Chapter 1: The Accidental Strip Tease and Three Pairs of Hungry Eyes
The afternoon sun poured through the kitchen window, painting the clutter in warm gold. A chipped hibiscus mug sat beside a bowl holding the fossilized remains of a smoothie. The air smelled like lavender from a candle that had burned out hours ago and the lingering, garlicky scent of lechon kawali from lunch.
Sophia padded into the room, humming something tuneless and off-key. The shower’s steam still clung to her skin. Her dark, tight curls were piled into a messy bun, damp tendrils sticking to her neck. She wore an oversized black t-shirt, soft from a hundred washes, that hit her mid-thigh. A faded image of some obscure band stretched across her chest. Underneath, just the simple cotton of her panties.
She was thinking about sleep, mostly. How her bed was calling her name. She opened the fridge, the cool air washing over her, and bent at the waist to peer at the bottom shelf, looking for the iced coffee she knew was in there.
The shirt rode up.
Prince Caspian, her fat orange cat, chose that moment to weave between her ankles. She laughed, a bright, bubbly sound. “You menace,” she cooed, straightening up with the cat in her arms before leaning over again to deposit him gently on the floor. The movement was a slow, casual arc of her body.
From the archway leading to the living room, the scene unfolded in silent, high-definition clarity.
Eijirou Kirishima’s sharp intake of breath was audible. His crimson eyes, usually sparkling with easygoing energy, darkened, fixed on the strip of bare thigh revealed as the shirt fabric tightened, tracing the generous curve of her ass underneath the thin cotton. His hero costume felt like it was shrunk two sizes, the thick material suddenly oppressive and tight across his chest and groin.
Beside him, Katsuki Bakugou didn’t move a muscle. But his jaw was clenched so tight a vein throbbed in his temple. His gaze, a simmering crimson, didn’t flutter. It dragged slowly from the back of her knees, up the soft fullness of her thighs, to where the panties disappeared under the hem of the shirt. He saw the faint outline of the rose tattoo through the fabric, right between her shoulder blades. His hands, usually crackling with restrained energy, flexed at his sides.
Izuku Midoriya made a small, choked sound in the back of his throat. His face was beet red, green eyes wide behind his lashes. He saw the delicate line of her spine, the way her body moved with unselfconscious grace. He saw the “07” inked on the back of her hand as she stroked the cat, the little stars on her wrists. He forced his eyes to the ceiling, then to the floor, then back to her—a helpless, guilty cycle.
“Aha!” Sophia sang out, finally locating the glass bottle. She shut the fridge door with her hip and turned, holding her prize aloft.
And froze.
Her mother, Serena, stood there, car keys in hand, an expression of mild exasperation on her face. But it was the three massive, incredibly fit men in full hero regalia standing behind her that made Sophia’s brain short-circuit.
“Oh,” she said. The sound was small.
Kirishima was the first to recover, his trademark grin spreading across his face, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. They were still locked on her. “Hey, kiddo! Long time no see. You’ve, uh… you’ve grown.”
Bakugou just grunted, finally wrenching his gaze away to stare at a point on the wall beside her head, his ears tinged pink.
Midoriya waved awkwardly, his mouth opening and closing without sound.
Serena sighed, tossing her keys into a ceramic bowl with a clatter. “Sophia, for god’s sake. I texted you we were on our way up. The guys are here to discuss the security detail for the conference next week.”
“My phone’s charging in my room,” Sophia murmured, her own face heating. She subtly tugged the hem of her shirt down. A futile gesture. They’d already seen everything there was to see. The awareness of it prickled over her skin, a weird, thrilling static.
“Go put some pants on,” Serena said, not unkindly, but with a firmness that brooked no argument. “And a real shirt. This isn’t a beach house.”
Sophia nodded, clutching the iced coffee bottle to her chest like a shield. She moved to walk past them, the space suddenly too small. As she passed Kirishima, she caught his scent—sandstone and sharp, clean sweat. Bakugou smelled like burned cinnamon and nitroglycerin. Midoriya like fresh linen and ozone.
She felt their eyes on her back as she retreated down the hallway. Not just looking. Seeing. It was a physical pressure, a heat between her shoulder blades.
In the safety of her bedroom, she closed the door and leaned against it, her heart hammering. “Oh my god,” she whispered to her empty room. Prince Caspian jumped onto her bed and meowed in agreement.
She didn’t just throw on sweatpants and a hoodie. That felt like admitting defeat, like hiding. Instead, she pulled on a pair of dark, fitted jeans that hugged her hips and a sage green sweater that was soft and just baggy enough to be comfortable. It brought out the gold in her skin. She looked good. She knew she looked good.
When she re-entered the living room, the atmosphere had shifted, thickened. The three heroes were seated—Kirishima sprawled on the Powerpuff Girls couch, Bakugou in the armchair like a king on a thorny throne, Midoriya perched on the edge of the recliner. Her mother was in the kitchen making tea.
“Better,” Serena called out.
Sophia ignored her, heading for the kitchen to get a glass. As she passed the couch, Kirishima’s eyes tracked her, a slow, appraising sweep that was anything but brotherly. It was the look a man gives a woman he wants to fuck. Raw and unmistakable.
“So, security,” Sophia said, trying to sound casual, pouring her coffee. “Big conference?”
“High-profile,” Midoriya said, his voice slightly too high. “Lots of foreign dignitaries. We’re coordinating with several agencies.”
“Sounds boring as hell,” Bakugou muttered, but his eyes were on her hands, on the way her sweater sleeve fell back to reveal the star on her wrist.
“Your mom volunteered your place as a central meeting point,” Kirishima said, his voice a low rumble. “Said you wouldn’t mind.”
“I don’t,” Sophia said, turning to lean against the counter. She took a sip, meeting Kirishima’s gaze over the rim of the glass. A challenge. A question.
His grin turned wolfish.
Serena came back in with a tray of mugs. “Here we are. Now, Izuku, you were saying about the south quadrant threat assessment…”
The conversation droned on. Sophia half-listened, but her focus was pulled to the undercurrents in the room. The way Bakugou’s boot tapped a restless rhythm against her floor. The way Midoriya’s notes were covered in frantic, dense script, but his eyes kept flicking to the line of her neck. The way Kirishima’s arm was draped along the back of the couch, his biceps flexing subtly, as if imagining it was wrapped around her instead.
She bent over to pick up a fallen pen from the coffee table, and she did it slowly, deliberately. She heard Bakugou’s tap-tap-tapping stop dead.
When she straightened, his eyes were blazing into hers, a storm of conflict and pure, unadulterated want. He looked away first, scowling at his own hands.
The meeting wound down. Plans were made. Times were set.
As the men stood to leave, Kirishima lingered. “Thanks for the hospitality, Sophia,” he said, his voice dropping. His hand came up, not touching her, but brushing a loose curl that had escaped her bun. The calloused pad of his thumb grazed her earlobe. A jolt went straight to her core. “We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.”
Bakugou shouldered past him with a tch. “Don’t be creepy, Shitty Hair.” But as he passed her, his hand shot out, quick as a striking snake, and squeezed her hip. Just once. A hard, possessive crush of his fingers into the soft flesh above her jeans pocket. It stole her breath.
Midoriya just offered a wobbly smile and a nod, his eyes soft and anxious.
Serena saw them out, her chatter filling the hallway.
When the door clicked shut, the silence in the apartment was deafening. Laden.
Serena came back in, shaking her head. “Honestly, Soph. Prancing around like that. You know how men are. Especially those three.” She started collecting mugs. “That Bakugou boy is trouble. And Kirishima’s too… much. Izuku’s sweet, but he’s a man. You stick to girls, okay? It’s safer. Simpler.”
Sophia didn’t answer. She was staring at the door, her hip and her earlobe still burning from where they’d been touched.
Safe. Simple.
That wasn’t what the heat in Kirishima’s eyes had promised. It wasn’t what the brutal grip of Bakugou’s hand had threatened. It wasn’t what the flustered, longing look from Midoriya had offered.
It was messy. It was complicated. It was three different kinds of hunger aimed directly at her.
For the first time, her mother’s warnings sounded like nothing but empty noise, drowned out by the pounding of her own heart. She took a long, slow drink of her coffee, a small, secret smile playing on her lips.
She couldn’t wait for them to come back.