#opm ff

Day 1: Saitama

If you had to describe yourself in three words, they would be: funny, smart, and most of all, reliable. If you asked other people, though, the answer would change just slightly: stiff, oblivious, but grossly dependable.

“Indecisive,” however, wouldn’t make either list. Not from your friends, your family, or anyone else who knew you.

And they’d be right.

You’d always known what you wanted. Ever since you were a kid, you’d had your whole future mapped out with extreme clarity: You’d start as an intern straight out of college, work your way up to marketing manager, and eventually become a chief marketing officer at a reputable mid-sized company.

Not exactly a typical dream for an elementary school student, admittedly, but it was achievable and respectable, too.

And being the routine-driven, highly structured person you were, it wasn’t surprising that, years later, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Your internship at the Hero Association was finally coming to an end, and after putting in the work—weeks, months of it—you’d been offered a permanent position. All those workdays that stretched well past midnight, the endless coffee runs, the hours spent hunched over photocopiers, and the most dreadful task of all, shooing away protestors from the company grounds, had finally paid off.

So when your supervisor, Mister Sato, had given you the contract for becoming Genos’ official manager, it was, without a doubt, the happiest, most satisfying day of your entire life, second only to your graduation day from A-City University.

Just a few more weeks, and you’d check off the very first milestone of that long-standing plan.

To top it all off, after a lot of begging, persistence, and increasingly shameless negotiating with your boss, you’d even managed to secure seven full days of paid time off. At this point, if you somehow, by any miracle, won the lottery next Saturday, you could probably die the luckiest person in the world.

Everything was going according to plan.

And if you could solve that one small problem, then everything would be just perfect.

You’d been staring at your laptop screen for hours now, typing, deleting, and rewriting the same list you’d been working on for nearly three weeks. It wasn’t like you to finish something so last-minute—your vacation started tomorrow, after all—but narrowing things down turned out to be way harder than expected.

Again, no, you weren’t “indecisive”. Not at all.

There were just too many shows worth binge-watching, too many restaurants you wanted to try, and somehow, between it all, you still had to fit in meeting your friends. Sorting through all of it took time; like anything worth doing. Which was exactly why you were so deep in planning mode.

You were so absorbed, in fact, that you didn’t hear the key turning, the door opening and closing, and not even the heavy footsteps that followed.

It only registered when a voice came from right behind you.

“What are you looking at?”

You jumped so hard you nearly knocked the laptop off the chabudai table.

A loud yelp escaped before you could stop it. Then, instinctively, you snapped the laptop shut, a little too forcefully, maybe, as you turned around and met Saitama’s blank expression standing just a step behind you.

You gave him a nervous smile. “You scared me for a sec.”

“It is my apartment, you know,” he said, setting a plastic bag down by the door. A bunch of green onions stuck out from the top, along with a mix of other vegetables visible through the thin plastic. Probably another discount run, you concluded. He’d probably have Genos turn it into something decent later. “I should be the one surprised you’re here.”

You gave him a sheepish smile and took a small sip of your coffee, which had long since cooled down. It had been months since you’d been assigned as Genos’ manager, back when you were still just an intern, and dropping by Saitama’s apartment had become fairly routine. They lived together, after all.

The place itself was barely bigger than a shoebox, but you’d grown oddly fond of it. It reminded you of your own small apartment in E-City.

“You didn’t answer me,” Saitama said, lowering himself onto the hardwood floor beside you, legs crossed.

You hummed, tilting your head in question.

He nodded toward your laptop. “What were you looking at?”

Your eyes followed his, and your grin spread.

“As you know,” you said, flipping the laptop back open, “I’m on vacation starting tomorrow. So I’ve been planning what to do.”

The screen lit up and with it, an aggressively detailed spreadsheet: Color-coded, time-stamped tables down to the minute, filled with notes, ratings, tiny embedded images, and cross-referenced links. There were contingency plans for delays, alternate routes for takeout deliveries, and even a column labeled Emotional Recovery Time.

You leaned back slightly, arms crossing over your chest as you watched him take it in.

Saitama stared at the screen.

“Wow,” he said after a moment.

It was hard to read him—he wasn’t exactly an expressive man—but you caught the slight pause, the way his eyes swept over your meticulously crafted Excel sheet. You smiled, satisfied. Of course, he was impressed. Anyone would be.

“You even planned your toilet breaks,” he added.

You gave him a nod. “Yup. That way I can relax, knowing everything’s already been taken care of.”

“…right.”

He smiled politely as he blinked. His gaze drifted back to the screen, scanning another dense block of color-coded cells before pausing. Then his finger lifted, pointing at a specific row.

“You want to get a massage?”

He tapped the entry in your schedule; it was a neatly labeled slot for a massage parlour not far from A-City’s center. You’d asked Momo for recommendations the other day, and she’d suggested one that came with complimentary foot massages and a discounted skincare package. Considering your diet had consisted mostly of espresso and hot pot lately, it was long overdue for your already sensitive skin to get some pampering.

“My back’s killing me,” you said, stretching your arms over your head. Sharp, unhealthy cracks followed, and you winced. “I thought about asking Bang for acupuncture, but…” You trailed off with a shudder. Just the thought of a hundred tiny needles piercing your skin was enough to make your skin crawl.

Saitama hummed absently, then suddenly froze as his finger slid further down the screen.

“It’s ¥60,000?!”

You flinched at the sudden volume. It wasn’t like you wanted to spend that much on ninety minutes of someone working the knots out of your back, but if you were going to do it at all, you might as well do it properly.

You shrugged, though your face twisted slightly at the reminder.

“I know, I know, but look—” You grabbed the mouse and clicked into the listing. “It includes a special herbal therapy mix, and there’s live music during the session. Pretty amazing, right?”

The excitement in your voice didn’t quite reach him. Instead, Saitama leaned back, arms crossing, his expression changing. He looked strangely serious now.

“Maybe you should look for a cheaper option,” he said. “You don’t make that much.”

Ouch.

There it was again. That unwarranted, stinging remark Saitama always seemed to have ready at the worst possible moment.

It stung more than it should have.

You knew it was true, though. You weren’t exactly rolling in money—your meager salary barely covered your rent—but hearing it said out loud was just rubbing unnecessary salt into the wound. And it was your vacation, for crying out loud; it wasn't a crime to treat yourself once in a while, even when that meant spending almost half of your monthly income at an overpriced, fancy massage parlour.

“It’s just this once,” you said, clenching your fists before awkwardly using them to knock against your own back. A sigh slipped out as a bit of tension eased. “At this point, if I go another day like this, I might actually die.”

Saitama hummed again, his brows pinching together as if in deep thought. Then, after a brief pause, he snapped his fingers, his expression suddenly brightening. You could practically see the light bulb go off over his shiny bald head.

“How about I just give you a massage?” he said, turning to face you. He nodded, more to himself than anything, as if that would make his idea more convincing. “I’ll do it for free.”

You raised an eyebrow, giving him a slow once-over.

Your gaze wandered from his dark, round eyes down to his open-mouthed smile, finally landing on that awful Oppai hoodie he was wearing again.

Your eyes narrowed. 

How many times had you told him to get rid of it? Didn’t you even throw it out for him the other day?

No—wait.

You exhaled slowly through your nose and suppressed the urge to roll your eyes, stopping the headache before it could fully form. Just one more day, you reminded yourself. You couldn’t afford to freak out now, not when your vacation was less than twenty-four hours away.

“You can give massages?” you asked, not even trying to hide the doubt in your voice. “Do you even have a license?”

Saitama clenched one hand into a fist and smacked it into his open palm.

“Nope. But I watched a video.”

You stared at him for a long, silent moment.

“I mean, you can still go to that place tomorrow if it doesn’t work,” he added. “But if you try mine first, you save ¥60,000 and still get a pretty good massage.”

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Saitama enough to let him do it; it was that you didn’t trust him to do it well. There was a reason massage therapists went through proper training for months on end. You’d read all about it while researching your appointment and even had a one-on-one consultation with a therapist in B-City. Different muscles required different techniques, and one wrong move could make things worse or result in problems that weren’t even there in the first place. At least, that's what they'd said. 

You glanced at him again and grimaced.

He looked so excited, sitting there, waiting for your answer with the widest grin you’d ever seen on him.

Saitama had never been the kind of person who liked doing much of anything. He was lazy and unreliable and probably the last person you’d trust to handle something like this. And yet…

The small voice in the back of your mind—the one pointing out that he’d probably be very disappointed if you said no—kept getting louder the longer you stared. You squeezed your eyes shut, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of your nose as a defeated sigh slipped out.

“Okay,” you said, giving in, and his grin widened instantly.

Before you could react, his hands landed on your shoulders, making you flinch at the sudden contact.

“Let me grab the oils real quick,” he said.

“Oils—?” you started, but before you could finish the question, he was already on his feet and had quickly disappeared into the bathroom.

Your shoulders slumped. Then, when you shifted, you immediately tensed when a sharp knot in your back flared. A small hiss slipped past your lips, and you helplessly let your forehead drop onto the chabudai table with a loud thud, riding out the sudden spike of pain.

Whatever Saitama had planned, your back couldn’t get much worse than it already was.

✽

Even though you had made plenty of bad decisions over the course of your relatively short life, this was—without a doubt—the absolute worst one yet.

You should’ve known it the moment Saitama laid out his incredibly thin futon on the living room floor and told you to lie down. And you should've absolutely seen it coming when he pulled up a Spotify playlist for you to listen to, and the constant ad breaks between songs made it difficult to relax at all. Or, at the very latest, when the smoke of the cheap incense he lit up drifted right into your face, and you had to hold your breath to not die from sudden smoke poisoning.

Everything about this was already terrible, and he hadn’t even started yet. 

You considered standing up, walking out the door, and pretending you’d never agreed to any of this, but when Saitama straddled your hips and settled down, effectively pinning you in place with his weight on either side, any thought of backing out evaporated immediately.

“Alright,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “I’ll start with your shoulders.”

There was no escaping this now.

You could only hope—or pray—that it would be over quickly.

So when his hands settled on your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight muscles at the base of your neck, you were surprised by the deep sigh that slipped out of you. Before you could even process it, his fingers were already working into the knots along your shoulders, kneading them with steady pressure.

Your eyes squeezed shut.

Even through your dress shirt, you could feel the warmth of his palms as his hands moved over your body; practically melting more and more into the futon with each touch.

Was this even Saitama? Had he somehow been swapped out for an actual professional while he was in the bathroom? This was better than anything you’d expected, even from someone trained, let alone him.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

You could only nod, sinking further into your arms folded beneath your head.

He hummed in acknowledgement, then adjusted his grip, pressing down with his palms before dragging the tension lower, toward your shoulder blades. His movements went on for a few more minutes, his palms working with just enough pressure at the right places, long enough for your body to loosen and almost long enough for you to drift off completely.

Then his hands moved lower; past the small of your back, ghosting over the sides of your hips, and continuing down—

Your neighborhood wasn’t particularly bad—even if you’d run into a shady character or two during your 3 AM convenience store runs before. You’d chosen it carefully after graduating from A-City University over a year ago, and despite the initial rough start in your tiny apartment, you were pretty happy living there so far. 

The people were nice, and it boasted one of the lowest rates of monster sightings in all of Japan. For that very reason, it also had the fewest recorded heroes around, which, to you, was a huge advantage. It wasn't that you disliked them or anything; you just needed a breather from all the "saving the world" talk and the endless, admittedly stressful drama that came with it. You dealt with enough of that at work every single day.

So, when you walked to the 7-Eleven just around the corner from your apartment complex, you expected the usual routine: you’d greet the same part-timer at the register you'd seen on your last four visits, grab the exact same banana milk you’d been buying all week, and head back home to continue watching your trashy TV drama without incident.

Why wouldn't you? This was your boring little neighborhood where nothing ever happened, after all.

And that’s why the moment you stepped through the automatic doors and straight into a loud, aggressive argument, you should’ve turned right back around—that’s when you should’ve known right then and there that absolutely nothing was going to go as expected at all.

“I’m sorry, but I do need some sort of identification—“

“You can literally Google me!”

The part-timer gave a polite bow to the customer. It looked painful, the way he tried so hard to keep his smile from slipping.

“I do apologize,” he hesitated for a moment. “…sir, but it’s store policy to check everyone’s ID when buying, erm…”

An awkward silence stretched between them as the clerk's eyes glanced down at the brown paper bag laying flat on the register counter.

“Anyway, I can’t just sell it to you without confirming your age.”

He bowed again, but the customer didn’t seem even remotely appeased.

“Dude, are you fucking serious? My face is literally right there,” the stranger snapped, gesturing aggressively toward the display rack of magazines by the register, then back to himself. “Are you actually blind?”

The poor worker tried again, a practiced, deeply impersonal apology slipping from his lips, only to be cut off by another wave of angry interjections. While your mind raced—with a frantic voice yelling at you to finally step in and help—your body remained frozen right at the entrance, your eyes locked onto the stranger’s back.

Your gaze swept from his neatly slicked-back hair, past his imposing shoulders, and down to his all-black uniform. He had to be a high schooler, you concluded; but definitely not one from around here—that specific style of uniform wasn't common in your neighborhood, yet a nagging sense of familiarity still tugged at your mind.

Where had you seen it before? Maybe in A-City?

But before you could piece it together, a loud, terrified yelp from the clerk shattered your train of thought. Your eyes snapped back to the counter just in time to see the stranger violently hauling the poor worker halfway across the register by his collar.

“Fuck those policies,” the stranger growled, the skin over his knuckles blanching from the tight grip he had on the part-timer. “You’re really pissing me off right now, y’know.”

When the clerk stammered yet another apology under his breath, barely able to string together a coherent sentence, your feet had already moved on their own. It wasn’t until your body had instinctively slid between the two of them, and your hands, shaking and not steady at all, came down onto his much bigger ones, that your mind finally caught up.

Confrontations were never your strong suit. That much was obvious, even to you.

But seeing someone so utterly and thoroughly helpless, even more so than you could ever be, sparked such a strange, empathetic feeling in your chest that a sudden confidence overtook you completely.

So, when you finally faced the stranger, you were fully prepared to throw out some defensive words to defuse the situation. For the very first time in your life, you actually felt the urge to step up to someone; to confront their horrible behavior and maybe even help someone stuck in an uncomfortable situation, just like you wished somebody had once done for you. But the second your eyes met his, the words died right in your throat.

The stiff pompadour hair was the first thing you noticed, followed by the piercing black eyes that stared right back at you. The curve of his nose and the stark, downward pull of his lips—it was all too familiar.

Standing right before you was definitely, undoubtedly the S-Class Rank 15 professional hero, Metal Bat.

“You!”

Both of you exclaimed at the same time, but while your brows pulled up and your eyes widened, Metal Bat’s expression turned into utter confusion.

During your entire time at the Hero Association, you hadn’t actually seen much of the high-ranking heroes—let alone S-Class. A mere intern didn’t really have a reason to meddle with them, after all. But once you were assigned as Genos’ manager and transferred to the upper floor, you started casually passing by some of them in the halls.

Metal Bat was a pretty infrequent visitor, given that he was still a student; a third year in high school, if you remembered correctly. He wasn't exactly known to be a reliable person, and never really showed up unless absolutely necessary—the many angry phone calls between him and his manager made that abundantly clear.

The few times you actually did see him during those fleeting moments in the building, he always came off as incredibly short-tempered and brash. Exactly the type of person you usually preferred to avoid, if you were being honest.

When Metal Bat’s grip on the worker’s collar loosened enough for the clerk to free himself, the part-timer stumbled backward, falling right against the shelves stocked with cigarette packs, and your gaze shot back to the worker.

You blinked, and for a second, your brain totally short-circuited.

“Uhm,” you cleared your throat, quickly removing your hands from Metal Bat’s. “Is there a problem here…?”

The part-timer’s face was so pale and drenched in sweat that you almost believed he was going to pass out at any second. His eyes, so wide and huge, practically bulged out of his head, but he still managed to stammer, “I—I just need to see an ID to sell this… magazine here.”

His shaky finger pointed toward the brown paper bag still sitting on the counter.

You blinked again before a small smile slipped onto your face. The sudden feeling of urgency and danger instantly dissolved, replaced instead by a wave of pure relief.

“Oh, I can just show you mine,” you said, your hands already inside your bag, rummaging for your wallet.

It really wasn’t like you to insert yourself into other people's business. You leaned more toward the passive role, letting things play out while you stayed in your own lane. But this was Metal Bat—technically a coworker, if you really thought about it. Helping out a colleague didn't feel as intrusive as it would with a complete stranger, even if you couldn’t really understand why he was overreacting over a simple magazine.

Was a piece of print really worth picking a fight over?

But just as you were about to pull out your ID, strong fingers wrapped around your wrist, instantly stopping your movements.

When you looked up, your eyes locked with the hero’s again. Your brows quirked up and your mouth opened, ready to ask what he was doing, but he cut in before you could even get a word out.

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, his own brows furrowing as a sudden flush of embarrassment seemed to hit him. “I don’t even want that stupid thing anymore.”

You tilted your head.

“Are you sure? You seemed pretty ready to tear the place apart for it a second ago.”

He nodded, a little too fast.

“Yeah, absolutely sure,” he muttered, his grip tightening just enough to guide your hand away from your wallet.

You blinked at him in confusion.

“Well, then at least let me put it back for you,” you said, but his fingers didn’t loosen their hold on you.

Metal Bat’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red, his expression twisting into that of pure discomfort. You could practically see the sweat drops forming at his temple.

“No, wait—” he blurted out, making you wince. He clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed at his own outburst. “I changed my mind. Just… can you buy it for me instead? I’ll pay you back.”

Your expression instantly brightened, and you nodded. It filled you with a sudden sense of pride, being able to help out someone from the Association—especially someone who was technically so far above you in status. You were so caught up in that feeling of being useful that you didn’t even notice when Metal Bat tried to return the gesture, his own smile incredibly forced and awkward.

The clerk scanned your ID quickly as you pulled it out for him, his whole demeanor still noticeably nervous even as you paid with the remaining cash in your bag.

Poor guy.

You would’ve reacted the exact same way if an S-Class hero had threatened you like that—probably even worse. It was only when the two of you finally stepped outside the store that you looked back through the large glass front and saw the clerk visibly relax.

“Did you get some kind of limited-edition manga or something?” you finally asked, stopping right in the middle of the parking lot. “By the way you were acting, it must be some sort of collector’s item.”

The corners of your lips turned up into a curious smile, but none of your enthusiasm reached the hero. Instead, he simply thrust out his hand, palm open as he gestured toward the package with a nod of his chin.

“Something like that,” he muttered.

Your eyes fell to the paper bag held securely in your grip.

“What did you get, anyway?” you asked, reaching inside and slowly sliding the magazine out. “You know, I used to be quite a collector myself when I was your age—”

Metal Bat opened his mouth, ready to yell, to scream for you to stop, but it was already too late.

Your voice instantly died in your throat. And you blinked.

You weren’t even sure where your eyes landed first—the open-mouthed, half-lidded expression of the young model? The full bust nearly spilling over the top of her tiny bikini? Or the fact that she was trying to cover herself up when the fabric was doing absolutely nothing?

Your brain desperately scrambled to find some sort of wholesome, reasonable excuse, but the evidence was irrefutable.

It was, without a doubt, a gravure idol magazine.

The silence that followed was agonizing. Your mind was blank, your eyes wildly darting from the cover to Metal Bat, whose face had just turned a bright shade of red. For a long moment, both of you just stared at the glossy page in pure mortification, neither of you daring to do as much as blink.

“This…” he eventually managed to croak out. “It’s so not what it looks like—”

He abruptly cut off when you wordlessly pulled out your phone and began tapping the screen.

“What are you doing?”

You looked up, your expression grim.

“I’m turning myself in to the police.”

“What?!”

He snatched the phone straight out of your hands. You immediately lunged for it, but he held it above his head and out of your reach.

“I literally just bought porn for a minor!” you yelled. “I’m a criminal! I'm going to jail!”

“Just calm the fuck down!” he hissed, his free hand planting against your shoulder to keep you from jumping. “I’m not a fucking minor!”

You stared at him, the skepticism clear on your face.

“I just forgot my ID at home,” he muttered. “I swear. You should know that out of anyone.”

You narrowed your eyes, giving him a quick look over. Before starting your internship, you’d researched everything about the association and the heroes—but nobody had the brain capacity to remember every single birthday, not even you. It didn't help that you were terrible at guessing people's ages, either.

But then again, he wouldn’t really lie about something so easy to check, right?

“Fine,” you said, the magazine still tight in your grip.

You thrust it toward him, and you could actually see the horror on his face start to fade. But the second his fingers caught the edge, you held on. He gave it a tug, but you didn't let go.

“You know what?” you said, pulling the magazine back and tucking it protectively under your arm. “No. I can’t hand something so… so immoral over to a young person like you.”

He groaned, his brows furrowing all over again.

“Are you fucking serious? What are you, my mom?” He lunged for the magazine again, but you pivoted your hips, cleanly dodging his reach.

“What were you even going to do with it anyway?”

“Why the fuck are you interrogating me?” his voice rose, but you didn’t back down.

“You literally just said it wasn’t what it looked like,” you countered. “So what exactly were you going to use it for?”

He scoffed, opening his mouth like he was finally ready to explain himself, but no sound came out. The tips of his ears burned, and his tough-guy demeanor fell apart under your intense stare. As he scrambled for the right words, your mind started to wander.

You knew for a fact that Metal Bat didn’t live anywhere near E-City. Between his unfamiliar school uniform and his usual patrol routes, you had never once seen him in this part of the country, either. He must’ve traveled all the way out here exclusively for this, you concluded.

You closed your eyes, trying to put the pieces together. The long commute, the adult magazine, the incredibly sketchy behavior… it all pointed to only one possible explanation. Suddenly, it all clicked.

You snapped your eyes open, your expression bright with a sudden revelation.

“I get it!” you cut in, and he stiffened, stopping his rambling at once. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so judgmental.”

You stepped closer and planted a hand on his shoulder. His entire body went rigid.

“You’re trying to impress a girl!”

Metal Bat’s face contorted into a grimace, his eyes blinking as if he didn’t hear you clearly. “…what?”

“Oh, come on, don’t be shy,” you said, your lips curving into a knowing smile as you gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I get it. Acknowledging your feelings at your age is tough. But you don't have get all embarrassed about wanting to figure out how to finally approach girls.”

He just stared at you, completely still, as you continued.

“Also, traveling all the way to a different city just so nobody from school catches you buying it? That’s genius.” You nodded to yourself. “But I've gotta tell you, if you’re trying to figure out how to actually talk to women, a gravure magazine is a terrible way to learn.” Your smile widened, thoroughly impressed by your own detective skills.

A long, silent moment passed before Metal Bat answered.

“Yeah. You got me,” he said, his voice flat as he held his hand out, palm up. “Can I have it back now?”

You shook your head, and you saw him tighten his jaw instantly.

“That would be straight-up negligence if I did,” you said. Then, before you gave him even a chance to speak, you cut in again. “Instead of reading this, you should learn from an actual expert.”

He narrowed his eyes, his gaze flickering right to left before landing back at you.

“And who would that be?”

With your arms now crossed over your chest, you nodded once, giving him an expectant look. But instead of the enthusiasm that you anticipated, all Metal Bat did was purse his lips in disapproval.

“Well, me!” you answered, pointing toward yourself with your thumb. “I mean, I manage the public relations for the Hero Association—making people fall in love with you guys is literally my day job!”

Public relations may not be the first thing that pops into someone’s head when thinking about dating, probably, but the two couldn’t be more similar: Showing off your absolute best side, knowing your target audience, and tailoring exactly what you say to match—basically two sides of the same coin, and it just so happened to be the exact stuff you learned in your very first semester of college, too. The minor detail that you had never actually been on a real date yourself wasn’t even important right now.

But the hero’s deadpan expression didn't change at all, even as you took a step toward him, your own face brightening up with yet another idea.

“Let me teach you!” Your voice came out a little louder than you intended, but it was hard to contain the sudden rush of excitement. “And I’ll give… this back,” you added, rolling your eyes as you gestured toward the magazine still tucked securely under your arm, “if you really hate it. Just let me try, at least!”

You were practically begging with your eyes as you stared up at him, inching into his personal space with both of your hands folded together. “Please?”

The grimace on Metal Bat’s face didn’t budge, but a wave of heat still rushed right back into his cheeks. His eyes darted down to your folded hands and then back up to your face, and when you stubbornly held your position, now standing just inches away from him—close enough that he could feel your breath against his face—he finally broke.

“Fine!” he burst out, his voice cracking slightly with irritation.

He threw both of his hands forward, planting them firmly against your shoulders and shoving you back just enough to create a respectable distance between you again.

“Whatever. Let’s just get this over with quickly,” he muttered, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and refusing to look you directly in the eye.

A wide smile broke on your face instantly, and you cheered. You were absolutely thrilled by the unexpected turn of events—not only did you finally get to put your college knowledge to good use, but you were also getting the chance to help him out for the second time today.

How could this day get any better?

✽

It probably wouldn’t be a huge surprise to anyone that you used to be quite the studious type back in school. And it was even less surprising to find out that Metal Bat—or Bad, now that the two of you were on a first-name basis—wasn’t at all. So when you gave yourself the seemingly impossible task of teaching him an important life skill, you saw it as a challenge.

You worked with Genos, the most stubborn cyborg in all of Japan, or probably the world. Dealing with one high schooler couldn’t be much harder than that.

“The key is being able to turn anything negative into a positive,” you explained, setting down a tray with two cups of steaming hot tea as you settled in next to him on your small couch. “What we used to do was choose something about ourselves we don’t like and flip it into a positive.”

He took a cup, sipping from it wordlessly, and you pressed on.

“But since the whole point is improving our communication skills with the opposite gender, we’re going to practice on each other.”

You tapped a finger against your chin, your gaze wandering across the ceiling as you thought. After a short pause, your eyes snapped back to him, your face lighting up.

“For example! I really admire how openly you express your emotions,” you said with a bright smile, while internally translating: You’re a total hothead who can’t control his temper to save his life. You leaned in a little, adding, “And honestly, I wish I had your level of bravery to just stubbornly chase after the things you want.” Translation: You’re reckless and only ever do whatever you want.

Bad’s brow furrowed deep into a suspicious scowl, while you practically vibrated with excitement.

“Isn’t this just being overly passive-aggressive?” he asked, setting his cup down with a hard click and crossing his arms.

You shook your head quickly. “Not at all! It trains your brain to stop and reframe your thoughts so you don’t say something you’ll regret or accidentally hurt someone’s feelings. People can be pretty sensitive about that stuff, you know.”

You tapped your chest with an expectant grin. “Now do me!”

Bad’s expression tightened. As you leaned into his space, your smile never wavering, his grimace began to melt—replaced by that now-familiar embarrassment. He leaned back a few inches, his eyes refusing to meet yours.

“This is stupid,” he mumbled, so quiet that you would’ve missed it if you weren’t sitting right there.

You finally relented and settled back, causing his shoulders to sag in obvious relief.

Maybe you had gone a step too far. Bad clearly wasn't used to being around women, let alone trading compliments with one. Jumping straight into active flirtation reframing was total overkill at this stage. You needed to start from square one.

“How about this?” You flattened your palm, holding your hand out between you, and gestured to it with a nod of your chin. “Think of it as exposure therapy. If we start off close like this, everything else we do later will feel like a piece of cake.”

Bad still didn’t look convinced, but as you waited, clearly not backing down, he finally gave in. With a click of his tongue, he rolled his eyes and practically slapped his own hand into yours. Immediately, you intertwined your fingers with his.

His cheeks, if possible, heated up even more.

“It’s okay, you can take your time until you feel more comfortable,” you said, your back now leaning against the cushions of the couch, your gaze fixed ahead.

As silence settled, your mind started to wander—completely ignoring the way his palms became increasingly sweaty and sticky and hot against yours. Instead, you were already picturing the immense satisfaction of transforming this hot-headed delinquent into a polite gentleman. You could practically see him confidently chatting up his crush, nailing it, and secretly thanking you for saving his dating life. The pure pride of actually getting through to an S-Class hero was intoxicating—so entirely and absolutely all-consuming in fact, that you almost got lost in your own little world.

“Can I go now?”

The muttered words shattered the fantasy instantly, and you jumped, your heart doing a sudden flip as you realized Bad had leaned all the way across the space between you. He was suddenly right there, his mouth so close his breath brushed against your ear.

Your free hand immediately flew up to cover your ear as you whipped around to stare at him. He looked just as startled, if not somehow even more, but the truly mortifying realization hit you a second later: The way his low voice had tickled against your skin felt like a jolt of electricity—running through your entire body like a lightning strike and sending a cold shiver straight to your core.

It was so horrifying and unexpected, and yet somehow incredibly thrilling, that you didn't even notice your entire face setting on fire.

A moment of awkward silence passed before Bad’s expression shifted—something so subtle, but you caught it anyway. Then, with a sudden wave of confidence, he leaned in again, his own hand sliding up to grasp your wrist, effectively exposing your sensitive spot.

“Hey, teach,” he whispered. “What’s wrong?”