Chapter 1: Midnight Hunger and Unexpected Softness
The dorm kitchen at midnight was a cave of quiet shadows and faint, humming appliances. Sophia padded in on bare feet, the vinyl floor cool and sticky in spots under her toes. The only light spilled from the open fridge, a rectangle of brilliance that cut through the gloom and illuminated floating dust motes and a countertop disaster zone. There were mugs, ghosted with old coffee rings, a torn bag of salt and vinegar chips spilling its contents, and a neon sticky note slapped next to the sink in handwriting she’d come to recognize as Midoriya’s: “Bakugou, don’t steal my snacks again.” She grinned, her fingers tracing the edge of the note. Some things were universal.
The air smelled of burnt carbohydrates and something sharp, almost clean—citrus and salt. Her stomach growled, a low, insistent complaint. She was hunting for the secret stash of chocolate-covered rice cakes she knew Kaminari hid behind the cheap dishware when the fridge door swung wider.
A shape blocked most of the light.
He was shirtless, a silhouette carved in muscle and shadow, backlit by the fridge’s sterile glow. Sweat traced the hard lines of his shoulders, his spine, catching the light like scattered diamonds on skin. Katsuki Bakugou. He was gulping water from a plastic bottle, his throat working, one hand braced against the fridge door. The magnets—Kirishima’s grinning Polaroid, a faded hibiscus print from her mom, All Might’s solemn hero license—jittered with the movement.
Sophia froze, one hand halfway into the cupboard. “Oh. Hey.”
He didn’t startle. He just finished swallowing, lowered the bottle, and turned his head. His eyes, sharp even in the low light, found her. He looked her up and down: her oversized Sleepy Hollow shirt, her shorts, her probably-messy curls. She watched his gaze catch on the “07” inked on the back of her left hand, then flick away.
“Midnight pest,” he said, his voice a low rasp. It wasn’t a shout. It was just a statement, rough from exertion.
“Snack emergency,” she replied, finding her voice. It was cheerier than the moment probably warranted. “The void called. I answered.”
He grunted, a sound that could have meant anything. He reached into the fridge, the muscles in his back and arm shifting with a fluid, practiced grace. She watched, because it was hard not to. He was like a piece of moving anatomy art. He emerged not with another bottle, but with a protein bar. He held it out to her without fully turning around, his arm extended behind him.
“Here.”
She stared at the offering, wrapped in shiny silver foil. “I was gonna have chips.”
“This is better.” He shook it once, impatient. “Less garbage. Eat something decent, dumbass.”
The insult lacked its usual heat. It was almost… routine. Domestic, even. She took the bar, her fingers brushing his. His skin was warm, damp. “Thanks.”
He finally turned, leaning against the fridge door frame, arms crossed over his chest. The light painted one side of him stark white, the other lost in deep blue shadow. She saw the sweat sheening his chest, the definition of his abs, a few older, silvery scars she’d never ask about. His own tattoos were hidden in the dark. She focused very hard on peeling open the protein bar.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked. He wasn’t looking at her anymore; he was staring at some point past her shoulder, toward the dark common area.
“Brain wouldn’t shut up. You just got back?” She took a bite. It was peanut butter chocolate. Not bad.
“Training grounds. Solo session.” He pushed off from the fridge, the movement effortless, and grabbed a towel from the back of a chair. He dragged it over his face, his neck. “Quirk control. Fine-tuning the yield-to-heat ratio in confined spaces.”
“Sounds fun.”
“It’s work.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Which, to him, it probably was.
They lapsed into a silence that wasn’t exactly uncomfortable. It was just… quiet. The hum of the fridge filled the space between them. She finished the bar, crumpling the wrapper. He was leaning against the counter now, looking at his hands, turning them over as if inspecting for flaws.
“You’re, like, really dedicated,” she said, because the quiet was starting to feel like a thing she had to fill. “It’s kinda intimidating.”
That got his attention. His red eyes flicked to her. “Good.”
“Not for me! I mean, it is, but like… in a ‘wow, look at that guy go’ way. Not a ‘I’m scared’ way.” She winced inwardly. Too bubbly. Dial it back.
He didn’t call her on it. Just kept looking at her, his expression unreadable. “You train?”
“Me? Yeah. Not like that, though. My thing’s more… support-based. Energy redirection, kinetic buffers. Less boom, more… pfwoosh.” She made a gentle sweeping motion with her hands.
“Pfwoosh,” he repeated, deadpan.
She laughed. It sounded too loud in the quiet kitchen. “Yeah. Not very sexy, as powers go.”
“A power’s a power. How you use it is what matters.” He said it like it was a fundamental law of physics. “Your control any good?”
The question surprised her. “I’m… okay. I can be a little all-or-nothing sometimes. Still learning the finesse part.”
He nodded once, a short, sharp dip of his chin. “Finesse comes from repetition. And from not snacking on chips at midnight.”
“Hey, you gave me the bar! You’re an enabler!”
A snort. Almost a laugh. It was gone so fast she might have imagined it. “Whatever. Just saying. Fuel matters.”
He pushed himself upright. “I’m hitting the showers. Don’t stay up all night. Your class has that joint rescue simulation with the second-years at 0800. You’ll need your brain.”
He knew her schedule. The thought pinged in her head, warm and strange. He was already walking out of the kitchen, towel slung over his shoulder, the powerful lines of his back receding into the hallway’s darkness.
“Hey, Bakugou?” she called softly.
He paused, a darker shadow in the dark. Didn’t turn.
“Thanks. For the bar.”
A grunt. Then, “Don’t mention it. And clean up your crumbs, Round Face.”
He was gone. The kitchen felt suddenly larger, emptier. The only evidence he’d been there was the lingering scent of ozone and clean sweat, and the empty water bottle on the counter. She walked over, picked it up, and put it in the recycling. She wiped the few crumbs she’d made into her hand.
As she walked back to her room, the protein bar sat settling in her stomach. The interaction played on a loop in her mind—the unexpected kindness wrapped in abrasive paper, the sheer physicality of him in the dim light, the fact that he’d noticed her, remembered her schedule. It wasn’t flirting. It was just… Bakugou. A bizarre, crude sort of care.
She climbed into bed, the cool sheets a relief. Outside her window, the campus was still and dark. She thought about finesse, and repetition, and fuel. She thought about the way the light had caught the sweat on his skin. And for the first time all night, her brain finally, blessedly, shut up.
And for the first time all night, her brain finally, blessedly, shut up.
Sleep came thick and fast, a warm, syrupy tide pulling her under.
She dreams of him.
Not in the way she might have expected, not some fantastical romantic scene. There’s no soft focus. It’s hyper-real, sharper than memory. She’s back in the kitchen, but the shadows are deeper, the fridge light a blinding white sun. He’s not just shirtless; he’s gleaming, every muscle fiber defined as if carved from light and obsidian. The sweat isn’t just on his skin; it’s tracing slow, deliberate paths down the contours of his chest, catching the light like liquid mercury.
He doesn’t move. He’s a statue of arrested motion, one hand still holding the protein bar out to her. But his eyes are alive, watching her with an intensity that feels like a physical weight.
“Finesse,” he says in the dream, but his voice doesn’t come from his mouth. It echoes in the space between her ribs. “It’s in the restraint. Not in holding back. In choosing where to put the force.”
In the dream, she reaches for the bar. Her fingers, marked with the “07”, move through air that feels like water. Her skin brushes his. A spark, not metaphorical but actual, tiny and bright, jumps from his fingertip to hers. A miniature explosion without sound, without heat. Just a flash of pure, concussive light.
He doesn’t let go of the bar. His hand closes over hers, callouses rough against her knuckles. The contact is electric, grounding and terrifying.
“Pay attention, Round Face,” the voice rumbles through her bones. “The world isn’t soft. Your power shouldn’t be either.”
Then the kitchen melts. They’re on the training grounds, but at night. The world is shades of blue and black. He’s across from her, palms sparking, lighting up the sharp planes of his face in intermittent flares.
“Stop cushioning,” he barks. “Redirect. Right back at me. Now.”
She tries. She throws her hands up, her kinetic buffer forming a shimmering, barely visible shield. His explosion hits it—not a full-powered blast, but a controlled, searing lance of orange and heat. Instead of absorbing it, she tries to twist it, to send it skyward as he’d said.
She feels it strain, buckle. The force is too much, his will behind it too absolute. The shield shatters with a sound like breaking glass.
She stumbles back, but doesn’t fall.
He’s there. Not catching her, but standing solid, a wall she bumps against. His hands are on her shoulders, steadying her. They’re hot, even through her shirt.
“Again,” he says, voice low. Not angry. Certain.
She wakes.
The dorm room was pale with early morning light. The echo of that single word, again, seemed to hang in the quiet air alongside the faint, ever-present smell of someone’s toast from down the hall. Her heart was doing a slow, heavy drum against her ribs. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, seeing phantom flashes of orange light.
A dream. Just a weird, hyper-vivid dream.
She threw off the covers. The simulation. Right. 0800. She dragged herself through a shower, the water doing little to scrub the strange, restless energy from her skin. She opted for dark grey cargo pants and a fitted black athletic top—practical, not cute. As she pulled her hair into a ponytail, her eyes caught the small star tattoo on her wrist. It looked like just ink. It didn’t feel like it carried the weight of last night’s strange, silent conversation.
The common area was buzzing when she arrived, a low hum of pre-exercise anxiety. Students in training gear milled about, checking equipment, doing last-minute stretches. Her eyes scanned the room, landing on a familiar mop of green hair. Midoriya was by the windows, talking animatedly with Uraraka, his own hero costume crisp and ready. He saw her and offered a bright, welcoming wave.
Just as she moved to join them, a figure shouldered past, not roughly, but with definite purpose. Bakugou. He was in full gear too, the grenade-shaped bracers stark on his arms. He smelled like soap and something faintly explosive—nitroglycerin and intent.
He didn’t look at her. He walked straight up to Midoriya, his back to her.
“Deku. You’ve got the south sector schematics memorized?” His voice was all business, edged with its usual gravel.
“Y-yes! Of course, Kacchan!”
“Good. Don’t lag behind.”
Then, as he turned to head for the transport bay, his eyes flicked over Midoriya’s shoulder. They met hers. For a fraction of a second, no longer than the space between heartbeats, he held her gaze. There was no recognition of a shared midnight kitchen, no hint of a protein bar or a dream. It was just a look, red and intense and utterly focused.
He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Not friendly. Not warm. An acknowledgment. A checkpoint.
Then he was gone, his boots clicking a rapid tempo on the polished floor.
Midoriya bounded over, his smile endless. “Sophia! Ready? This simulation is supposed to be really intense! A collapsed building scenario with mixed civilian and villain drones. Kacchan’s team is on point for the initial breach, but our support and evacuation timing has to be perfect.”
Sophia watched Bakugou’s retreating back disappear through the doors. She felt the ghost of a calloused hand on her shoulder, saw a spark jump in a dark kitchen.
“Yeah,” she said, turning to Midoriya with a smile that felt newly forged. “Perfect timing.”