Blink If You Hate Me┃K. Bakugo

Dinner in Shibuya

The second weekend of September had drawn around, concluding their first week back at UA swiftly.

Among numerous other tasks set, the class 3-A student's had been instructed on Friday to ensure that their work study consent forms were signed by their parents before the end of the month; so that they could continue with the recurring placements they'd started in first year. Y/N had taken the liberty of visiting home to have hers signed before jumping next door - much to Mitsuki's delight - to handle Katsuki's application as well, as soon as their teacher dismissed them. A plan she and him had discussed in response to Hawk's insistence that they start again as soon as possible, preferably on Saturday.

She appeared directly in front of him, the signed form held between her fingers.

Bakugo's broad shoulders jolted upward in a brief, involuntary flinch. It was subtle—so quick most people might've missed it—but not quick enough. He cleared his throat immediately afterward, the sound stiff and forced, as though a cough might somehow disguise the reaction.

It didn't.

Y/N's grin widened. "Real smooth, scaredy-Kat," she snorted, waving the slip of paper lightly in front of him. "You'd think after, what— thirteen years?—you'd stop jumping every time I phase in."

Bakugo scowled, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his pants. "I didn't jump."

"You flinched."

"Did not."

"Your shoulders practically hit your ears."

He shot her a sharp glare, "Shut up and leave the damn forms on his desk."

She hummed, thoroughly unconvinced, but turned toward Aizawa's cluttered desk anyway—still smiling to herself as she went.

She set the two signed work-study forms on top of Aizawa's already overburdened desk, nudging them just enough that they wouldn't slide off the uneven stack of papers.

Then she drifted toward the doorway, lingering there with practiced patience.

Right on cue, Bakugo finished whatever he'd been muttering about behind her and strode over. He didn't say anything when he reached her—just turned toward the hall like it was obvious he'd been planning to leave at the same time anyway.

Y/N pushed off the doorframe and started down the corridor beside him.

The hallway had mostly emptied by now, washed in the warm gold of late afternoon sunlight pouring through the tall windows. Dust drifted lazily through the beams as they walked.

She glanced sideways at him.

"You really shot up over summer," as it only just occurred to her.

Bakugo let out a short scoff through his nose, rolling one shoulder like the comment barely registered.

He had grown, and now that she was focusing it was incredibly obvious; he had to be pushing six foot by now. 

He'd always carried himself with squared shoulders, his chin tipped forward like he was ready to start something with anyone who looked at him wrong. Back then, it had felt like a performance, all sharp edges and loud noise - but now there was weight behind it and she could see it in his movement: slower, surer.

He didn't need to try and prove anything—because he already knew he could. And what pissed her off most was that she knew it too.

But she hadn't stayed the same either. It wasn't just that she'd gotten stronger—everything about her had sharpened. Lean muscle, quicker reactions, movements that didn't waste time anymore; shaped by hours of relentless close-combat training.