Archive of Our Own ^beta

2013

The sun had already dipped low behind the trees when practice ended, washing the sky in gentle orange streaks that clung to the windows of the school like paint. The baseball field had emptied out, their coach already halfway through locking the equipment room when someone’s careless hit sent the ball flying too far. It rolled past the edge of the fence, down the hill, and toward the back of the school buildings.

Kirishima offered to go get it. He always did things like that, helped carry the bats, fetched the forgotten towels, stayed behind to close the dugout. He didn’t mind. His body was still warm from running, his throat still dry from yelling across the field, and the quiet that had settled over the school felt strangely peaceful. The kind of silence that made him feel like he was the only person in the world.

He jogged past the empty track and cut across the path behind the science block, slowing when he reached the slope near the arts wing. The ball had stopped just outside the dance room, sitting like a lost thought on the polished floor where the door had been left slightly open.

He reached down to pick it up, about to turn around and leave, but something inside the room caught his eye.

There was a boy dancing.

Kirishima froze, hand still gripping the baseball. The guy wore a tight black collant that fit him like skin, paired with dark leggings, and he moved like he had no idea anyone was watching. His arms flowed through the air with a softness Kirishima hadn’t thought a person could possess. 

The boy wasn’t just dancing, he was becoming the music, letting it fill his bones, spill out through the tips of his fingers.

He had seen that boy before a few times, in the hallways, near the vending machines, once sitting under the trees with his earphones in and his lunch untouched. He never talked to anyone, never smiled, always walked with his head down and his shoulders squared, a kind of scowl always shadowing his face. Kirishima had never heard of him getting into fights, but no one really dared to bother him either because there was something in the way he carried himself that kept people away.

But this was nothing like the boy Kirishima thought he knew from a distance.

The boy in the dance room looked like he belonged somewhere else entirely. Not in a regular school filled with scraped knees and late homework, but in a place where light and movement spoke louder than words. He spun slowly, arms lifting as if gravity was only a suggestion. His hair, pale under the ceiling lights, clung to his forehead in damp strands. And for a brief second, he looked almost weightless.

Kirishima stared, even though it felt like he was watching something he wasn’t supposed to see. Not because it was secret, but because it wasn’t meant to be shared with the world unless offered freely.

He stood there until the music stopped and the boy slowed, chest rising and falling under the tight fabric, eyes still closed like he was somewhere else entirely. Kirishima let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the baseball still cold in his hand.

The boy turned.

It wasn’t sudden, just a careful lift of his chin, the light catching the slope of his cheekbone as he opened his eyes. He looked calm, but not indifferent, more like he had felt Kirishima’s presence the entire time and was only now choosing to acknowledge it.

Kirishima froze.

Their eyes met for a heartbeat, maybe two.

Before the boy could say anything, Kirishima stepped back instinctively and raised one hand, the other still clutching the baseball like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, voice too loud in the stillness of the room. “I didn’t mean to spy or anything. I was just here for this...” He lifted the ball, then motioned vaguely over his shoulder. “It rolled down from the field. I wasn’t trying to... I didn’t know anyone was here.”

He was already halfway turned to go, sneakers shifting awkwardly on the polished floor, when he glanced back.

The boy hadn’t moved.

Kirishima felt his ears burn, and he offered a small smile, and his words came out softer this time, “That was amazing,” he said, a hint of breathlessness still clinging to his voice.

The boy blinked.

And then Kirishima left, not looking back again.

2025

The rain had stopped just before they left the house, and the city outside the car window looked clean and quiet, washed in that pale light that came after a cloudy morning. Kirishima glanced at the rearview mirror, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly near the turn signal. In the back seat, Haruka kicked her feet softly, her hair tied up in a neat bun, the one they had practiced twice that morning just to make sure it stayed in place.

She was wearing her new leotard, black with a soft mesh back and tiny embroidered flowers near the neckline. Her bag was zipped and pressed against her side like a secret she couldn’t wait to share.

“You excited?” Kirishima asked, though he already knew the answer.

Haruka nodded, eyes wide and shining. “A little nervous too,” she admitted, “But excited.”

Her old dance school had been warm and colorful, filled with soft laughter and rooms that smelled like powder and hand sanitizer. They’d even given her a little certificate on her last day, with a photo of her smiling in her final recital costume and all the other kids hugging her. She had cried, just a bit, when they said goodbye.

But now this was different.

This studio wasn’t for beginners or soft landings. It was for dancers who wanted more. Her teacher had said that most students didn’t even know about the place unless someone told them. It was tucked into a quiet street near the center of town, the kind of place you could walk past for years and never notice. It wasn’t big. It wasn’t flashy. But it was good.

When they pulled up in front of it, Haruka leaned forward in her seat, hands gripping the edge of the headrest.

“Is this it?” she asked, already unbuckling her seatbelt.

Kirishima nodded, pulling into a spot a few meters away from the entrance. “That’s what the map says.”

The studio looked plain from the outside, just a clean sign with white lettering and a small hanging lamp above the door. The windows were high, fogged with condensation, and the walls were the same light concrete as the rest of the buildings on the block. But there was something about it. A feeling, maybe. Like the quiet held more than it showed.

He helped her out of the car, adjusted the strap on her bag, and made sure her jacket was zipped all the way up before she darted off toward the entrance, light on her feet even when she walked. Her excitement was nearly vibrating off her.

She paused just before the door, turned back to him, and smiled.

“I’ll be okay, Dad.”

“I know,” Kirishima said, smiling back. “You’re gonna do great, Haru.”

She stepped inside.

He stood there for a moment longer, watching the door close behind her. The rain had started again, almost too soft to notice. He leaned back against the car and let the sound of it on the roof fill the quiet around him.

He didn’t know the names of the teachers here, hadn’t requested photos of the interior or a curriculum breakdown, but her old teacher had said something that stuck with him, It’s not easy to get a spot. Usually it’s by recommendation.

And Haruka had been recommended.

So he climbed back into the car, started the engine, and pulled back onto the road.

The gym wasn’t crowded, just a few familiar faces nodding at him as he passed through the entrance, towel around his neck and a bottle of water tucked under his arm. It was the kind of place tucked between convenience and quiet, not far from the ballet studio, clean and decently equipped, and most importantly, it never felt like a media trap. They left him alone here. He could lift in peace, run his drills, focus on keeping his body in shape without the flash of cameras or the constant low buzz of recognition.

By the time the clock on the wall clicked to 4:30, he was already showered and dressed again, hair damp, shirt clinging a little too comfortably to the lines of his back. He slung his bag over one shoulder and made the short walk back to the studio, stretching his fingers out of habit, still chasing the last of the burn in his arms.

The lobby smelled faintly of rosin and lavender floor cleaner. The quiet music piping in through the small overhead speakers felt delicate, careful not to disturb the hush that always seemed to live in dance studios. A few parents waited along the side benches, thumbing through phones or talking quietly. One of them waved, recognizing him, and he nodded back politely.

He had only just stepped toward the front counter when the secretary looked up from her tablet.

She was young, maybe early twenties, with long blonde hair pulled into a high twist and soft peach-colored lips that smiled easily. Her earrings sparkled when she tilted her head, “You’re Haruka’s dad, right? She’s getting ready to leave, but her teacher asked if you had a few minutes to talk. If you’re free now.”

Kirishima blinked, a little surprised, but smiled and nodded. “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

She gestured toward a hallway lined with framed performance posters and a small sign that read Staff Only. “He’s just down there, studio three. You can knock.”

“Thanks.”

The hallway was quiet, the kind of quiet that asked you to tread softly, and he did. His sneakers made almost no sound on the polished floor, and when he reached the right door, he knocked twice.

A voice answered almost immediately, “Come in.”

He stepped inside.

The room was bright with natural light from the wide windows near the ceiling. The mirrors stretched across one full wall, and the wooden floors gleamed with careful use. There were no students now, just one person crouching by the stereo system, sorting through a stack of music sheets and notes.

The teacher turned when he heard the door, and Kirishima’s heart stuttered.

It had been years, more than a decade, but he recognized him almost instantly. Sharper jaw now, broader shoulders, older in the face but somehow not smaller in presence. His hair was shorter on the sides, still pale and wild on top, his black shirt fitted close to his frame and tucked neatly into his dance pants.

But the other looked at him now without a flicker of recognition.

“You’re Haruka’s dad?”

“Yeah,” Kirishima said, offering a small smile and stepping inside. He didn’t reach out for a handshake. “Eijiro Kirishima.”

Bakugo nodded once, then crossed his arms, “She’s good, not just technically. She listens. Pays attention when you correct her. Has presence. Most kids her age don’t know how to fill a room yet, but she’s already learning how to hold it.”

Kirishima felt his chest warm.

“She loves it. Dancing, I mean. I think she’s been waiting for this place since the moment she started.”

Bakugo’s nodded again, then turned to pull a small notebook from the shelf. “Just wanted to let you know she’s adjusting fast. I’ll start easing her into more complex sessions. Pas de deux practice, maybe modern choreography later if she’s up for it.”

“Whatever you think’s best. I trust your judgment.”

“How much do you know about ballet?” Bakugo asked, flipping open the notebook and scribbling something quick near the top margin.

“Not everything,” Kirishima admitted with a quiet chuckle. “But more than I ever thought I would.” He leaned against the wall, arms relaxed at his sides. “Had to learn. I mean, she’s been dancing since she was, what, two? I’ve been to every performance, even the ones where she forgot half the steps and cried on stage.”

Bakugo didn’t interrupt, just turned a page and listened.

“We watched a lot of videos together, studied moves, tried to copy them in the living room. I think she mostly wanted to see me fall,” he added with a smile. “Which I did. A lot. Never had the feet for it.” A pause, then he laughed softly. “And when she was younger? I must’ve watched Barbie in the Swan Lake at least a hundred times. Probably more. It got to the point where I knew the lines better than she did.”

Bakugo’s pen slowed, fingers curling around the notebook as his eyes lifted. He didn’t speak right away, but there was something in his gaze, though, like he was trying to decide what kind of person stood in front of him.

“That’s good.” he finally said, “Kids do better when they have supportive parents.” He paused again. “Is her mom also into ballet?”

The question hung there, and Kirishima shrugged, a small movement of the shoulders, not careless, just honest. “I don’t know. Last time I saw her was eleven years ago. Maybe now she enjoys ballet, but I have no way to know that.”

Bakugo stopped writing.

The pen hovered just above the paper for a second before he clicked it shut and set the notebook aside. His gaze lifted again, more focused now, “From what I can see so far, you’re doing a great job raising her on your own.” He tilted his head. “Honestly, I didn’t expect that. When I heard Haruka’s dad played for the Giants, I figured that maybe you were too busy. Thought someone else might be doing most of the parenting.”

It wasn’t harsh, just straightforward, like he didn’t see the point in softening the edge.

Kirishima blinked.

He wasn’t sure what to feel first, the warmth blooming across his cheeks or the small flicker of something defensive rising in his chest. Compliment or judgment, he couldn’t tell. Probably both. He looked down for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, letting the words sit before deciding how to carry them.

“I guess that’s fair,” he said finally, “People assume a lot when you’re in the public eye.”

He met Bakugo’s eyes again, this time with a hint of a smile that didn’t quite hide the pinch of discomfort beneath. “But yeah. It’s just me and her, always has been. I figured if I could make time to train, to travel, to play a full season without missing a beat, then I could damn well make time for the most important person in my life.” His smile softened then, just a little. “Not perfect, but I try my best every day.”

Bakugo nodded once, arms crossing loosely over his chest as he leaned his hip against the edge of the stereo cabinet, and his gaze didn’t waver. “Would you be okay with checking in after her classes? Not every day, I get that your schedule’s probably insane, but as often as you can. Even just five minutes.”

He looked toward the mirrored wall, where the faint outline of their reflections stretched in the soft light, “She takes this seriously, that’s clear. I don’t know if she’s aiming for something professional, but either way, it helps if we’re all on the same page. That way you’ll know what she’s working on, if there’s something she needs to improve, or if she’s struggling with anything.”

Kirishima nodded, listening.

“And,” Bakugo added, returning his eyes to him, “I’d recommend looking into pilates classes for her. Something beginner-friendly, no pressure. Helps with flexibility, posture, breathwork. Could make a big difference long-term.”

He reached for the notebook again, flipping to a clean page. “Also, you should consider getting a nutritionist. Not for dieting or any of that crap, just someone who can guide her through what’s good for a growing body that trains this much. Balanced meals, enough protein for muscle work, proper hydration. All of that makes a bigger difference than most people think.”

Kirishima stayed quiet for a moment, letting all of it settle. There was no condescension in Bakugo’s voice, just confidence, the kind that came from knowing his craft inside and out, from giving a damn about the kids he taught.

“I can do that,” Kirishima said, and he meant it. “I’ll make time. And the Pilates and nutritionist idea, yeah, that makes sense. I’ll look into it.”

Bakugo gave a single nod, jotting something down quickly. “Good.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Kirishima wasn’t sure what kind of weight passed between them in that second, only that it felt a little heavier than the room had felt before. Bakugo’s eyes didn’t stray, he held his gaze, not trying to figure him out anymore, just looking.

Kirishima met it without flinching, but then a soft knock echoed from the door.

Bakugo blinked once, head turning. “You can come inside.”

The door opened gently, and Haruka peeked in, her bun a little looser now, her cheeks flushed from class. She stood just in the doorway, hands on the strap of her bag, the pale pink of her wrap skirt fluttering faintly with the air.

“Sorry for interrupting,” she said, voice shy but sweet, “just wanted to say that I’m ready to go.”

Kirishima smiled, he straightened a little and opened his arms just enough to make her laugh quietly before walking in, but before she moved toward him, he noticed how Bakugo’s expression had shifted.

Not dramatically, though, just a small curve at the corner of his mouth, the hard line of his jaw relaxing, like all the walls he’d built to talk to Kirishima had melted away the second Haruka came into view.

It wasn’t a performative kind of softness, it was real. The kind of smile that slipped past Bakugo’s guard without him noticing, drawn out not by obligation, but by quiet affection.

“See you in two days,” he said, his voice lighter now, a small nod in her direction. “Don’t forget to go over what we practiced today. Especially your foot transitions. I’ll know if you don’t.”

“I will,” Haruka said quickly, her eyes bright. “I promise.”

Kirishima chuckled, adjusting the strap on her bag as she reached his side. “Thanks again,” he said, offering a polite dip of his head toward Bakugo.

“Mm.”

They stepped out together, the door clicking quietly shut behind them. The hallway was still quiet, the lobby already emptier than before. Outside, the sky had cleared up, a soft golden light filtering between the buildings as they walked to the car.

As soon as they were buckled in, Haruka turned to him with eyes wide and mouth already forming words.

“Dad. Dad. Do you know who my teacher is?”

Kirishima blinked, starting the engine. “Bakugo-san?”

“Yes!” She nearly shouted, bouncing in her seat. “ Bakugo Katsuki! You didn’t tell me it was that Bakugo!”

He glanced at her, brow lifting. “Wait, that Bakugo?”

She stared at him, scandalized. “Dad, seriously?! He was the first Japanese dancer to join the Bolshoi. In Moscow. And not just in the corps, he actually danced lead roles. Then he moved to Paris and got into Opera Ballet, and he was an étoile! Like, literally the highest title you can have there!”

Kirishima blinked again, hands tightening just a little on the wheel. “Seriously?”

“Yes!” She huffed, flopping dramatically into the seat with her arms crossed before bursting into a grin. “He retired early, like super young, and came back to Japan and no one knows why. Some people say he hated the industry, some say he got injured, but no one really knows.”

He let out a low whistle, still looking stunned. “I just thought he was really strict and knew what he was doing.”

Haruka nodded eagerly. “He is! But, like, in the best way! Did you see how he moves? He doesn’t even have to dance, you can just tell. He’s, like, gravity-defying.”

Kirishima couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I guess you’re in good hands then.”

“The best hands,” she said proudly, already texting someone on her phone. “I’m so glad I got in.”

He glanced at her again, the excitement on her face, the way her voice still buzzed from class, and he felt it again, that warm bloom in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with Bolshoi or Paris or titles, and everything to do with the fact that she was happy.

The Tokyo Dome echoed with the dull rhythm of cleats against turf and the sharp pop of baseballs hitting leather. Afternoon light filtered in from the high domed ceiling, catching in dust motes that danced over the field like slow sparks.

Kirishima was already halfway through warm-ups, hoodie tied around his waist, sweat clinging to the back of his neck. He had his bat in hand and his eye on the pitching machine, waiting for the signal.

Shoji, their starting pitcher, stood nearby, adjusting his grip on the ball and stretching his shoulders with a rubber band looped around the dugout rail. Calm, reliable, the kind of player who didn’t need to talk much because his focus said everything.

Sero and Kaminari were in the outfield, laughing over something, probably another failed attempt at catching fly balls without using gloves, a stupid game they made up months ago that the coach had threatened to ban more than once.

Iida was sprinting sprints along the baseline, perfectly timed and precise, as if he couldn’t do anything halfway. His dedication showed in everything, even the way he tossed a discarded water bottle neatly into the bin without slowing down.

Sato stood near the batting cages, chewing through his second protein bar of the hour. No one questioned it anymore, they just handed him extras during breaks.

Koda was crouched beside him, and Tetsutetsu shouted across the field for someone to bring him a second mitt. “My hand’s still sore from Shoji’s last pitch!” He yelled, grinning wide and tossing the first glove onto the bench.

Ojiro, leaning on the bullpen fence, shook his head. “You’ve had that glove since we started this season, maybe it’s time to stop blaming your tools.”

Kirishima stepped into the cage. He rolled his shoulders, took a breath, and focused. The machine clicked, and the ball came fast.

Crack.

The sound of the bat connecting rang through the dome.

Another.

Crack.

His form was fluid, balanced weight, firm wrists, easy follow-through. He didn’t overthink it anymore. He trusted his body to do what it was trained to do.

They cycled through drills for over two hours. Fielding, pitching, more batting, catching pop-ups, communication plays. They worked like a team that had known each other for years, not just in their movements but in the small things, passing water bottles without asking, reading moods without speaking, knowing when to push and when to ease off. And even when they joked, even when they argued or teased, it never got in the way of the work.

When the final whistle blew and the last pitch hit the glove, Kirishima stood near first base, glove tucked under his arm, sweat dripping from his hairline, smiling.

Sekijiro stood near the dugout, arms crossed, expression as unreadable as always beneath the brim of his cap. His clipboard rested under one arm, pages already marked with notes in red ink. Beside him, Toyomitsu stood with his hands on his hips, his usual easygoing demeanor toned down for the end-of-day rundown.

“All right,” Sekijiro called, voice loud enough to cut through lingering chatter. The players gathered quickly, a half-circle forming around their coaches, gloves tucked under arms, caps pushed back to wipe at foreheads.

“You kept your focus today,” he continued, scanning each of them with that narrowed look that always made Kirishima stand a little straighter. “Fielding was solid. Communication’s tighter than last week. Shoji, nice control on the mound. Ojiro, I want you to keep working on that slider, it’s almost there. The rest of you, don’t slack. We’ve got five days before the next game, and I don’t want to see anyone falling behind.”

Taishiro chimed in. “And hydrate, for god’s sake. I’m not dragging anyone off the field again.”

That got a few quiet laughs.

“Go rest. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

The team dispersed quickly, some heading straight to the locker rooms, others lingering to pack up their gear.

Kirishima slung his bag over his shoulder and started walking toward the parking lot, sweat still clinging to his back, his body pleasantly sore from a good session.

Just a few steps ahead, Sero and Kaminari had linked up, the two of them chatting animatedly as they made their way toward the exit. Kirishima didn’t catch the full conversation, just Kaminari’s loud “man, I swear Shoji’s pitches are getting faster. My wrist still hurts from warm-up!” followed by Sero laughing, tossing his glove into the air and catching it with one hand.

They slowed near the edge of the lot, exchanging fist bumps and shoulder pats. Kirishima waved at them with a smile as he passed by. “Later.”

“Night, Ace,” Sero called, throwing him a wink.

“Tell your kid we said hi,” Kaminari added, waving over his shoulder.

Kirishima unlocked his car, tossing his bag into the passenger seat and sinking into the driver’s side with a quiet sigh. He reached for his phone, thumb hovering for only a second before he tapped the familiar name.

The call connected quickly.

“Hello?”

Eri’s voice was soft, her usual gentle tone always made his shoulders drop, tension bleeding out.

“Hey, Eri,” Kirishima said, smiling a little as he leaned back into the seat. “How’s everything going at home?”

“Everything’s good! Haruka finished her homework right after snack time, and now she’s doing stretches while watching that documentary you downloaded for her. The one about pointe shoes?”

He chuckled quietly. “Yeah, she’s been obsessed with that one lately.”

“She made me watch it with her,” Eri added, laughing. “Twice.”

“I believe it,” he said, adjusting the AC. “I’m heading home now. Should be back in maybe forty minutes or so, depending on traffic. Don’t worry about dinner, I’ll pick something up on the way.”

“Okay,” she said warmly. “I’ll tell her. She’s been asking when you’d be home.”

“Tell her I’ll be there soon,” he murmured, a smile still on his lips. “Thanks again, Eri.”

“Of course,” she said, and he could hear her smiling too. “Drive safe.”

He ended the call, setting the phone gently into the holder on the dash before starting the engine. The sky was shifting into softer colors now, the last stretch of daylight painting the city in streaks of gold and pale pink as he merged onto the expressway.

Exactly thirty-five minutes later, Kirishima stepped through the door, the scent of warm food following him into the entryway. He held two takeout bags, one labeled with Eri’s name, and the other packed neatly with a balanced meal made just the way Haruka’s new nutritionist had recommended.

“Smells good,” Eri called from the kitchen as she peeked out, smiling. Her hair was pulled up loosely, textbooks still spread across the table. “You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did,” Kirishima said, setting her bag gently on the counter. “You’ve been here all afternoon. Go home, get some rest. Eat something warm.”

She smiled and closed her notebook, tucking it into her bag. “Thanks,” she said again, a little softer this time.

Haruka came bounding into the room in her socks, hair down now, her bun undone and fluffy from a long day. “Eri!” She said, throwing her arms around her. “You’ll come back tomorrow, right?”

“Always,” Eri laughed, hugging her tight. “Text me if you need help with that math homework, okay?”

Haruka nodded.

“Bye, Eijirou-san,” Eri said as she stepped into her shoes, waving over her shoulder. “Have a good night.”

“Night, Eri. Thanks again.”

And then it was just the two of them.

Kirishima placed Haruka’s meal on the table while she opened the living room curtains just a little, letting in the last blue tint of evening. They sat together with the food in front of them, and the documentary already paused on the screen from earlier.

“You watched more while I was gone?” He asked, smiling around a bite of chicken.

“Only a little,” she said quickly, then added with a grin, “I paused it so we could watch the rest together.”

He leaned back, warm all over. “Best part of my day.”

They ate slowly, the sound of pointe shoes being crafted and dancers rehearsing filling the background. Sometimes she commented on a position or asked if he remembered the name of a step, and he did, most of the time. When he didn’t, she’d giggle and explain it again like she was the teacher now.

The couch felt softer with her beside him, her legs tucked under her, plate balanced carefully in her lap, and even though the day had been long, even though his body ached and the world outside kept moving, here in this quiet corner of his home, with Haruka’s voice bright and full of passion, everything felt just right.

Two weeks passed in a blur of back-to-back games, media interviews, morning weights, evening drills, team travel, and the quiet guilt that always settled in his chest when he had to ask Eri to stay just a little longer.

But finally, finally, a free day.

No games, no press, no training, just a warm, quiet Thursday with enough time to drive Haruka to ballet and sit with her in the waiting room, sipping lukewarm vending machine coffee and pretending he didn’t feel like the luckiest guy in the world.

He held her hand as they entered the studio, her bag slung over one shoulder, hair already tied in a neat bun. The waiting room smelled faintly of citrus and clean floors, the same quiet music drifting from the hallway speakers. A few other parents sat scattered around, most of them on their phones or reading books.

Haruka leaned in to kiss his cheek before darting off to hang her bag on its usual hook. He took a seat near the corner, stretched his legs, and opened his email app, flipping through missed messages from the past two days. His phone buzzed with a reminder he didn’t need, and he closed it quickly, opening a game of Candy Crush instead.

Outside, the city moved without him. Inside, time slowed in a way he rarely got to experience, until a familiar voice called from the hallway.

“You’re gonna stay here?”

Kirishima looked up.

Bakugo stood just past the threshold of the corridor, barefoot, wearing a fitted black t-shirt and dance pants that ended just below the knee. His hair was damp, like he’d been stretching or demonstrating something before coming out. His expression was its usual unreadable line, arms loose at his sides, gaze fixed on Kirishima like he hadn’t quite expected to see him.

Kirishima raised an eyebrow. “I can’t wait here?”

“You definitely can,” Bakugo said. “But if you want, you can come watch the class.”

Kirishima blinked.

It wasn’t something he had expected to be offered. Most studios didn’t allow parents to watch unless it was an open rehearsal or recital prep, and even then, it was usually from behind a glass wall or on a video screen.

His chest warmed with something between excitement and gratitude.

“Yeah,” he said, already halfway out of his chair. “Yeah, I’d really like that. Thanks.”

Bakugo nodded once, already turning to lead them down the hallway. Haruka beamed as she followed, clearly trying to play it cool but barely able to contain her excitement.

The studio door opened with a quiet creak.

Sunlight spilled through the high windows, casting streaks across the wooden floor. Mirrors lined one wall, and the barre stretched neatly along the opposite side. Everything smelled like chalk and wood polish.

Bakugo gestured toward a chair placed along the far wall, tucked beside a small speaker and a row of cubbies, “You can sit there.”

Kirishima nodded, settling in quietly. He adjusted his posture, resting his forearms on his knees as his eyes followed his daughter across the floor.

Haruka moved to the center without being told, immediately beginning her stretches. Bakugo didn’t coddle. He walked the space with the quiet certainty of someone who knew every inch of it, offering simple instructions in a calm voice. Haruka moved with the ease of someone who had done this hundreds of times, lowering herself onto the floor in a full forward fold, her hands flat past her feet, forehead nearly brushing her shins.

“Back straight, Haruka. Breathe into it. Don’t push. Let the shape come to you.”

She adjusted without hesitation.

The first thirty minutes passed in measured silence, broken only by soft corrections and the occasional low click of the stereo as Bakugo changed the track.

They worked through stretches with care. Hamstrings. Ankles. Back extensions. Port de bras. Even floor barre exercises to ease her hips into alignment. Bakugo moved slowly through each correction, never once needing to raise his voice.

When warm-up ended, he clapped once.

“Start at the barre.”

She rose, shoulders back. He began the class with pliés in all five positions. Her demi-plié melted like honey, her grand plié smooth, heels lifting just the right amount before her body straightened again.

“Don’t sit at the bottom,” Bakugo said from behind her, arms crossed. “Let your thighs hold you. Again.”

She repeated it. Better.

They moved to tendus, each movement clean and pointed, foot sliding against the floor like it was made of silk. Then jetés, sharper now, her foot flicking outward with control. Bakugo didn’t speak often, but when he did, the precision of his language cut through the air.

“Out, not up. Think energy through your toes.”

He demonstrated once, and Kirishima, sitting quietly in the corner, blinked.

It wasn’t flashy, but there was something magnetic about it, the way Bakugo’s muscles moved under his shirt, the way his arms extended with the exact weight and placement of years of discipline.

Haruka mirrored him.

They went through battement frappés, then rond de jambe à terre, all the way through to développés. He let her take water after a full sequence, then pulled the barre away from the center.

“Center work.”

She nodded, sweat starting to glisten at her temples. She was tired, Kirishima could tell, but she loved this. It was in the way she kept her posture tall even in rest, and in the way her feet never relaxed fully.

Bakugo moved through adagio combinations next, high développés, controlled turns.

“Don’t rush to get it right,” he said, passing her like a shadow. “Let yourself feel the balance before you lift. Breathe from the sternum. Arms soft but awake.”

Haruka adjusted. Found it. Held.

Kirishima’s breath caught.

He hadn’t expected to feel so much. Pride, yes. Awe, absolutely. But more than that... It was watching her becoming.

She wasn’t just dancing, she was learning how to exist, and she was doing it under the watch of someone who didn’t ask her to shrink or sparkle, but to be strong, focused, and full.

He sat completely still, elbows resting on his knees, barely breathing, but then Bakugo moved. It was subtle at first, just a shift in his stance, a breath as he stepped away from the wall and crossed the studio with a quiet ease that didn’t break the hush.

Kirishima’s eyes followed him instinctively. How could he not?

The way Bakugo walked had the same command as his teaching, like the floor had memorized the weight of his steps. He crouched beside a speaker tucked near the mirror, unlocked his phone, scrolled with one hand until he found what he was looking for.

A soft piano melody began to fill the room, not a song Kirishima recognized, but gentle, flowing, threaded with something almost sorrowful beneath it.

Bakugo stood.

“Let’s do like we did in last class,” he said. “I’ll go through a sequence. You follow right after. No pause.”

Haruka nodded once, her entire posture alert.

And Kirishima wished he could record the moment. Not just on his phone, but in the kind of way that he could hold forever. Replay it whenever he needed to breathe slower.

Bakugo stepped into the center and began to dance.

There was no flourish for the sake of show, his arms moved like wind over water, each transition carrying the memory of years of practice. His port de bras curved through second and up to fifth, folding into a controlled arabesque that lingered before turning into a développé.

Every shift in direction came from the center of his body, strength held deep in his core. His jumps weren’t high, but they had weight. He turned just once, ending with his foot in coupé and his head inclined, like he’d left part of himself in the music.

Haruka mirrored him without hesitation.

She moved through the same sequence, not copying but echoing. There was focus in her brow, the careful attention of someone watching not just the shape of the movement, but the intention behind it. She missed a breath in one transition, Bakugo didn’t say anything, but caught it again in the next.

Her arms weren’t as fluid, her jump not as clean, but her presence was there, and Kirishima watched, heart loud in his chest, wishing he could somehow step out of his own skin just to hold the moment still.

Kirishima was in awe.

He knew Bakugo was attractive, of course he did. Anyone with eyes could see that. But watching him dance up close, seeing his body shift through weight and line with such grace, it felt different.

It felt intimate.

So much so that Kirishima almost turned his face away, struck by the sudden thought that he was intruding on something private, but Haruka moved with such clarity, such quiet joy, that he couldn’t look away. And when the music ended, it was like the air in the room expanded all at once. He let go of a breath he hadn’t even noticed he was holding, shoulders easing back, fingers uncurling from where they’d been gripping his knees.

Bakugo clapped once. “That’s enough for today. Go drink water and start changing.”

Haruka nodded, breathing fast but still standing tall as she moved toward her bag, picking up her bottle and disappearing into the changing room with a lightness still in her steps.

Bakugo turned, walking over with no hesitation, stopping just a few steps from where Kirishima still sat.

“You saw what she can do,” he said simply, arms folding across his chest. “I’ve never trained a twelve-year-old who can follow a professional-level sequence with that much precision. Her focus, her body awareness, it’s not normal.”

Kirishima smiled, still catching up with the moment. “She didn’t mention anything about wanting to go pro.”

“No?”

He shook his head. “Being honest, I’m just impressed that she can keep her grades up, take dancing this seriously, and still manage to have friends. When I was twelve I could barely walk without tripping over my own shoes.”

That got a short laugh out of Bakugo, genuine sound that seemed to surprise even him.

“Most kids repeat what they see their parents doing,” he said, tone matter-of-fact. “You’re an athlete. You take your job seriously. She probably mirrors you, even if you don’t notice it.”

Kirishima felt the heat bloom across his cheeks almost instantly. He looked away for a second, clearing his throat, not trusting himself to answer.

Bakugo didn’t seem to notice, he kept going, “It’s good that you’re not pushing her to go pro. Not every kid’s that lucky. When parents see talent, they start projecting, either their dreams or their frustrations. Most don’t even realize they’re doing it.”

He ran a hand through his hair, glancing toward the hallway where Haruka had gone.

“The only thing is, if she does want it, now’s the time. Twelve’s the age to start intensifying the schedule. Instead of three classes, she’ll need five, maybe six a week. Conditioning, pointe work, private training, competition rehearsals. It’s a lot. Mentally and physically. But if there’s a kid who can handle it, it’s her.”

Kirishima stayed quiet for a moment, thinking. He wasn’t against the idea, but he knew what pressure could do to a kid. He’d lived through enough of it himself. Still, he trusted Haruka. If she wanted it, he’d find a way to support her.

Bakugo broke the silence again, his voice lower now, almost like he was talking to himself.

“You know, I asked Nemuri to send me videos of Haruka’s past performances. I wanted to see where she started. She clearly loves dancing. Even if she doesn’t go pro...” he paused. “I hope she never stops.”

Kirishima smiled. A full, quiet thing that reached his eyes, “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.”

Later that evening, the house was quiet in that post-dinner kind of way. The TV was off, the laundry was folded on the armrest of the couch, and soft rain tapped against the windows like a lullaby just starting.

Kirishima sat at the kitchen table with his legs stretched out under the chair, a half-empty bowl of rice in front of him and a cup of green tea cooling in his hand. Across from him, Haruka sat cross-legged on her chair, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands as she absentmindedly munched on thin carrot sticks, her cheeks already puffed like a chipmunk mid-chew.

Her hair was down, for once, still damp from her shower, falling almost to the middle of her back. He hadn’t realized how long it had gotten, it was always tied up or twisted into buns and braids, always neat and tucked away like it didn’t want to be noticed. But now, loose and dark against her gray hoodie, he saw it clearly.

Straight, just like her mother’s, but the color was all him. That deep, almost glossy black that caught hints of brown under the kitchen light. And her eyes were also his, a vivid crimson, so full of life it made his breath catch.

She looked up and blinked when she caught him staring, “What?”

“Nothing,” he said softly, smile tugging at his mouth. “Just thinking you’re growing up too fast.”

Haruka narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “If this is leading into a speech, I’m chewing a carrot, so I can’t be held responsible if I ignore it.”

He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “No speech, just a question.”

“Hm?”

“Do you wanna go pro?” He asked, voice gentle as he reached for his tea again. “With ballet, I mean.”

Haruka looked at him for a second, quiet. She reached for another carrot, chomped it, then leaned her elbow on the table and sighed in a very dramatic twelve-year-old way.

“I don’t know,” she said, dragging out the last syllable. “Do I have to answer that now?”

He grinned. “No, sweetheart. You can take your time.”

“Good,” she said, slumping over her bowl like her entire spine gave up. “Because today I want to be a dancer, but tomorrow I might want to be a marine biologist. Or a manga artist. Or a vet for baby pandas.”

“That’s a solid list,” he said, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. “I support all of those. Especially the panda one. They probably smell nice.”

Haruka squinted. “Pandas definitely don’t smell nice. They’re like, wild animals.”

He gasped, mock offended. “You take that back.”

“Nope.”

They both laughed, the kind that lingered in the air even after it quieted. Kirishima reached across the table, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. “Whatever you decide, I’m with you. No pressure. Just promise me you’ll keep dancing as long as it makes you happy.”

“I promise,” she said, voice smaller now. Then she blinked and grinned. “Even if I become a panda vet?”

“Especially if you become a panda vet.”

She leaned forward, whispering like it was top secret. “Do you think I could make pandas dance?”

Kirishima rested his chin in his hand, pretending to think hard. “I mean, with the right music, anything’s possible.”

She giggled again, and he smiled, because she was here, and she was laughing, and she was still his little girl, no matter how tall she got or how straight her hair fell or how gracefully she danced across a studio floor.

And because he meant it. whatever she chose, wherever she went, he’d be right here, cheering her on.

The street outside the studio was quiet in that in-between way that came when most of the neighborhood had already closed down for the night. 

Kirishima leaned against his car, arms crossed, watching as the front door of the studio swung open.

Haruka stepped out first, her oversized hoodie nearly swallowing her, cheeks flushed and hair messily tied from the last hour of barre work and center practice. She was clutching her water bottle with both hands, a little tired but still full of energy, like her body hadn’t caught up with her excitement yet.

Behind her, Bakugo followed, pulling the studio key from his hoodie pocket and locking the door with a quiet click. He wore leggings and an old gray hoodie that looked soft from too many washes, sleeves pushed to his forearms, a dark sports bag slung over one shoulder.

Kirishima opened his mouth to say something casual, maybe thanks again or did she do okay today, but instead, before he even knew where the thought had come from, what came out was: “Wanna join us for dinner? We’re gonna hit that Thai place at the end of the street.”

Bakugo paused, key still in the lock, and looked over.

There was a beat of silence, the question hung there like a thread, and Kirishima felt the heat rise slowly up his neck. He cleared his throat, trying to play it off with a smile. “As a thank you, you know, for staying late to teach her today. I know the studio closes by six, and it's already, what, eight?”

Bakugo didn’t answer right away, then Haruka, who had been quiet by Kirishima’s side, practically vibrated.

“Please say yes,” she blurted, bouncing on her toes, eyes wide. “The food there’s amazing and they do the crispy tofu and Dad always gets too much, please come?”

Kirishima chuckled under his breath. “No pressure, though.”

Bakugo blinked, like he wasn’t sure how this turned into a dinner invitation or a child-led campaign, but something in his face shifted. He pulled his bag higher on his shoulder.

“Alright,” he said. “Let's see if the crispy tofu is worth it.”

Haruka squealed.

They walked the short distance on foot. The Thai place sat just a few storefronts down, a familiar corner spot with hand-painted lettering on the window and strings of yellow lights hung inside, glowing like lazy fireflies.

Haruka walked a step ahead of them, hopping over the occasional crack in the sidewalk and swinging her empty water bottle like it was part of a game. She talked as she moved, not waiting for responses, just letting her thoughts tumble out the way only a twelve-year-old could.

“And then during social studies, Ayaka totally fell asleep. Like, actually asleep, drooling on her desk,” she said, muffling a laugh. “Sensei didn’t even wake her, just taught the whole class like nothing was happening. I think she only woke up when the bell rang.”

Kirishima managed a smile, nodding along, but he barely heard the details. His hands were in his pockets, shoulders just a bit too high, gait not as easy as it usually was. He could feel the tension crawling up the back of his neck, the stiffness in his limbs, not from the long day, but from the fact that Bakugo was walking beside him.

Not far, not too close either, just there. 

He was thankful Haruka kept talking, excited to have her teacher there with them.

They passed the flower shop that was already closed, its petals curled against the dark. A cat sat perched on the edge of a parked scooter, watching them like it had been waiting all night just to judge their pace.

When they reached the restaurant, the little chime above the door jingled as they stepped inside. The air was warm, fragrant with lemongrass and toasted chili, the kind of scent that made you feel like you were already halfway through the meal.

Behind the counter, the old woman who ran the place looked up, and her face lit up instantly, “Ah! Eijirou-chan! Haruka-chan!” She called, waving a hand as she hurried out from behind the register. “You’re late today, I thought you forgot about me.”

“We had class a bit later,” Kirishima explained with an apologetic smile.

The woman’s eyes slid to Bakugo, and instead of hesitation, she grinned like she recognized him too. “And you brought a friend. You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

Bakugo blinked, caught off guard. “Once or twice,” he said quietly.

She nodded like that was enough. “Well, welcome back. Sit wherever you want, I’ll bring tea.”

They found a booth near the window, low cushions and worn wooden chairs. Kirishima let Haruka slide in first, then took the seat beside her, leaving Bakugo the other side of the table.

The tea came quick, steaming in little ceramic cups that didn’t match, and the menu was already memorized, so no one bothered to open it.

Things felt easier after that.

He didn’t want to talk about work, not tonight. He didn’t want it to feel like a business dinner, didn’t want to ask about training schedules or nutrition or performance theory, but the truth was, he wasn’t sure what else to talk about.

Bakugo was usually all business when they saw each other, and it was easier when the focus was on Haruka, or the studio, or something to do with pliés.

He reached for his tea, lips parting to try a harmless question, maybe about music, maybe about nothing, when Haruka turned to Bakugo with wide red eyes and asked, “What do you do when you’re not teaching?”

The question came just as the server set down a steaming bowl of jasmine rice, and Bakugo had to pause mid-sip of tea, blinking like he wasn’t used to being asked about himself.

“Like, do you have hobbies?” Haruka pressed, entirely sincere. “Dad only works and stays home with me. It’s so hard to even make him go to the mall or the park.”

Across the table, Kirishima sputtered into his tea, coughing into a napkin, ears already pink. “Haru!”

But she just shrugged, unbothered, “I’m not wrong. The last time we went to the movies, I had to bribe him with popcorn and pick the seats.”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You make me sound like I live under a rock.”

“Well,” she said, stretching the word with theatrical flair, “you kinda do.”

There was a brief silence before a low sound broke it, something that sounded almost like a laugh. Bakugo didn’t smile exactly, but the corners of his mouth shifted, a flicker of amusement tugging there.

“Sounds like she’s got you figured out,” he said, glancing sideways at Kirishima.

“Don’t encourage her.”

Haruka turned back to Bakugo, waiting patiently, eyes bright with curiosity.

Leaning back in his chair, he took a moment before answering. “I read,” he said at last. “Sometimes I cook. I like going to bookstores when they’re quiet.”

Her eyes widened, as if he’d just revealed he lived in a secret castle. “ Bookstores? ”

Her eyes stayed wide, eyebrows drawn together like she was trying to make sense of something entirely foreign.

“No one talks to you?” she repeated, stunned. “But isn’t that boring?”

Bakugo tilted his head. “That’s the point.”

Haruka blinked, then glanced at her dad like she needed backup. “Dad, would you go to a bookstore where no one talks to you?”

Kirishima tried not to laugh as he scooped some rice into his bowl. “I mean, it depends. If I’m alone? Maybe. If I’m with you? You’d talk enough for both of us.”

She gasped, hand over her chest in mock betrayal. “Rude.”

Bakugo’s hand came up briefly, hiding what might’ve been a smirk as he took a sip of tea.

“What do you even read?” Haruka asked, undeterred.

“Usually essays. Memoirs. A lot of older dance theory books.”

She squinted. “That sounds so boring.”

Kirishima grinned. “You’re gonna hurt his feelings.”

“Not really,” Bakugo said, deadpan. “She’s honest. That’s good.”

Haruka sat back in her seat, satisfied, as if she had passed some kind of unspoken test.

“And what do you cook?” She continued. “Because last week my dad made miso soup and forgot the miso.”

“I didn’t forget it,” Kirishima protested. “I just didn’t check if we had any.”

“You served us salty water with floating tofu.”

“Seasoned salty water.”

Bakugo actually snorted this time. Kirishima stared at him for a second, then laughed outright.

“Anyway,” Bakugo said after regaining some composure, “I cook more when I’m stressed. Or when the weather’s cold. Mostly traditional stuff. I like precision.”

“That makes sense,” Haruka said wisely, picking up another roll. “You seem like the kind of person who measures the soy sauce with a tiny spoon.”

“I do.”

“I knew it.”

Kirishima leaned back in his seat, resting his hand lightly on the edge of the table, watching them. Their rhythm had slipped into something easy, conversation bouncing gently back and forth like this wasn’t the first dinner shared outside of class.

The plates were nearly empty now, steam long gone, and the small dish of crispy tofu sat picked clean between them. Haruka was nursing the last of her iced tea with both hands, cheeks a little pink from laughing too much, and Bakugo had finally leaned his elbow onto the edge of the table, more relaxed than Kirishima had ever seen him outside the studio.

When the quiet settled again, Bakugo glanced over and asked, “Did you always want to be a baseball player?”

The question caught Kirishima off guard, not because it was strange, but because of who it came from, “No. When I was fifteen, I wanted to work at an arcade.”

Bakugo blinked once. “An arcade?”

“Yep. I thought it was the coolest thing ever. Free tokens, air conditioning, music playing all the time...” He trailed off with a chuckle. “And I was really good at crane games. I thought I had a gift.”

That earned a small snort.

Kirishima grinned. “I’m serious. I thought that was my future, but then I started playing baseball more seriously, and people at school kept telling me I had something. Coaches, teammates... I didn’t think much of it, until a scout showed up during a tournament in my last year. And well, now I’m here.”

Bakugo nodded, like he was actually thinking it over. “Huh.”

“You like baseball?” Kirishima asked, half-curious, half-teasing.

“No.”

Haruka, who had been sipping her drink in silence, burst out giggling. She clutched her glass with both hands and leaned against his shoulder. “That was the fastest no I’ve ever heard.”

Kirishima laughed too, shaking his head. “No hesitation.”

Bakugo shrugged. “Too much waiting. Not enough movement. And the uniforms are ugly.”

“Hey.” Kirishima pointed at him with his chopsticks. “I look good in that uniform.”

Haruka nodded solemnly. “He actually kinda does.”

Bakugo sipped his tea, the corner of his mouth twitching again. “I’ll take your word for it.”

They lingered for a little while after the plates had been cleared, not in any rush to leave, the warmth of the meal and the conversation wrapping around them like a second coat. It felt less like a Thursday evening and more like the kind of night you didn’t get often enough.

Eventually, Bakugo stood, brushing a hand down the front of his hoodie as he slung his bag over his shoulder. Haruka stretched like a cat, yawning as she reached for her water bottle, and Kirishima tucked the receipt into his wallet before following them out.

The night air had cooled, and they walked back toward the studio in easy steps. Their shadows stretched long across the pavement under the dim streetlamps, and the only sound was the squeak of Haruka’s sneakers.

Outside the studio, they paused. Bakugo turned, nodding toward the parking lot a few buildings down. “I’m parked over there.”

Kirishima nodded. “Thanks again. For the class, and for dinner.”

Bakugo hesitated for just a second, then lifted one hand in a quiet wave. “See you at the next one.”

Haruka lit up. “Bye, Sensei!”

He gave the smallest nod before turning, his stride measured, hoodie swaying at his sides, and right before he stepped off the curb, without turning around, he lifted his hand again in a second wave, this one just for a beat longer.

Kirishima watched him go, heart doing something weird in his chest he chose to ignore.

They climbed into the car, and as he reached to adjust the mirror, Haruka said, “He’s really nice. And I think he likes you, Dad.”

Kirishima nearly choked on nothing.

“What?”

She looked over, eyebrows raised like she hadn’t just dropped a bomb into the quiet of the car. “Well, he didn’t have to come to dinner, but he did. And he laughed at your jokes. And he waved. Twice.”

Kirishima stared at the road ahead, willing his face not to turn the color of his daughter’s eyes. “You’re twelve. Why are you saying things like that.”

She shrugged. “I notice stuff.”

He didn’t answer, but his grip on the wheel was just a little tighter as he signaled and pulled away from the curb.

The drive home was peaceful, music was low, windows cracked just enough to let the cool air through, and even though Haruka was half-asleep by the time they reached their street, her words lingered in his chest the whole way.

It was a quiet Saturday night by baseball standards, training had ended earlier than expected, drills cut short when the coach got called into a last-minute meeting. Most of the team had already peeled off from the locker room in waves, shoes squeaking on tile, bags slung over tired shoulders.

Kirishima was still toweling off his hair, dressed down in joggers and a fitted shirt, his bag packed neatly at his feet, when Kaminari rounded the bench and practically threw himself into the seat beside him.

“Come out with us tonight,” he said, without preamble. “Please. I’m begging. I haven’t seen your face in a club since, what? Pre-season two years ago?”

“I can’t,” Kirishima replied automatically, pulling on his hoodie. “Haru’s...”

“No,” Kaminari cut in, stabbing a finger in his direction. “You literally just said your mom’s staying at your place ‘til Monday.”

Sero leaned against the locker beside them, an amused smile tugging at his mouth. “He did say that.”

Kirishima groaned under his breath. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I can just leave her...”

“She’s with her grandmother,” Kaminari said, eyes wide, hands in prayer. “Her grandmother, who, might I remind you, raised you and is probably letting her eat late-night sweets and watch movies in her pajamas while giving her unsolicited hair advice.”

Sero nodded. “And you haven’t come out with us in forever. The club is new. Really chill. Great music, great drinks. Come on, man. Just one night.”

“I don’t even remember how to be in a club anymore,” Kirishima whispered, sitting back against the bench. “I’ll just stand there awkwardly while you two grind on strangers.”

“You don’t have to grind anyone,” Kaminari said with a grin. “Just vibe. Have a beer. Let your shoulders relax for five seconds.”

“Please,” Sero added. “We’ll be good. We’ll even let you choose the first round.”

Kirishima hesitated. He could already hear his mom’s voice in his head, Go, Eiji. You’re thirty. You’re allowed to have fun. Haruka had been so excited when his mom arrived earlier that afternoon, she'd barely waved him out the door for training. They were probably doing face masks and dancing around the living room by now.

And, okay, maybe a small part of him missed this. The neon lights, the thump of music in his chest, the laughter spilling out of booths and across the dance floor. He hadn't realized how long it had been until they’d brought it up.

He looked between the two of them, Kaminari with his hopeful wild grin, Sero with his knowing smile, and sighed.

“Fine.”

“Yes!” Kaminari threw both fists in the air like they’d just won the league.

“But,” He added, raising a finger, “I’m only staying for a few hours.”

“Sure, sure,” Sero said, already pushing off the locker. “See you at nine. Wear something hot.”

Kirishima rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small grin tugging at his mouth as they walked off.

By the time he got home, the apartment was filled with music, and the smell of something sweet baking in the oven. Haruka was in her pajamas already, hair braided loosely down her back, curled into the corner of the couch with a bowl of cut fruit and a blanket around her shoulders.

“Welcome home, baby!” His mom called from the kitchen, apron on.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” He said, setting his bag down near the door and ruffling Haruka’s hair on his way past. “Smells good in here.”

“Banana bread,” his mom called. “Don’t take too long, it’s almost ready.”

Fifteen minutes later, freshly showered and in sweatpants, he sat at the table with both of them, hair still damp and skin warm from the water. Haruka finished eating first and scampered off to the living room again, headphones already around her neck, phone in hand, dancing her way down the hallway.

He watched her go, then he turned to his mom, hesitant but trying to keep it light. “Hey. Is it okay if I go out tonight?”

She looked up from her tea, blinking. “Out? With who?”

“Kaminari and Sero. There’s a new club. They’ve been asking for weeks, and I ran out of excuses.”

Instead of scolding him or reminding him of early mornings, she smiled wide and leaned in like she was about to tell him a secret. “Yes. Go. And please, for the love of everything, don’t come home until they close.”

He burst into a laugh. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Let me take care of things here. You need to unwind a little. You’ve been working like crazy.”

He leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Last time I stayed out that late, I got a message three months later saying I was gonna be a father.”

Without missing a beat, she smiled and said, “And that was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

He laughed again, “That’s not what you said twelve years ago.”

Her smile only grew, eyes twinkling over the rim of her teacup. “Twelve years ago, I didn’t know Haruka yet.”

He stood after that, the sound of the chair scraping gently against the floor, and stretched his arms over his head with a quiet groan, “I’ll get dressed,” he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze as he passed.

“Wear something that makes you look like you own the place,” she called after him. “But also not something too tight. You know how your arms scare people.”

He laughed all the way down the hall.

It didn’t take long. A clean black button-up, dark jeans, a pair of boots he rarely wore unless it was something just a little reckless, a little nostalgic. He combed his hair back, not too styled, just neat, and grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door.

Before leaving, he found Haruka still in the living room, half-watching a ballet video on her tablet, head tilted like she was studying it even though her eyelids were starting to droop.

He leaned down, pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you too,” she mumbled, not even looking away from the screen.

He moved to the kitchen next, and kissed his mom’s forehead as well.

“Don’t wait up.”

“I won’t,” she said. “But text me when you get there, or I will call the club pretending to be your wife.”

“Noted,” he said, grabbing his phone and calling the taxi on the way out.

The streets were alive when he arrived. The club stood on a bright corner, neon pulsing faintly along the edge of the sign. Music beat low from within the walls, and even from the outside, it had the kind of energy that made people move closer without realizing.

Kaminari was already out front, jacket half-zipped and practically vibrating in place. “Finally! You actually look hot! You never look hot on purpose.”

Kirishima rolled his eyes, lips twitching upward.

Thankfully, their names were enough. A bouncer recognized them immediately, and within seconds they were being waved past the long line of people that curled around the corner.

Inside, it was warm and loud and alive. The music thumped beneath his ribs, the kind of beat that was impossible to ignore, and the lights moved like they had their own pulse, casting the crowd in waves of color.

Sero spotted him before he even took three steps into the main room.

“Hey!” He shouted over the music, already making his way over from the bar with two drinks in hand. One was instantly pressed into Kirishima’s, “Enjoy.”

Kirishima raised it, hesitated for only a second, then took a sip.

The club pulsed with life. The beat thumped through the floor and into his shoes, the air thick with sweat and perfume and the low buzz of too many people talking over the same song, but it wasn’t bad. It was actually fun.

He wasn’t dancing, he never danced, but he didn’t mind standing at the high-top table near the back of the lounge area, drink in hand, watching Kaminari lose his absolute mind on the dance floor. Somehow it looked like he was in a dance battle with three different strangers at once.

Kirishima laughed, leaning closer to Sero to be heard. “Does he even know those people?”

“Doubt it,” Sero said with a grin, taking a sip of his own drink. “But he’s happy, and that’s what matters.”

They stood like that for a while, just chatting and watching, letting the music do its thing. Kirishima wasn’t even thinking about time or training or anything else for once. The drink in his hand was getting lighter, the tension in his shoulders melting away, and then a new song started, one with a deep bass and an undeniable Latino beat.

Sero straightened immediately. “Okay, yeah, I have to dance to this one.” He patted Kirishima’s shoulder once. “Wish me luck.”

Kirishima laughed. “You don’t need it.”

But as Sero turned and started weaving through the crowd, Kirishima’s eyes followed, just out of habit, and then they caught on someone else.

Bakugo.

He was on the dance floor.

Not alone.

There was a tall guy behind him, chest pressed close to Bakugo’s back, arms loosely curved around him. They weren’t touching overtly, not holding, but they moved together, hips shifting to the rhythm, the kind of closeness that didn’t leave room for interpretation.

Bakugo’s eyes were closed. He wasn’t speaking, wasn’t smiling, just moving, entirely aware of the beat, of the space, of the person behind him.

Kirishima turned his head fast, like he’d been burned, and the blush hit him instantly, rising hot across his cheeks, his neck, the tips of his ears. His drink suddenly felt too heavy in his hand, the music too loud, the room too full.

He reached for his glass again and took a longer sip, trying not to look back.

But the drink was gone, little more than melting ice clinking against glass, and his skin still hummed with an emotion he didn’t want to name, not here, not now. So he turned and walked toward the bar.

The club’s rhythm followed him, bass low beneath his feet, the music blending with voices and laughter as bodies shifted and swayed around him. It all blurred into color and heat and movement he didn’t feel part of.

At the bar, he set his empty glass down with a little more force than necessary and nodded to the bartender. “Whatever this is,” he said, pointing at the remains of his drink. His voice barely rose over the noise, but it was enough.

The bartender took the glass without a word.

Kirishima rested one hand on the bar’s edge, his fingers curling against the wood. He tried to relax his shoulders, and that was when a voice reached him, “Well, I thought you lived under a rock.”

His head turned before he could stop himself.

Bakugo was leaning against the far side of the bar, elbows braced casually behind him, the sharp line of his shoulders relaxed in a way Kirishima had never seen outside the studio. His shirt was damp at the collar, hair tousled and dark with sweat. Under the slow spin of colored lights, he looked like he belonged in this place, like he was part of the rhythm that pulsed through the walls.

Kirishima forced a smile, keeping it light, easy, despite the thrum in his chest. “Well, same.” He said, accepting his refilled drink from the bartender with a nod and lifting it in Bakugo’s direction. “Didn’t know clubs were your thing.”

“They’re not. I just needed to move. Long week.” Without shifting from his spot, Bakugo gestured toward the bar again, his voice cutting through the beat. “Bottle of water.”

When it arrived, he twisted the cap and took a long drink, throat moving with the motion, sweat catching the light where it clung to his skin. A few drops slipped past his mouth, trailing down his jaw and disappearing beneath the edge of his shirt.

Bakugo lowered the bottle and turned toward him, “You dance?”

Kirishima let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “God, no. I’ve got two left feet and too much respect for rhythm to ruin it for everyone else. I know my limits.”

“Coward,” Bakugo said, taking another sip from the bottle without even cracking a smile.

“I like to think of it as being self-aware,” Kirishima countered, grinning into his glass.

For the first time, something flickered at the corner of Bakugo’s mouth. He leaned in, not enough to close the distance, but enough to be heard. “I could teach you.”

Kirishima blinked, his expression faltering for just a moment. “Sorry?”

Bakugo’s voice didn’t change, still so sure, “How to dance here. Not ballet. No pointe shoes. You’d break them anyway.”

The blush that bloomed across Kirishima’s face had nothing to do with the heat of the club or the drink in his hand. It spread slowly, from the tips of his ears to the curve of his neck, and he was suddenly far too aware of how close they were, how easy it would be to say yes.

He should’ve laughed it off, should’ve changed the subject or taken another sip, but instead, without thinking, he looked at Bakugo and said, “Would it be a private lesson, or do I have to share you with the whole dance floor?”

The words slipped out like a joke, but the second they landed, his brain caught up.

His mouth stayed open in horror, as if he could call them back, as if swallowing the rest would undo the damage. His eyes went wide, and the flush on his face deepened, blooming down to his collarbone now, panic setting in like cold water poured into his chest.

“Wait, that’s not...”

He turned his head toward Bakugo, ready to apologize, to explain, to walk it back with something awkward, but the look on Bakugo’s face made him freeze.

He wasn’t smirking, he was staring, and the way he stared told Kirishima everything.

His pupils were dark, almost entirely eclipsing the red, eyes fixed on him like he was taking his time deciding what to do with what had just been offered to him, even if it came out wrapped in surprise and panic.

His heart had started to beat faster, and he didn’t take the words back, not when Bakugo was looking at him like that.

Bakugo didn’t look away, his water bottle hung loosely in one hand, forgotten. “For now, what I can offer is the dance floor.”

Take it or leave it, and fuck, he should leave it. He should laugh it off, crack a joke, thank him and wave it off like he really didn’t dance, because, technically, he didn’t. Because this was Bakugo, Haruka’s teacher.

He was a father before anything else. A professional athlete. A teammate. A name that showed up in newspapers and post-game interviews. Most of his conversations were with other players, journalists, cashiers, the occasional intern at the agency who wanted advice. He hadn’t flirted in years.

And now Bakugo was looking at him, mouth parted, pulse visible just beneath the clean line of his throat, and it wasn’t hard to tell. He was attracted, too.

Kirishima’s hand tightened around the cool glass in his palm, and whispered, “Okay.”

Bakugo stepped away from the bar first. He didn’t say anything else, just turned toward the dance floor. Kirishima followed, of course he did.

The music hit harder in the center of the club, deep bass pressing against his chest, lights dragging color across skin and glass and fabric. People moved in every direction, bodies colliding and curving, sweat glinting on shoulders and collarbones. Everything smelled like heat and sugar and alcohol.

They found a pocket near the back, where the crowd thinned just enough to breathe. The lights spun red and gold across their faces. Kirishima could still feel the beat crawling up his spine, already too aware of the fact that his heart was outpacing it.

Bakugo turned to face him, close now, closer than anyone else dared to be in years.

He didn’t say anything right away, he just looked at him, his expression unreadable beneath the lights. His hand slid down to Kirishima’s hip, his fingers pressing through the fabric, guiding him a half-step closer.

"Relax your legs," he said, voice barely brushing the space between them. "You're not running drills. You're not trying to win. You just want to feel it." His other hand ghosted up to Kirishima’s chest, barely there, like a suggestion. “Don’t think about what’s next. Don’t lead. Let me.”

Kirishima swallowed hard.

The music shifted, something slow beneath the beat, something meant to be felt more than followed. Bakugo rolled his hips forward, his chest brushing Kirishima’s, and the touch felt intentional.

“Start from your stomach,” he murmured, lips close to his ear now. “That’s where rhythm lives. You don’t need to move big, just enough for me to feel it.”

Kirishima's breath stuttered, his body already starting to follow even before he realized, and Bakugo pulled back, eyes on him, dragging his fingers along the line of his waist.

“Keep it slow. Let the music pull you forward and I’ll take care of the rest.”

The music wrapped around them, seductive in the way it seemed to know what was happening between them before either of them fully admitted it.

Bakugo’s hand stayed on his waist, guiding but never pulling, his chest brushing against Kirishima’s with each slight shift of movement. His hips rolled forward again, and Kirishima moved with him, not gracefully, but honestly.

The rhythm lived low in his belly now, every sway tied to the weight of Bakugo’s presence, how close he stood, how firm his hand felt, how his gaze never strayed.

“Just like that,” Bakugo said, quieter this time, his breath sliding against Kirishima’s neck. “Keep your focus here.”

His fingertips pressed a little deeper into Kirishima’s side.

“You feel me?”

Kirishima nodded, eyes slipping shut for a moment because it was all too much.

“Good,” Bakugo murmured, his lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Let me do the rest.”

He moved again, grinding, the drag of his hips controlled, not meant to show off but to feel.

And god, Kirishima felt it.

Every shift, every pause, the friction where their thighs met, the way Bakugo’s breath hitched when Kirishima’s hand found his back and stayed there.

His head was full of static, chest tight, heart pounding like it had never moved in rhythm with anything before tonight. He could barely breathe, but he didn’t want to, not if it meant breaking the moment.

Bakugo’s palm slid over his ribs, just beneath the curve of his arm. Not quite a hold, not quite a tease, but enough to pull him closer.

“You’re better at this than you think,” he whispered, his lips so close now that they brushed when he spoke.

He opened his eyes and was welcomed with dark pupils swallowing him, and then, without another word, Bakugo tilted forward and pressed his face into the crook of Kirishima’s neck.

It wasn’t shy, it was like he was finally letting himself rest somewhere he’d been thinking about for a while. His forehead brushed against the slope of Kirishima’s shoulder, his breath warming the collarbone just beneath it.

Kirishima’s hand, already resting at Bakugo’s lower back, gripped tighter. He turned his face, unsure if he meant to do it, unsure if he could not do it, and his mouth met the crown of Bakugo’s head, lips barely grazing hair that smelled like sweat and something faintly smoky.

The tip of his nose brushed there too, and he inhaled slowly, like he was learning how to breathe for the first time.

Their hands didn’t move, not once, they stayed where they were, while the rest of them moved.

Their hips kept the rhythm, swaying in perfect time with the beat, each motion was guided by Bakugo’s body, like the music was in his bones and he was offering it to Kirishima piece by piece. Every pass of Bakugo’s breath against his neck sent a shiver spiraling down his spine, every grind of their hips had Kirishima’s eyes closing again, hand flexing once more at Bakugo’s waist.

One song bled into another, then another, the transitions seamless in a way that made time slip. Kirishima wasn’t sure how many had come and gone. One beat would end, and the next would take its place like nothing had changed, but something always did. The rhythm shifted, the lights flickered into new colors, their bodies adjusted, but they never pulled apart.

Bakugo’s hands had moved.

At some point, one slid down, fingers hooking into the back pocket of Kirishima’s jeans, knuckles pressing into denim. The other had found its way to his nape, thumb stroking lightly just beneath the hairline, a motion that had Kirishima breathing through his mouth to stay focused. Both of his hands had drifted low on Bakugo’s waist, fingers spread over the sharp curve of his hips, holding him close but not pulling, just holding. There was no distance left to erase, but he wanted to feel it anyway.

The world around them was too loud, too hot, too much, but between them, there was a hush.

Kirishima leaned in, lips close to the shell of Bakugo’s ear, “You always dance like this?”

Bakugo didn’t laugh, he just turned his head just enough for his mouth to graze Kirishima’s jaw, “Only when it’s worth it.”

“And what exactly makes it worth it?”

Bakugo’s fingers curled in his back pocket, grip tightening for a second before easing again, “You, apparently.”

Kirishima’s throat felt dry, and when he spoke, his voice was honest, “I don’t remember the last time I did something like this.”

“What, dance?”

He already knew the answer, and they both felt it.

Kirishima’s cheeks flushed deeper, but he didn’t look away. “Flirt.”

Bakugo’s smirk didn’t fade, but it shifted, “You’re not bad at it. Little clumsy, but kinda sweet.”

His thumb traced a lazy path against the back of Kirishima’s neck, and for a moment, they just moved, hips swaying in sync, their breath caught somewhere between the beat and whatever was happening in the space between them.

“I gotta say, I didn’t think you’d be into this.”

Kirishima raised an eyebrow, eyes searching Bakugo’s, “Into what?”

“This,” Bakugo said simply, and the way he looked at him made it clear he didn’t just mean the dancing. “Me. You’re not exactly my usual type, either. I mean, I'm not into baseball players, and you guys aren’t exactly known for going home with men.”

Kirishima couldn't hold back a breathless laugh against Bakugo’s cheek. He leaned in just enough that his nose brushed the edge of his jaw.

“I thought I was being really discreet.”

Bakugo’s laugh was lower, closer. “You weren’t.”

“I tried,” Kirishima said, grinning now, the blush still painting his cheeks. “I really thought I was keeping it cool.”

“You were staring at me the first time you walked into the studio,” Bakugo said, eyes dark, mouth close enough that Kirishima could feel the shape of each word. “I hadn’t even said a full sentence and you looked like you forgot what planet you were on.”

“I wasn’t that obvious.”

“You were worse.” Bakugo’s hand in his back pocket tightened just a little, his lips barely ghosted the edge of Kirishima’s ear. “I liked it.”

“I really did try to be discreet,” he murmured. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Didn’t want to mess up Haruka's classes. You’re her teacher, and that matters more than...”

Bakugo leaned in, lips brushing low against Kirishima’s throat, not quite a kiss, just the shape of one, “I know that,” he said, the words pressed into skin. “And I wouldn’t make a move if I didn’t know how to be professional even if this doesn’t go anywhere.” He lifted his head then, pupils dark beneath the red flash of club lights. “But I need to know, do you want it to go anywhere?”

The question hovered for only a breath, and Kirishima leaned forward, lips brushing just shy of Bakugo’s, close enough that they could feel the inevitability of it.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

“Then what’re you waiting for?” Bakugo asked, teasing against his mouth. “You gonna kiss me, or do I have to teach you how to do that, too?”

The moment Bakugo finished the sentence, Kirishima moved.

Both hands left his waist, gliding up with no hesitation, palms warm as they slid along his ribs, over his chest, until they reached his neck. His fingers curled gently behind Bakugo’s nape, and before either of them could say anything else, he pulled him forward and kissed him.

Bakugo inhaled against his mouth but didn’t pull away. He leaned in, lips parting, letting Kirishima guide the space between them. The kiss was surprisingly soft for how tightly they were holding onto each other, how hot their skin felt under too many layers of clothes and light. Bakugo’s fingers found the hem of his shirt, curling into the fabric, holding him close, and that only made Kirishima kiss him deeper.

He sighed when their lips drifted apart for a second, only to tilt his head and press their mouths back together, more certain now, lips sliding over Bakugo’s with something that felt like relief.

It wasn’t rushed, but it was everything. The kind of kiss that filled his chest to the edge, that made him forget the ache in his calves or the sweat on the back of his neck or how long they’d been standing there. He barely registered the people around them anymore. The club could’ve been empty or on fire, it didn’t matter.

When they finally pulled back, it was slow, breath catching between them. Kirishima’s hands didn’t move from Bakugo’s neck, and Bakugo’s grip on his shirt lingered like it wasn’t done.

Kirishima looked at him, lips a little swollen, cheeks red, and asked softly, “Wanna go somewhere else?” The second the words left his mouth, his eyes widened, color rising all the way up to the tips of his ears. “I mean, to eat something. Somewhere without loud music. Or, like, people. Or lights.”

Bakugo didn’t laugh, but he smiled with his mouth red and still shining, “Yeah, let’s go.”

They slipped out of the club without a word, both of them still warm from the dance floor, from the kiss, from the quiet current of something neither had dared to name. The city air felt cool against Kirishima’s skin, his pulse still loud in his ears.

Bakugo led the way, casual, hands in his pockets as they walked down the street toward a small parking lot tucked behind a ramen shop.

“You came by car?”

“Yeah,” Bakugo nodded. “I don’t drink.”

“I don’t usually drink either. I hate beer. Strong stuff too. Just can’t do it.”

Bakugo smirked faintly, unlocking the car with a beep. “Not surprised. You look like the kind of guy who only drinks if there’s a tiny umbrella in it.”

“Okay, rude, but also not wrong.”

Bakugo’s mouth twitched again, but he didn’t push it.

The drive was quiet, windows cracked to let in the night breeze. They headed toward Shinjuku, not toward the bright mess of neon signs and weekend noise, but a few streets past it. When Kirishima saw the lanterns strung over Omoide Yokocho in the near distance, the narrow alleys already packed with life and the low roar of conversation in every direction, he opened his mouth to suggest they find somewhere quieter, but before he could say anything, Bakugo looked at him, and said, “Don’t worry.”

And Kirishima, surprisingly, didn’t.

Bakugo parked a couple of streets away, where the foot traffic had thinned and the air smelled like food and warm rain on old pavement. They walked the rest of the way, and instead of turning into the crowded alleys of tourist-favorite stalls and tables packed elbow to elbow, Bakugo took a narrow side path, tucked just between two shops.

It opened to a quieter corner of the neighborhood, almost like time had stopped there.

He led Kirishima to a small restaurant nestled between buildings that looked older than everything around them. The walls were dark wood, aged paper, and daub. A faded noren curtain hung over the door, and the warm yellow light from inside spilled gently onto the street.

When they stepped in, heads turned, not in alarm, but in recognition.

“Welcome back, Katsuki-kun,” one of the older women behind the counter called, smiling gently.

A few others nodded. A group of older men at a corner table looked up, squinting at Kirishima. One of them elbowed his friend and said something low, and Kirishima caught a faint smile before they turned back to their sake cups and resumed talking.

The space smelled like soy, grilled fish, the rich depth of dashi simmering low and long.

The walls were lined with framed menus, old photographs, and a few paper cranes strung near the ceiling. It wasn’t flashy or loud. It was exactly like Kirishima had suggested earlier.

Bakugo motioned to a table in the corner. Tatami mats, short table, the kind of place you wouldn’t think to bring a baseball player and a ballet teacher, but it felt perfect.

Kirishima sat, still glancing around with a sheepish grin tugging at his lips.

“You bring everyone here?”

Bakugo sat across from him, arms resting on the table, “No.”

He didn’t elaborate.

The old woman who had welcomed them padded over with slow steps, her apron wrinkled, hands stable as she carried a small wooden tray with two ceramic cups and a teapot. She smiled warmly as she set it down between them.

“It’s been a while, Katsuki-kun,” she said, pouring the tea with practiced ease. “How are your parents?”

“They’re good,” Bakugo answered, voice softer than Kirishima had ever heard it. “Mom’s loud as always.”

The woman laughed, “That won’t change. Tell her to visit sometime. I still owe her a matcha mochi from New Year’s.” Bakugo nodded, and she turned to Kirishima next, “I watched this one grow up. Used to run around outside after school, bruised knees, never smiled much, but always polite. You must be a friend from work?”

Kirishima hesitated for half a second, not quite sure what to say, but she didn’t wait for an answer.

“Well, any friend who brings him here must be a good one.” She poured the second cup and placed it gently in front of him.

“Thank you,” Kirishima said softly, accepting it with both hands.

“You want to eat something? I’ll bring you a few skewers, the good ones.”

Bakugo nodded. “And grilled eggplant, if you’ve got it.”

“Of course. I’ll bring pickles, too.”

She moved away without another word, weaving between the tables with familiarity, greeting someone else by name as she passed.

No one stared. No one whispered. No sideways glances.

The men in the corner kept sipping their sake and arguing about something quietly. The couple near the wall were bent close together, sharing a bowl of soup and laughing at nothing. Two older women in the far corner clinked their glasses and poured for each other, their conversation soft, a rhythm of years shared.

Kirishima watched the steam rise from his cup, the quiet surrounding them so thick it almost hummed. He looked up at Bakugo, who hadn’t looked away from him.

“This place is perfect.”

Bakugo shrugged, but his mouth curved, too. “Though you wouldn’t want to go somewhere people might stop you,” Bakugo said, eyes still on Kirishima over the rim of his cup. “I was kinda surprised no one came up to us at the club.”

“Too dark. Lights were all over. People were dead drunk.”

“Fair.”

The tea was warm, earthy, the kind that filled your chest more than your mouth. Kirishima sat back, shoulders finally loose, the weight of the day melting quietly into the stillness of the room.

“So,” he said after a quiet moment, tone light, a bit teasing, “what did you mean earlier? About me not being your type?”

Bakugo didn’t answer right away.

“I guess I try to avoid any kind of spotlight now. I don’t go out much, don’t talk to people unless I have to, and going out with the ace of the most famous baseball team in Japan...” He trailed off, lifting one shoulder. “Not exactly avoiding the spotlight.”

That made Kirishima pause. “Wait. How do you know I’m the ace? You googled me?”

Bakugo looked away, ears pink, but his voice stayed even. “I like to know who’s picking up my students.”

“You googled me.”

“I didn’t not google you.”

Kirishima laughed delightedly, the kind that made a few heads turn briefly before turning right back.

Bakugo kept his eyes on his tea, cheeks a little red, mouth fighting the urge to smile.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You kissed me first.”

“You challenged me,” he countered, leaning his elbow on the table, chin resting in his palm, eyes fixed on the blush still warming Bakugo’s cheeks.

Bakugo didn’t look up, but a smile found its way to his mouth anyway, “Do you regret it?”

“I wish I could cross the table and kiss you again right now.”

It came out softer than he meant it to, almost vulnerable, like the words had been resting too long on his tongue and slipped free before he could dress them up. 

Bakugo’s breath caught, a flush rose across his cheeks, climbing up to the tips of his ears, subtle but impossible to miss. Kirishima felt his own face flush a beat later, heat crawling up his neck, settling behind his ears in a way he hadn’t felt in years, not like this.

He dropped his gaze to the table for half a second, laughing under his breath, like he couldn’t believe he’d said it out loud.

Bakugo was still watching him, eyes curious, “You knew you liked guys before?”

Kirishima lifted his eyes again, met the question head-on, the faint smile still tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah, I kinda knew early on. Not in some big dramatic moment. It just made sense to me. I liked girls, but I liked boys too. It didn’t feel like something I had to wrestle with, it just was. But I never really dated anyone seriously. Didn’t have the time.”

Bakugo nodded, eyes not leaving his.

“When everyone else was starting their adult life, I was learning how to change diapers while training ten hours a day and traveling across the country for matches. I didn’t have time for the rest.” A beat passed. Kirishima’s fingers traced the edge of his teacup. “Still had some flings, though,” he added with a half-smile, glancing up again. “Not just with women.”

“I figured. You’ve got that too-good-at-holding-eye-contact thing.”

Kirishima chuckled, cheeks flushing again. “That’s not a real thing.”

Bakugo smirked, lifting his cup. “It is when you do it.”

Kirishima’s smile lingered for a moment longer, his fingers still brushing the side of his cup before he looked up again, voice a little softer this time, “You know, I think I had a small crush on you before.”

Bakugo froze. His cup stayed just shy of his lips, and his eyes lifted, fixing on him like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

Kirishima didn’t backpedal, “You don’t remember, but we went to the same school. Different classes, though, and we never actually talked. I think I saw you in the hall maybe three times, tops. The only time you noticed me was one day when someone threw a baseball too far, and it rolled near the room where you were dancing. I went to grab it and saw you through the window.” He laughed once, sheepish. “I watched you dance for, like, ten seconds, maybe less, and then you turned and looked at me. I freaked out. Mumbled something about the ball and ran off before you could say anything. I was so sure you thought I was some kind of creep.”

Bakugo blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“I don’t remember that, but that checks out. My routine back then was insane. I barely remember school at all. I was dancing or training or on a plane most days. Didn’t even bother memorizing names unless I had to.” He paused, tilting his head. “But you said a crush?”

Kirishima nodded, eyes soft now. “Yeah. Nothing serious, I didn’t know anything about you, but you looked so cool dancing. It was different from anything I’d ever seen, kinda like watching someone float, like your feet weren’t really touching the ground. I remember thinking you looked really pretty.”

Bakugo didn’t answer right away, but the blush that crept up his neck was answer enough.

“I didn’t really date either,” he said, his voice carrying a quieter rhythm now. “Not seriously. I retired less than two years ago, and, before that, it was rehearsals, performances, training. Then more training, and more after that. I lived out of bags, apartments that never really felt mine. Hotels. Studios. Planes. I never had time to be a normal person.” His thumb pressed gently into the ceramic. “And now I don’t really know how to be one.”

Kirishima wanted to reach across the table and take Bakugo’s hand, just hold it there, but he didn’t. He smiled instead, “I get that. I mean, I’m not desperate for a relationship. Never was.”

Bakugo’s brows lifted, just a little.

“It would be nice to have someone, of course it would, but I always thought it’d happen later. Way later. Like after Haruka turns eighteen and goes to college and I suddenly realize I have no idea what to do with a quiet house. But...” A breath. “If you want, we can try. Going on some dates, I mean. See if I can change your mind about dating a baseball player.”

“You already have.”

Bakugo didn’t look away, not even as the old lady returned with a small tray, grilled skewers still steaming, slices of eggplant glazed and soft, a bowl of pickled daikon and cucumber off to the side. She set everything down gently, told them to enjoy, and slipped away without interrupting whatever quiet thread was weaving its way between their voices.

“Let me guess,” Bakugo said, picking up a skewer with practiced fingers, “you like the sweet ones here too.”

Kirishima grinned, already reaching for one of the glazed options. “I’m nothing if not consistent.”

“You just like food that tastes like candy.”

“I like food that makes me happy.”

Bakugo shook his head but didn’t argue. He watched Kirishima chew thoughtfully on a piece of grilled chicken, his cheeks a little flushed, eyes soft. The lighting in the restaurant was dim and golden, the kind that made everything feel like it was happening just a step outside of time.

“Careful,” Bakugo murmured, eyes flicking toward him over the rim of his cup. “Keep looking at me like that and I might think you’re into me or something.”

Kirishima’s grin widened. “Too late.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes, but his mouth betrayed him, smiling even as he looked down, hiding it behind a sip of tea.

They kept talking between bites, nothing serious now, childhood food cravings, the worst injuries they’d ever had, the time Kirishima tried to cook for his teammates and set off the fire alarm in a hotel kitchen.

By the time they finished, the street outside had gone quieter, a light breeze threading through the alley as they stepped out under the noren curtain.

Bakugo led the way back to his car, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the air between them warmer than the night, thick with something unspoken and lingering. Kirishima walked beside him, fingers brushing the hem of his own jacket just to keep them from reaching out.

As they reached the curb, Bakugo stopped, and before Kirishima could ask or think or breathe, he was pressed back against the cool surface of the car, the door handle digging gently into his side, the streetlights catching the edge of Bakugo’s jaw as he leaned in and kissed him.

This time, it wasn't careful. It knocked the breath out of him because it was the kind of kiss that left no room for second thoughts.

When they broke apart, just barely, mouths still brushing, Bakugo’s voice came low, “You have no idea how hard I’m trying not to take this further right now, especially if you want to go slow. I’m not trying to push you.”

Kirishima groaned, dropped his forehead to his shoulder with a sound that was more exhale than voice, “It’s not that I want to go slow, I just want to do things right. With you.”

Bakugo leaned in again, “Wanna do things right? Then take me on a date.” He kissed Kirishima’s neck, just beneath the angle of his jaw, lips lingering for a second too long before his teeth caught gently at the skin, just enough to make him feel it deep in his spine. “And then, let me take you home after.”

Kirishima tried to swallow the sound that clawed its way out of his throat, but it came out anyway, vibrating against his mouth.

That was all it took, Bakugo kissed him again. It was heat and want and the start of something that had no intention of being quiet anymore. His hand gripped tighter at Kirishima’s waist, the other sliding up his back, dragging him closer as if the space between them had become unbearable, and Kirishima melted into it, tasting the promise tucked behind every touch, every shift of lips.

Later, when he finally stepped out of Bakugo’s car, mouth still tingling, hands still aching to touch, the night had cooled, but his skin hadn’t. His lips were swollen, hair a mess from fingers that had gripped just a little too tightly, shirt wrinkled from being pulled too close too many times. He walked the quiet stretch to his home in a daze, half drunk on every kiss they didn’t want to stop.

The living room lights were still on when he slipped his key into the lock.

Inside, his mom was curled into the couch, reading glasses perched low on her nose, an old paperback folded in her hand. She looked up as soon as the door clicked shut and she didn’t say anything at first, just looked at him. Took in the way he couldn’t stop smiling even if he tried.

“Funny night?” She asked, amused, already returning to her book.

He cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck like a teenager caught sneaking in. “You could say that.”

She hummed knowingly.

He didn’t wait around for more, just mumbled something about showering, trying not to laugh as he made his way down the hall.

His bedroom door shut behind him, and he leaned against it for a long second, eyes closed, smile still pressed deep into his face.

Yeah.

You could say that.

The mornings had turned colder, enough to make Kirishima tug Haruka’s scarf a little higher around her neck before she stepped out of the car.

“Don’t forget your cardigan,” he said, handing her the extra layer from the backseat. She rolled her eyes in the way only twelve-year-olds could, but still took it.

“I’ll be fine,” she mumbled, but she hugged it to her chest anyway.

He smiled, leaning over to smooth a hand through her hair before she could hop out. “Tell Bakugo I said hi.”

“I always do.”

Kirishima watched her disappear through the studio doors with that usual bounce in her step, black hair catching the morning light, and just as he reached to shift the car back into gear, the door opened again.

Bakugo stepped out.

Wearing a fitted sweatshirt, dark pants, his hair damp and messy. He didn’t come closer, just stood at the edge of the entrance with one hand in his pocket.

He didn’t kiss him, of course not, but he smiled.

“Have a good training,” he said.

Kirishima nodded, already blushing, “You too.”

Bakugo dipped his chin once and turned back inside. He watched the door shut behind him before he finally drove off, hands tight on the wheel.

The Climax Series was in full swing, and that meant practice hours that stretched into the evenings, endless drills, and a mind so full of strategies, plays, recovery plans, and game reviews that he barely had room to breathe. He hated not being able to pick Haruka up, but Eri had already stepped in like she always did, balancing her college schedule and still making time to walk Haruka home, warm leftovers in the fridge and quiet updates texted to him between shifts.

He was exhausted, but it was Wednesday this week, the one night he’d fought hard to keep.

His only free evening for now.

It wasn’t a free day for Bakugo, not with his full teaching schedule and private classes that stretched until almost eight, but when Kirishima had asked, awkward and hopeful, if maybe they could make something work, Bakugo had just looked at him, and said: “I’ll make it work.”

And god, that was enough to carry him through any practice.

He texted Mina the night before, just a hopeful line about needing help with Haruka for the evening. Within two minutes, her answer came back:

“Sleepover time?? YES. Tell her I’ve been waiting MONTHS to paint her nails neon green again. But you owe me tea and gossip. Real gossip.”

Haruka didn’t even blink when he told her she’d be staying at Mina’s.

She gasped, then screamed, and by the time he’d finished explaining, she was already halfway through packing her overnight bag, yelling from her bedroom that she’d bring face masks and that Mina wasn’t allowed to touch her hair without conditioner this time.

She didn’t ask why she was sleeping at Mina's, though, the excitement was enough. She was already shaking on her feet, buzzing with the promise of a night filled with glitter, braids, and whatever awful TV show Mina was obsessed with now.

Kirishima smiled like an idiot the whole way to practice.

And afterward, after drills that left his body heavy and his shoulders sore, he didn’t go home. He headed straight for the training room showers, bag in hand, adrenaline still humming beneath his skin.

The locker room was busy, post-practice noise loud with banter, towels snapping, the sound of lockers slamming shut. Kirishima tried to be quick, focused.

He’d packed carefully, a black button-down, slim dark jeans, polished shoes that made him feel like maybe he had his life together. He towel-dried his hair, tousled it into something vaguely styled, then started buttoning his shirt with only half the confidence needed for such a mission.

“You got a date tonight?” Ojiro’s voice came from a few lockers down.

Kirishima looked up, blinking like a deer in headlights.

“Wataru,” Ida said, sitting upright with a towel over his shoulders, voice laced with reproach, “that’s an incredibly invasive question. Personal matters should be...”

“It is a date,” Sero cut in, grinning from the bench opposite him, already pulling on a hoodie. “Look at the man! He’s glowing. I didn’t even know you owned dress shoes, bro.”

Kaminari poked his head out from behind an open locker door, eyebrows wiggling. “He doesn’t wear that shirt for just anyone.”

Kirishima groaned, laughing as he tried to tuck it in, cheeks red from more than just the hot water.

“Can’t a guy try to look nice for dinner?”

“Dinner,” Sero echoed, smirking. “Right.”

“It’s a Wednesday, man,” Kaminari added, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “Only two things happen on Wednesdays: meal prep and love.”

Kirishima leaned closer to the mirror, adjusting the collar of his black shirt, smoothing it down with a hand that trembled a little too much for someone pretending to be chill. His face was still flushed from the teasing, but the smile tugging at the corner of his lips was too stubborn to hide.

Then, rustling.

He glanced to the side just in time to see Kaminari, completely unbothered and far too pleased with himself, slipping something into his gym bag.

“Don’t worry,” Kaminari said, patting the top of the bag like he was blessing it. “I got you covered.”

Kirishima raised an eyebrow, unzipped the bag, and stared. A pile, no, a cascade of condoms. At least ten. Maybe more. Flavored. Ribbed. One with stars on the packaging.

He looked back at Kaminari, deadpan. “You think I’m a machine?”

“I think you haven’t had sex since the invention of the air fryer, it’s time to lose your virginity again, my friend. Make it memorable.”

“Can I not be a topic in your next podcast episode?”

“No promises.”

Sero wheezed with laughter from behind a locker, and Ojiro politely looked away like he hadn’t just witnessed the most unholy locker room exchange of the week.

Ida tried to speak up again about boundaries, something about respecting privacy and the sanctity of shared spaces, but Kirishima just zipped up his bag, now full of regret and latex, and shook his head.

“Goodnight, everyone.”

Kaminari held up both thumbs. “Good luck.”

Sero called after him, “Be safe! And if you’re not, at least use the glow-in-the-dark ones!”

He didn’t look back, he just walked out, smile hidden in the curve of his mouth, ears burning, a warmth building steadily in his chest.

By the time he reached his car, the noise of the locker room was already behind him. The city had turned soft and cool again, October air brushing against the side of his face as he opened the door, slid in, and started the engine.

He pulled out of the lot, headlights cutting through the streetlights’ spill, heading toward the restaurant they’d picked.

The restaurant was tucked beneath a canopy of warm yellow light, glass windows casting long reflections onto the quiet pavement. Kirishima stepped inside, heart doing something stupid in his chest, and scanned the room just once before his eyes landed on him.

Bakugo was already there.

He’d arrived early, of course he had. But it wasn’t just that.

It was the way he was sitting, posture relaxed but poised, fingers curled around a glass of water like he belonged there, like the entire room had been waiting for him to arrive and breathe life into it. The deep blue of his shirt hugged his frame in a way that made Kirishima’s thoughts stumble. The sleeves were rolled just high enough to show his forearms, the buttons slightly undone at the top, hinting at collarbones and skin that Kirishima suddenly wanted to map with his mouth.

But it was the gold that did it.

Two golden piercings in one ear. Subtle, elegant, glowing against the soft tone of his skin, something Bakugo never wore in class, never wore when waiting outside the studio, arms crossed, hair a little messy from wind or work.

He looked... God, he looked hot.

There wasn’t a better word. Kirishima knew it, felt it in his gut, in the way his feet kept moving before his brain caught up, in the way his face was already warm when he reached the table.

Bakugo looked up, something already curling in the corner of his mouth.

Kirishima didn’t think.

He leaned down and pressed a short kiss to his lips, just enough pressure to make it real. His heart thudded loud in his chest as he pulled back, but not too far, watching the subtle pink crawl across the tips of Bakugo’s ears.

“You’re early,” he said, voice lower now, eyes still on him.

Bakugo tilted his head, smirk tugging at his lips. “You too.”

Kirishima slipped into the seat across from him, breath still catching. “Guess I couldn’t wait to go on a date with you.”

Bakugo looked at him like he was dangerous now. His smirk deepened, as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table like he’d just been handed a challenge he wasn’t sure Kirishima could survive.

“Your flirt game’s gotten strong, you gonna tell me what happened?”

Kirishima laughed, barely, the sound catching in his throat, “You happened.”

Bakugo laughed a bit with that and then, he tilted his head, fingers brushing the curve of his cheek as he rested his chin in his palm, elbow braced against the table.

“So,” he said, voice less flirt and more curiosity, “how was your day?”

Kirishima smiled. “Long.” He picked up his water, sipped, then leaned back in his chair with a small exhale. “Full-body drills in the morning, batting cage mid-afternoon, and then defensive coordination with Ojiro and Tetsu until sunset. My legs still feel like they're not mine.”

Bakugo said nothing, just watched him.

“And we ran about five cycles of bunt coverage today, our coach’s convinced we’re gonna see it in the next game. Sato almost broke his wrist fielding a popup during the shift drill, and I swear if Shoji throws another inside slider during warm-ups, I’m gonna bench him myself.”

There was a pause.

Bakugo’s expression hadn’t changed, he was still resting his cheek in his hand, eyes fixed on him, like the rhythm of Kirishima’s voice alone was the only thing he needed.

He blinked, tilted his head with a crooked smile, “Oh, I forgot you don’t like baseball. You probably didn’t understand half of what I just said, right?”

“No idea what you just said, but you look hot talking about it.”

“Uh,” he laughed, softer now, rubbing the back of his neck, “thanks?”

Bakugo leaned in a little closer.

“Don’t thank me, just keep talking. I like the sound of it.”

Kirishima laughed softly, the warmth never quite leaving his face, even as he glanced down at the table again to collect himself, “Well, if you like the sound of it, you’re in luck, ‘cause my week’s been non-stop.”

Bakugo didn’t interrupt, he just nodded.

“We had morning drills every day. Travel meetings. A sponsor interview in the middle of Thursday that threw off everything else. And I’ve been waking up early just to drive Haruka before class since I haven’t been able to pick her up lately. Eri’s been an angel, really, but I hate not seeing her at the end of the day, y’know?”

He paused, the edge of something honest sliding into his tone.

“She’s excited about winter break. She keeps talking about it like it’s going to be a full vacation, even though it’s only a few weeks. I want to take her somewhere, even if just for two or three days.” Kirishima leaned back again, exhaling slowly. “She’s always so busy. Dance. School. She’s got friends, sure, but I can tell she gets tired sometimes. And I worry. I know she loves what she’s doing, but there’s a part of me that’s always afraid I’m not letting her be a normal kid.”

Bakugo shifted for the first time in a while, no longer lounging quite so comfortably in his chair. He leaned in, resting both arms on the table now, “She adores you.” 

Kirishima blinked, caught off guard by the firmness of it, but he didn’t stop, “Whenever she talks about you, her face just lights up. It’s ridiculous. I ask a question about her week, and the first thing she says is something about you. What you made for dinner. What music you played in the car. If you got tired during a morning run.” He gave a small shake of his head, almost like he was talking to himself now. “I work with a lot of kids. Teenagers too. I hear the way they talk about their parents, sometimes with love, sometimes with frustration, sometimes with this distance like they’re already trying to grow away from them. I see how they act around them at pick-up, how they push them off or look away like they’re embarrassed to be seen with them.”

His eyes lifted again, meeting Kirishima’s, “Haruka’s not like that. She doesn’t roll her eyes at you. She doesn’t mutter ‘he sucks’ when you leave. She doesn’t pretend she’s not happy when you walk her to the door. She doesn’t want to grow away from you.”

A breath passed.

“She’s proud of you. All the time. And it shows.”

Kirishima didn’t say anything right away, his throat had gone a little tight, his eyes still fixed on Bakugo, who said all of it like he wasn’t trying to reassure him, but because he meant it. He just nodded, blinking down at the table, lips curved into a stunned smile.

“Thanks,” he said eventually, “You didn’t have to say that, but it means more than I can explain.”

Bakugo shrugged one shoulder, casually, but there was nothing casual in the way he was still looking at him.

“I told you, I like the way you talk. Especially when it’s about her.”

And god, Kirishima could’ve kissed him right there.

“It was just me and Haruka for a long time.” His voice was even, but quiet. “I mean, I had help, obviously. I’m close to my family, and I’ve got a few good friends I can always count on, but ninety-eight percent of the time, it was just us. Me trying to figure out how to be a dad, and her trying to figure out the world.”

Bakugo nodded, his fingers resting near his plate, the candlelight flickering gently between them.

“You mentioned her mom, once,” he said, tone careful but not hesitant. “That you hadn’t seen her in years.”

“Yeah. That’s a whole thing.” He didn’t speak for a moment, just let the words arrange themselves before saying them. “It was a one-night stand. I was fresh out of school, just graduated, and I’d just gotten the proposal to start training for the league. I went out to celebrate. It was dumb. We weren’t dating or anything, we barely knew each other.” He paused to take a sip, letting the warmth settle in his mouth before continuing. “When she told me she was pregnant, she made it clear from the start that she didn’t want to be a mom. Said she had just started college, something about studying math. I told her I’d take care of everything, and that was it. She signed some papers. Walked away.”

Bakugo’s face didn’t shift, but his focus sharpened.

“She never reached out,” Kirishima said, voice lower. “Not even after I started making money, not when my face started popping up in the news. Nothing. No letters. No calls. I guess she was just a good person who made a mistake. Same as I did. And she decided to walk away from it instead of forcing herself into something she didn’t want.” He looked up then, “I never blamed her for that. I just figured out the rest on my own.”

Bakugo hadn't spoken for a while. He picked at the last piece of grilled eggplant on his plate, pushing it slightly to the side before resting his elbow on the table, fingers curling near his mouth.

“I didn’t know that,” he said softly. “About Haruka’s mom.”

Kirishima nodded once, and for a few breaths, the space between them held only the sound of plates shifting and the low murmur of distant conversation.

Bakugo leaned back, gaze dropping to the candle flickering between them. His voice, when it came, was lower than before. “I was living in Paris, performing with the Opéra. I was twenty-six. There was this guy, he was older, not by much, but enough to feel like he had his shit together. He taught a separate class. We weren’t in love or anything. I don’t even think I liked him much, but it was easy and casual.” His mouth twisted a little, “Until it wasn’t.”

He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the table.

“He started getting possessive, showing up at rehearsals he wasn’t part of, asking where I’d been, who I’d talked to. Little things, at first. Then he started going through my stuff. My bag. My phone. Said I was making him crazy on purpose.”

Kirishima’s brows pulled together, heart tightening in his chest.

“I told him it was over. That I didn’t want to see him anymore. He said he had videos. Photos.” Bakugo’s eyes flicked upward. “I still don’t know if he actually did. I don’t know if he sent them to anyone. I just know I panicked. I stopped showing up to things. Stopped eating. Couldn’t sleep. I didn’t tell anyone.” His voice stayed even, but he was trying to hold it together, “The worst part? I found out later he had a wife. Two kids. I didn’t even know.”

Kirishima reached out, not all the way, but enough for his hand to rest near Bakugo’s, close without touching.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he said softly.

Bakugo's fingers shifted, brushing the edge of Kirishima’s knuckles.

“Now I know.”

His hand moved and settled over Kirishima’s, fingers curling around his. Then Bakugo, eyes flicking back up with a familiar glint, said, “You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“About what?”

“That thing I said. About taking me home after a proper date.”

Kirishima’s ears turned pink immediately. “I am not.”

“You just tightened your grip on my hand.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he whispered, trying to fight the way his grin was growing and completely losing.

Bakugo leaned in a little, his thumb brushing just once over the back of Kirishima’s hand. “You gonna keep denying it, or do I need to remind you what you sounded like last time I kissed you?”

Kirishima groaned, head dropping forward until it nearly hit the table. “You’re evil.”

“I just like watching you blush. You look good like that.”

“You can’t say stuff like that while holding my hand. It’s unfair.”

Bakugo smirked, not letting go. “What, you want me to let go first and then say it?”

“Stop.”

“I won’t.”

Bakugo’s thumb brushed lazily once more across the back of his hand, watching him squirm like it was the best thing on the menu.

“But hey,” he said, “We don’t have to go home together. If you think it’s too fast, I can take you home, kiss you at the door like some romantic drama, and text you at three a.m. about how unfair your stupid smile is.”

Kirishima looked at him, cheeks still burning, heart loud in his chest. He could’ve played it safe, but instead, he said, “I want to.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I really want to go home with you.”

Bakugo’s smile stretched, that spark lighting behind his eyes like it had been waiting all night for the green light.

“Well, then I hope you don’t mind if I spend the entire ride thinking about how good you’re gonna sound when I finally get on my knees.”

Kirishima’s eyes flew wide, and his hand shot up, signaling for the waiter with a jerk that was far from subtle. “Check, please.”

Bakugo laughed shamelessly, head tilting back just enough to show teeth.

The check came quickly, bless the quiet efficiency of this place. Bakugo reached for his wallet, but Kirishima nudged his foot under the table. “You’re already taking me home. Least I can do is pay for dinner.”

Even if Haruka wasn’t home tonight, they’d agreed on Bakugo’s place instead. Less pressure. Neutral ground.

They drove separately, which Kirishima realized halfway there was a terrible idea, because anticipation only made the ride longer, the silence in his car felt heavier, the twitch of his fingers on the wheel worse.

When he reached Bakugo’s building, he parked fast, heart pounding loud in his chest, and followed him inside. They just walked, side by side, and inside the elevator, they stood shoulder to shoulder.

Kirishima saw how Bakugo’s fingers slid down to the first button of his shirt and popped it open. Then the second. He wasn’t showing off, not exactly, but the movement was sexy enough to make his breath catch. Skin peeked through, just the slightest glimpse of collarbones. He didn’t look over, he just kept going, one button at a time, until Kirishima could see the top of his abs, the edge of that light trail that disappeared beneath his waistband.

Kirishima’s cock was already half-hard before they reached the tenth floor, and by the time the door opened, he wasn’t thinking, just moving.

Bakugo stepped inside first, tossing his keys onto the table by the door, about to turn around, only to be caught by the waist, one of Kirishima’s hands firm against his side, pulling him close in a sudden motion that knocked a quiet gasp out of him.

The other hand found its way under Bakugo’s thigh, strong fingers curling behind his knee, and then he lifted him. Not a struggle, not even with the momentum. Bakugo’s breath hitched sharply, arms flying up to hold on, legs gripping reflexively around Kirishima’s hips as their mouths met in a crash of heat and want.

There was nothing delicate about it.

Kirishima kissed him like he’d been waiting years, mouth rough and open, tongue sliding deep, pressing Bakugo back until his spine met the nearest wall.

Bakugo moaned into it, head tilting back as he opened wider, fingers tugging at his shirt, trying to pull him closer, deeper, more.

And god, Kirishima gave it, his mouth didn’t leave his, and it pressed deeper, wetter, dragging heat from his lungs and replacing it with something dizzying. Their teeth clashed once, the kiss messy, all tongue and breath and hunger. Bakugo’s legs tightened around his hips, the hard press of Kirishima’s cock grinding right where he needed it.

He gasped into it loudly, tugging at Kirishima’s shirt until the buttons strained.

“Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me before we even make it to the bed.”

Kirishima shifted, dragging him away from the wall, “Where’s the bedroom?”

“Left, end of the hall.”

He walked, carrying him like he weighed nothing. His shoulder bumped it open, the wood catching for half a second before swinging wide, hitting the wall with a hollow thud.

And just like that, they were inside.

Bakugo's breath was ragged when he pulled back just enough to speak, “Put me down.”

The command was not unkind, and Kirishima’s body responded before his brain could even catch up. He lowered him to the floor gently, keeping him close until Bakugo’s feet touched the ground, and then he stood still, heart pounding, blood thrumming in every limb.

Bakugo leaned in, mouth brushing his ear, “Sit on the bed.”

Kirishima obeyed again, moving back without a word, sitting on the edge of the mattress like something in him had been rewired to respond only to that voice. His hands settled on his thighs, fingers curling tight as he looked up, already straining against the fabric of his jeans.

Bakugo smiled, a wicked, beautiful thing that lit up every nerve in Kirishima’s body.

“You’re good at following orders.” Kirishima swallowed hard, eyes locked on him, and Bakugo said again, “I want you to just watch.”

And he started to undress.

There was nothing shy about it. He undid the rest of the buttons on his shirt, one by one, and let the fabric slide down his arms, baring the long lines of his chest, the curves of muscle, the stretch of pale skin across collarbones and ribs.

Kirishima’s eyes followed every movement like they were tethered to them. Bakugo kicked off his shoes next, toes hooking around the heels, and then moved his hands to the waistband of his pants. When he started pulling them down, revealing the line of his hips, the way his underwear clung to him, the way the shape of his thighs disappeared under thin fabric, Kirishima exhaled shakily, hands curling tighter around the sheets beside him.

He wanted to touch. God, he wanted to run his mouth along every inch, map every dip and stretch with reverence.

Bakugo stood there in nothing but his briefs now, shirt pooled on the floor, his skin marked with nothing but sweat and the heat, and all Kirishima could think was how unreal he looked, how unfair it was that anyone could be so captivating without even trying, how badly he wanted to worship him, not just with his mouth, but with every piece of himself.

He wanted to venerate every centimeter of him, taste the salt of his neck, drag his tongue along the edge of his ribs, bury his face between those thighs and feel Bakugo’s legs tighten around him like he never wanted to let go.

He was hard now, painfully so, and still he didn’t move, didn’t dare reach for himself or speak, he just stared like he was seeing something holy.

And Bakugo knew. He stood there with that same little smile, smug and impossibly sexy, eyes never leaving Kirishima’s face, “Still good at following orders?” 

He nodded desperately. 

Bakugo stepped closer. “Then keep watching.”

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and pushed them down in one fluid motion, letting them fall to the floor without ceremony. His cock sprang free, already half-hard, flushed at the tip, just enough blood filling it to make Kirishima’s throat tighten.

Kirishima's mouth went dry and wet all at once, his tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth, swallowing around the kind of need that didn’t come with warning. He wanted it in his mouth so badly he had to clench his fists against the mattress just to stop himself from leaning forward and begging for it.

Bakugo saw it, and he let him look.

He stood there, bare, exposed in a way that felt powerful rather than vulnerable, letting Kirishima’s eyes drink in everything. His chest moved with shallow breaths, abs flexing with each inhale, cock hardening more under the weight of Kirishima’s gaze, the heat rolling off him like it had a will of its own.

Kirishima was still sitting, legs apart, his own cock aching in his jeans, and all he could do was watch. His hands twitched on the edge of the mattress, knuckles white, and his whole body felt coiled, strung up between reverence and hunger.

And then Bakugo moved.

He stepped closer, close enough for Kirishima to smell him again. His hands reached out and found the buttons of Kirishima’s shirt, and this time there was nothing smooth about it. His fingers fumbled, pushed, pulled, not caring if the fabric wrinkled or if a button popped off and skittered to the floor.

He got the shirt open and pushed it off Kirishima’s shoulders, whispering under his breath as he did it, “Fuck. You don’t even know, do you?”

Kirishima blinked, pupils blown, heart pounding.

Bakugo shoved the shirt aside and laid both palms against his chest, trailing down across his torso like he was trying to memorize it with his skin.

“Every fucking time I saw you at drop-off,” he said, pulling at Kirishima’s belt, “with your sleeves rolled up and your forearms flexed, smiling like you didn’t know what your body does to people.”

The belt came loose and the zipper followed, jeans shoved down and off without elegance, just hunger.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about this, about you. About your back, your thighs, your stupid fucking perfect arms.”

Kirishima moaned, his head tipping back, hands shooting to Bakugo’s shoulders, not to stop him but to feel him, to keep him close.

“You’re unreal,” Bakugo said, looking up now, “Like a fucking god, and I hate how much I thought about this when I shouldn’t have.”

Kirishima moaned again, helpless, the sound spilling out of him like everything else was locked down and only that could escape.

Bakugo grinned.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Be messy for me.”

Bakugo’s fingers curled around the waistband of Kirishima’s underwear, and with one confident pull, he dragged them down, exposing all of him in one smooth motion. He didn’t look away. His eyes dropped immediately to the flushed length standing heavy between Kirishima’s thighs, hard and leaking and too much to ignore.

He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, but darker, like it had been punched out of him.

“Fuck,” he said, and then he grinned, lips curling in wicked satisfaction. “Guess I’m gonna have to start taking some mornings off.”

Kirishima was panting already, trying not to thrust forward, trying not to fall apart just from the weight of his voice.

“There’s no way you’re gonna fuck me,” Bakugo said, leaning in now, mouth hovering just over the head of his cock, “and I’ll be able to teach pliés two hours later.”

He licked him once, tongue dragging from the base to the tip in one unbroken line, catching the bead of precum at the top and humming at the taste like he’d been starving for it.

Kirishima swore, fingers digging into the mattress, legs shaking.

And then Bakugo didn’t wait. He wrapped his mouth around the head and took him in deep, throat open, lips slick, tongue pressed firm beneath his cock as he swallowed more, and more, until Kirishima’s back arched off the bed and he couldn’t hold back the moan that tore out of him.

Bakugo’s hands pinned his hips down, fingers digging into muscle to keep him from moving, and fuck, Kirishima wanted to cry from how good it felt.

Hot and wet and perfect, the suction firm, the pace unforgiving, like Bakugo had decided that this was how he was going to ruin him, right here, with nothing but his mouth and hunger and the dark gleam in his eyes as he pulled back just to take him again, deeper this time, like he needed it just as badly.

Bakugo didn’t stop. He hollowed his cheeks, sucked him down deep, then pulled back just enough to drag his tongue along the underside, letting spit run down his fist as he stroked what he couldn’t fit in his mouth. Kirishima was groaning without shame now, head tilted back and fingers fisting the sheets.

Every flick of Bakugo’s tongue, every obscene little sound of him swallowing him down again made it harder to think. Kirishima was about to beg, he didn’t even know for what, when Bakugo pulled off, lips red, mouth shining, breathing hard.

He didn’t speak right away, he just climbed up, straddled Kirishima’s lap with ease, thighs wide, body warm and lit up and already riding the length of his thigh like he couldn’t stop himself.

“Fuck,” he said, panting now, eyes glazed with want, fingers pressing into Kirishima’s chest. “I know we said we wanted to take things slow and we can, I swear, tomorrow or next time or whenever you want, but right now, can you just fuck me?”

Kirishima blinked up at him, stunned into silence for half a second.

Bakugo was grinding against him, lips swollen from kissing and sucking, his cock hard and leaking between them, and he was still moving his hips in these hungry little circles like he couldn’t stop chasing friction, even now.

Kirishima leaned forward and kissed whatever he could reach, his chest, the curve of his shoulder, and he whispered against white skin, “Whatever you want.”

He groaned, and pressed their mouths together again. He tried to push Kirishima down, fumbling a little, trying to guide him flat against the mattress, but Kirishima held still, hand catching his wrist. “Wait. I have condoms. In my pocket.”

Bakugo pulled back, blinking at him, and with a kind of effortless grace that was entirely unfair, he leaned sideways without ever leaving Kirishima’s lap, reached down and grabbed the jeans crumpled on the floor.

A few condoms tumbled out onto the bed.

Then a few more.

And one more, the gold one Kaminari had tossed in with a wink.

Bakugo stared for a second, then raised an eyebrow, “What the fuck? Are you planning to break a record tonight?”

Kirishima covered his face with both hands, heat crawling down his neck. “My friends...”

“I hope so,” Bakugo said, tossing one onto the nightstand and climbing back onto his lap, mouth grazing his ear. “Because I’m not leaving this bed for hours.”

The redhead was still flushed, ears burning, barely able to meet Bakugo’s eyes when he whispered, “But I didn’t bring lube with me...”

Bakugo blinked, pausing for a beat like he didn’t quite understand, and then a slow smirk spread across his face. Without saying anything, he reached down, took Kirishima’s wrist gently, and guided his hand behind him, between the curve of his ass.

Kirishima’s breath caught the second his fingers brushed something cold. His eyes widened, mouth parting as realization hit him all at once. There was something metalic between his cheeks. Something small and seated perfectly, already inside him.

“Oh my god.”

Bakugo chuckled softly, “Told you I was planning to make it work.”

Kirishima’s hand stayed where it was, fingers twitching, like he didn’t know whether to pull away or grip harder.

“That’s so hot.”

Bakugo kissed him for it, biting at his bottom lip before dragging his tongue across it. He was still laughing against his mouth when he leaned back just enough to sweep the handful of condoms off the bed, holding them up between his fingers like a ridiculous, over-the-top menu.

“So,” he drawled, eyes glittering with something between amusement and heat, “are you gonna put these to use? We’ve got cherry, strawberry, chocolate, mint...”

Kirishima groaned, dragging a hand down his own face, both mortified and wildly turned on. “Can we just use a normal one?”

“And waste our chance to use the one that glows in the dark?”

That earned him a deep groan and a roll of Kirishima’s eyes, but before Bakugo could say another word, he leaned in and bit his shoulder, right above the muscle where he knew the collar of the collant Bakugo wore in class would hide it.

Bakugo’s head snapped back with an unexpected moan that echoed off the bedroom walls.

They both froze.

He blinked once, then looked down at him, completely stunned, “Well, apparently I have a thing for bites like that.”

Kirishima, panting under him, pressed another kiss to the same spot, dragging his tongue over the faint mark left behind.

“Noted,” he murmured.

Bakugo just stared, and whispered, “Do it again.”

Lips found the same spot, tongue dragging slow and hot over the skin, and then another bite followed. This one deeper, just shy of bruising, and the moan that tore out of Bakugo this time was filthier. His hips rolled forward without thought, cock grinding against Kirishima’s stomach, both of them gasping from the friction.

Fingers tangled in red hair, tugging just enough to pull his mouth away. Bakugo looked down at him, flushed and grinning, like he wasn’t sure if he was about to laugh or melt.

“You’re so fucking dangerous. All that sweet-boy energy, and then you do that?”

“You started it,” came the breathless reply, hands gripping his waist now, thumbs stroking the skin just under his ribs.

Bakugo rutted against him again, letting the sensation draw another sigh from both of them. “You think I didn’t imagine this? All those mornings, all those drop-offs, wondering what you’d sound like if you got serious?”

“You’re not exactly innocent either. You wore those stupid tight shirts on purpose.”

“I just like good sleeves.”

“You like killing me, you mean.”

A pause, then a kiss. Kirishima's hands moved again, tearing open the most normal condom he could find, despite a brief joke about “cherry-scented regrets.”

Bakugo bit back a smirk as the foil crinkled between them. “Next time, we’re using the glow-in-the-dark one. I wanna see if it actually works.”

“You just want to watch me lose my mind in the dark.”

“That too.”

Kirishima rolled the condom down, eyes locked on the other’s face as he did it. Bakugo’s eyes flicked down, and his lip curled with a grin that promised trouble.

“So,” he murmured, hips shifting just enough to tease, “you always this good at handling your bat?”

Kirishima blinked, and then he laughed. Hard.

The sound burst out of him suddenly, his whole body shaking with it. He dropped back onto the mattress without warning, arms wrapping around Bakugo as he fell with him, both of them hitting the bed in a tangle of limbs and breathless amusement.

“Oh my god, that was terrible.”

Bakugo landed on top of him, laughing too now, face buried in his neck. “I had to. It was right there.”

“I thought you were sexy, but now I’m not so sure.”

“I’m devastatingly sexy and I’m hilarious,” Bakugo said, licking at his throat in retaliation. “You’re just lucky I don’t do this with everyone.”

“Yeah?” Kirishima tilted his head back, lips brushing his temple. “And what do I get?”

Bakugo shifted his hips forward, grinding against him again, hard cock pressed perfectly where they both wanted it.

“You,” he whispered, “get all of me.”

Their mouths met again, deeper this time, all lips and tongue and breath, swallowing each other in hungry kisses. Fingers dug into skin, hands gripped wherever they could, one trailing down a spine, the other tangled in hair.

Bakugo moaned into it, chest flush against Kirishima’s, both of them panting now, hard cocks brushing between them. The kiss didn’t break as he reached behind himself, fingers curling with practiced ease around the base of the plug.

He pulled it out with a quiet groan, the stretch making his thighs shake against Kirishima’s hips. The slick sound of it, the way his body twitched around nothing now, made the redhead curse under his breath, hips jerking up without meaning to.

Bakugo’s hand moved next, reaching down between their bodies, fingers wrapping around Kirishima’s cock, guiding it with a slow roll of his wrist.

“Here, right here.” The head slid against his hole, and he sucked in a sharp breath, “Don’t move yet, I want to take it.”

Their foreheads pressed together, mouths brushing, gasps exchanged in the quiet space between them.

Then he began to sink down.

The stretch was tight enough that both of them groaned, Kirishima’s hands flying to Bakugo’s hips, gripping hard but not forcing a thing. Bakugo breathed through it, eyes clenched shut, each inch dragging a new sound from deep in his throat.

“Fucking hell, you feel huge...”

Another inch, and another, until he was seated fully, thighs pressed against Kirishima’s, sweat beginning to bead along his spine.

“I got you,” he whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth, “Take your time.”

But Bakugo was already rocking his hips, just the smallest motion, but enough to make them both moan.

“Time is so fucking overrated.”

He started to move with dragging rolls of his hips. His breath hitched when he lifted up just enough for the head to catch, then dropped again, taking all of it back in one smooth motion that had Kirishima gasping into his throat.

Hands planted on his chest for balance, fingers splayed wide across the hard muscle. Bakugo sat up, legs flexing on either side, cock bobbing against his stomach as he began to ride him.

The sight nearly knocked the breath out of Kirishima.

Every motion was filthy and beautiful, the way his hips rolled, the way he adjusted his angle with every bounce like he knew what would ruin them both faster. Sweat dripped down his chest, glistening along the curves of his stomach, catching the light with every push down and drag up.

Hands roamed up and down his thighs, over his waist, across his stomach. Touches reverent, desperate. Every time he thrust up to meet the rhythm, it drew a louder moan, Bakugo's head tipping back, mouth open, panting like the pleasure was just beginning to crest.

"Fuck," the word broke from his throat, "Right there, yes. "

It wasn’t just hot. It was obscene, the way he took it, the way his body moved like he'd been built to ride someone like this, to break them with every grind, every bounce, every breathless curse that poured from his mouth.

“Look at you,” Kirishima groaned, one hand gripping his ass while the other traced up the sweat-slicked line of his spine. “You’re perfect.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Bakugo’s mouth, his body never stopping. “Yeah?”

And then he sank down harder, deeper, dragging a moan straight from Kirishima’s throat that sounded like worship.

Fingers slid down to his thighs, gripping the flexing muscle tight, feeling them work with every roll and drop. The strength there made him bite his bottom lip hard, because nothing had ever looked like this, felt like this.

"You’re..." He choked on the words, breathing through a moan as Bakugo bounced faster, sweat flying from the ends of his hair. "You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Your body, fuck, your body is unreal."

That pulled a sound out of Bakugo that was pure, feral satisfaction.

“Oh my god,” he moaned, riding him harder now, hands pressed flat against Kirishima’s chest, “Keep saying shit like that and I’m gonna come from nothing.”

“Yeah? You like being praised?”

“By you?” Bakugo gasped, head tipping forward, sweat dripping off his chin as he kept bouncing, “Apparently I do.”

One hand shot between them without warning. Kirishima wrapped his fingers around his cock, still slick and flushed, and stroked him once, twice, a third time. Bakugo’s mouth fell open. He let out a strangled moan, hands slamming harder against his chest to keep himself upright.

He came with a loud cry, spilling over Kirishima’s hand and stomach, body shaking, head falling forward into the crook of his neck as he gasped for air.

Lips pressed to his neck, mouthing over his skin between ragged breaths.

“Don’t stop,” Bakugo whispered, “I want you to come. Come inside me.”

Those words alone almost did it.

The grip around him was still impossibly tight, still pulsing from aftershocks, and all it took was a few more thrusts. Red eyes locked on him, pupils blown wide, and that look sent him over the edge.

Kirishima groaned, body shuddering as he came, buried deep, one arm locked around Bakugo’s waist, the other buried in damp blond hair as he trembled through it.

Bakugo moaned right into his ear, like he felt it just as much.

Breath still heavy, muscles quivering, Kirishima slowly pulled out, carefully held Bakugo while reaching for the condom. He tied it off, tossed it into the bin nearby, and collapsed back into the pillows.

An arm slipped around Bakugo, pulling him close, and he looked up at him, flushed and grinning, and murmured with his eyes gleaming, “So... Mint now?”

It was already a perfect day.

The Giants had won in a clean game, and the air was thick with victory, the kind that clung to your skin long after you left the field. The crowd had roared louder than ever, chanting his name, and Kirishima, soaked in sweat and joy, had spotted her in the stands just before the final whistle blew.

Haruka was grinning, waving both arms like she could make her voice reach him above the stadium noise. Mina stood beside her, already pulling her phone out to film.

He jogged toward the edge of the field before the interviews started, pulled off his cap, crouched low, and kissed the top of his daughter’s head through the fence.

“Happy birthday, dad!” She yelled just before he turned away.

The rest of it blurred together; reporters, coach talk, locker room laughter, and the chaos that always followed a good win.

He had barely finished toweling his hair dry when someone knocked loudly on the door.

“I hope everyone’s dressed,” Mina called through the door. “I have a kid with me.”

Ida, standing near the lockers with his shirt already tucked in, turned like it was a matter of official protocol. “You may enter. It is safe, everyone is fully dressed.”

The door swung open and there they were, Mina, grinning like she’d won the lottery, and Haruka, holding a cake with both hands like it was the most important object on Earth.

Mina clapped first, “Alright, boys, let’s go!”

The team, without missing a beat, joined in, the locker room erupting into applause and cheers.

“Happy birthday to you...” She sang, dragging out the words dramatically, and everyone fell into rhythm.

Haruka walked carefully to the middle of the room, the cake wobbling in her grip as she stopped right in front of him, eyes bright, cheeks pink from the attention.

He knelt down without thinking, heart full, and blew out the candles in a single breath, grinning as everyone clapped again.

“I baked it with Eri!” She beamed, proud and a little shy under all the eyes.

He pulled her in immediately, arms around her tiny frame, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, “Thank you, sweetheart,” he said against her hair.

Everyone had a slice. Some with fingers, some with leftover paper plates, and everyone complimented the frosting, even if it was uneven and the sprinkles were chaos.

As he finished his own piece, licking frosting from his thumb, Haruka tugged gently on his sleeve.

“Can I save a piece for Sensei?”

He didn’t need to ask who she meant.

That little flutter in his chest answered before he even smiled.

“Yeah,” he said, “I think he’d like that a lot.”

They stayed in the locker room until the last crumbs were cleaned, the last slice of cake boxed up in a paper towel for “Sensei,” and the laughter started to die down into yawns and shoulder-pats. When they left, the stadium lights were still humming outside, but the air had gone quieter.

In the car, Mina talked non-stop from the passenger seat, full volume and full excitement, her voice bouncing between commentary on the game and praise for Haruka’s cake presentation skills.

“Seriously, Eiji, that curveball in the seventh inning? I almost threw my phone at the guy behind me. He was being such a dick, and then boom! Redemption!”

Haruka giggled in the backseat, still hugging her cake box like it was precious cargo.

When they reached Mina’s apartment, she turned and kissed Haruka on the forehead, then the cheek, then the nose, and then one more for good measure.

“I love you, you little sugar muffin,” she whispered dramatically. “Tell Eri I’m expecting photos of your next cake. And tell your dad he’s annoying for being good at literally everything.”

Then she opened the door and called out, “Happy birthday, Eiji!” while waving both arms like she was in a parade.

Kirishima leaned out and honked once, grinning when Haruka burst into laughter behind him. Mina threw him a wink before disappearing into the building.

They drove home in a more comfortable quiet, headlights gliding down familiar streets. Haruka’s voice got quieter with every block, her eyelids heavier, her head leaning against the window for a few slow blinks before sitting up again.

By the time they reached the house, she was still clutching the cake, but sleep tugged at her limbs. They climbed the stairs together, Kirishima’s hand hovering near her back just in case, but instead of turning into her room, she walked right past it and headed for his.

She plopped down face-first onto his bed with a muffled, “Let’s watch all the best moments of the game together.”

He chuckled, toeing off his shoes and crawling in beside her.

She curled up immediately, phone on his chest, her little body tucked under his arm like it belonged there. He wrapped her in one of the extra blankets from the foot of the bed and let the screen play a recap someone had already uploaded, crowd noise, slow-motion replays, his own smile frozen mid-celebration.

But before the third play could start, her breathing was already deeper, her hand slipping off the phone, cheek smushed against his shoulder.

He let her rest like that for a while, stroking her hair gently, before whispering her name and nudging her shoulder. She groaned something incoherent and sat up, blinking sleepily. Then, without a word, she trudged across the hallway toward her bedroom like a ghost.

“Brush your teeth,” he called softly after her.

The only response was the quiet click of her door closing.

He moved through his night routine on autopilot, still half smiling at the echo of his daughter’s sleepy shuffle down the hall. In the bathroom, he brushed his teeth, washed his face, leaned forward against the sink for a second and looked at his own reflection. There was a glow there, still clinging to his skin, not just from the win, but from everything.

The game. The cake. The voices singing. Her little hands on his shoulders.

And the day wasn’t even over yet.

By the time he returned to his bedroom, shirtless and in sweatpants, phone in hand, a new message lit up the screen.

still up?

His lips tugged into a grin without hesitation.

just got home

It took maybe five seconds for the next one to arrive.

can i call you?

He sat back against the headboard, pillow behind his back, thumbs moving fast.

yes

The screen lit up with the call, and he picked it up before the first full ring finished.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Bakugo answered. A pause, then, “I’m calling to say congratulations. On the win.”

“Were you watching?”

“Maybe.” He said, like it wasn’t obvious.

“Next time, I’ll get you front row tickets if you want.”

“Oh,” Bakugo said teasingly. “So my plan’s working.”

“What plan?”

“I only agreed to date you for the perks.” A breath. “Wanted those VIP seats. Now I’m getting them.”

Kirishima laughed, head falling back against the wall behind him. “I knew it. You’re using me for baseball.”

“Yes,” Bakugo replied, deadpan. “I loved how many touchdowns you made.”

Kirishima barked out a laugh, hand flying to his face. “Oh my god, you really know nothing about baseball.”

“Absolutely nothing,” Bakugo admitted, with zero shame. “In my defense, I prefer sports where guys actually show some skin. Like, I don’t know, swimming.”

“Oh, really? ” Kirishima leaned further into the pillows, a grin tugging at his lips. “So you’re saying I should change careers? Buy some swim trunks and goggles?”

“I’m just saying,” Bakugo hummed, playful now, “if you ever get tired of being Japan’s golden arm, I wouldn’t mind watching you stretch on the edge of a pool wearing barely anything.”

“Wow. Didn’t realize my post-baseball career had already been planned out.”

“Someone has to think ahead.”

“Someone’s a perv.”

“You knew that before the first date.”

“I suspected.”

“Confirmed,” Bakugo said easily.

They both laughed, the kind that lingered. Kirishima sighed through his smile, staring at the ceiling like he could see his face up there, somewhere in the dark.

“This was a really good birthday.”

“I’m glad,” Bakugo answered, quieter, like he meant it more than anything. “You deserve that.”

“The only thing I missed today was seeing you.”

The other end of the line went still for a few seconds, followed by a soft inhale, then a breath released slowly, almost like Bakugo had needed a second to hold it in his chest before letting it out.

“Yeah, I wish I could’ve seen you today too.” He murmured. “When are you free again?”

Kirishima thought for a second, eyes fluttering shut. “Haruka’s going to a sleepover at a friend’s house on Friday. Her first real one, with movies and sleeping bags and probably way too many sweets.”

He could practically hear the small smile in Bakugo’s reply. “She’s gonna have the best night ever.”

“Yeah, she’s so excited already, she’s been packing for three days.”

Another pause, shorter this time.

“Come to my place, let me cook a birthday dinner for you.”

Kirishima’s smile bloomed fully, “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

“Good,” Bakugo said quietly. “Me too.”

Thursday brought an unexpected gift.

Training had ended early, wind howling across the field strong enough to knock balls off the tee and send hats tumbling halfway to the dugout. The coach waved them off with a shrug and a “no point pushing it,” and Kirishima didn’t waste a second. He checked the time, texted Eri not to worry about pick-up, and made it across the city just in time.

The dance studio was warm and bright, glowing through the windows like it always did in the early evening. He pushed the door open and the little bell chimed overhead.

Camie, the front desk secretary, popped up immediately from behind the counter, chewing something pink and bubbly.

“Well well,” she said, grinning. “If it isn’t the MVP dad himself.”

He laughed, stepping inside and brushing wind from his sleeves. “Hey, Camie. It’s been a while.”

“Thought we lost you to the stadium lights forever,” she teased, winking. “Eri’s great, but she doesn’t have your arms.”

He chuckled, cheeks pink. “I’ll tell her you said that. She’ll probably take it as a challenge.”

“I hope she does,” Camie said, then leaned on the counter with a knowing smile. “Haruka’s just finishing. They’re wrapping class now.”

The moment he heard the shuffle of soft ballet shoes and low conversation, he turned toward the hallway just as the studio door opened.

Haruka walked out with her water bottle tucked under her arm, her face already mid-sentence to someone behind her. She looked up, and stopped.

Her whole face lit up like someone had flipped a switch.

“Dad!” She squealed, launching toward him. Her bag bounced off her hip as she rushed forward and hugged him around the middle, face buried in his jacket.

“Hey, baby,” he said, heart swelling so fast it almost ached. “Surprise.”

Bakugo followed her out seconds later, towel around his neck, a water bottle in one hand. He looked surprised to see him there, blinking once like it took a second to register what he was seeing.

Haruka pulled back, beaming up at him. “Eri didn’t come?”

“Nope, you’re stuck with me today.”

“Oh no, I'm gonna suffer today!” She joked, and turned to run off toward the changing room.

Bakugo watched her go, then looked over at him. “Training ended early?”

“Too windy to get anything done.”

Bakugo nodded once, then tilted his head toward the back hallway. “Come on. I’ll walk you through how she’s been doing.”

Kirishima followed him, the smell of chalk and rosin still lingering in the air, the sound of soft classical music faint from somewhere deeper in the studio.

The office door clicked behind them, the quiet hum of the studio dimming as it shut out the rest of the world. He barely had time to glance around the small space before Bakugo turned and pressed him hard against the inside of the door.

Mouth on his. Hands already moving.

The kiss was immediate, open-mouthed from the first second, full of teeth and heat and need.

Kirishima made a surprised sound in his throat, but it lasted only a beat before he kissed him back, his hands sliding down Bakugo’s back, dragging him closer, anchoring their bodies together in one tight pull.

“Fuck,” Bakugo groaned against his mouth, “You do look good in your uniform.”

“I told you,” Kirishima whispered, grinning through a kiss that stole half the air from his lungs.

Bakugo crashed into him again, kissing him like he was trying to memorize the shape of his mouth from the inside out. Fingers curled in the hem of his jersey, dragging it up just far enough to slip his palms underneath, skin on skin, dragging over abs and the curve of his hip.

Kirishima gasped into the kiss, grinding against him without meaning to, a rush of heat spiraling low in his stomach.

“Not fair,” Bakugo breathed, hands sliding over him like he couldn’t decide where to stop. “You come in here dressed like this, all broad shoulders and smug smiles, and expect me to talk?”

“You’re the one who invited me back here to talk.”

“Yeah, well, I fucking lied.”

And he kissed him again like he had no plans to stop.

Their mouths didn’t part for long, just enough to breathe, to smile, to catch the edge of each other’s laughter as it slipped between kisses. The heat had softened into something warmer now, like they were tasting the joy of it more than the urgency.

Bakugo’s lips brushed against the corner of Kirishima’s mouth, then his cheek, then back again, kissing him through a smile that wouldn’t go away.

“Been thinking about what I’m gonna cook for you tomorrow,” he murmured, fingertips still tracing under the hem of his shirt like he couldn’t stop touching him. “Every time I open my fridge, I picture you sitting at my table. Laughing. Eating too fast.”

Kirishima laughed softly, catching his mouth again, but Bakugo pulled back just enough to whisper more.

“Don’t even know what I’m gonna wear. Was thinking maybe that black shirt you said you liked last time.” Another kiss, feather-light. “Or nothing, depending on how dinner goes.”

That made Kirishima groan into a laugh, hands sliding up to rest on Bakugo’s hips. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been losing my mind just thinking about tomorrow. About you. About walking around my kitchen while you're there.”

“Just existing near me?”

“Exactly,” he said, breath curling into Kirishima’s mouth. “Want you there while I chop garlic. Want you leaning on the counter with your stupid wide smile. Want you full. Warm. In my bed before midnight.”

Kirishima held him tighter, eyes fluttering shut. “I’ll be there.”

They kissed once more, just a soft press, and then Bakugo pulled back with a quiet sigh, hands smoothing the front of Kirishima’s shirt like he was fixing him up before anyone could notice.

“You’re a mess,” he said, but his voice was too fond to sound like a complaint.

“You kissed me like you wanted it that way.”

Bakugo smirked and turned to open the door.

They stepped into the hallway side by side, making their way toward the front. The soft buzz of the studio returned, faint classical piano still echoing from a closed practice room, someone laughing faintly down the hall.

At the reception desk, Camie looked up from her phone.

The moment her eyes landed on them, her mouth curled like she’d just caught her favorite secret unfolding in real time.

Bakugo didn’t miss a beat. “Shut it.”

“I didn’t say a word,” Camie replied sweetly.

“You thought,” he shot back, reaching for the sign-in clipboard like it had personally offended him.

She chewed her gum once, loudly, and shrugged. “Not my fault it’s hot.”

Kirishima let out a laugh that he tried to swallow, clearing his throat behind his fist as Bakugo turned his glare fully onto the ceiling like he was praying for divine patience.

“Anyway,” Camie added, winking at Haruka as she came skipping down the hall, “your ride’s here, superstar.”

“Hi, Camie!” Haruka called, swinging her dance bag up over one shoulder. “Bye, Camie!”

“Bye, sunshine,” Camie waved. “Tell Eri she owes me cake.”

Haruka giggled and grabbed Kirishima’s hand as they headed for the door. “Bye, Sensei!”

Bakugo raised a hand in a little wave. “See you on Saturday.”

She bounced ahead, already telling her dad something about pliés and how she almost nailed a turn, and Kirishima turned to look back once, just long enough to catch Bakugo still watching them.

Still smiling.

They went to the movies, Haruka’s choice, something animated and fast-paced with enough jokes packed into it that Kirishima caught himself laughing out loud more than once. She was practically vibrating beside him in the theater, legs swinging, popcorn balanced on her knees, offering him handfuls like she’d forget he was there if she didn’t.

Afterward, they walked under the glow of early evening lights to a cozy spot just down the block, a little diner with booths and paper menus and fries that always came too hot to eat right away.

Haruka barely took a breath between stories, talking non-stop about school; who got into trouble, who cried during gym, who “accidentally” spilled paint during art class but everyone knew it was on purpose.

Kirishima sipped his drink, nodding through her tales with a grin, watching her hands flail dramatically, her eyebrows flying up at the highs of the story, dipping low for the serious bits.

And when she paused long enough to actually eat, he tilted his head and asked, gently, “So... Do you like anyone from your school?”

She froze mid-bite, staring at him like he’d just suggested she marry her math textbook. “What? Dad, no. Ew. Have I told you that one of my friends tried to impress a girl by eating four glue sticks. Four.”

Kirishima choked on his fry, laughing until his shoulders shook.

“That’s commitment,” he managed to say through a wheeze.

“To a hospital visit, maybe,” she said, sipping her soda.

Still grinning, he leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Just saying, you know you can tell me, right? If you ever have a crush, I’m not gonna freak out. I promise.”

She looked at him, unimpressed, “Same, Dad. All my teachers sigh when you pick me up. You’re like, the ‘dad of the year,’ and they’re always asking me, so, is your dad seeing anyone?” She deepened her voice in mock imitation. “He seems so sweet.”

Kirishima blinked, then covered his face with both hands, laughing harder.

“I’m serious,” she said, munching another fry. “Miss Kiyoko literally told me to remind you there’s a parent-teacher meeting coming up and that she’s ‘free on weekends.’”

“I’m never going to your school again.”

“You say that every time,” she grinned. “And yet, you keep showing up.”

He just shook his head and reached over to steal a fry from her plate, heart full, face aching from smiling.

“I do have a crush on someone,” Kirishima said, tone casual as he wiped ketchup from his fingers with a napkin.

“You do?”

“Mm-hm.”

She set her drink down dramatically and pointed at him. “Okay. I get three tips. First one, boy or girl?”

“Boy.”

“Oh.” She leaned forward like she was preparing for a very important investigation. “From your work?”

“Ew,” he said, scrunching his nose and mimicking her voice.

She burst into laughter, nearly snorting her soda. “Okay, okay. Last one... Is he a ballet teacher?”

Kirishima hesitated for a fraction of a second, but he didn’t lie. “Yes.”

She hummed, pleased and unbothered, popping a fry in her mouth like she hadn’t just casually confirmed she knew exactly who he meant.

He watched her, waiting for the inevitable name, but she didn’t say it. She just chewed, swallowed, and said with mock seriousness, “Miss Kiyoko’s gonna be devastated.”

He burst out laughing, head tilted back, and she joined in, the two of them leaning into the booth’s vinyl cushions, grinning like a pair of kids.

“She had such high hopes for us,” he said dramatically.

“She really did, but I support you,” Haruka added, wiping her hands with a napkin like this was a formal press statement. “Even if it breaks Miss Kiyoko’s heart.”

“You’re very brave.”

“I try.”

They shared the rest of the fries in easy silence, one warm little secret tucked between them, and neither of them needed to say it out loud: they both knew exactly who had Kirishima smiling like that.

The apartment was warm in that comforting way that made the outside world feel like another season entirely. It was getting colder now, the windows fogged from the contrast between the chill outside and the soft heat inside. Bakugo had the stove going, a pan sizzling quietly as something fragrant and buttery browned beneath his hand.

Kirishima was seated at the counter, elbows propped up, both hands holding his face, watching with an expression that could only be described as smitten.

He didn’t try to hide it. Didn’t even blink when Bakugo glanced at him over his shoulder with a knowing look.

“What?” Bakugo asked, not even trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.

“Nothing, you just look really good doing that.”

Bakugo snorted and turned back to the pan, tossing its contents with practiced ease. The smell that rose up made Kirishima sigh like he was at a five-star restaurant.

“Where’d you learn to cook like that?”

Bakugo shifted the pan off the burner and reached for a dish towel, wiping his hands. “Mostly my mom. She made me learn before I moved out. Said if I had the audacity to go live across the world, I better not embarrass the family by living off takeout.”

Kirishima chuckled. “She sounds like a legend.”

“She is.” He moved around the kitchen, grabbing plates and serving spoons, still barefoot, sleeves rolled up. “And she doesn’t fuck around when it comes to food. I still have her voice in my head when I cook. ‘Too much salt, Katsuki. That better not be store-bought broth.’”

The impression made Kirishima laugh again, deeper this time.

“She was right, though,” Bakugo added, softer now, setting a plate in front of him. “Cooking saved my life when I was abroad. Russia was rough when I first got there. I didn’t know anyone. Dancing drained me. Cooking was grounding, I guess. Familiar.”

“I’m really glad you learned. This already smells like the best birthday dinner I’ve ever had.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes, but he smiled. 

“Just wait until dessert.”

Kirishima grinned. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Both,” Bakugo said. “Shut up and eat.”

They ate at the low table in the living room, plates warm on their laps, the sound of rain tapping faintly against the windows. Bakugo stretched his legs out halfway through the meal and propped his feet on Kirishima’s lap. He didn’t even blink, just rested one hand gently on his ankle, thumb tracing lazy circles over his sock.

“This is so good,” he said for what had to be the fifth time, mouth full of perfectly seasoned rice. “I’m not even saying that to flirt, I’m saying it because I want to marry this meal.”

Bakugo huffed, stuffing a large bite into his mouth to hide the flush climbing from his neck to his cheeks.

“I mean it,” Kirishima continued, not letting up for a second. “This is like, restaurant level. No, better. It tastes like someone put love in it. You put love in it, right?”

A muffled sound came from Bakugo’s throat as he shoved another bite in, cheeks puffed full like he was trying to drown in his own cooking before being forced to admit he was blushing.

“I’m gonna cry,” he said dramatically, eyes glinting with laughter as he placed his fork down and gently held Bakugo’s foot with both hands. “You’ve ruined every other meal for me. I’m gonna be a shell of a man after tonight.”

Bakugo kicked him lightly, finally managing a swallow. “Shut up.”

They finished slowly, neither of them in a rush, conversation drifting between food, work, stories about Haruka and how she’d once made cupcakes using salt instead of sugar but still insisted on bringing them to school.

When the last bite was gone and Bakugo leaned back with a sigh, Kirishima stood up, stretching.

“I’ll do the dishes,” he offered, already reaching for the plates.

But Bakugo sat up and waved him off. “Leave it. I’ll do it later.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Bakugo said, already reaching for him. “Come here.”

Before Kirishima could react, hands slid around his thighs and tugged him forward and he stumbled back onto the sofa with a surprised grunt. Bakugo stood just long enough to step between his legs and drop down onto his lap, straddling him like there’d never been another plan.

The kiss that followed was immediate, and he was already dragging up Kirishima’s shirt, pushing it over his abs, his chest, until it caught under his arms.

“You’re not wasting time, huh?” Kirishima tried to laugh, breath catching.

Bakugo didn’t answer, he was too busy kissing down his neck, biting gently at his collarbone as he yanked the shirt the rest of the way off and tossed it behind them without looking.

“Okay, guess dessert’s happening now.”

Bakugo just hummed against his skin, hips rolling down like he had every intention of devouring him until there was nothing left to say.

He wasn’t holding back.

His hands were everywhere, palms dragging over Kirishima’s chest, fingers tracing the lines of his stomach, nails grazing along the edges of muscle like he wanted to memorize every inch by touch alone. His mouth followed hungrily, kissing and biting down the slope of his shoulder.

“Fuck,” he whispered, barely audible, “Missed this. Missed you.”

Kirishima could barely respond, breath catching in his throat as Bakugo shifted lower, tongue licking across his chest. He didn’t stop, just wrapped his lips around one nipple and bit down.

The redhead groaned, hips bucking up involuntarily.

“Shit,” Bakugo breathed again, laughing softly against his skin, teeth dragging gently before soothing it with his tongue. “You’re so easy to touch. So fuckin’ responsive.”

His hands slid lower, thumbs brushing the dips of Kirishima’s hips, mouth working its way to the other nipple, sucking this time, deeper, leaving a slick ring behind.

Kirishima moaned, neck tipping back, legs parting without thought.

Bakugo kept talking, lips moving against skin, “Been thinking about this every night.” Another kiss. “About you under me like this.” Another kiss.“About how your body feels when you lose it.”

His hands slid lower, fingers finding the waistband of Kirishima’s pants, and in one smooth motion, he popped the button and pulled the zipper down.

Kirishima’s breath hitched, hips arching as cool air met hot skin, and before he could say a word, Bakugo had his hand wrapped around his cock. A gasp escaped him, and Bakugo’s was right behind it, a breathless moan that vibrated against his chest.

“Fuck, I thought I was delirious last time.” He gave a slow stroke, like he was trying to believe what he was seeing. “I convinced myself I imagined the whole thing. Told myself there was no way that your cock could actually be this big.”

Kirishima groaned, head falling back, one hand fisting into the couch cushion, the other still gripping Bakugo’s hip.

“Guess I’m not imagining it,” Bakugo murmured, more to himself than anything, licking his lips as he watched his hand work, “Fuck, I missed this.”

Bakugo stroked him slow, hand slick with precome, thumb dragging lazily over the head as Kirishima writhed beneath him.

Every groan pulled from Kirishima’s mouth seemed to drive him higher, make him hungrier, and when he leaned in and kissed him again, he never once stopped touching him.

Their mouths met again, teeth knocking, tongues moving like they’d forgotten how to be gentle. Kirishima moaned into the kiss, gripping Bakugo’s hips and dragging him closer until they were chest to chest again, friction rising between them.

He pushed his hands down, found Bakugo’s waistband, and tugged.

He didn’t stop him, instead, he shifted up, letting Kirishima strip his pants down, underwear caught in the same breathless motion. His cock bounced free, already leaking, and Kirishima groaned at the sight.

Bakugo straddled him again, bare now, both of them panting, skin against skin, mouths still pressed together in messy kisses.

Kirishima’s hands roamed everywhere, over his thighs, his waist, up his back, then down again to cup his ass and grind their cocks together, the heat of it making both of them groan loud against each other’s lips.

Bakugo rocked against him, hips rolling in tight, desperate circles, slick cocks grinding between their stomachs, the wet slide sending shocks down Kirishima’s spine.

“God, fuck,” he gasped, pulling back just enough to breathe, sweat dripping from his hairline. “I need you so fucking bad, I can’t...”

“I’ve got you, I’m right here.”

He shifted, and reached between them, wrapping his hand around both of their cocks. Bakugo choked on a moan, body jerking, forehead pressed to Kirishima’s as he tried to breathe through it.

“Fuck, everything about you is so big.”

Kirishima groaned, biting down on his bottom lip as Bakugo pushed harder, their cocks rubbing together, slick and perfect in his fist.

“Your hand...” Bakugo whispered, voice cracking against his ear, “it feels so good, fuck, don’t stop...”

He didn’t. He stroked them together, fist tight and sure, twisting just enough on every pull to make Bakugo whimper against his mouth, to make his thighs shake.

“Gonna, shit... Gonna come, fuck...”

He did, with a cry muffled against Kirishima’s neck, cock pulsing in his hand. He didn’t stop, still rutting up, still stroking, his own orgasm chasing right behind…

Until his phone rang.

He would’ve ignored it, he almost did, but the ringtone wasn’t just any ringtone. It was Haruka’s.

His heart stuttered.

“Shit,” he breathed, pulling back, hand stopping mid-stroke, muscles still tight. “Fuck, it’s Haru...”

Bakugo froze with him, already climbing off his lap.

He grabbed the phone, breathless and flushed, but answering it before another second passed.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice still rough. “Everything okay?”

Her voice came through the line choked and broken, already thick with tears. “Dad...”

Kirishima sat up like the world had shifted under his feet. Bakugo was already beside him, reaching silently for his clothes, reading everything in his expression without needing a word.

“What happened, baby?” He asked as calmly as he could, forcing air into his lungs.

“I was just showing them something, I saw it in class, we were just dancing and I had socks on and I tried to do a piqué turn and I fell, really hard, my foot hurts, my hand... Dad, I think I broke my hand...”

He could hear her friend's mom trying to soothe her, voice soft and hurried in the background, but it didn’t matter.

All he could hear was her.

“Okay,” he said quickly, forcing his voice to stay level, even as panic screamed through every vein. “I’m gonna pick you up and take you to the hospital, okay? I’m on my way.”

He ended the call before his hands could start trembling harder.

Bakugo stepped forward immediately. “What happened?”

Kirishima was already pulling his shirt over his head, fingers fumbling. “She fell. She was dancing with her friends and tried a move she learned in class, she was wearing socks, she slipped. Her foot’s hurting and she thinks she broke her hand.”

His voice cracked on the last word. He didn’t stop moving, grabbing for his shoes, his jacket, anything to get him out of the door fast enough.

Bakugo stepped closer. “You’re shaking.”

“I need to go,” Kirishima said, breath shallow, heart pounding against his ribs like it wanted to escape. “I’ll pick her up, take her in, fuck, I just need to get there...”

“You’re not driving like this,” Bakugo said, already moving to grab his keys. “I’ll take you.”

Kirishima looked up, eyes red, expression a mix of panic and guilt. “I don’t want to ruin your night...”

Bakugo stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “Eijiro.”

The sound of his name stopped him.

“I’ll drive,” he said again, already pulling on his shoes. “Get your stuff. Let’s go.”

Kirishima didn’t argue again, he just followed.

The drive felt longer than anything Kirishima had ever experienced. The city blurred past the windows, a wash of lights and movement that didn’t register in his mind. His hands were clenched into fists in his lap, and he didn’t realize how tightly until his nails bit into his palms. 

Bakugo didn’t talk much, and he was grateful for that.

Only once, eyes still on the road, he asked, “Which hospital do you want to take her to?”

Kirishima’s voice was hoarse when he answered, and Bakugo nodded without saying anything more. A few seconds later, the soft sound of instrumental music filled the car, just enough to drown the silence, not enough to press on it.

When they reached her friend’s house, the porch light was already on, and Haruka’s friend’s mom came out immediately, helping carry a bag and Haruka’s shoes, her voice quiet and apologetic.

Haruka was in her arms, clinging, eyes swollen, face red. As soon as she saw him, she reached out and he was there in two long steps, taking her into his arms like she was the most breakable thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” the mom said, shifting nervously, “they were just playing and she slipped...”

“No,” Kirishima said immediately, adjusting Haruka gently in his arms. “It’s not your fault. Thank you. Thank you for staying with her, for getting her help. I really appreciate it.”

The woman nodded, clearly relieved, and Kirishima turned toward the car, still holding Haruka close. She clung tighter when she saw Bakugo waiting near the passenger side door.

Her voice cracked as soon as she recognized him. “Were you on a date?” She sniffled. “Did I ruin it?”

Bakugo blinked, but didn’t look surprised. He opened the back door, voice soft. “No, you didn’t ruin anything.”

“Not even close,” Kirishima murmured, brushing a hand through her hair as he helped her into the back seat carefully, making sure she didn’t jostle her foot. “You didn’t ruin anything, baby. We’re just glad you’re okay.”

Haruka’s lip wobbled, but she nodded, letting him buckle her in. Kirishima closed the door gently and rounded the car. Bakugo met his eyes once across the roof of the car, and something passed between them.

The hospital was quiet in that eerie, late-night way, fluorescent lights too bright against white walls, the air too cold, time moving too slow. Kirishima carried Haruka inside while Bakugo held the door, keeping pace beside them.

The nurse at the front desk barely looked up before motioning them toward the triage window. Kirishima hesitated, glancing down at Haruka’s tear-streaked face before whispering that he’d be just a few steps away.

Bakugo had already found two chairs along the wall. He sat beside her carefully, not crowding, but close enough for her to lean into. She didn’t say much, just held her hand close to her chest and let her head fall against his arm.

Kirishima filled out the forms with shaking fingers, every line of her name a fresh ache. Her allergies. Her blood type. His number. Her school. All of it routine. None of it easy.

When a nurse finally called her name, Kirishima returned to her side, gently lifting her again. Haruka sat up straighter, blinking toward the hallway that led to the exam rooms, and then looked back at Bakugo.

“You’re not coming?”

Bakugo gave her a quiet smile, staying seated. “I can’t. They only let parents go in.”

Her lip trembled again, and her eyes filled with more tears, but she just gave a tiny nod and pressed her face into her father’s chest.

Kirishima looked back once, meeting Bakugo’s eyes. He didn’t need to say much, just, “Thank you.”

Bakugo nodded, but his hands curled tightly in his lap.

Inside, everything moved faster.

The doctor, a tall woman with a kind voice and quick eyes, asked Kirishima to set Haruka on the examination table gently. They took X-rays. Her foot was already swelling, and her right hand had turned an angry shade of purple.

The results came back within the hour.

“She has a dislocated right foot, more specifically at the talonavicular joint,” the doctor said calmly, pointing to the screen. “It’s very painful, but the good news is that there’s no major fracture there. She’ll need a boot for two weeks and no weight-bearing activity for at least six.”

Kirishima nodded, taking it all in.

“Now, about the hand,” the doctor continued, pulling up a second image. “It’s a distal radius fracture, clean, but it’ll require a cast. Likely around five to six weeks before we reassess.”

Haruka was quiet, but her fingers curled tightly into Kirishima’s shirt.

“She won’t be able to dance for at least two months,” the doctor added gently. “Maybe longer, depending on how physical her routine is. And she’ll need to rebuild strength in the hand after the cast comes off.”

He nodded again, pressing a kiss to Haruka’s hair.

“We’ll set the cast tonight, and she’ll go home in the boot. She’ll need pain medication, but she should be okay to rest once you’re home.”

Haruka blinked up at her father, eyes glassy. “Two months?”

“We’ll get through it,” he said softly, hand cupping the back of her head. “I promise.”

They stepped back into the waiting room just after midnight, the brightness of the hospital lights blurring the edges of everything. Kirishima held Haruka close, her casted hand resting awkwardly on her chest, her boot tapping against his leg with every step.

Bakugo stood the moment he saw them, his eyes moving quickly over both of them. He stepped forward and took everything Kirishima was juggling, the prescription slip, the aftercare folder, the painkillers in a paper bag, freeing his hands so he could adjust Haruka better in his arms.

“Car’s warm,” he said softly, already leading the way.

The night outside was too cold, but the inside of Bakugo’s car was filled with heat and a quiet kind of care. When Kirishima opened the back door and helped Haruka in gently, he paused, blinking at what was waiting in the cupholders.

A small bag of snacks, and two paper cups of tea.

Haruka noticed it too, blinking down at her cup, lip trembling as she reached for it with her good hand.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Kirishima settled into the passenger seat, and the second his seatbelt clicked, Haruka spoke again from the back, tea cradled in her palm.

“I can’t dance for two months,” she said, the words cracking apart halfway through. “I was doing so well...”

“It’s okay,” Bakugo said, turning on the engine with a glance in the rearview mirror. His voice was softer than Kirishima had ever heard it. “You’re already ahead of most kids your age. When you’re ready to come back, you’re gonna catch up fast. You’ve got this.”

Haruka nodded once, eyes closing over another tear, and in less than two minutes, her breathing evened out, and she was asleep.

Kirishima exhaled like he’d been holding something in for hours. He reached out, and placed his hand on his thigh. Bakugo glanced over, then slid his hand down without a word and twined their fingers together.

“She dislocated her foot, talonavicular joint,” he murmured. “No fracture, but she can’t put weight on it for at least six weeks. And the hand’s worse, clean break. Needs a cast. Five, six weeks, maybe more.”

Bakugo nodded, eyes on the road, thumb brushing gently across the back of his hand.

“We’ll figure it out.”

Kirishima didn’t let go of Bakugo’s hand even after they parked. He carried Haruka inside with his other arm, unlocking the door and nudging it open with his foot.

He turned to Bakugo once they were inside, and whispered, “Please, stay.”

Bakugo hesitated, the kind of pause that wasn’t reluctance but careful thought. Then he nodded once. “Okay.”

He offered him a small, tired smile, then carried Haruka upstairs, whispering to her as she stirred but didn’t wake. He laid her gently on her bed, adjusted the blankets around her carefully, making sure her hand stayed on top, cast unbothered.

Downstairs, Bakugo stood in the living room like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself, back straight, hands in his pockets, eyes roaming the quiet space that felt so lived-in. A bookshelf lined with crooked spines. Framed art, a pair of bright red cleats by the door. He was still in his hoodie and jeans, body stiff from hours of driving and sitting, but his heart hadn’t stopped racing since that call.

Kirishima came down, footsteps light, then walked straight into his arms without a word.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and Bakugo’s arms went around him instantly. “And thank you.”

“You don’t need to be sorry, or thank me.”

“I do,” Kirishima whispered, voice smaller now. “I really do.”

He stood there for a while, breathing in the quiet, the weight of Bakugo’s arms, the way the world finally stopped spinning.

Eventually, he looked up, took Bakugo’s hand, and led him gently down the hall.

They entered his bedroom, and he disappeared for a moment into the guest room. When he came back, he was holding a brand-new toothbrush, still in the packaging.

“I got this just in case.”

Bakugo took it, saying nothing, but the look in his eyes was soft.

They brushed their teeth in silence, side by side at the bathroom sink, both still wearing the weight of the night in their shoulders. Kirishima washed his face and handed Bakugo a towel without a word.

When they were done, Kirishima rummaged through his dresser and pulled out his warmest pajamas, navy flannel, oversized, lined with soft cotton. He handed the folded set to Bakugo, who took them without protest, raising an eyebrow.

“You were shaking earlier,” he murmured, eyes down. “Thought these might help.”

They changed in quiet, fatigue sinking deep into their limbs, the weight of the day clinging to their backs like something physical. Kirishima pulled on an old faded shirt and loose sweatpants, glancing once at Bakugo, who stood near the foot of the bed now dressed in his borrowed flannel. The sleeves were a little long, the pants too baggy at the waist, and somehow, that only made the sight of him feel more intimate.

They slipped into bed without a word, the sheets cool against their legs, the blankets a welcome weight. The lamp was still on, and Kirishima turned to look at him.

Bakugo was already watching.

Kirishima reached for him, took his hands in his own, thumbs brushing the backs of them before lifting one to his mouth.

He kissed the palm first, then each knuckle, as if offering comfort through every touch.

Bakugo didn’t pull away, then, “Being like this...” he said, breath catching just a little, “it didn’t come naturally to me. Not the way it seems to for other people.”

Kirishima stilled, lips still brushing over his hand.

“But with you...” His gaze didn’t waver. “It’s different.”

He kissed his hand again.

“I feel it too.”

Bakugo leaned in then, just enough to rest his forehead against his, their hands still entwined between them. 

No need for anything more.

After that night, something shifted. Not in a way that felt sudden or confusing, but with the quiet certainty of something that had been waiting to happen.

And things changed, fast, but if Kirishima was being honest, they changed for the better.

Bakugo didn’t ask, didn’t make a show of it, but somehow he rearranged his entire schedule. Moved things around. Handed Haruka’s usual evening slot to another student with a shrug and a “she’ll understand,” and started leaving early three days a week.

Which meant that, on those days, Kirishima would come home, tired and aching from training, shoes still muddy from drills, and find his daughter on the living room floor, one socked foot propped on the barre they’d brought home, the other pointed with the best turnout she could manage, while Bakugo knelt beside her, correcting her posture with a soft touch to her ribs and a quiet “There, just like that.”

There was always a ballet video paused on the screen. A folded blanket where Haruka had been sitting. A notebook open with Bakugo’s handwriting, breaking down techniques with words like pirouette, port de bras, and adagio.

And it made Kirishima feel everything.

He would stand in the doorway for a minute too long, every time, watching them.

Bakugo’s voice was never loud with her. Always calm, always patient. He explained every detail like it mattered, how to keep her shoulders relaxed, how to breathe into the movement, how to trust her own strength.

It was hard to believe this was the same man who once honked five times at a dove for not moving off the crosswalk fast enough.

Kirishima would press a hand to his chest, like he needed to remind himself his heart was still in place.

He had loved Haruka every second of her life. That love had come naturally, like air, but this growing love for Bakugo, it had started like something he didn’t quite recognize. Something that had startled him with how soft it could be.

And now, it lived in the quiet. In the evenings filled with piano music and laughter, in the way Bakugo tucked Haruka’s casted arm gently into a pillow before she dozed off on the couch, in the way he looked at Kirishima when he thought he wasn’t watching.

It wasn’t loud, this love.

But god, it was deep.

What Kirishima loved the most were the moments when it was just the three of them.

Haruka, Bakugo, and him.

Eri had quietly thanked him one evening, her bag heavy with textbooks, stress tucked under her eyes. “I love her to death,” she said, brushing her bangs from her face with a grin, “but now that Bakugo-san’s around, I can finally study without being quizzed about ballet arm positions or forced into face masks with glitter.”

And Kirishima had laughed, but that night, watching Bakugo pull Haruka’s blanket higher over her shoulder and kiss the crown of her head like he’d been doing it forever, he’d felt it again. That thing he was still learning to name.

It felt like his heart had always been a little off-center, like it hadn’t been full.

But now... Now it was.

Haruka sat on the kitchen table, one leg swinging gently under the chair, the cast still on her hand but now scrawled with at least six colors of marker and a handful of signatures. Her pencil was awkward in her left hand, but she was determined to do her math homework herself.

Kirishima was at the counter, chopping vegetables for dinner. Bakugo was beside him, seasoning something in a pan like he had a Michelin star and something to prove.

“Did you know,” Haruka said between numbers, not looking up, “that in the original Sleeping Beauty ballet, Aurora had four suitors? Not just one.”

“I’m already exhausted,” Bakugo replied without missing a beat. “That’s too many men trying to spin around you at once. I’d kick someone.”

Haruka snorted, scribbling the number 7 across the page. “They all bring her flowers and try to impress her. It’s very meh.”

“You’d reject all of them,” he mumbled. “Bet you’d steal the flowers and tell ‘em to get lost.”

“I would,” she said proudly. “I’d pick my own partner.”

Bakugo glanced at her from the stove, giving her a small smirk. “Smart girl.”

And Kirihsima was silent. He stared at the onions on the cutting board, eyes prickling, chest warm and too full to hold in place.

“You okay over there?” Bakugo asked, reaching for the pepper.

“Yeah,” He cleared his throat, blinking hard. “Just onions.”

Bakugo looked at him, brow raised, but didn’t press, just bumped his hip into Kirishima’s gently.

God, he was done for.

Dinner was warm and easy, the way all their meals had become lately. The kind of comfort that didn’t come from the food, though Bakugo’s cooking could fix just about anything, but from the company, the rhythm of shared space, of laughter breaking through bites, of soft conversation beneath the clink of silverware.

Haruka balanced her plate with one hand, cast still heavy on the other, but she was managing well. She was in high spirits tonight, even if her writing was slower, even if the ache of not dancing still lingered behind her eyes.

Midway through a bite of rice, she perked up, “Dad, do you think we can still do something fun during winter break? Even if I still have the cast?”

“Of course we can,” Kirishima answered, immediately. “We can travel somewhere. Get out of the house.”

Haruka turned instantly toward Bakugo, eyes wide and hopeful. “You’re coming with us, right?”

Bakugo froze, chopsticks mid-air. For a second, he just looked at her, then at Kirishima, and then back at her. The tips of his ears went pink, and his mouth opened like he wasn’t sure how to form a single syllable.

Kirishima knew that look, so he stepped in, “We can go somewhere warm,” he said gently, eyes still on Bakugo. “Since you hate the cold so much. I mean, I don’t think we’ll find anywhere sunny in December, but at least someplace without snow.”

Bakugo blinked, the blush crept higher on his cheeks, blooming across the bridge of his nose.

“I’d have to check my schedule.”

Haruka grinned. “We can wait.”

He reached across the table and brushed his knuckles against Bakugo’s wrist. “We’ll go whenever you’re free.”

Bakugo looked at him like he wasn’t sure how to breathe for a moment, then he gave a small nod. Not a promise, but not a no, either.

Haruka beamed, and later, she padded upstairs with a yawn, her voice trailing off as she called down, “I’ll be quick, save me a blanket on the couch for movie night!”

Kirishima called back a soft “Got it,” before turning back to the sink, sleeves already rolled up, hands submerged in soapy water. The dishes clinked as he worked, the silence between him and Bakugo filled with the quiet hum of the kitchen fan and the occasional drip of water from the faucet.

Bakugo stood beside him, towel in hand, drying each plate and stacking them neatly. They moved in sync, not speaking much, just existing in the same rhythm.

But then, Bakugo’s voice came, barely a whisper, so low Kirishima almost missed it.

“Are you sure you want me to come?” He kept drying a cup, eyes fixed on it, like the weight of his words was too heavy to meet Kirishima’s gaze. “One thing is me being here in your house, the other is me traveling with you two. I know you wanted it to be a father and daughter experience.”

Kirishima stopped. He let the dish in his hand sink back into the water and dried his hands on his jeans, not even noticing the way the denim darkened under his palms.

Then, without a word, he turned and cupped Bakugo’s face in his hands.

Bakugo finally looked at him, eyes uncertain, maybe even a little scared. Kirishima just looked right back, thumbs brushing along his cheeks, holding him still.

“I asked you to stay that night because I needed you, and you’ve been here ever since. I want you with us, not just for a trip, not just for a few nights a week.”

He leaned in a little, not closing the space, just settling deeper into it.

“You're not a guest in my life, Katsuki. You’re part of it.”

Bakugo's hands were still holding the towel, forgotten between his fingers. His eyes searched Kirishima’s like he was still unsure whether to believe him, whether it was safe to trust it, but the redhead didn’t look away or moved his hands from where they held him.

So Bakugo leaned in and kissed him carefully, like the question was still there, tucked between their mouths.

And Kirishima kissed him back with a smile, like the answer had always been yes.

Toba smelled like salt and pine and quiet.

The wind carried the sea with it, brushing against the wooden house they’d rented for the weekend, small, but charming in a way that felt exactly right. It stood tucked near the shoreline, surrounded by trees and pale, open sky, far enough from the city to feel like an escape but close enough that they could find a convenience store or ice cream shop with a short drive.

Haruka had picked the spot herself, closed her eyes, spun the map, and pointed, the way only a kid could.

And now here they were.

Kirishima was outside, unpacking the car with a grin that hadn’t left his face since the drive. The car was still full, but he didn’t mind. Haruka’s laughter floated down from the front steps, where she sat cross-legged, face buried in her phone. She was FaceTiming a friend from school, turning the screen so she could show off the wide, blue view behind her. The water glittered just past the trees, and she was beaming like she’d won the lottery.

Inside, the air was cooler. Wooden beams stretched low overhead, and in the small kitchen, Bakugo was organizing the groceries, sliding things into the fridge with precise movements, vegetables here, juice there, fish in the bottom drawer.

Kirishima walked in with a crate of dry goods, his shirt clinging to his back from the heat outside. He bumped the door shut with his foot, set the crate down on the counter, and smiled at the way Bakugo had already claimed the space.

“She’s already planning her summer wedding here,” Kirishima said, nodding toward the front door.

“Don’t even joke,” Bakugo said while shoving a bag of frozen dumplings into the freezer. “I saw her packing that ridiculous hat. The floppy one.”

“She calls it ‘vacation fashion,’” Kirishima grinned, opening a bag of rice to tuck into the cabinet. “She was very serious about it.”

Bakugo turned toward the counter, arms full of a loaf of bread and a carton of eggs, saying something under his breath about vacation fashion being a gateway drug to glitter sandals, but Kirishima was already moving.

He stepped in, closing the gap between them fast, and before Bakugo could register anything more than the sudden warmth at his back, Kirishima pressed him against the fridge.

“Hey...”

But he kissed him. Bakugo made a surprised noise, bread squished between their chests, hands caught mid-motion, too slow to stop the inevitable.

Kirishima kissed him again, deeper this time, smiling against his mouth.

Bakugo shoved the bread into his chest. “She’s right there.”

“She’s on FaceTime, she’s not even looking.”

“Doesn’t mean mmf...”

Another kiss. Open-mouthed. Breath-stealing.

Bakugo tried to push him back again, bread caught awkwardly between them, but his hands had stopped trying before they even started. The next second, they were gripping Kirishima’s shirt instead.

“Hey,” Kirishima murmured, lips brushing just under his jaw, voice quiet in the hum of the kitchen. “When are you gonna let me tell Haruka we’re dating?”

The blonde huffed, arms still loosely holding the bread, cheeks faintly flushed. “Oh, so we’re dating now? That’s news to me. Don’t remember you asking if I even wanted to be your boyfriend.”

A kiss landed gently on his neck. “You don’t?”

“Why don’t you ask me?” Bakugo said, voice thinner than usual, like he didn’t mean for it to come out as breathless as it did.

Kirishima smiled once again against his skin before asking, “Be my boyfriend?”

“Obviously,” he replied, eyes rolling, but he didn’t move an inch away.

Bakugo finally shoved him off, not hard, just enough to regain a breath of space. The bread got thrown at his chest a second later, bouncing off Kirishima’s torso and landing with a soft thud on the floor.

“You’re a menace,” Bakugo said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, though it didn’t quite erase the small smile tugging at the corner of it.

Kirishima just laughed, the kind that filled the room like sunlight. He bent to pick up the bread, eyes crinkled at the corners. “You kissed me back.”

“Shut up and put that rice away.”

By the time everything was settled, they piled into the car and headed into the city.

They picked a small restaurant tucked into a side street, the kind with paper menus and fish grilled over coals right in front of you, and Haruka insisted on ordering three different kinds of pickles just to “see which one feels most traditional.”

After lunch, they drove toward the hills where the shrines stood tall and old, nestled into the greenery like they’d been waiting centuries just for this season.

They passed through the main torii gate, its orange paint vivid against the sky. Haruka walked ahead between them, her cast now covered in even more glittery stickers, pointing out every detail from the small tourist folder she’d grabbed near the entrance.

“It’s for Amaterasu,” she said, stopping in front of the main offering hall, turning the paper around so Bakugo could see it with her. “She’s the sun goddess.”

Bakugo leaned closer, scanning the text with her, his finger tapping beneath a small illustration. “And she’s the most important kami in Shinto, apparently.”

“She’s like, the queen of light or something.”

Kirishima stood just behind them, hands in his pockets, watching the way Bakugo didn’t correct her, just read with her, letting her set the pace.

He hadn’t known love could look like this. Simple. Worn into the seams of every day. Sharing pickles. Reading shrines. Stepping gently into the spaces his daughter offered.

He stepped closer, just enough for their shoulders to brush. Bakugo glanced back, and the smile they shared was small but full.

Sunlight spilled across the stone path at their feet.

When the night arrived, they decided to eat in the city and the small market near the sea was a living postcard, rows of stalls with hand-painted signs, fish laid out over ice, steam rising from hot grills, and the scent of salt and smoke hanging in the air.

Kirishima walked between the booths with his sleeves pushed up and his smile easy, Haruka bouncing ahead of them with her phone out, snapping pictures of everything. She took close-ups of octopus skewers, a basket of seaweed, and a sleepy cat curled beneath a vendor’s stool. Bakugo walked beside her, holding a cup of roasted green tea, occasionally pointing out something interesting.

They stopped near a stall that sold freshly grilled abalone and oysters, the kind that were cooked right in front of you with a bit of soy sauce and butter. Bakugo passed one to Haruka, who made a dramatic show of pretending to faint from how good it was.

A few people started whispering, double-taking. And then a teen, maybe fifteen, wearing a baseball cap and clutching a sports towel, approached Kirishima carefully.

“Could I get a photo? You’re my brother’s favorite player.”

Kirishima grinned. “Of course.”

He stepped aside with him, and they posed near the edge of the market. The teen fumbled with his phone, thanked him three times, then ran off red-faced and triumphant.

When Kirishima turned back, it was the sound of laughter that reached him first. Haruka’s loud, bubbling out like she couldn’t contain it. Bakugo’s quieter, but real.

They were sitting side by side on a wooden bench in the shade of a fabric awning, Haruka holding her phone up between them, flipping through filters.

She tapped one, and Bakugo’s face stretched absurdly wide, eyes bulging, nose a comical swirl. Haruka howled. He rolled his eyes but didn’t stop her. Another tap, and they both had potato faces with sparkles and floating daisies.

Kirishima walked back, watching them, heart so full he felt a little ridiculous.

When he reached the table, he set down the fresh bottle of ramune he’d grabbed for Haruka and slid into the seat across from them.

“So,” he said, resting his chin in one hand, grinning, “no one wants to see me with the potato face filter?”

Haruka looked up at him, scandalized. “Wait. We have to. Sensei, pull it up again.”

Bakugo sighed dramatically. “I already regret everything.”

But he was already holding the phone up again.

Kirishima leaned in, and he smiled like he’d been waiting to belong to a moment like this his whole life.

By the time they got back to the house, the sea was calm again, the wind gentler now, brushing through the pine trees like a whisper.

Haruka had been running on pure excitement since lunch, talking through the car ride, through the market, through everything, but the second they were home, the exhaustion started catching up to her.

She refused to acknowledge it, of course.

“No, I’m fine,” she groaned, dragging her casted arm up the stairs like it weighed a hundred kilos. “We can still watch a movie. Or play a board game. Or go back to the city and find that stand that was selling the big roasted fish...”

Kirishima helped her change into her pajamas while she half-dozed sitting up. She got a little grumpy when he tried to tuck her in, complaining about how she wasn’t tired and she wasn’t grumpy and he was being annoying, which only made him laugh as he kissed her forehead and pulled the blanket higher.

Bakugo stood in the doorway watching it unfold, arms crossed loosely, trying not to smirk. She never got like this, never whiny, never dramatic. But tonight? A perfect storm of sun, sea air, and too much sugar.

“She’s cute when she’s cranky,” he said as they stepped back into the hallway and closed her door.

“She’s gonna be embarrassed in the morning.”

“Good,” Bakugo murmured, brushing past him. “She deserves to suffer for calling me a ‘grilled fish goblin.’”

Kirishima laughed again, following him toward the bedroom on the other side of the house, quiet except for the sound of their steps on the wooden floor and the faint hush of waves outside. The soft lights in the hallway felt warmer here, safe. The kind of warmth that said you can rest now.

In the bedroom, they didn’t talk much. Kirishima closed the door behind them, and Bakugo reached for the hem of his shirt, already pulling it over his head.

They both moved toward the bathroom at the same time, and it didn’t take more than a glance for Kirishima to trail his fingers lightly across Bakugo’s back and say, “Come shower with me?”

Bakugo turned his head a little and nodded, already walking into the soft steam curling out from the shower.

The shower was already warm, fog softening the corners of the small tiled space. The water hit the floor with a steady rhythm, echoing softly off the wood-paneled walls and fogging the mirror above the sink.

Kirishima stepped in behind Bakugo, wrapping his arms lazily around his waist, lips brushing between the shoulder blades. The heat soaked into their skin almost immediately, relaxing something that had been tense since they left the city.

Bakugo reached for the body wash and didn’t protest when Kirishima took it from him, lathering the soap into his hands. It was quiet between them for a moment, the kind of quiet that didn’t ask for anything.

He touched with care, spreading the suds across Bakugo’s shoulders, down his arms, over his back, thumbs brushing firm circles into his skin. Watched the way his muscles twitched under his palms, admired the way the water curved around his spine.

“You looked really pretty today,” Kirishima murmured. “Sun in your hair, laughing with Haru, pretending you don’t like seafood.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes, but it was faint. He let himself lean back into the touch, eyes falling half-lidded.

“My boyfriend,” Kirishima added under his breath, pressing a kiss behind his ear, “looking like he stepped out of a damn postcard. And I saw how those old ladies at the shrine looked at you. Probably thinking you were too hot to be with me.”

“You’re an idiot.” Bakugo whispered, breath catching a little.

Kirishima laughed quietly, kissing the edge of his jaw. “Maybe, but I’m the idiot who gets to wash you in the shower, so who’s really winning?”

He slid a hand down between them, fingers tracing along Bakugo’s stomach, then lower, just enough to feel the twitch against his thigh. Hardening, slow but certain.

Bakugo’s hips shifted, breath stuttering in his chest.

Kirishima smiled into his shoulder. “Told you you were pretty.”

Bakugo turned his head, enough that his temple brushed Kirishima’s cheek, but he didn’t say anything. His body said enough, leaning into every touch like it belonged to him. Water traced down the line of his spine, gathering at the small of his back before rolling off, and Kirishima followed it with his mouth, lips brushing skin that tasted clean and just a little salty.

His hand moved again, stroking him with a rhythm that wasn’t about speed but about closeness, about the way Bakugo’s breath caught low in his throat and his hips rolled forward like he couldn’t help it.

The sound of skin on skin was lost beneath the shower, but the weight of it settled thick between them. Bakugo let out a curse, half under his breath, one hand pressing against the wall, the other reaching behind to grip Kirishima’s thigh.

“Feels good.”

Kirishima nuzzled into the space behind his ear. “Yeah?” Another stroke. “You’re so responsive. Drives me crazy.”

Bakugo laughed shakily, and tilted his head back onto Kirishima’s shoulder. “Keep going, and I’m gonna...”

“That’s the idea.” He kissed along Bakugo’s shoulder, nipping at the skin until it left him shivering. “You always make the best sounds when you’re like this, trying so hard to hold it in...”

Bakugo gripped his wrist for balance, his body twitching as the tension in him coiled tight.

“You’re gorgeous like this,” Kirishima murmured, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “All mine.”

A sound escaped Bakugo’s throat, and then he broke apart, hips stuttering, forehead pressing to the wall as he came in Kirishima’s hand.

Kirishima held him through it, still kissing his shoulder, gentler now, his free arm wrapped around Bakugo’s middle to keep him close. 

Still catching his breath, Bakugo turned in his arms, water slipping down the line of his back. His eyes were heavy, and when he kissed him, it was messy.

A low groan slipped from Kirishima’s throat when a hand slid down between them, fingers wrapping around him, already moving. The strokes were confident, drawing another moan from deep in his chest.

The kiss broke for just a moment, but Bakugo stayed close, his breath skating over wet skin. “Fuck, you feel good in my hand. You're gonna fall apart for me, baby? Gonna come just from my mouth in your ear and my hand on your cock?”

Kirishima hips rocked forward, seeking more. He couldn’t even form words, not with Bakugo’s hand working him so perfectly, not with his mouth returning to kiss, to bite.

“Let me have it,” Bakugo whispered against his jaw. “Let me feel how good I make you come.”

And he was already so close, so when release hit, it tore through him in a wave that left his whole body shaking. He groaned against Bakugo’s neck, his hips stuttering forward into the grip that had undone him with almost terrifying ease.

When it was over, he leaned into Bakugo’s chest. Bakugo’s head rested there, damp blond hair stuck to his temple, his fingers gently combing through the tangled strands of red that were already starting to dry near the tips.

It felt quiet again.

“I’m in love with you,” Kirishima said, barely above the sound of the water.

Bakugo froze, not even his fingers moved.

Then he stepped back a pace, blinking up at him, water dripping from his chin.

“Take it back.”

Kirishima’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“Take it back.” Bakugo said, more insistent this time, hand up like he was making an official ruling. “There’s no way in hell the first time you tell me you love me is after a sloppy handjob in a shower. That wasn’t even the best handjob I’ve given you.”

Kirishima stared, blinked, then burst out laughing, head thrown back, echoing off the shower walls.

“I’m serious!” He said, frowning now, but his eyes were already betraying him, heat and embarrassment fighting with the twitch of a smile.

“I can’t believe you’re rejecting my love declaration because of performance ranking,” Kirishima gasped between laughs.

Bakugo turned like he was about to leave the shower entirely, cursing under his breath, but Kirishima caught him around the waist, pulling him in again.

“I’ll say it again when your score goes up, then.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Bakugo huffed against his chest, trying to hide his smirk. Kirishima kissed the top of his head, water be damned, still grinning so hard it hurt.

After the shower, they moved through the house in quiet ease, towels around their waists, feet soft on the wooden floors. The sea breeze crept in through the cracked window, cooling their skin, rustling the thin curtains as if it, too, was settling in for the night.

The bed was warm. Not from the covers, but from the way they curled into each other, legs tangled, damp hair still clinging to their necks. Kirishima’s arm rested heavy over Bakugo’s waist, and Bakugo’s fingers moved absentmindedly along his ribs, tracing the shape of him like he was trying to memorize every breath.

The silence held for a long time, until Bakugo broke it.

“I want you to know, that if you ever decide to take it back, it’s okay.”

Kirishima blinked. “Take what back?”

“The love thing. It’s okay not to. Love me. I get that I’m a lot. Not everyone sticks around when I start biting at the edges.”

The room went still.

Kirishima shifted, pulled back just enough to look him in the face. “Katsuki, I’m in love with you. I'm not afraid. I'm not confused. I'm just in it.”

Bakugo didn’t look away this time. He didn’t laugh, or scoff, or try to turn it into something else. He just stayed there, eyes open, body warm in Kirishima’s arms.

He shifted in warm arms, not pulling away, just close enough that their foreheads touched. His voice came low, quiet in the way real things are, when they matter too much to say out loud.

“I’ve never been in love before, not really. I’ve wanted things. I’ve needed people. I’ve even said the words once or twice and thought maybe they were true. But this...” Bakugo exhaled, eyes closed now. “This is the first time it doesn’t feel like I’m waiting for it to fall apart. I don’t know if that’s what love’s supposed to feel like, but I’m pretty sure it is.”

Kirishima blinked hard, and he pressed a kiss to Bakugo’s hair, wrapping his arms tighter around him.

The house was quiet except for the distant sound of waves and the occasional creak of wood, and sometime after the silence had stretched and softened, they fell asleep like that, in each other's arms.

The next morning was bright and clear, sun spilling over the water like a postcard come to life. The kind of day that made every plan sound perfect.

Haruka was buzzing with excitement, bouncing on her feet at the ferry dock with her camera already hanging from her neck and sunglasses too big for her face perched on her nose.

“They said we might see dolphins,” she whispered like it was a secret only she’d been told. “And there’s a snack stand on the second deck. I’m getting three things.”

Kirishima smiled and nodded along, but the moment the boat started rocking beneath them, something shifted behind his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Bakugo asked, narrowing his gaze.

“I’m fine,” Kirishima replied, gripping the rail like it was about to betray him. “I’m just feeling the breeze.”

“You’re turning green.”

“I’m enjoying the view.”

Haruka dashed off toward the front of the boat, yelling something about taking pictures of the seagulls. Bakugo grabbed her by the collar before she could trip over a rope, gave her a snack ticket, and pointed her toward the vending cart, all while still keeping one hand firm on Kirishima’s back.

“Come sit,” he said, steering him toward a bench in the shade. “You’re about thirty seconds away from becoming a cautionary tale.”

“I’m fine,” Kirishima groaned, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

Bakugo rubbed a slow circle between his shoulder blades. “You said that two minutes ago. Right before almost throwing up on a tourist brochure.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me I get seasick?”

“I feel like the word cruise should’ve tipped you off.”

Haruka returned with chips and something suspiciously fried, happily plopping down next to them. “Can I go upstairs?” She asked, already halfway standing.

Bakugo pulled her back down gently. “Eat first. Then I’ll go with you. Your dad’s going to stay here and contemplate his life choices.”

“I’m fine,” Kirishima mumbled into his hands.

Bakugo just chuckled and handed him a bottle of water, then pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

“I’ll take care of her,” he said, quietly. “You just keep breathing.”

And even with the sway of the boat and his stomach in knots, Kirishima managed a smile. 

They stopped at a handful of small islands, each more beautiful than the last; shores lined with white stones, sea spray cool against their cheeks, gulls crying overhead like they were part of the cruise’s soundtrack. Haruka was having the time of her life, dragging Bakugo along as soon as the boat docked, racing to check out local souvenirs and shoreline shrines.

Kirishima, on the other hand, looked like he was fighting for his life.

By the second island, he’d stopped pretending he was fine.

Bakugo kept a hand on his lower back every time they disembarked, helping him off the boat like an old man, while Haruka practically skipped down the dock shouting about sea glass and scallop shells.

“You should’ve told me you were cursed,” Bakugo said under his breath, half-carrying him back to a bench.

“I thought I was just excited on the way here,” Kirishima mumbled, forehead resting against his palm. “Turns out I’m just dying.”

It wasn’t until they reached the last stop, Mikimoto Pearl Island, that things started to turn around.

The moment they stepped into the shaded entrance of the museum, with its cool stone floors and air that didn’t move, Kirishima let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a prayer. He sat down on a nearby bench like he’d finally reached shore after days lost at sea.

“Oh thank god,” he whispered. “This place doesn’t move. ”

Haruka didn’t even look at him. She was too mesmerized by the Ama divers exhibit, face tilted up toward the glass where archival videos showed women diving barefoot into the ocean, collecting oysters with practiced grace.

She stood there with her mouth shaped in a perfect “o,” hands tucked behind her back, enchanted.

Bakugo stood next to her, watching the screen too, but his eyes kept drifting. Every few moments, he glanced over his shoulder, gaze settling on Kirishima with a softness that didn’t match the museum lighting at all.

When Haruka pointed and asked something about how long the Ama could hold their breath, Bakugo answered her, but even then, even with all the pearls in the world gleaming behind the glass, he wasn’t watching the pearls. He was watching Kirishima. Making sure he was okay. 

By the time they stepped out of the museum, Haruka had an ice cream in one hand, pamphlets tucked under her arm, and stars in her eyes. She licked a bit of chocolate from the corner of her mouth, looked up at both of them, and declared with complete confidence, “I think I want to be an Ama now.”

Bakugo, walking a few steps behind her, raised an eyebrow. “Giving up on ballet already?”

“I can’t collect pearls dancing ballet,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Kirishima snorted behind his hand, still pale but grinning. “I mean... Fair point.”

She turned on her heel, skipping ahead toward the ferry dock, a little less bounce in her step now but still too happy to care. Kirishima, on the other hand, looked like he was facing a final boss battle.

The sea awaited.

The ride back was brutal. Every sway of the boat was a personal attack, and Kirishima clung to the bench like he might physically fuse with it if he tried hard enough. Haruka was tired now, but still awake enough to take at least fifteen more photos and offer her dad a bite of her second ice cream, which he waved off with a weak hand and a death glare toward the horizon.

Bakugo sat beside him, rubbing his back with small circles, passing him water, keeping Haruka entertained with stories about weird marine creatures and trivia about oysters. By the time the ferry docked, Kirishima had sworn to never board anything that floats again.

The ride back to their Airbnb was mercifully smooth. Haruka, finally slowing down, leaned her head against the window and started talking less. Bakugo drove one-handed, the other hand resting on Kirishima’s knee for most of the trip.

Back at the house, Bakugo made him lie down immediately.

“You’re banned from standing, not until you can walk without swaying like a broken antenna.”

He turned on the TV, something animated and easy for Haruka, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Kirishima lay there, one arm over his eyes, trying to will his stomach back into alignment. But his heart... His heart was fine, because Bakugo, without needing to be asked, was cooking again. Was taking care of him and Haruka like this was just life now. A hand at his knee. A pot on the stove. A quiet hum from the kitchen.

Yeah, Kirishima thought, I’m definitely in love with this man.

The smell of garlic and soy was starting to seep into the living room when Haruka came padding over in her socks, blanket dragging behind her like a cape.

Haruka climbed onto the couch without a word, her blanket cape fluttering behind her, and gave him a serious look that didn’t quite match her flushed cheeks and sleepy eyes.

“Move,” she whispered.

Kirishima blinked up at her, still dazed from the boat and the smell of dinner, but obeyed. She guided his head carefully onto her lap like he was something delicate, her tiny hands adjusting the weight of him until she was satisfied. Then, with a dramatic sigh, she began threading her fingers through his hair, pulling small strands into crooked braids.

He closed his eyes and let her, the warmth of her legs beneath his cheek grounding him better than anything else ever could.

A minute passed like that, her fingers working gently, the sounds of Bakugo moving in the kitchen like music in another room.

Then, she leaned down like she was telling him something important. A secret.

“I like him.”

“I know that,” he murmured back, smiling.

“No,” she insisted, fingers pausing in his hair. “I like him. He can stay.”

Kirishima opened his eyes and looked up at this little girl who had seen him at his worst, at his most lost, and still thought he hung the moon. His reason for everything. The part of his heart that never wavered.

He reached up, hand resting over hers.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “He can.”

2026

February brought colder mornings and pale afternoons, but Haruka had barely noticed any of it, too busy counting down the days until her cast came off.

She scratched her arm every five seconds on the ride over, sighing dramatically about how weird her skin felt, like it didn’t belong to her anymore. Kirishima kept swatting her hand away, laughing under his breath every time she made a new discovery about her now-freedom; how light her arm felt, how itchy it was, how her fingers looked thinner, “like they forgot how to eat rice.”

They parked near the studio, and Haruka practically jumped out of the car, her jacket halfway off by the time they reached the front door.

Camie was the first to spot them through the glass. She threw the door open like she’d been waiting hours just for this moment.

“Baby girl!” She cried, sweeping Haruka into a hug so tight her feet left the ground for a second. “You’re back! And you brought both arms! I missed you so much I almost started dancing again just to fill the void.”

“I missed you too,” Haruka laughed, muffled into Camie’s coat. “I didn’t think the cast would itch this much, though.”

“You’ll be fine,” Camie said, setting her down and ruffling her hair. “Scratch responsibly.”

And then Haruka was off again, jogging down the hall, feet tapping against the polished wood.

Bakugo turned from the corner just in time to be tackled at the waist.

“Look!” She grinned up at him, arms around him. “I have two functional arms now.”

He smiled, ruffling the top of her head before crouching to her level. “About time. I was starting to think I’d have to choreograph everything one-handed.”

Kirishima walked up just as Haruka started rambling about which exercises she could do again. He caught Bakugo’s sleeve gently and leaned in, brushing a soft kiss to his cheek.

That evening, after class, they left the studio wrapped in scarves and gentle silence, Haruka tucked between them, still glowing from her return to barre work. Instead of heading home, they turned down a familiar street, toward the little restaurant Bakugo had taken Kirishima to that night after the club.

It was quiet as always, soft light behind old paper lanterns, the clink of sake cups and low conversations that carried like warmth.

The old woman greeted them with a knowing smile and no questions.

Haruka sat upright just enough to rest her chin on her folded arms, blinking slow and easy like she could fall asleep right there on the table. Her braid had unraveled at the ends, and her cheeks were still pink from the cold outside.

They were waiting for the food when she spoke, so casually it almost passed unnoticed.

“I don’t think I wanna go pro,” she said, eyes fixed somewhere near the edge of her empty tea cup.

Bakugo looked up first, then Kirishima.

“I mean, I love dancing, but I also love, like, books and cooking and animals and doing nothing. And naps. I really love naps now. And if I had to train six days a week for years, I’d barely get any naps, right?” She looked between the two of them then, a small crease forming between her brows. “I hope you’re not mad at me.”

Kirishima smiled before she even finished the sentence, hand already reaching across the table to squeeze hers. “Sweetheart, you could decide to raise goats on a mountain and I’d still be proud of you.”

Bakugo leaned back in his seat, arms crossed but his expression softer than usual. “Took me until I was an adult to figure out I didn’t want to keep performing. You figured it out way earlier. That’s smart.”

Haruka blinked at him. “You’re not disappointed?”

He shook his head. “I only care that you love what you’re doing, and that you stretch properly when you do dance.”

She laughed, shoulders relaxing.

Kirishima watched them across the table, his daughter, full of her own mind and curiosity, and Bakugo, meeting her exactly where she was. No pressure. No expectations. Just two people who made every room feel like home.

And god, if this wasn’t happiness, he didn’t know what was.

Haruka finished her last bite, then stood with the quiet energy of a kid whose day had been just full enough. She tugged her sleeves down past her palms and mumbled something about checking out the corner where two old ladies were shuffling thick, lacquered Hanafuda cards.

Kirishima watched her go, then turned back to Bakugo, gaze softer now, more curious than anything else.

“You’re really not disappointed?”

Bakugo’s reply came without hesitation.

“No,” he said, his eyes still following the small shape of Haruka as she crouched next to the women, wide-eyed and whispering questions about the cards. “Especially now that I know her.”

He turned back to Kirishima then, expression thoughtful.

“She could’ve made it, yeah. She’s strong enough, body and mind. Most kids break a little before they even reach their second year of serious training. She wouldn’t. She’d hold it all together. Push through the exhaustion, the pressure, the endless critique. She’d make it.” He paused, fingers curling around his cup. “But she’d miss so much. She’d trade sleepovers and lazy weekends and dumb games for stress injuries and not eating what she wants and thinking about stage time instead of birthday parties.”

His voice was still even, but there was something behind it. Something that sounded like experience, maybe even a little grief.

“I want her to be happy. Not just proud of herself. I want her to grow up and look back and feel like her life was hers, not something she was just trying to survive.”

Kirishima sat back in his seat, eyes never leaving him.

He already knew he loved Bakugo, had known it for a while now, but in that moment, with those words and that heart he didn’t show to many, he felt it all over again.

From the ground up.

“I’m really glad she has you.”

Bakugo just looked away and hid his smile behind his tea.

The air inside the hall held a faint crispness, the kind that only comes at the very start of autumn, when summer hasn’t fully let go but the trees are already turning.

Kirishima sat in the middle of the third row, a perfect view of the stage. Mina was on his right, already holding a tissue, sniffling from the moment the house lights dimmed. His mom was on his left, hands folded neatly on her lap, her purse tucked at her feet, eyes already shining.

He was holding his phone up, recording everything. Not just Haruka, every kid, because even if they weren’t his, Bakugo had trained them. Corrected their feet. Counted beats. Adjusted posture with that exact blend of softness and precision that Kirishima had watched a hundred times in their living room. So every performance mattered.

Still, he was waiting for her.

When Haruka finally stepped onto the stage, dressed in soft pink with a ribbon around her waist, something cracked open inside him.

She was dancing to Coppélia, he’d learned that weeks ago, and had watched her rehearse the same passage over and over until she got the twirl at the end exactly how Bakugo taught her.

And now she moved like she was floating.

There were other kids, maybe even a few who danced more precisely, but Haruka danced with joy, with something that lit her from the inside, and Kirishima couldn’t help it, he stared, breath stuck somewhere in his chest.

She smiled as she moved. Her arms opened like they were welcoming something, her steps light, timed like breath.

Mina sobbed beside him, not even quiet. “She’s so beautiful,” she whispered. “Eiji. She’s so beautiful.”

He didn’t even have to look to know his mom was dabbing her eyes too, and all he could think was, god, she really loved this.

Not because someone told her to, not for the stage or the claps, she just loved dancing.

And in that moment, under soft lights, surrounded by kids she’d trained beside and older dancers waiting in the wings, Haruka looked entirely like herself.

He held the camera still, smiled like his chest might break from it.

This was the kind of moment he wanted for her. 

Always.

The applause was still echoing faintly in his ears as they moved into the main hall, one of those elegant, historic places with golden lighting and high ceilings painted like stories. Chandeliers shimmered overhead, casting warm reflections on polished wood floors. Parents were already filtering in, crowding near the velvet ropes, scanning for their children.

Kirishima held the bouquet tightly in one hand, with sunflowers, tulips, lilacs, peonies, exactly the kind of riot Haruka liked best. His mother stood beside him, smiling like her heart could barely hold everything it felt, and Mina had finally stopped crying, though her nose was still pink.

And then, between clusters of tiny dancers in pastel costumes and satin slippers, Haruka surged into view.

“Dad!”

He crossed the space in a few long strides, scooping her up before her feet could stop moving. Her arms flung around his neck, her giggle warm against his cheek, the tulle of her skirt still trembling from her final spin on stage.

He kissed her face once, twice, maybe three times, temples, cheek, the edge of her nose. He couldn’t stop even if he tried.

“You were amazing,” he said against her hair. “You were so, so amazing.”

His mother stepped forward then, her hands gentle but proud as she offered the bouquet. “For the star.”

Haruka squealed when she saw it. “These are so pretty! ” She said, and then looked back at him, her voice a little quieter, “Dad, did you like it?”

He held her closer, one arm wrapped fully around her back, the flowers pressed between them now.

“I loved it,” he said, not even blinking. “I loved you.”

And Haruka laughed into his neck and held him even tighter.

The crowd had started thinning, parents and kids trickling out into the cool evening, laughter and congratulations echoing off the marble as families made their way to late dinners or warm cars. Kirishima stood near one of the tall windows, bouquet in hand, smaller than Haruka’s, more delicate, the roses arranged carefully in reds and cream, tied with a pale ribbon Mina had picked out when he told her what it was for.

He’d sent his mom, Mina, and Haruka ahead, all headed to the cozy restaurant they’d reserved to celebrate. Haruka had gone willingly, bouncing in her seat even as her body started to crash from the high of the stage, chattering about her friends and all the funny little backstage disasters only dancers ever talked about.

Kirishima had stayed behind, waiting, and when Bakugo finally appeared from behind the curtain, from whatever corner he’d been finishing things up, he felt his chest ache a little at the sight of him.

He looked like someone who’d been running on adrenaline since dawn. Hair slightly disheveled, blazer hanging open, shoes quieter than usual on the old tile. There were faint smudges under his eyes, and his shoulders carried the weight of every cue, correction, and crisis that had happened today, but he didn’t speak.

He just walked straight toward Kirishima and pressed his face against his chest, arms hanging loose at his sides, breath exhaling long and quiet like he’d finally made it somewhere safe.

Kirishima smiled, wrapping one arm around his back, the other lifting the flowers. “I brought you these.”

Bakugo said something, muffled into his shirt.

“What?”

He turned his face just enough to breathe. “I said I loved them,” he mumbled. Then, a second later, softer still, “I love you.”

Kirishima pressed a kiss to the top of his head, hand gentle at the back of his neck. “You did well, my love,” he whispered. “It was amazing. You were amazing.”

“I want to retire,” Bakugo grunted, stepping back finally, taking the flowers with one hand like he didn’t know what to do with something that wasn’t taped sheet music or stage notes.

His other hand slid into Kirishima’s without needing to look, fingers curling tight.

“We can retire, can’t we?” He asked, eyes still half-lidded from exhaustion. “We’ve got enough saved. We could move to a small town. Somewhere with too many trees and bad reception. Buy a house in the middle of the forest. Live far away from everything.”

Kirishima huffed a soft laugh, but he wasn’t done, “We’ll raise Haruka like our ancestors. Teach her how to make fires from scratch. Build cabins. Hunt rabbits.”

“Do you know how to hunt rabbits?”

“No,” Bakugo admitted, completely serious. “But I can learn.”

That made Kirishima laugh for real, shoulders shaking as he dipped to press a kiss to his hair, breathing in the familiar scent of him beneath the leftover perfume of stage dust and flowers.

“We can talk about that later,” he said, nose still tucked against him. “Right now, we’ve got a restaurant to get to. Time to eat food that someone else hunted for us.”

Bakugo hummed low in his throat, not quite a laugh, but not a protest either. He held on tighter.

“Fine, but I still want the forest.”

“You can have the forest,” Kirishima grinned. “But you’re starting the fire.”

Kirishima’s mom spotted them first, waving from their corner booth like she’d been waiting hours. Mina and Haruka were already seated, two drinks in, chatting a mile a minute about all the other kids’ performances. It was the kind of post-show gossip Kirishima knew would last all night if left unchecked.

“It’s my favorite son-in-law,” she declared the moment Bakugo appeared behind Kirishima.

“Mom,” Kirishima groaned, not really protesting.

Bakugo opened his mouth like he was going to say something polite, maybe even tiredly formal, but she stood and pulled him into a hug before he could speak, patting his back and grinning.

“You’re so pretty it’s offensive,” she said as she pulled away. “If I had your waist at your age, I would’ve ruled the world.”

Bakugo flushed instantly, saying something about metabolism and posture, but she just waved him off like he’d complimented her instead. They sat down, and just like that, everything fell into place.

Mina and Haruka were already deep into conversation, Mina gesturing wildly with her chopsticks, retelling every performance like she hadn’t watched them all sitting in the same row. Haruka kept giggling, correcting her, adding details, glowing the way only a kid surrounded by people who adored her could glow.

But in the middle of it all, she stopped, turned, and looked straight at Bakugo, expression suddenly quiet, like something had been sitting on her chest for hours and only now found its way to her lips.

“Did I do well?” She asked, voice small.

Bakugo didn’t look at anyone else, just her, then he leaned forward, and said, “You danced like you loved it, and that’s what matters most. But yes, you did very well.”

Her whole face lit up, a joy so real it bloomed across her cheeks and reached her eyes, settling into her shoulders like pride had finally found a place to rest. She didn’t say anything else, just smiled down at her bowl and took another spoonful of soup, legs swinging under the table, completely content.

Kirishima watched them quietly, the way Bakugo’s hand stayed resting on the table near hers, close but not overbearing. The way Haruka leaned into that space, like she trusted it would always be there.

His chest ached in the most beautiful way.

This life. This strange, lucky, full life. The clatter of dishes, the murmur of his mom’s voice teasing Mina, the warmth in Bakugo’s smile after a long day, it was all so real, and somehow still better than anything he ever thought he deserved.

He leaned back a little, soaking it in.

The night air was cool by the time they left the restaurant, the streets quiet in that way only early autumn evenings could be.

After dropping Mina off with hugs, the drive home was quiet.. His mom sat in the front seat beside him, humming something old under her breath. Haruka, curled up in the back with her flowers still clutched like treasure, blinked out the window, the way kids do when their bodies are starting to shut down but their hearts are still running on leftover joy.

When they got home, Kirishima’s mom was already hanging up her coat and heading to the kitchen. “I’ll make some tea,” she said simply, the way she always did when the night had been long but still too lovely to end all at once.

They didn’t argue.

Ten minutes later, the four of them sat in the kitchen, and somewhere in the distance, a neighbor’s wind chimes sang a quiet lullaby.

Haruka yawned so loud it startled even herself.

Bakugo chuckled. Kirishima reached over and brushed her bangs from her eyes.

“Alright,” his mom said, smiling over the rim of her cup. “Go get ready for bed. I’ll take care of these.”

“You sure?” Kirishima asked, already standing.

She waved him off like she’d done it a thousand times.

Haruka gave her a goodnight kiss on the cheek, then turned to them with arms already outstretched. “Night, Dad. Night, 'tsuki.” She kissed both their cheeks in quick succession, then tiptoed to the hallway, cradling her bouquet as she disappeared to her room.

Bakugo watched her go, lips tilted in a quiet smile. Then he turned and carefully unwrapped his flowers, placing them in a wide ceramic vase by the sink. He lingered a second, fingertips brushing over the petals, before finally following Kirishima upstairs.

The rhythm of the day hadn’t left them yet. They moved through their little routine side by side, changing into cotton shirts, brushing teeth with the bathroom door open, trading looks through the mirror.

Bakugo padded into the bedroom behind him, and Kirishima pulled back the covers but didn’t get under them, just sat at the edge of the bed in his shirt and boxers. Bakugo climbed into his lap without a word, one leg on either side of him, arms draped loosely around his shoulders. He rested his head against Kirishima’s neck, face half-buried in the skin there like it was his favorite pillow.

Kirishima smiled to himself, arms slipping naturally around his waist. He lifted one hand and began to comb his fingers gently through Bakugo’s hair, the way he knew made his boyfriend’s eyes flutter and shoulders melt.

“Now it’s your turn,” Bakugo mumbled, voice almost a whisper.

“Hm?”

“Playoffs are about to start.”

“Oh?” Kirishima tilted his head, smiling against the edge of his cheek. “So you do know what playoffs are now?”

“I pay attention to what you say.”

There was a pause, just a breath of quiet, before Kirishima grinned wider.

“Yeah? Talk dirty to me, then. Tell me baseball terms.”

Bakugo didn’t lift his head. “Bottom of the ninth,” he murmured, so close it made Kirishima laugh.

“Oh, keep going.”

“Bases loaded.”

“God, yes.”

“Your ERA’s dropping.”

“Babe,” Kirishima laughed, tilting his head back, “you don’t even know what that means.”

“I don’t have to,” Bakugo said against his neck, “it sounds kinky.”

Kirishima shook with laughter, the kind that spilled out of his chest and wrapped around both of them, and Bakugo smiled too, without lifting his face, content right there.

He shifted gently, easing them both down onto the bed without breaking their closeness. Bakugo went with him, head tucked beneath Kirishima’s chin, one leg draped over his hip, arms still wrapped around his shoulders.

Bakugo tilted his face up, kissed him once and whispered, “It was really good, finishing today and knowing that I’d have someone waiting for me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. For the last few years, I’d finish a performance and there’d be no one. No one to wave at from the wings, no one to text after, no one to say you did well.”

He paused, not sad exactly, but quieter now.

“I know it’s different,” he added, “since I wasn’t the one on stage today, but it still meant something. Having you there.”

Kirishima pressed a kiss into his hair, eyes closed, “I’ll always be there,” he murmured. “Any stage, any seat, any day.”

Bakugo shifted a little, nuzzling into the space between Kirishima’s shoulder and neck, like he was trying to melt right into him.

“I’ll always be there for you, too.”

Kirishima smiled, eyes still closed. “Even if you don’t like baseball?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bakugo said, and then yawned. “I love you. That’s what matters.”

Kirishima’s heart felt like it cracked wide open and spilled light across his ribs. He kissed his forehead, and said, “I love you too.”

Bakugo hummed softly, already sinking, warm breath brushing his collarbone.

They stayed like that, wrapped around each other as the house settled for the night, the silence stretching around them, the kind that only comes when everything is exactly where it’s meant to be.

And sleep came easy.

The sky over the dome had been grey all morning. There was no need for sun when the championship lit the air on its own. It was early November, the last game of the season, and every inch of the stadium felt like it was holding its breath.

Kirishima adjusted his grip on the bat, shoulder tight from the slide he'd taken in the third, but the stiffness didn’t matter. He dug his heel into the dirt, squared his stance, and watched the pitcher.

This was the moment.

Bottom of the ninth, runners on second and third, score tied.

The pitcher wound up.

The crowd was silent, just for a second, but inside the box, there was no room for sound anyway. Kirishima’s eyes never left the ball. His chest didn’t move until it left the pitcher’s hand.

It came in fast.

He swung.

The crack of the bat echoed before he registered the connection. He didn’t need to watch it soar past the outfield, over the wall, into the scream of the crowd turning electric. He was already running.

First base. The beat of his cleats against the ground. Second. The dugout erupting behind him. Third, he could see them waiting at home. Hands raised. Mouths open.

He rounded the plate and touched home with both feet.

The crowd broke open.

He was swarmed before he could straighten. Sero grabbed him first, arms tight around his shoulders, shouting something he couldn’t hear. Kaminari, yelling directly in his ear. Ojiro and Shoji somewhere in the blur, punching the air.

Kirishima grinned so wide it hurt. He had nothing left in his lungs, nothing but adrenaline and sweat. He lifted his arms once, briefly, as the cheers thundered all around them.

Champions.

The ceremony happened quickly, but Kirishima would remember every detail for the rest of his life.

Trophies gleaming under the lights. The weight of medals looped over each player’s neck. Hands clapping shoulders, voices hoarse from screaming. The photographers calling for them to pose. Shoji holding the championship banner too high, Kaminari trying to climb his back to get higher.

He stood in the center of the group, arms slung around Sero and Ida, Ojiro yelling something in the back about getting beer in the locker room.

And just before the shutter snapped, Kirishima turned.

He’d looked to the same section at least four times during the game, every time he stepped onto the field, like he couldn’t help it, but now he saw them.

In the second row above the dugout, standing in a sea of people, were two faces he could never miss.

Haruka was on Bakugo’s shoulders, waving both hands in the air, wearing a baseball jersey almost too big for her, KIRISHIMA 11 printed bold across her back. Her cap was tilted to one side, face flushed with excitement, eyes wide with pride.

Bakugo stood beneath her, one hand holding her ankle for balance, the other raised in a quiet fist. He wore the same jersey, sleeves rolled up, cap low over his forehead, but there was no mistaking the smile on his face.

Kirishima smiled and lifted one arm, not for the cameras, not for the crowd, just for them.

Bakugo met his eyes across the noise and nodded, and Haruka’s smile got even brighter.

Yeah.

This was the win.

Kirishima stood there, still in the middle of the chaos, lights flashing, voices all around him, his teammates pulling him in for more photos, the crowd chanting his name, and thought, fuck it.

Everything in him pulled in one direction.

He took off in purposeful strides across the field, cutting through the haze of reporters and staff and teammates yelling his name. He didn’t stop until he reached the front of the stands, where Haruka was already leaning toward him, arms stretched, face glowing.

He scooped her up in one move, lifting her high and tucking her into the crook of his arm, and she squealed into his ear, giggling uncontrollably as he spun them once in place.

And then, without missing a beat, he reached out with his free hand, grabbed the collar of Bakugo’s jersey, and yanked him forward.

He kissed him.

There wasn’t time to think about the crowd, or the flashes, or the fact that they were still in the middle of a stadium packed with tens of thousands of people. Kirishima kissed him and Bakugo kissed him back.

Haruka squealed again in his arm and quickly pulled off her cap, holding it up over their faces with both hands like it could shield them from the whole world.

“You’re embarrassing,” she whispered between laughs.

When they finally pulled apart, Kirishima was breathless, blinking at Bakugo like he couldn’t believe he hadn’t done that sooner.

“Dinner after I shower?” He asked, still catching his breath, still holding her close.

“I want crispy tofu,” Haruka announced, matter-of-fact, tucking her face into his neck.

“So crispy tofu it is,” Bakugo said, already smiling.

The stadium didn’t stop moving around them, the lights still blinding, the buzz still high, but in that pocket of quiet between hearts beating fast and arms wrapped full, Kirishima knew.

This was really it.

Everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d never even known he could have, and it was his.