Morals

Eighteen

A/n-Edited*

The taste of smoke lingered on Bakugou's tongue like a phantom—not from his Quirk, but from the memory of Denai's lips against his own during that chaotic training exercise three days prior. He'd blamed it on adrenaline then, the way his heart had hammered against his ribs like a caged beast. But now, alone in his room with only the hum of the AC unit for company, the truth carved itself into his skull: it wasn't the fight that had left him breathless. It was her. Bakugou always thought Denai was beautiful, but ever since the kiss they shared, she was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. Kirishima found him pacing near the UA gym's weight racks later that afternoon, Bakugou's knuckles white around a crumpled protein bar wrapper.

"Dude, you look like you're about to explode a building. What's up?" Kirishima grinned, leaning against a dumbbell rack. Bakugou scowled, the wrapper disintegrating into ash in his palm.

"It's nothing," he growled, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him. Kirishima's smile softened.

"C'mon, man. We've been through hell together. Spill."

The story poured out in jagged fragments—the kiss during the endurance training, Denai's startled gasp against his mouth, the way her wind-Quirk had curled around them both like a shield. Bakugou couldn't say her name without his throat tightening.

"And now?" Kirishima prompted, tossing him a water bottle. Bakugou caught it, staring at the condensation dripping onto the floor.

"Now she avoids my fucking eyes in combat training. Looks at me like I'm a live grenade." He crushed the plastic bottle.

"Tell me how to fix it." Kirishima's grin widened, shark-like and knowing.

"Stop treating it like a battlefield, Bakubro. You don't 'fix' this. You ask her out." Bakugou bristled, sparks crackling at his palms.

"Like hell I'm gonna—"

"Coffee," Kirishima cut in.

"Tomorrow. No insults. Just... talk." He mimed sipping from a cup. "Simple."

The next morning, Bakugou lurked outside Denai's room door, fists jammed in his pockets. Her laughter echoed down the hall—warm, melodic—as she chatted with Momo. It froze him mid-step. Denai turned, her eyes widening when she spotted him. A gust of wind ruffled his spiky hair; her Quirk betrayed her nerves.

"You... need something?" she asked, voice softer than he remembered.

He shoved a crumpled coffee shop flyer at her. "Tomorrow. After class." Denai's fingers brushed his as she took the paper. Static sparked between them—literal sparks dancing off Bakugou's knuckles. He cursed under his breath. Denai's gaze flickered from his hands to his face.

"Is it our whole class?" she murmured. "Or just... me?"

Bakugou stared at the worn tile beneath his boots. "Just you," he rasped, forcing the words past the gravel in his throat.

"If you're not gonna bolt." Denai's lips quirked—almost a smile. It vanished as Momo reappeared, raising an eyebrow. Denai crumpled the flyer into her pocket like contraband.

"I'll think about it," she breathed, turning away.

The next twenty-four hours crawled. Bakugou demolished three sparring dummies, snapped at Deku, and scorched a new crater into Gym Gamma's floor. Kirishima's knowing smirk haunted him. When the bell finally rang for dismissal, Bakugou found himself outside the designated café ten minutes early. He leaned against the brick wall, fingers drumming against his thigh. His palms were unnaturally cool—a conscious effort. He'd practiced containment breaths all morning. Denai arrived precisely on time, sunlight catching the copper strands in her dark hair. She wore civilian clothes—simple jeans and a soft-looking sweater—and carried no books. Her expression held a careful neutrality, but Bakugou noticed the slight tremor in her hands as she pushed stray hair behind her ear. She stopped at a respectful distance away.