Two days later.
Off duty.
The agency had mandatory rest days. Even for heroes. Especially for heroes, according to the labor laws that nobody really followed except when the commission was paying attention.
Bakugo didn't follow them.
She knew that. Everyone knew that. He worked every day. Came in at six. Left at eight. Sometimes later. Sometimes not at all.
People like him didn't take breaks.
People like her...
She was slouched in the chair in her apartment. Staring at the ceiling. It was barely noon. She'd already scrolled through her phone twice. Watched three videos of Bakugo's old fights. Considered going back to sleep.
Considered getting coffee instead.
Coffee won.
She got dressed. Not the hero costume. Just skirt. A sweater. Normal clothes that made her feel like a normal person, which she wasn't, but pretending helped sometimes.
The café was two blocks away. The one with the expensive pastries she couldn't afford but bought anyway because they tasted better than the convenience store ones.
She ordered. Waited.
Walked out with the cup in her hand.
And ran directly into Red Riot.
The coffee didn't spill. Somehow. Maybe his hero instincts kicked in. Maybe she'd gotten lucky.
"Oh—sorry!" Kirishima stepped back. Grinned when he recognized her. "Amaya, right?"
"Yeah."
"Day off?"
She nodded.
"Nice. You settling in okay? The guys at the agency treating you well?"
"It's fine."
"Good. Good." He adjusted the gym bag on his shoulder. "I was just visiting Bakugo. He's upstairs doing... Bakugo things. You know how he is."
He laughed.
She didn't.
Because her brain had stopped at one word.
Upstairs.
Bakugo was upstairs.
Right now.
In the agency.
On a rest day.
Alone.
"I should—" Kirishima checked his phone. "Yeah, I gotta run. Got a thing with Mina. See you around!"
He left.
She stood there.
Holding her coffee.
Her keycard was in her pocket.
...
She shouldn't.
She absolutely should not go to the agency right now. She was off duty. He was probably busy. There was no reason for her to be there.
No legitimate reason.
She went anyway.
The building was quiet.
No one at reception. No one in the lobby. The lights were dimmed on the lower floors—automatic energy saving mode, probably.
She took the elevator.
Her reflection stared back at her in the steel doors.
She looked... fine. Normal. The sweater was too big. Her hair was messy. She hadn't put on makeup because why would she? It was a day off.
The elevator dinged.
Top floor.
She walked down the hallway.
Stopped in front of his door.
The plate still said K. BAKUGO - DIRECTOR.
Her hand was on the handle.
She looked down at herself.
The skirt—she'd changed before leaving. Shorter than she usually wore. She'd told herself it was just because it was comfortable.
She pulled it up slightly. Just an inch. Made her legs look longer.
Ran her fingers through her hair. Fixed the strands that had fallen out of place.
This was insane.
She was insane.
She opened the door.
And—
Katsuki Bakugo.
Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight.
Shirtless.
Completely shirtless.
Standing near the window. A towel around his neck. Sweat on his skin. He'd been working out—there was a pull-up bar installed above the doorway to what must've been a private gym or bathroom. His chest was rising and falling. Not heavily. Just enough to notice.
Scars.
She'd seen them in photos. Knew they were there. But seeing them in person was—
They were everywhere. Across his ribs. His shoulder. One long one down his left side that looked like it had almost killed him. Probably had almost killed him. The Paranormal War. All For One. Shigaraki.
He'd taken a blade for Deku.
She knew that.
Everyone knew that.
But seeing the proof of it—
His abs were—
Fuck.
Her brain was short-circuiting.
His eyes snapped to her.
Red. Sharp. Annoyed.
"The hell are you doing here?"
Her mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
"I—" Her voice cracked. "Sorry. I didn't—sorry."
She turned.
Ran.
Didn't look back.
Her footsteps echoed down the hallway. She jabbed the elevator button. It didn't come fast enough. She took the stairs instead. All ten flights. Her lungs were burning by the time she hit the ground floor.
She didn't stop.
Walked out of the building. Down the street. Toward her apartment.
Her face was hot.
Her hands were shaking.
Her mind kept replaying it.
The scars. The abs. The way his muscles had moved under his skin when he'd turned to look at her. The sweat. The way the light from the window had caught on his shoulders.
The annoyed look in his eyes.
She'd interrupted him.
Of course he was annoyed.
She was an idiot.
By the time she reached her apartment, her panties were soaked.
She locked the door behind her.
Leaned against it.
Her breath was uneven.
Her core was aching.
She peeled off the skirt. Let it drop to the floor. Her underwear followed—black, the ones with the grenades, completely ruined now.
She grabbed the plushie off the bed.
Dynamight. Soft fabric. Useless.
She climbed onto the bed with it. Pressed it between her thighs.
Her hand slid down.
Found her core.
Already wet. Too wet.
Her fingers slipped inside easily.
She closed her eyes.
Saw him.
Shirtless. Sweating. Those red eyes staring at her like she was something he couldn't quite figure out. Annoyed. Intense.
Her fingers moved.
Slow at first.
Then faster.
She cataloged every detail.
The scars. The way they cut across his chest like proof of survival. Proof that he'd bled and kept fighting anyway.
The abs. Defined. Hard. She wanted to put her mouth on them. Wanted to taste the sweat on his skin.
His shoulders. Broad. The kind of shoulders that could pin someone down. That could hold someone up.
The towel around his neck. The way his hair had been damp. Messy. Like he'd been running his hands through it.
Her breath hitched.
Her fingers curled.
She was close.
So close.
She imagined his voice. That rough edge. The way he'd said the hell are you doing here like he was angry but also—
What?
Curious?
No.
Just angry.
But maybe—
Her other hand found her breast. Squeezed.
She imagined it was his hand. Those calloused fingers. Strong. Rough. He wouldn't be gentle.
He'd never be gentle.
He'd grip her hard enough to bruise.
Pull her hair.
Growl into her ear.
Tell her to take it.
Tell her she was his.
Her back arched.
The pressure built.
Higher.
Higher.
She bit her lip to keep from making noise. The walls were thin. The neighbor would yell again.
She didn't care.
Her fingers moved faster.
Desperate.
Chasing the edge.
And then—
She came.
Hard.
Her body tensed. Her thighs clamped around her hand. Her vision went white for a second.
She rode it out. Let the waves crash through her until her muscles went slack and her breathing started to even out.
Her hand was still between her legs.
Still wet.
She pulled it away slowly.
Stared at the ceiling.
The plushie was tangled in the sheets next to her.
...
Fuck.
She was pathetic.
She knew she was pathetic.
But she didn't regret it.
Not even a little.
She rolled onto her side. Hugged the plushie to her chest.
Her body felt heavy. Satisfied. Empty in a way that wasn't quite loneliness.
She closed her eyes.
And tried not to think about the fact that she'd have to see him again tomorrow.
Tried not to think about how she was going to look him in the eye after running out of his office like a scared kid.
Tried not to think about the fact that he'd been shirtless and she'd just stood there staring like an idiot.
...
She was going to think about all of it.
Tonight.
Again.
Probably multiple times.