Training after patrolling was even more difficult than the day before. You were sore all over, too many little pains itching at your will to keep going.
But you were angry. Maybe that anger was there to mask something. But every time you subtly glanced Bakugo's way while catching your breath and he caught your gaze- it wasn't the same as before.
The hardness in his was chilling- his hot red eyes, gone cold. But everytime he looked away, it was like you were just something in the room he'd accidentally glanced at. Something he was indifferent towards.
Screw him.
Maybe he was angry too. A quiet kind of angry. But you hated it- every single aspect of it. That wasn't like him at all. When you two used to make eye-contact across a room there was a weight of teasing, of mocking, of lusty tension even.
But it was always warm.
He was always warm till now.
Till the night before he fell asleep in the chair across the room rather than beside you.
He left training as soon as Jeanist said the interns could go back to their rooms or go home. That wasn't like him. He usually yelled that he'd leave once he was done and keep going till his muscles were all bulgy and sweaty so he felt like he'd actually done something.
But not this time.
This time, he just took his leave without a word as soon as Jeanist gave the word.
You followed him back to the room and neither of you said anything.
He doesn't even acknowledge your existence.
Was he only talking to you before to make it seem like everything was normal?
Because now it just felt like was waiting for it all to be over. This internship, this week, this period of time he was forced to spend with you...
Once you were back in the hotel room, it was even worse.
He went on his phone, studied on the ground for a long time, not even once facing or looking up at you.
His hair was more floppy than usual, it's usual spikiness not holding it upright as much. A single-earbud hung lazily from his ear and a pen dangled between his teeth.
The only sound from him was the occasional shuffling of papers or flipping pages.
But him- he was so quiet. Even his presence, which always managed to be a loud thing of its own- the way he walked into rooms, held his posture, even the way he had a near constant expression of disgust on his face- he was always inherently noisy and animated and lively- so what the hell!?
In your own corner, you thought it was too awkward to say anything. You thought maybe he just needed his space, maybe you'd violated a boundary by touching him the way you had the night before and maybe he felt he'd violated a boundary by kissing you.
But there had to be something else going on. And the fact that he was being this silent only made you angrier than you already were.
Standing up from the bed- loudly as he would- you turned around to face him, stomping your feet.
He didn't even look up. Didn't even give a reaction from where he was sitting criss crossed on the ground, surrounded by his irritatingly well organized school work.
You breathed heavy once, cleared your throat to get his attention, but even then he intentionally ignored any sign of your existence.
"Are you mad at me?" You asked, full-voiced, the question not fearful or tip-toeing in any sense of the word.
