent a jolt through Bakugo, but he forced himself to roll his eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And charming,” Kirishima added with a wink.

Bakugo stabbed at his noodles with unnecessary force. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously handsome?”

“Ridiculously loud,” Bakugo barked, though his lips twitched against his will.

Kirishima laughed so hard he nearly dropped his chopsticks, and the sound tugged at Bakugo’s ribs like a hook. He tried to ignore it, to keep his eyes on the table, but his gaze kept drifting back toward the freckles dusting his cheeks, the way his hair had slipped further out of its bun, the brightness in his eyes that never seemed to dim.

They finished their food, Kirishima chatting about nothing and everything, and Bakugo answering in grunts that somehow turned into sentences because it was impossible not to respond to him. When the waitress came with the bill, Bakugo reached for his wallet, but Kirishima shook his head so firmly his bun nearly fell apart completely.

“No way. I said I’d pay, and I’m paying. Don’t even try to fight me.”

“I can pay for my own damn food,” Bakugo grumbled.

“Too late,” he said, already sliding his card onto the tray with a grin. “This was my treat. End of story.”

Bakugo scowled, but his chest felt strangely warm as they stepped back out into the evening. The air was cool, the street quiet except for the hum of a few cars, and they stopped in front of each other, neither one moving.

For once, Bakugo had no idea what to say. He shifted on his feet, caught the same flicker of uncertainty in Kirishima’s eyes, and realized the idiot didn’t know how to end it either.

Finally, words scraped out of his throat awkwardly. “Have a great weekend.”

Kirishima blinked, startled, then his cheeks went pink, and the smile that spread across his face was softer than anything Bakugo had seen all night. “Thanks for having dinner with me.”

Bakugo turned on his heel and started walking, heart thrashing so wildly inside his chest he was sure the whole street could hear it.

He was fucked.

The worst part about this fake relationship wasn’t the gossip. It wasn’t people looking at him with raised brows, whispering about how the hell he was the lucky bastard who caught the new hottie’s attention. It wasn’t even Monoma, who looked like he wanted to stab him with a calculator every time their eyes met across the floor. No, the worst part was Kirishima.

Kirishima, who was already touchy before, but now would lean into him at every opportunity, his elbow brushing Bakugo’s whenever they sat in meetings, his hand casually landing on Bakugo’s shoulder when he laughed, his stupid grins brighter when he aimed them right at him.

One morning, Bakugo nearly dropped his pen when Kirishima leaned over the cubicle wall with two cups of coffee. “Morning, love. Black, no sugar, just the way you like it.”

“Stop calling me that at work.”

“Why? You don’t like it?” Kirishima asked, resting his chin on his hand, looking far too pleased with himself.

“I didn’t say that,” he groaned, grabbing the cup like it was a weapon.

Kirishima’s grin spread. “So you do like it.”

“I said stop saying it at work!”

“Right, right,” the other man said, eyes twinkling. Then, loud enough for half the floor to hear, “I’ll save it for when we’re alone, babe.”

Bakugo choked on his coffee. “You’re gonna get me fired.”

“Nah, they wouldn’t dare fire the office’s favorite couple.”

“Favorite couple my ass,” Bakugo whispered, cheeks burning.

Later, during lunch, Kirishima plopped down beside him with a tray stacked like a mountain. “Trade you one fried dumpling for one bite of your curry.”

He glared at him. “Eat your own damn food.”

“But yours looks better,” Kirishima said, already pointing his chopsticks at his plate.

“You ordered enough for three people!”

“Yeah, but yours has love in it.”

Bakugo nearly fell out of his chair. “What are you talking about? I didn’t even cook it.”

“Still,” the redhead said, chuckling. “It tastes different when you’re eating next to me. Must be love.”

Bakugo shoved his plate toward him just to shut him up, but his ears were burning so bad it was a miracle the whole office didn’t notice.

At the copier a few days later, Kirishima leaned so close his breath tickled his ear. “Hey, pretend to laugh at something I say. Monoma’s watching again.”

He hissed, “You think I can just laugh on command?”

“Try,” Kirishima whispered, lips quirking. “Pretend I told you a great joke.”

“You didn’t.”

“Then laugh at how handsome I am.”

Bakugo snorted despite himself, half out of disbelief and half because he couldn’t help it. Monoma groaned from across the room, and Kirishima clapped him on the back. “See? Nailed it. We’re so convincing.”

“You're awful.”

“At least I’ll make you laugh on the way out,” Kirishima shot back.

Not long after that, Kirishima started showing up at his desk around lunch with two bentos.

At first, Bakugo thought it was a joke. The boxes weren’t homemade in the traditional sense, not perfectly arranged or full of tiny little side dishes. It was obviously takeout, rice packed in on one side and bits of meat or vegetables shoved in on the other, but it was in bento boxes all the same.

“What the hell is this?”

“Lunch for us,” Kirishima said, cracking his open. “I figured since we’re a couple and all, might as well start eating like one.”

Bakugo nearly choked. “We’re not...”

“Shhh,” he cut him off with a grin, waving his chopsticks. “Don’t ruin it. Eat your rice.”

And Bakugo, against every instinct screaming inside him, opened the lid and started eating.

It only got worse from there. Some afternoons, when he was buried in paperwork and glaring at his screen, Kirishima would lean over with a dumpling pinched between his chopsticks and hold it out to him.

“I’m busy,” he groaned, fingers flying across the keyboard.

“Open,” Kirishima said sweetly, like he was talking to a dog.

“I said I’m...”

The dumpling touched his lips, and before he could stop himself, he bit down. Kirishima grinned like he had just won a prize. “See? Teamwork.”

His entire face burned as he chewed. “Next time, I'm biting your finger.”

The rest of the office started to notice. People would hover around their cubicles with their sad sandwiches or store-bought salads, watching with open amusement as Kirishima leaned across and fed Bakugo another bite while he typed furiously. One of the girls once dropped her fork entirely, whispering, “They’re disgustingly cute,” before shuffling away.

One afternoon, another coworker stopped by with his own lunch and groaned dramatically. “Man, I can’t even eat mine now. Yours looks better when you’re feeding each other. I feel like I’m third-wheeling in a romcom.”

Bakugo almost threw his bento at him. “We’re not feeding each other!”

Kirishima, of course, chose that moment to push another piece of chicken against his lips. “Eat up, babe.”

Bakugo wanted the floor to swallow him whole, but his mouth betrayed him and opened anyway.

Later that same week, Kirishima even started labeling the bentos. A little sticky note stuck to the lid with a doodle of a smiley face. Sometimes he wrote dumb things like “for my cubicle partner in crime” or “fuel for my scary boyfriend.” Bakugo kept crumpling them up quickly, stuffing them in his desk drawer so no one would see, but he never once threw them away.

At the copier one afternoon, one of the guys walked by and said under his breath, “You two are gonna get married before the quarter ends.”

Bakugo’s ears burned so hot he thought he might explode. “Shut the hell up!”

Kirishima only laughed, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Don’t worry, man. I’ll invite you to the wedding.”

And the worst part was that Bakugo couldn’t stop thinking about it all night, lying awake and staring at his ceiling, heart pounding like a fool who had no idea how to handle being cared for like this.

Another Friday night rolled around, and somehow Bakugo found himself cornered. He had been halfway out the door, coat slung over his arm, when Kirishima bounced up beside him, grinning like he had just won the lottery.

“Come on, Bakugo, everyone's going to karaoke. You’re coming too.”

“Do I look like someone who sings in front of people?”

“No one cares if you sing,” Kirishima said, already tugging him back inside. “You can just sit and scowl. I’ll do enough singing for the both of us.”

“Is Monoma going?”

That earned him the weirdest look. Kirishima blinked, confused, like Bakugo had asked if the printer was coming too. “Monoma? Uh, I don’t think so? Why?”

Bakugo frowned. “Then why the hell...” He stopped, words tangling in his throat. 

If Monoma wasn’t there, what was the point? Wasn’t the whole act supposed to be for him? Before he could ask, Kirishima was already clapping him on the back and loudly declaring, “He’s in! He’s coming with us!”

By the time they reached the karaoke bar, it was too late to back out. The place was loud, neon lights buzzing overhead, and half their department was already crammed into a private room with beers in hand.

Bakugo sat down in the corner, hoping to disappear, but Kirishima plopped down right beside him, thigh pressed against his, even though the rest of the sofa stretched empty on both sides.

Their knees touched, and he told himself it was part of the act.

Of course Kirishima had to keep up appearances. If anyone noticed them sitting apart, the whole “fake couple” thing would crumble.

That was it.

That had to be it.

Still, the heat spread up his neck every time Kirishima leaned close, singing along to every song. “Come on, you know this one!” He nudged, elbow brushing his arm. “Don’t pretend you don’t!”

Bakugo repeated, “I don’t sing,” but his lips twitched despite himself when Kirishima belted out the chorus anyway, completely tone-deaf and not caring at all.

At some point, one of the guys shoved the mic at Kirishima. “Come on, man! You’re loud enough without it, might as well make it official!”

Everyone cheered, clapping and chanting his name, but Kirishima just waved them off, grinning. “Nah, I’m good here. I’m having a blast like this.” He stayed planted right beside Bakugo, shoulder still brushing his, knees pressed close.

Bakugo tried to act unaffected, but his heart thumped against his ribs, because Kirishima could’ve had the whole room eating out of his hand if he wanted, but he stayed right there, singing off-key under his breath instead of taking center stage.

Two hours later, the room was trashed with empty bottles and the kind of laughter that only came from too much beer and bad songs. Someone suggested barbecue, and everyone started shoving into their coats, voices buzzing with excitement. Kirishima bounced to his feet, clearly itching to go, eyes lighting up at the thought of grilled meat and another round of drinks.

Bakugo, on the other hand, felt like his head was about to split open.

The flashing lights, the screechy singing, the too-loud bass that rattled in his bones, fuck, it was all too much. He tugged his coat on and murmured, “I’m heading out.”

Kirishima looked down at him, surprise flickering across his face. “What? You’re not coming?”

“My head’s killing me,” he grunted. “Go enjoy your night.”

For a second, it looked like Kirishima might argue. Instead, he turned to the others, raised his hand in a wave, and shouted, “I’m out too! See you guys later!”

“Oi!” Bakugo barked, eyes widening. “I told you to stay.”

The redhead just slung his coat over his shoulder, smiling like it was the easiest decision in the world. “Nah. I’ll walk you to the station.”

The night air was cooler than inside the karaoke bar, the quiet almost jarring after hours of bad singing and too much laughter. Bakugo shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, head buzzing with more than just the leftover noise. 

Beside him, Kirishima walked in silence, and he was giving Bakugo the space his pounding head needed. For once, the idiot wasn’t filling the air with chatter, and somehow that made his throat ache more than usual.

Halfway down the block, the redhead stopped him with a light touch to his sleeve. “Wait here a sec,” he murmured, before ducking into a 7-Eleven. Bakugo blinked, too stunned to argue. When Kirishima returned, he pressed a small bag into his hand: aspirin and a bottle of cold water.

He almost threw up.

He forced himself to whisper something that might’ve been thanks, but his voice cracked, so he screwed the cap off the bottle instead, swallowing the pill while avoiding Kirishima’s eyes. 

The rest of the walk felt like a slow unraveling. Kirishima’s fingers brushed his arm when they crossed the street. His shoulder nudged against Bakugo’s as if by accident. When he glanced sideways, he caught the faint pink at the tip of Kirishima’s nose, glowing under the streetlights, and the quiet curve of his smile that seemed meant only for him.

By the time the subway entrance came into view, his pulse was so loud in his ears it almost drowned out the rumble of traffic. He stopped short, turning just enough to glance at him, the words crawling out of his throat before he could stop them. “Are you taking a train too?”

Kirishima shook his head. “Nah. My apartment’s only three streets down.”

Bakugo nodded in silence, his eyes fixed on the glow of the station entrance a second too long, as if stepping inside would take more strength than he had.

The empty water bottle crinkled in his hand, useless now, but he couldn’t let go of it, just like he couldn’t let go of the thought pounding in his skull, the one saying that he wanted Kirishima to ask him not to go. To tell him to forget the train, to come three streets down instead, to sit in his apartment and stretch this night into something that didn’t have to end.

But the words never came, not from Kirishima and not from him, so he forced out the only thing he could manage without choking on it, “Thanks for the aspirin.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and started down the stairs, leaving the ache in his chest to echo with every step.

It started at nine on the dot.

Bakugo was halfway through glaring at his monitor when he heard someone from HR chirp, “Happy birthday, Kirishima-kun!” The whole floor turned their heads like dominoes tipping, and suddenly everyone was saying it.

“Happy birthday!”

“Wait, it’s your birthday?”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

Kirishima went red to the tips of his ears, laughing sheepishly as people clapped his back or leaned over their cubicles to send him well-wishes. “Ah, thanks, guys! I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

Bakugo sat there, frozen, trying to process the fact that this idiot, this sunshine, this fake boyfriend, this person who brought him coffee every morning and bento at lunch, hadn’t told him.

Not a fucking word.

He wanted to turn in his chair and demand, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” But before he could, his calendar reminder blinked, and he was dragged into a meeting that was supposed to be an hour long but stretched mercilessly into the entire afternoon.

By the time he escaped the conference room, it was already four. His temples throbbed from too many voices and too many charts, but there was no time to think about it, because he had one mission. 

He left the building without a word, rain already smelling in the air, and didn’t return until his hands were full.

When he walked back in, the clock was crawling toward the end of the day. People were packing up early, talking about beating the storm before it hit. Coats were pulled on, bags slung over shoulders, laughter echoing down the hall as clusters of coworkers rushed for the elevators.

Bakugo slipped back to his desk, water still clinging to his hair, his pulse quick from more than just the rush outside.

Kirishima sat slumped at his desk, quieter than Bakugo had ever seen him. He didn’t even turn his head when he came back and dropped into his chair, didn’t flash one of those grins or ask how the meeting went. His fingers just drummed against the keyboard, his eyes fixed on the screen without really reading. 

When he finally pushed back his chair, clearly about to leave, Bakugo moved before his brain could catch up. His hand darted out and caught the cuff of Kirishima’s sleeve.

The redhead froze and looked down at him, startled. Bakugo’s heart lurched. He glanced around, making sure no one was watching, and there were only two coworkers standing by the elevator, pulling rain caps over their heads, too busy with their own chatter to care about them.

Then, he pulled a small transparent box from the bag beside his chair and set it carefully on his desk. Inside was a white cake, topped with strawberries that glistened under the office lights.

Kirishima’s eyes went wide, lips parting in surprise.

Bakugo leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Happy birthday.”

Kirishima blinked once, twice, then his entire face lit up, the sadness wiped away in an instant. “You...” His voice cracked, and he tried again, “You remembered.”

“I didn’t,” Bakugo said, face burning. “HR did. But in my defense, you didn’t tell me.”

The other man's throat worked like he was swallowing down words. “I thought you weren’t gonna say anything.”

He gripped the edge of his desk because his chest felt like it was being split in two, because watching Kirishima smile again at him was too much. He had gone out in the rain, ruined his own lunch break, just to see that look on his face.

(and he would’ve done it again.)

Kirishima brushed a hand over his cheek, like he was embarrassed to be caught grinning so wide. “You really got me.”

Bakugo shrugged, pretending his pulse wasn’t going insane. “It’s just cake.”

But it wasn’t just cake, and he knew that.

It was proof of how far gone he was, how obsessed, how every small thing about this man had started to feel monumental. He wanted to keep watching him like this, bright and grateful, strawberry cake reflected in his wide eyes.

Bakugo sat back in his chair, heart racing, and realized he wasn’t just pretending anymore.

He was falling.

Hard.

Kirishima’s smile lingered, almost shy now, before he reached across and wrapped his fingers around Bakugo’s hand. The touch was warm, and his heart nearly tripped over itself. Without giving him a chance to argue, Kirishima tugged him up from his chair and guided him down the hall toward the small kitchen tucked at the end of their floor.

The office was nearly empty now, the hum of the building settling into silence as most people had already left. The storm outside beat against the tall windows, thunder rolling somewhere deep in the city, and the only light left on their floor came from the kitchen’s glow.

It was strangely intimate, just the two of them, the rain, and the hum of the refrigerator.

Kirishima set the cake box on the counter, rummaged through the drawers until he found two forks, and handed one over with that same easy grin. “Here,” he said simply. 

Then he peeled open the plastic lid, scooped a bite of white cake topped with cream and strawberry, and brought it to his mouth. His eyes fluttered shut for a second when he chewed, and Bakugo found himself staring, caught on the faint pink smudge at the corner of his lips when he smiled again.

“It’s good,” Kirishima murmured.

He cut another piece, pushed the box closer so Bakugo could take his own bite, and leaned against the counter.

“You know, I never really celebrated birthdays growing up.” He gave a small shrug, fork idly pressing into the cake. “My parents traveled a lot, work stuff, always gone. Some years I didn’t even get a call, so I kind of got used to it, you know? Pretending it was just a regular day. Cake wasn’t really a thing in our house. Not for me, anyway.”

Bakugo gripped his fork tighter.

Through his eyes, Kirishima wasn’t just the ball of sunshine everyone thought he was. He was freckles catching the glow of the kitchen light, eyes too bright even when they were shadowed with old hurt, hair tied up messy like he never cared if he looked perfect.

He was warmth and noise and care poured into someone who deserved everything and had gotten so little.

He wanted to give him a cake for every year he had been alone. He wanted to make up for all of it, the missed calls, the empty tables, the birthdays that went by unnoticed. He wanted to put candles on every one and watch Kirishima’s face light up until there was no space left for sadness in him at all.

He shoved a piece of cake into his mouth before he could say something reckless. The sweetness filled his tongue, and still it didn’t come close to the ache in his chest.

Beside him, Kirishima nudged his shoulder. “Thanks,” he whispered. “You didn’t have to do this, but you did. That means a lot to me, Bakugo.”

He didn’t know how to say that Kirishima was wrong, that he had to do this, that he would’ve torn the whole city apart to keep him from feeling that kind of loneliness again, so he just whispered back, “It’s nothing.”

But they both knew it wasn’t nothing, not when the storm outside roared and they stood side by side in the dim kitchen, eating forkfuls of cake from the same box.

Not when Bakugo’s chest was so full of feeling he thought it might split open.

Kirishima closed the box with careful hands, like the little white cake had turned into something fragile and precious just by being shared. He tucked it under his arm, grabbed his coat, and walked with Bakugo to the elevators. By the time they stepped outside, the storm had fully broken. Rain poured down in thick sheets, splashing against the pavement, puddles spreading across the street like mirrors.

Of course Kirishima didn’t have an umbrella. He just laughed when Bakugo snapped his open, crowding close under the small circle of cover. “Man, you came prepared! Guess that’s why we make a good team.”

Bakugo grunted, pulling the umbrella lower so it shielded both of them. “Who goes out in this without one?”

“This idiot,” Kirishima admitted cheerfully, bumping his shoulder against his as they started walking. He held the cake box tightly to his chest, shielding it with his body, while his free hand reached out to splash at the puddles they passed. “But hey, if I had remembered mine, we wouldn’t be sharing, right?”

Bakugo’s ears burned. “Shut up.”

The redhead just laughed, bright even under the gloom, the sound carrying through the rain. “This is fun, though. Haven’t walked in a storm like this since I was a kid. Used to come home soaked to the bone and my mom would yell at me to take my shoes off at the door. Totally worth it.”

The rain plastered his hairline with damp strands, and Bakugo watched from the corner of his eye, feeling ridiculous for noticing every detail, but unable to stop himself.

By the time they reached the subway, water dripped from the edges of the umbrella, pooling around their feet. The platform was crowded with wet coats and dripping umbrellas, the sound of announcements echoing through the tunnels. Kirishima’s train screeched into the station almost immediately, doors sliding open with a hiss.

Bakugo’s stomach dropped.

He wanted him to miss it.

He wanted to say, stay, wanted to grab his arm and tell him not to leave yet.

And Kirishima looked at him like he was waiting for something, but Bakugo said nothing.

So he smiled, the kind that made Bakugo’s chest ache, and said, “Thanks, Bakugo. Really.” He squeezed the cake box a little tighter, then stepped onto the train just as the doors began to close.

Bakugo stood on the platform, heart pounding against his ribs, watching the train disappear down the tunnel, furious at himself for wanting so badly and not knowing how to ask for it.

Winter hit the city like a punch in the gut.

Tokyo hadn’t seen a cold snap like this in years, and Bakugo hated every second of it. He hated the way the icy wind cut through his coat on the walk to work, hated how the office heater seemed to do nothing but rattle loudly, pushing out air that felt more lukewarm than warm. His fingers stiffened on the keyboard, his shoulders locked tight, and every time he exhaled he swore he could see frost.

By mid-morning, his scowl had deepened to the point where no one dared pass within a five-foot radius of his cubicle. Kirishima, of course, was the exception. The idiot had already shown up twice with steaming cups of tea, dropping them on his desk with a grin that was too bright for a day this gray.

Bakugo drank them both, cursing under his breath, but nothing worked. His hands still shook, his bones still ached, and he was about five minutes away from setting the entire office ablaze just to feel some actual heat.

And then he felt something thick and warm brushed against his neck, soft against his skin, and before he could snap or move, Kirishima was there, looping a heavy red scarf around him.

He stiffened, eyes wide, as the wool settled into place. It was thick enough to cover the angry flush of his nose, and to hide half his face. It smelled exactly like Kirishima, so like soap, coffee, and something faintly sweet he couldn’t place.

Bakugo sat frozen, breathing in the scent, heat pooling in his chest in a way that had nothing to do with the scarf. He tilted his head to glare from above the fabric, not sure if he could even get words out with his voice muffled.

Kirishima just grinned at him, tugging the scarf snug like he had every right to touch him. “You look adorable.”

Bakugo froze, thankful that half his face was buried in thick red wool. His cheeks burned so hot they might’ve melted the ice in the air, but the scarf hid it, hid everything. All Kirishima saw was the glare above the fabric, and even that wasn’t as sharp as he wanted it to be.

A coworker passing by slowed, smirking. “Well, well, isn’t that cute.”

Bakugo’s hands twitched, ready to launch his stapler across the aisle, but Kirishima beat him to it. The redhead leaned casually against Bakugo’s cubicle wall, and said, “Yeah, it is cute. Problem?”

The teasing coworker blinked, caught off guard, and backed off with a nervous laugh. “Nope. Not at all.”

Bakugo stared down at his keyboard, fingers stiff over the keys. His blush burned hotter, and he was really so grateful for the scarf it almost hurt. He forced himself to type nonsense just to look busy, screen filling with gibberish while his heart pounded so loud it drowned out the heater’s rattle.

The rest of the day dragged on, the cold pressing in no matter how many layers he wore, but every time he tugged the scarf higher, he caught himself sinking his nose into it when no one was looking.

Eventually, the sun dipped behind the buildings, and people started shuffling out into the dark. Kirishima grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He paused at Bakugo’s desk, that same grin pulling at his mouth. “See you tomorrow, Bakugo.”

Bakugo managed a grunt, fingers still on his keyboard, eyes glued to the screen. He expected Kirishima to reach for the scarf, to pull it loose and take it back, but the moment never came. The redhead just smiled once more, softer this time, and walked away.

He sat there in silence, scarf still warm around his neck, pulse hammering, and realized he might never be able to give it back even if Kirishima asked.

Later, he went home with the scarf still around his neck, and he buried his nose deeper into it when no one was looking, like a coward, and told himself it was just because of the cold.

By the time he pushed through the door of his apartment, slamming it shut against the storm, his face was still pink from the memory of Kirishima saying he looked adorable.

No one had ever said that to him.

No one had ever looked at him like that.

He went through the motions of his night; kicking off his boots, hanging up his coat, throwing together something quick to eat, but all the while the scarf stayed around his neck. Every time he tugged at it, thinking he should set it aside, he caught himself holding on instead, fingers brushing over the knit pattern, as if letting go of it meant losing something more than fabric.

When he finally lay down in bed, the apartment dark except for the glow of the city through his curtains, he pulled the scarf loose.

For a moment he stared at it in his hands, because it was ridiculous, pathetic even, how much it meant. It should be just a scarf, just wool and dye, but to him it was Kirishima’s laugh, his freckles, his warmth pressed against Bakugo’s side on late subway rides. 

It was the way he had looked at him before saying goodbye, as if he wanted to leave a piece of him behind just to stay with him a little bit longer.

Bakugo curled onto his side, tugging the scarf close to his face, the scent of him filling his nose. He closed his eyes, heart thrumming restless against his ribs, and let himself imagine, just for a moment, that it wasn’t a borrowed thing at all, but a piece of Kirishima himself that he could keep.

Sleep came slowly, but when it did, he was still holding the scarf against his cheek, still pretending it was him.

Bakugo didn’t notice it at first.

He thought he was just busy, thought he was just tired, thought maybe the cold had sunk into his bones and left him sharper than usual, but he had stopped answering when Kirishima leaned over the cubicle wall with a grin and some dumb question. He had stopped turning his head when Kirishima cracked a joke or pointed something out in the news. He had started to keep his eyes locked on his screen like the numbers and charts in front of him were life or death, even when all they were was dull paperwork.

The truth was simpler, though. He was running.

Every time Kirishima smiled, his stomach flipped so hard he couldn’t think. Every time his voice drifted over the wall, every time his shoulder brushed against Bakugo’s, it felt like too much. He couldn’t keep his hands steady on the keyboard. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t breathe right. So he had started hiding, in the only way he knew how: pretending to be too busy, pretending to be uninterested, pretending not to hear.

But there was no escape.

They sat side by side, two cubicles with no space between them, their chairs rolling too close every time someone moved. Kirishima’s laugh cut through every corner of the office, so even when Bakugo hunched low, glaring at his screen, he couldn’t block it out. When Kirishima leaned close to show him something on his phone, Bakugo snapped that he was working, then hated himself for the flash of hurt that flickered across those red eyes before Kirishima covered it with another smile.

The scarf sat in Bakugo’s bag under his desk, folded neatly, untouched. He wanted to wear it every day, wanted to bury himself in it, but he couldn’t bring himself to bring it out in front of him. It felt like proof, like the whole office would see the wool wrapped around his neck and know immediately how far gone he was.

He ran to the break room at odd hours, ducked out of lunch invites, buried himself in meetings he didn’t need to attend, but every time, when he came back to his desk, Kirishima was still there. Smiling. Offering coffee. Nudging his chair close as if Bakugo hadn’t just spent half the day pretending he didn’t exist.

And that was what gutted him most of all, that no matter how far he tried to run, no matter how quiet he went, Kirishima never stopped reaching for him.

One day, it was late when they both ended up leaving at the same time. Bakugo cursed under his breath the second he noticed Kirishima falling into step beside him, but he only shoved his hands deep in his pockets, kept his eyes on the ground, and said nothing.

The walk to the station felt longer than usual. Rainwater still clung to the streets from the morning, puddles reflecting the neon glare of convenience stores. Words were pressing up against his throat, but he swallowed them all down, because silence felt safer.

They stood side by side on the platform, the roar of the approaching train still distant. Kirishima shifted on his feet, glanced at him once, then again, until finally he sighed.

“You’re avoiding me.”

Bakugo’s head snapped toward him. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t laugh at my dumb jokes anymore,” Kirishima said quietly, eyes fixed on the tracks. “You don’t answer me when I ask stuff. You run off at lunch. You don’t even yell at me like you used to.” His voice was light, but there was something underneath it that made his stomach churn. “Did I do something?”

His mouth opened, then closed, because he wanted to tell him no, he hadn’t done anything, that the problem was him, who had fallen so hard he didn’t know where to put all the feelings anymore. But the words jammed up, stuck behind his teeth.

Kirishima forced a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I’m just imagining it, huh?”

Bakugo glared down at the floor tiles, fists stuffed so tight in his pockets his knuckles ached. The train screeched into the station then, saving him from answering. 

The doors slid open with a hiss, and Bakugo forced himself inside with the rush of people. The train pulled him forward, and when the doors shut again, Kirishima was no longer there.

The end of the year came too fast.

The team crowded into the same noisy restaurant they had chosen after karaoke months ago, the one Bakugo skipped back then. Pitchers of beer sweated on every table, plates of fried food landed every few minutes, and laughter rose too loud over the clatter of dishes. Bakugo sat wedged against Kirishima, silent while everyone else drowned themselves in noise and drink.

Bakugo kept his eyes on his plate,and every time he reached for something, he was too aware of Kirishima’s hand resting on the table, so close their fingers could touch if he just shifted an inch.

He didn’t.

He thought maybe he’d survive the night in silence, until the door clattered open and Monoma strolled in like he owned the place. At his side trailed a tall, droopy-eyed guy who looked like he regretted every decision that had led him there. Bakugo recognized him. He worked in the building, sure, but he was more ghost than man, always slouched at his desk or slipping away to nap in some hidden corner.

“Happy New Year’s week, everyone!” Monoma announced. He tugged the other guy closer by the wrist, ignoring the way he looked like he’d rather melt through the floor. “Hope you don’t mind, but I brought my boyfriend!”

That last word was said with particular flair, his smirk aimed right at them.

Bakugo almost choked on his food. Kirishima sat up straighter, blinking.

“My boyfriend,” Monoma repeated, like anyone had missed it. He leaned back in his chair, tugging the guy in beside him. “Handsome, smart, strong, don’t be jealous, you two.”

Bakugo clenched his jaw, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh, groan, or shove Monoma’s face into the nearest plate of fried chicken.

Shinsou barely lifted his eyes from the table, groaning, “Please stop.”

Monoma patted his cheek proudly. “Don’t be shy, babe. They should all know. My boyfriend.”

Kirishima gave a polite little smile, but his eyes flickered toward him for just a second, as if to say can you believe this guy? Bakugo looked down again, ears flaming, his chopsticks stabbing mercilessly into his rice.

The whole table carried on, laughing, drinking, but there he was, pulse racing, and hand aching with the urge to move just one inch closer.

He was so far gone it made him sick. Every time Kirishima leaned in a little, trying to bridge the silence with some small comment about the food or the decorations on the wall, Bakugo felt the words catch in his throat.

“Pretty good chicken, huh?” Kirishima said lightly, holding a wing between his chopsticks.

He only managed a grunt, staring at his rice. He wanted to say more, wanted to lean back and laugh with him like before, but the words wouldn’t leave. He was too full of it; wanting too much, knowing too much, hiding it all behind a tight mouth and lowered eyes.

He could feel Kirishima’s smile falter, even if he covered it with another joke for the group. That killed him more than anything. He knew he had been pulling away, knew he had been shutting him out, and yet here Kirishima was, still trying, still putting in effort to reach him. And Bakugo, coward that he was, couldn’t reach back.

Bakugo wanted to grab him, shake him, say it’s not you, it’s me, I’m in love with you and it’s eating me alive. Instead, he shoveled more food into his mouth, ears hot, heart pounding, pretending it was just another night out with coworkers.

But it wasn’t.

It never was, not anymore.

Bakugo stood first, saying something about needing to catch his train, and shoved his chair back before anyone else had time to notice. He just wanted out, out of the laughter, out of the chatter, out of Monoma’s smug face. The scrape of another chair followed immediately, and when he glanced over, Kirishima was already on his feet.

“I’ll take you to the station,” he said, voice low, almost uncertain. To their coworkers, he added with a quick grin, “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Bakugo didn’t argue since he didn’t have it in him.

They slipped out into the night together, the restaurant door closing behind them. The streets were quieter now, the air cold enough to bite at his nose. Snow was falling in lazy flakes, gathering on the sidewalk, the streetlamps glowing soft halos around them. Their footsteps echoed, side by side, and Bakugo shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his heart restless.

The walk wasn’t long, but he felt every step. Kirishima didn’t talk the way he usually did. He only glanced at him once or twice, smiling, as if he was trying not to make the silence heavier than it already was.

They went down the steps into the station, the warmth of the underground wrapping around them. On the platform, they stood with a careful space between their shoulders, the rails quiet, only a handful of strangers waiting with them. Bakugo stared at the dark tunnel, waiting for the hum of the next train.

Kirishima’s voice came soft, almost drowned by the clatter of someone walking past. “You know, you don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Bakugo blinked, turning his head.

Kirishima kept his eyes on the tracks, the same faint smile on his face, but it didn’t reach the corners of his eyes. “Monoma’s got a boyfriend now. Guess our little act doesn’t matter anymore.” His tone was light, almost teasing, but the sadness underneath was clear.

He felt his throat tighten immediately. He wanted to tell him it wasn’t a performance, not when it came to him. He wanted to catch his wrist, hold him close, promise he’d keep up the act for a lifetime if it meant never losing his place beside him.

Then, a train roared into the station, doors sliding open, people spilling in and out.

He stood rooted to the ground, his feet refusing to move, his eyes locked on Kirishima. The redhead didn’t step forward either, he just watched the crowd shuffle past, then glanced at Bakugo with that same soft smile.

The train left, screeching away into the tunnel, and the platform grew quiet again.

Bakugo’s pulse pounded in his ears. The next one would be the last train of the night. He looked at Kirishima again and saw the way his hand flexed at his side like he wanted to reach out but wouldn’t.

And he understood. It wasn’t only his own heart twisting, Kirishima was hurt too. Not just by the days of silence, not just by being ignored. Hurt because maybe, just maybe, he had been feeling the same thing all along.

The weight of silence pressed on him, and he wanted to speak, to crack open the dam inside, but all he managed was to stand there, waiting with him, the two of them side by side in the charged stillness, heavy as the sky before a storm.

Kirishima shifted his weight, his breath fogging faintly in the cold that drifted down even into the station. “The train is coming,” he murmured. “I think it’s the last one. Don’t miss it, it’s getting cold.”

Bakugo's tongue felt useless.

A step closed the distance between them, enough for Bakugo to feel the warmth of Kirishima’s fingers reach for the red scarf wound around his throat, the same thick wool that hadn’t belonged to him at first. Careful hands adjusted it higher, tucking it close, brushing the corner of his jaw as they lingered. “There,” he said softly. “Now you’ll stay warm.”

His heart struck so violently against his ribs he thought it might break free. 

Then Kirishima smiled once more, turned, and walked away, footsteps fading toward the exit.

He didn’t look back.

The train screeched in, doors sliding open, the last of the night. People shuffled past him, some boarding, some hurrying out, the platform emptying fast. Bakugo stood frozen, eyes locked on the place where Kirishima had disappeared, his pulse a roar in his ears.

The doors closed.

The train left.

The sound of it faded into the tunnels, leaving him alone on the platform.

And then he was moving. His legs carried him before his brain caught up, running up the stairs two, three at a time, his breath tearing out of him. He burst back into the night, snowflakes stinging his face, his eyes darting wildly until he caught sight of that familiar red hair ahead, coat dusted white, walking through the storm.

Bakugo ran harder, finally chasing him.

“Eijirou!”

The name tore out of him, louder than he meant, cutting through the muffled quiet of the street.

Kirishima stopped. He turned slowly, his eyes wide when they found him.

Bakugo’s breath spilled in clouds, his whole body shaking, but he forced the words out anyway, “I’d miss every single last train if it meant I could spend another five minutes with you.”

For a heartbeat the world seemed to hold still. Snow drifted down in slow spirals, catching in their hair, settling on their coats, softening the city into silence. Bakugo stood there, chest rising hard, his words hanging between them, and for a moment he thought maybe he had gone too far, maybe he had ruined everything.

Then Kirishima smiled so painfully genuine that it made his knees weak. It wasn’t the careful grin he wore at work, or the polite one he saved for coworkers. It was pure joy, lighting up the dark street as if the night had been waiting just for this.

And it was aimed only at him.

Kirishima crossed the few steps quickly, boots crunching in the snow, and when he reached him he lifted a hand to Bakugo’s cheek. The warmth of his palm nearly undid him, thumb brushing clumsily but sweetly along the edge of his jaw.

“Katsuki,” he whispered, as though he had been carrying the name in his mouth forever.

And then he kissed him.

Bakugo surged forward without thinking, fists curling into the fabric of his coat, yanking him closer like he’d been starving for this.

The kiss was messy at first, desperate, snow melting against their faces as their mouths pressed harder together, neither of them willing to pull back. Kirishima’s hand slid from his cheek into his hair, fingers tangling, tugging until Bakugo made a sound that surprised even himself.

The city blurred. The storm whirled around them, flakes clinging to their lashes and shoulders, but none of it mattered. Bakugo only felt the press of Kirishima’s body against his, the heat of his mouth, the way his heart thundered as if it had been waiting years for this exact moment.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads stayed pressed together, breaths mingling white in the freezing air, both of them smiling in disbelief, as if they couldn’t believe it had actually happened. Bakugo’s hands still fisted in Kirishima’s coat, unwilling to lose even an inch of him.

Kirishima’s forehead still rested against his, their breath mixing in small clouds, both of them grinning like idiots who didn’t know what to do with themselves. After a moment, the redhead chuckled, his voice warm even in the freezing air. “You missed the last train, you know.”

Bakugo huffed, his lips twitching into the beginnings of a smirk. “Then maybe you should invite me over, or else I’ll end up sleeping under the damn snow.”

Red eyes lit up, the corners crinkling as his smile grew wider. He shook his head like he couldn’t believe him, like he didn’t know how to handle the way his heart was clearly pounding just as fast. Without another word, he slipped his fingers between Bakugo’s and tugged gently.

They walked together through the streets, and three streets later, Kirishima stopped, tilting his head toward the building rising above them.

“My place.”

His heart pounded harder with every step up, every second inside the elevator, until at last Kirishima turned the key and pushed the door open. The moment it clicked shut behind them, Bakugo was on him again.

Their mouths crashed together fast, urgent, almost clumsy with how much they needed it. He fisted Kirishima’s coat and yanked him close, and Kirishima framed his face with both hands before sliding his fingers into his hair.

His back hit the door as it closed, the faint click of the lock lost beneath the scrape of their mouths colliding again. The kiss burned, their teeth clashing as if neither knew how to stop. Bakugo pulled harder at the coat, dragging him closer until there was nothing left between them, until he could taste the laugh breaking open against his lips.

Kirishima’s fingers slid into his hair and tugged just enough to pull a gasp out of him. That sound only made him press in harder, tongue against tongue, spit smearing between them as Bakugo clung with both fists. He felt like he was coming apart, like everything he had been choking back for months was spilling loose all at once.

They stumbled away from the door, lips still locked, hands moving everywhere at once. Bakugo’s palms slipped under his shirt, greedy for heat, while Kirishima shoved at his coat until it fell in a heap on the floor. Bakugo tried to laugh into the kiss, but it only tangled into another broken press of mouths.

When Kirishima pushed at the waistband of his jeans, Bakugo nearly stumbled trying to kick them off, the denim clinging around his thighs. They lurched together, grinning into each other’s mouths, crashing into the wall as he groaned against Kirishima’s lips, “Shit... can’t...”

“Bedroom,” Kirishima said between kisses, his smile brushing Bakugo’s mouth.

Bakugo didn’t care if they made it that far. He only knew he would follow wherever Kirishima pulled him. Their mouths kept finding each other in the mess of it, both of them laughing through the hunger, teeth catching, lips chasing as if they couldn’t believe this was happening.

They stumbled into the bedroom still caught up in each other, the door left hanging open, clothes scattered across the hallway. The room carried the faint scent of clean laundry and winter air from the cracked window, but Bakugo barely noticed, too focused on the pull of Kirishima’s hands and the taste of his mouth.

The mattress dipped under him as he was pushed down onto the bed, and for a fleeting second he could really look, and the sight nearly broke him apart. Kirishima stood there, hair wild, skin flushed, shirt gone, jeans shoved low around his hips. He looked powerful and beautiful in a way that made Bakugo’s hands tremble as he reached for him, tugging until the last barrier slid free.

A triumphant grin broke across his face before he could rein it in, the kind that only surfaced when he got exactly what he wanted. His gaze fixed on Kirishima’s cock, hard and thick in front of him, and the hunger that surged through his body made him laugh low in his throat. “Knew it,” he murmured, the words tangled in the grin that had turned greedy.

Kirishima’s head tipped back the moment Bakugo spat into his palm, the sound loud enough to echo through the silence. He wrapped his hand around him, slow at first, just feeling the solid weight that fit against his grip. Spit slid down with every pull, his hand twisting at the crown before dragging lower again.

The response nearly unmade him. Kirishima bent forward with a groan, fingers clamping down on his shoulders, his face strained with pleasure as his hips pushed helplessly into the rhythm. Bakugo tilted his chin, staring up through his lashes, his grin widening with every noise that slipped out.

He wanted to carve this sight into himself forever, Kirishima undone, freckles glowing with heat across his skin, his body shuddering against his touch.

His strokes turned bolder, wetter, spit dripping from between his knuckles as he pumped harder, each pull making Kirishima’s thighs shake at the edge of the mattress. Every sound, every twitch, every broken gasp felt like proof that this wasn’t an act, that every moment of pretending and waiting had led to this, to Kirishima breaking apart under his hand.

The grin that curled on Bakugo’s mouth only grew darker.

He leaned in without pausing to think, tongue dragging over the length resting in his hand, salt blooming across his mouth. He didn’t take him deeper, just savored the taste, teasing, unhurried. 

“Fuck, Eijirou,” Bakugo whispered against the swollen head before pulling back, lips wet, eyes wide with something feral. “You’re so fucking hard for me. No one’s ever made you feel like this, have they? You’ve been waiting for me to touch you.” His mouth kept spilling filth, but beneath every word was the awe he couldn’t bury. “I’d keep you in my hands forever. I want you everywhere.”

Kirishima shuddered at the sound of it, teeth biting down into his own lip as his body jerked forward helplessly into Bakugo’s grip. He lasted only a breath before he broke, hands snapping up to catch Bakugo’s shoulders, shoving him down into the mattress.

The shift knocked his breath out, sheets swallowing him whole as Kirishima’s body came over his in a rush of weight and heat.

Teeth sank into the curve of his neck, biting deep until he shook. His cry tore through the room, his hips arching up, shamefully close to release from that alone. Fingers clawed at Kirishima’s back, nails dragging through solid muscle as his body bowed against him.

“Fuck, do it again,” he gasped, head pressed hard into the pillow. “Bite me again.”

The unguarded words spilled before he could swallow them down, devotion tangled with want. Nothing had ever stripped him like this. He had never been so desperate, never so sure that he would let himself be consumed completely if it meant Kirishima kept touching him.

Kirishima’s teeth lingered against his throat before he pulled back, face flushed, eyes blown wide with want. He reached into the drawer by the bed with shaking hands, pulling out lube and a condom, setting them down beside Bakugo as if he couldn’t stand to be away from him for even a second. Bakugo’s heart hammered as he spread himself open on the sheets, the need in his body drowning out every thought.

Cold slick touched his asshole first, startling a gasp out of him, fists knotting around the bedding as the slow pressure worked deeper. Fingers pressed inside one after the other, stretching him until his head fell back against the pillow.

“Fuck, yes, right there. Don’t stop. Been waiting for this all year. Want you so much.”

Kirishima groaned against his shoulder, “You sound so good for me,” he whispered, voice rough with want. “Thought about this every day. Sitting next to you, wondering if I’d ever get to hear you beg like this.” His fingers curled deeper, pulling a cry from Bakugo that shook through him.

“I'm begging now,” he gasped, eyes screwed shut, every muscle straining. “Gonna come before you’re even inside me if you keep talking like that. Hurry the fuck up. I can take it. Need you to ruin me.”

The slick clung to his skin as the snap of foil cut the silence. Bakugo cracked his eyes open in time to watch Kirishima roll the condom down, his hands unsteady as he lined himself up. For a heartbeat he only hovered there, staring down like he wanted to burn the image of Bakugo sprawled out, flushed and waiting for him into his memory.

“Say it again.”

“Want you,” Bakugo cried out, nails dragging over his arms to haul him down closer. His words broke into something almost desperate. “Want you to fuck me until I can’t walk tomorrow. Want everyone to see I belong to you.”

Hands grabbed at him with no patience, pulling him down, dragging him closer. Bakugo clutched Kirishima’s ass hard enough to leave marks, forcing him deeper, forcing every inch inside.

He wanted no distance left between them, not a breath, not a fraction of space.

The stretch tore through him until sound broke out of his throat, shameless, tangled with Kirishima’s own. His nails dug into hard muscle as if he could hold himself together there, as if anchoring to Kirishima would keep him from being swept under.

“Fuck, yes,” he gasped, words spilling before he could bite them back. “All the way. Don’t you dare hold back.”

The first thrust drove him flat against the sheets, his spine arching as his mouth fell open. Kirishima’s weight pressed him deep into the mattress, every push filling him until vision blurred at the edges. He didn’t crave gentleness. He didn’t want anything measured. He wanted to be ruined, wanted his body to remember this tomorrow, next week, maybe for the rest of his life.

His legs locked tight around him, heels digging in so not a single inch could slip away. Their mouths found each other between the groans, teeth colliding, spit smeared as they kissed without rhythm.

“You don’t feel real,” Bakugo gasped, the sound breaking apart when Kirishima drove into him again. “Been wanting this for months. Fucking myself open, wishing it was you instead of fucking plastic. You’re exactly how I imagined. You’re fucking me the way I dreamed you would.”

Kirishima’s moan spilled against his lips, his rhythm faltering for a beat before he drove back into him harder, faster, lost in the way Bakugo begged.

Bakugo clung on, so far gone it scared him, so in love it almost split him open.

His hand slid down between them, wrapping around his own cock, stroking in frantic pulls that matched the punishing rhythm driving him deeper into the mattress. 

Each push forced another broken sound out of him, every nerve burning with unbearable pleasure. He whispered Kirishima’s name against his mouth, over and over, a prayer, a curse, his whole body straining to take more. He wanted all of it, every bruise, every mark, every reminder pressed into his skin that this was real.

The rhythm grew brutal, each thrust driving him deeper into the mattress until Bakugo’s vision blurred at the edges. He wanted more, always more, so his free hand caught Kirishima’s wrist and dragged it upward. He guided two thick fingers to his own mouth, pressing them past his lips as he sucked greedily, tongue running wet over each knuckle, teeth grazing just enough to make the man above him shudder, every desperate swallow feeding the fire that was already consuming him whole.

Messy moans broke free against those fingers, his cheeks hollowing as his eyes rolled back. Each sound vibrated around Kirishima’s skin and drew another groan from him, until it felt like they were feeding on each other’s noises.

When Bakugo dared to glance up, the sight nearly finished him, because Kirishima was staring down with pupils blown wide, lips parted, gaze locked on him like he was the only thing in the world worth wanting. That hunger pinned him down, made him tug faster at his own cock, made his throat ache around the fingers he refused to let go of.

Spit stretched between them when Kirishima pulled his fingers out. The loss lasted only a heartbeat before a thumb pressed in to claim the space, heavy against Bakugo's tongue, and the other four fingers curved to cradle his cheek. He sucked down on it with a groan, teeth scraping lightly, voice cracking apart at the contact as he leaned helplessly into the touch.

“Katsuki,” Kirishima rasped. “Every time you moan around me like that, fuck, it makes me think about pushing my cock into your throat instead. Want to see you take me down, want to see how far you’d let me go while you keep jerking yourself off.”

Bakugo moaned shamelessly around his thumb, spit spilling down his chin as his hips jerked up to meet each thrust. He sucked harder, eyes locked on Kirishima’s, telling him without words that he wanted that too, wanted it all, wanted him everywhere he could have him.

The thumb slipped from his mouth, leaving Bakugo panting, spit smeared down his chin. He barely had time to whine before Kirishima caught his wrist, pulling Bakugo’s own hand off his cock and replacing it with his own.

The first stroke was all it took.

Bakugo's whole body jolted, a broken sound ripping out of him as his orgasm hit with brutal force.

He came too fast, too hard, his body jerking helplessly under Kirishima, cum spilling over his stomach. Any other time, shame would have burned him alive, but not here, not now. Not when Kirishima groaned above him, and dragged those same fingers to his mouth, sucking the taste down like it was everything he had been craving.

The sight broke him open further, making him clench tight around Kirishima’s cock still driving into him. That grip dragged another ragged sound from the other man, and then Bakugo felt the rush even through the condom, while Kirishima pressed his face into his neck and cried out his name so loud it echoed through the cramped room.

Bakugo held on fiercely, nails digging into his back, his body still quaking with aftershocks while Kirishima trembled against him, shaking apart in his arms.

Outside, the storm pressed against the windows, thunder distant and dulled by the hum of the radiator. Kirishima had turned onto his side and, without asking, had drawn Bakugo along with him.

Their legs stayed tangled, his hand over Bakugo’s arm, and Bakugo let himself rest there, pressed close, unwilling to move.

His eyes grew heavier with every blink, sleep tugging at him no matter how hard he resisted. Each time he forced them open, Kirishima was there. He looked undone, and Bakugo thought he had never seen anything so unbearably beautiful.

He shifted closer, brushing his nose against the curve of Kirishima’s collarbone, and he didn’t want to close his eyes, didn’t want to let the moment slip into dream, but his body was spent, pulling him down no matter how fiercely he fought it.

Just before he gave in, Kirishima leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead, and his voice followed in a whisper, close enough to feel against his skin.

“I’d lose every last train to stay with you, too.”

Bakugo let out a shaky breath, and then he let the weight of it carry him into sleep.

The office looked the same as always, but Bakugo sat at his desk like he had just won a damn war.

His smirk wouldn’t leave his face, no matter how hard he tried to flatten it. Every glance at the cubicle beside him only made it worse, because Kirishima was there, cheeks pink, hair sticking up in half a dozen wrong directions, with the collar of his shirt tugged just enough to show the faint mark blooming at the side of his neck.

They had spent the last fifteen minutes pressed against the wall of an empty meeting room, mouths bruising, hands everywhere, and Bakugo couldn’t stop replaying it. The taste of him. The sound of him. The way he had melted under every kiss until Bakugo had to drag him back out before someone noticed they were gone too long.

Now Kirishima sat dazed, staring at his computer screen as if he couldn’t remember how it worked, fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard. Bakugo leaned back in his chair, smugness radiating off him in waves.

That was exactly when Monoma appeared with a neat stack of papers in his hands. 

He stopped at Kirishima’s desk and placed the documents down with a too-bright smile. Then his eyes flicked to Bakugo, then back to Kirishima, narrowing into those catlike slits that always screamed trouble.

The silence stretched for a beat too long, then Kirishima blinked at the papers, and asked, “Uh, what’s this?”

“You asked for them yesterday,” Monoma replied smoothly, his tone dripping with judgment disguised as politeness. “Did you forget?”

The redhead flushed deeper, fumbling with the stack as though seeing it for the first time. He stammered something about checking them later, clearly too flustered to recall what they were.

Bakugo leaned back further in his chair, biting down a laugh, victorious in every possible way.

Monoma might have guessed what they were up to, but suspicion wasn’t proof, and Bakugo lived for that small triumph. Beside him, Kirishima was kissed dumb, cheeks glowing, still trying to remember his own request while Bakugo basked in the quiet glory of knowing exactly why.

After that, the hours passed in a blur. Keys clicked, phones rang, printers coughed, and the usual rhythm of the office carried on, but neither of them spoke much.

Kirishima kept his head down, hair falling into his face as if that could hide the flush still lingering on his cheeks. Bakugo busied himself with reports, smirk fading, though every time he caught sight of the faint mark on Kirishima’s neck, a flicker of pride lit behind his eyes.

When the clock finally ticked toward closing, Bakugo shoved his chair back and reached for his bag. Before he even slung it over his shoulder, the scrape of another chair followed. Kirishima was already standing, tugging on his coat as if he had been waiting for the cue. His gaze landed on Bakugo's, wide in a way that made it seem he had been holding his breath all afternoon just to follow him out.

He stopped, staring a little longer than he meant to. “You really gonna jump up every time I do?”

Kirishima shrugged with an easy smile. “Guess so. Somebody’s gotta make sure you get on the right train.”

A rough huff slipped out of Bakugo, but he didn’t bother arguing.

They walked together, steps falling into rhythm as the last traces of office chatter faded behind them. The night air was cold against their faces, snow still clinging to the sidewalks, but none of it stuck,

At the station, they slowed at the top of the stairs, the platform stretching below. Kirishima glanced over, his grin softer now, carrying more weight than the words themselves. “C’mon, Katsuki. Let’s go home. I’ll make us some ramen.”

The sound of it filled him, warmer than any scarf, warmer than the promise of heat waiting in his apartment.

Kirishima reached out, hand open in a quiet offering.

Bakugo let the smallest smile break through and matched his pace as they made their way down to the platform, hand in hand.