Chapter 3: Shelter from the Storm
The signal fire was a defiant orange tear in the gathering twilight, but the wind had other ideas. It snatched at the flames, whipping them into frantic, dying spirals. The first fat, cold raindrop hit Nala’s cheek like a warning shot.
“Shit,” Katsuki snarled, his head snapping up to the bruised purple sky. The clouds had rolled in with silent, predatory speed. “The fire’s done.”
Another drop, then a dozen, then a deafening roar as the sky split open. The rain wasn't falling; it was a solid sheet of water, instantly drenching them to the bone and extinguishing their hard-won fire with a violent hiss.
“We need cover!” Nala yelled over the downpour, her hair plastered to her face in dark red ropes.
“No kidding!” He grabbed her wrist, his grip iron-tight, and pulled her off the exposed ridge. They half-ran, half-slid down the muddy slope, the jungle floor turning into a treacherous river of slick leaves and mud. Lightning flashed, bleaching the world in stark white for a split second, followed by a thunderclap that vibrated in their teeth.
He moved with a terrifying, innate sense of terrain, his eyes scanning through the torrential curtain. “There!” he barked, pointing to a darker patch in the rock face barely visible through the cascading water. It wasn’t a cave, not quite. It was a deep recess, its entrance obscured by a roaring curtain of water from a newly swollen stream above. A waterfall.
They plunged through the cold, pounding deluge, emerging gasping into a pocket of sudden, echoing stillness. The cave was small, the air cool and heavy with the smell of wet stone and ozone. The floor was littered with smooth, water-worn pebbles. The only light was the intermittent flash of lightning through the watery veil at the entrance, painting the glistening walls in frantic pulses.
Nala hugged herself, her soaked clothes clinging to her like a second, freezing skin. A violent shiver wracked her frame, her teeth chattering. The cold was a physical assault, seeping deep, threatening the fragile warmth she’d cultivated at the hot spring and the fire. She felt the ember inside her guttering, the heat retreating before the chill.
“D-Don’t suppose you can explode us some central heating?” she managed through chattering teeth.
He shot her a withering look, already wringing water from his shirt. “My quirk doesn’t work like a space heater, dumbass. It’s concussive. I’d bring the whole mountain down on us.” He tossed the wet shirt aside with a slap against the stone. “Your clothes are the problem. They’re sapping your body heat.”
Another shiver, so strong it felt like a seizure. The glow in her veins felt distant, faint. “I’m f-fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re turning blue.” His voice was flat, analytical. He stood there, shirtless, water beading on his torso, watching her as if she were a faulty piece of equipment. “You’ll go into hypothermia. And that quirk of yours, the one we just barely jump-started, will be the first thing to die.”
He took a step toward her. Then another. The cave felt suddenly, impossibly smaller.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was a whisper, swallowed by the drumming water.
“Quirk maintenance,” he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. His hands came up, not to her arms, but to the hem of her soaked tank top. “This is a liability. It comes off.”
Her brain stuttered. “Katsuki—”
“It’s not a debate.” His eyes held hers, red and unblinking in a lightning flash. There was no leer, no hint of desire, only that same relentless, pragmatic intensity. “Your body can’t fuel your quirk if it’s fighting to keep your core temperature stable. Basic thermodynamics.”
His fingers were already hooking under the wet fabric. She was too cold, too stunned to resist. He peeled the shirt over her head with a efficiency that was neither gentle nor rough, just purposeful. It landed on the stones with a sodden thud. The cave air was a cold shock against her bare skin, her sports bra doing little to hide her. She crossed her arms over her chest, a futile gesture.
“The rest,” he said, his gaze dropping to her soaked pants.
“No.”
“Do you want to survive or not?” The question was a low growl, stripped of all pretense. It wasn’t about modesty. It was about the mission. About the asset.
Shame, cold and sharp, warred with the deeper, more primal need for warmth. She was losing the battle on all fronts. With trembling, numb fingers, she fumbled with the button of her pants, pushing them and her underwear down her legs in one clumsy motion. She kicked them aside, standing there in just her bra and panties, shivering uncontrollably, exposed in the flickering dark.
He closed the final distance. His body was a furnace. He didn’t embrace her. He positioned her, turning her to face the cave wall, his chest pressing against her bare back. His arms came around her, his rough, calloused palms flattening against her stomach.
A jolt, electric and searing, shot through her. It had nothing to do with the cold.
“Breathe,” he commanded, his voice a rumble against her ear. “And focus. Find the heat. The heat from the spring. From the fire. Pull it back.”
His hands were everywhere. They swept up her torso, chafing her arms, his touch clinical and brutally effective. He was creating friction, stimulating blood flow, but it felt like branding. Everywhere his skin met hers, a trail of fire bloomed. It was too much. The line between his practical mission and her unraveling senses was vaporizing.
“I c-can’t…” she gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder. Her body was arching into his touch against her will, seeking the heat he offered, the stability of his solid frame.
“You can.” One of his hands slid down, splaying over her lower abdomen, holding her firmly against him. The other hand came up, cupping the base of her throat, his thumb resting on her pounding pulse. “It’s right there. I can feel it fighting. So fight harder.”
His touch was a catalyst, far more potent than the mineral water. The dying ember inside her roared back to life, not as a controlled flame, but as a wildfire. A low moan escaped her as warmth flooded her, real and overpowering. Orange light pulsed under her skin, illuminating his hands on her body, casting their tangled shadows against the cave wall.
This wasn’t quirk maintenance. This was something else entirely.
His breathing had changed. The practiced, even rhythm was gone. She could feel the hard, rapid beat of his heart against her back. His hand on her stomach tightened, his fingers digging into her skin. The thumb on her throat stroked once, a slow, deliberate caress that was anything but clinical.
The pretense shattered.
He turned her in his arms, his movements suddenly less controlled. The lightning flashed, illuminating his face. The focused determination was still there, but beneath it was a raw, hungry tension she had never seen before. His gaze dropped to her mouth.
“Katsuki,” she whispered, her voice raw.
He didn’t answer with words. He answered with a rough, searing kiss that stole what was left of her breath. It was all demand and possession, a claiming he’d denied them both for years. Her hands came up, not to push him away, but to clutch at his shoulders, her fingers tangling in the damp spikes of his hair.
The storm outside was nothing compared to the one they unleashed in the dark. The rational world, their training, her diagnosis, his ambitions—it all melted away in the heat. There was only the feel of his hands on her bare skin, the taste of rain on his lips, and the terrifying, exhilarating feeling of falling without a net.
When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathing as if they’d run a marathon. His forehead rested against hers, his eyes closed. The glow from her skin was fading, settling into a steady, warm hum.
The sound of the waterfall was a constant, deafening reminder of the world outside. He didn’t let her go. His hands remained on her hips, his grip firm, almost possessive.
“Don’t,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “Don’t say a damn word.”
She didn’t. There were no words for what had just happened. There was only the aftermath, the dizzying freefall, and the solid, unyielding reality of his body holding hers in the dark. The line was not just blurred anymore; it had been obliterated. And neither of them knew how to draw a new one.
The roar of the waterfall was the only sound for a long time, a constant, drenching white noise that filled the space where words should have been. He didn’t move his hands from her hips. She didn’t pull away from the solid heat of his body. The orange glow under her skin had faded completely, leaving behind only the memory of its pulse and the raw, exposed feeling of his touch.
Finally, he let out a sharp, controlled breath. His hands dropped to his sides as he took a deliberate step back. The cool cave air rushed into the space between them, a shocking reminder of their separation.
“The storm’s letting up,” he said, his voice rougher than usual. He turned toward the watery curtain, refusing to look at her.
Nala wrapped her arms around herself, the ghost of his palms still burning on her skin. “Yeah.”
He grabbed his still-damp shirt from the ground and tossed it to her without a word. It hit her chest with a soft thwap. “Put that on. Your clothes are still soaked.”
She pulled the oversized shirt over her head. It smelled like him—ozone, sweat, and the sharp, clean scent of the rain. The fabric was abrasive but warm from his body. She watched the rigid line of his back as he stared out at the retreating storm.
“We should gather more of that fruit before it gets dark,” she said, just to say something. Just to prove her voice still worked.
“Obviously.” He raked a hand through his spiky hair. “And we need to find a better water source than drinking from a waterfall that probably has our own filth in it.”
The clinical, practical tone was back, a flimsy barrier hastily constructed. It was so transparent it was almost painful. She bent to retrieve her own wet clothes, wringing them out with more force than necessary.
“Right. Because that’s the most pressing issue right now.”
He finally turned, his crimson eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head, squeezing water from her pants. “Forget it.”
“No, say it.” He took a step closer, the air crackling with the same tension that had just shattered them. “You got a problem with how I’m handling this?”
“Handling what?” She met his gaze, her amber eyes flashing in the dim light. “The survival part, or the part where you kissed me like you were trying to win a fight?”
His jaw tightened. A muscle ticked near his eye. “It was a miscalculation. The conditions. The adrenaline. It compromised my judgment.”
“A miscalculation.” The word felt like a slap. She laughed, a short, hollow sound. “Of course. A tactical error.”
“What do you want me to say, Nala?” He spread his hands, a gesture of frustrated exasperation. “You want to sit here and dissect it? Fine. It happened. It doesn’t change our objective.”
“Our objective.” She pulled on her damp pants, the cold fabric clinging unpleasantly. “Right. The mission. The asset.” She gestured vaguely at herself. “Don’t worry, Bakugo. I won’t malfunction on you.”
She pushed past him toward the waterfall’s veil, needing the cold shock of the water to clear her head. He caught her arm, his grip firm but not painful.
“Stop putting words in my mouth,” he growled.
“Then give me some of your own!” The words burst out of her, louder than she intended. “For one second, stop being a hero-in-training and just be a person! What was that?”
He stared at her, his chest rising and falling with sharp breaths. The silence stretched, taut and fragile. Just when she thought he would never answer, his grip on her arm loosened, his thumb brushing almost imperceptibly against her skin.
“It was a mistake,” he said, his voice low. “But it wasn’t because of the mission.”
He released her and turned away, striding out through the waterfall before she could process the confession. The cave was empty again, save for the echoing drip of water. She stood there, his shirt hanging off her frame, his words echoing in the space he’d left behind.
He was waiting for her outside, standing on a sun-warmed rock as the steam began to rise from the jungle floor. The world was washed clean, vibrant and dripping. He didn’t look at her as she emerged.
“The fruit trees are that way,” he said, pointing uphill. His tone was all business again, but the edge was gone.
“Lead the way,” she replied, her own voice quieter.
They walked in a silence that was no longer entirely uncomfortable. It was charged, yes, but with a new, unspoken acknowledgment. The ground between them had fundamentally shifted. There was no going back to what they were before the cave.
He stopped at the base of the fruit tree, knocking a few of the spiky purple orbs down. He caught one, tore it open, and handed her the larger half. Their fingers brushed again. This time, neither of them flinched.
“We’ll set up a more permanent camp near the hot spring,” he said between bites of the tangy fruit. “The mineral content in the water… it’s a resource. We can use it to regulate your quirk.”
“To keep the asset operational,” she said, but there was no bite to it now. It was almost a question.
He finished his fruit and wiped his hands on his pants. He looked at her, really looked at her, his gaze tracing the lines of her face, the way his shirt draped over her shoulders.
“To keep you from going out,” he said quietly.
It was the closest he would ever come to an apology, to an admission. It was enough. For now, it was enough. She nodded, a small, tentative movement. He gave a curt nod in return, then turned to lead the way back down toward the steaming pools, the two of them navigating the treacherous, newly unfamiliar terrain together.
The path back to the hot springs was a slick, silent negotiation. He didn’t offer a hand as she slid on a mud-slick root, and she didn’t expect one. The space between them hummed with everything left unsaid, a third presence on the trail. The memory of his hands on her bare skin was a brand beneath the fabric of his borrowed shirt.
Steam rose to meet them as they pushed through the final wall of foliage, the sulfurous air a thick, familiar blanket. The pools shimmered, undisturbed, their turquoise water a stark contrast to the storm-ravaged jungle.
“We’re camping here,” he announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. He dropped his pack near a dry, rocky overhang. “I’ll get wood for a proper fire. You get in the water.”
Nala didn’t protest. The deep chill from the storm still clung to her bones, a stark threat to the fragile warmth nestled in her core. She walked to the edge of the pool, her movements stiff. This time, she didn’t turn her back.
She met his gaze as she peeled off his damp shirt, then her pants. His eyes tracked the motion, but he didn’t look away. There was no clinical assessment now, only a heavy, unblinking focus that made her skin prickle. She stepped into the searing water, the heat an immediate, penetrating relief.
He watched for a moment longer, his jaw tight, before turning abruptly to vanish into the green.
Alone, she sank until the water covered her shoulders. She focused inward, chasing the feeling the minerals had sparked before. It was there, but fainter, like an echo. The memory of the cave was a stronger catalyst, a disruptive current under her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the feel of his mouth on hers.
The crackle of returning firewood broke her concentration. He’d built a small, efficient pyre under the overhang, well away from the damp ground. With a sharp crack of his palms, a spark ignited the dry tinder. Real flames, not hers, leapt to life.
He stood, dusting his hands, his profile outlined in orange. “Well?”
“It’s… simmering.” It was the most honest answer she had. The power wasn’t roaring back, just sleeping uneasily.
“Then simmer harder.” He walked to the pool’s edge and sat, pulling off his boots. He didn’t strip this time, just rolled his pants up to his knees and plunged his feet into the steaming water with a hiss. “We’re not leaving this spot until you can call it on command. Without the… external factors.”
She knew what he meant. Without the cave. Without him touching her. “It might not be possible.”
“Everything’s possible.” He leaned back on his hands, staring at the jungle canopy. “You just have to want it bad enough.”
“I want to survive,” she said, the words sharp.
“Do you?” He turned his head, his red eyes catching the firelight. “Or have you already made peace with fading out? Because I’m not carrying dead weight.”
The accusation hit its mark with brutal precision. It stripped away the last of her composure. Rage, hot and clean, flooded her. The water around her hands began to steam violently.
“You think I wanted this?” Her voice was low, dangerous. “You think I enjoy feeling like a ghost in my own body?”
“I think you gave up!” he shot back, surging forward, water sloshing around his calves. “Back at the agency, you got the diagnosis and you just… shut down. I saw it. Everyone saw it. You started treating your own power like it was already gone.”
“You don’t know anything about it.”
“I know you’re not fighting!” The roar was back in his voice, the one from the cave, raw and unfiltered. “That little show in the cave? That was a reaction. A spark. I need a goddamn inferno, Nala. So stop feeling sorry for yourself and find it.”
The steam around her was a cloud now. The ember in her gut, fanned by his fury, ignited. Heat flared through her veins, not the gentle warmth of the springs, but the aggressive, familiar surge of her power. Her hands glowed, casting an orange light on the furious tears in her eyes.
“Is this what you want to see, Bakugo?” she snarled, flames licking over her knuckles. “Is this enough of a fight for you?”
He stared at the fire wreathing her hands, his chest heaving. The anger on his face didn’t fade, but it shifted, morphing into something more complex, more intense.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “That’s exactly what I want to see.”
He moved without warning, sliding fully into the pool, clothes and all. He closed the distance in two strides, his soaked shirt clinging to every defined muscle. He didn’t grab her this time. He just stood there, inches away, a challenge in the set of his shoulders.
“Now hit me with it.”
Her breath caught. “What?”
“You heard me. You’re mad? Use it. Direct it. A controlled burst. Right here.” He tapped his own chest, right over his heart. “Prove you’re still in there.”
She hesitated, the flames wavering. The thought of aiming her power at him, even a controlled bit, sent a jolt of pure fear through her.
“I can’t.”
“You can.” His gaze was unwavering, absolute. “You won’t hurt me. You’re not strong enough for that yet.”
The arrogant bastard. The insult, deliberate and precise, was the final push. A sharp, concussive burst of flame erupted from her palm, slamming into his chest. It wasn't enough to burn, just enough to sting, to shove him back a step in the water.
He grunted, a smirk twisting his lips. “Again.”
She let loose another, then another, each blast a release of the frustration, the fear, the shame of the past weeks. He stood and took it, his expression one of fierce approval, his body absorbing the punishment like it was a gift.
When she finally stopped, panting, the glow fading from her skin, the air was thick with the smell of ozone and wet cotton. Steam rose from his shirt where her flames had hit.
He reached out, his movements slow, and took her still-smoking hand. His thumb traced the back of her knuckles, a gesture so at odds with the violence of moments before it made her throat tight.
“See?” he said, his voice rough. “It’s still yours.”
She looked down at their joined hands, then up at his face. The walls were down, completely. All that was left was the truth of the steam and the dark and the two of them, stranded.
“What are we doing?” she whispered.
His hand tightened on hers. “Surviving,” he said. But the word meant something entirely different now.