Haus des Slow Burn

Advanced Organic Chemistry 310. The class everyone warned you about. The one that separates the serious STEM kids from the ones who thought they could coast on high school AP credit and sheer willpower. You chose this major because you loved the puzzle of it. How molecules dance, how bonds break and reform, how tiny invisible shifts create everything from medicine to explosions. You still love it, somewhere under all the panic. But love doesn't pay the bills or keep your scholarship.

You shift in your seat, the chair creaking under your weight. Your thighs press against the armrests, the fabric of your jeans straining just enough to remind you that standard lecture-hall desks were not built with bodies like yours in mind. You tug your oversized cardigan down over your stomach more, as a small shield. It's not that you hate your body. It's just that on days like today, when everything else is falling apart, the extra weight feels like one more thing the world hasn't quite made room for.

Dr. Eri drones on about nucleophilic aromatic substitution, chalk scratching across the board in sharp, impatient strokes. You try to focus, but your mind keeps drifting back to the email notification that buzzed your phone ten minutes ago. You haven't opened it yet. You know what it is ...the midterm grades that Dr. Eri posted early because she likes to keep her students motivated ...yeah right.

Your stomach twists and you glance around the room. It’s all just a sea of faces you technically know, but don’t have many names to place with them. Most of the same age as you, thinner and prettier you notice painfully. A guy in the front row is already packing up, confident smirk in place. A cluster of girls near the door whisper and laugh, their notebooks barely touched. You wonder if any of them are failing too. Probably not.

The lecture ends with the usual rustle of bags and laptops snapping shut. You stay seated, heart thudding too loud in your ears. Finally, you pull out your phone, thumb hovering over the email. One deep breath and you tap.

Your score stares back at you: 58%, a D-. Not even close to passing.

The air leaves your lungs in a rush. Your vision blurs at the edges. You press your palm to your forehead, trying to hold everything together. How did it get this bad? You studied. You pulled all-nighters in the library, coffee going cold beside your open textbook. You rewatched every lecture recording twice. But the mechanisms slipped through your fingers like sand. The stereochemistry flipped on you at the worst moments. And now the scholarship that lets you stay here, far from home, is hanging by a thread.

You don't notice Dr. Eri approaching until her sensible leather loafers stop beside your desk.

"Stay a moment," she says, voice low but firm. Not unkind, Just professional.

You nod, throat too tight to speak. The room empties around you until it's just the two of you and the faint echo of footsteps in the hall.

She pulls a chair from the row in front, sitting so she's level with you. "You saw the grade. We need to talk about your options."

You swallow. "I know I messed up. I just... I thought I had it."

"You have the potential," she says. "Your earlier assignments showed real insight. But the midterm is a wall for a lot of students, and you're hitting it harder than most. If this trend continues, you'll lose eligibility for your scholarship. The department can't afford to lose someone as bright as you."

You blink back the sting in your eyes. "What can I do?"

"Tutoring. Immediate and consistent. I've already spoken to the best student in the course. He's agreed to take you on, though he's not thrilled about it."

Your stomach drops further. "Who?"

"Katsuki Bakugou."

His name hits you like a punch, everyone knows that name. Hes the star forward on the hockey team, the guy who checks opponents into the boards like it’s his only passtime. President of Delta Sigma whatever-the-hell it’s called that sits on fraternity row. The one house on that block that is well known to throw the liveliest and rowdiest parties that still get talked about months later.

This guy was loud and explosive, built like he could bench press the entire goal net if he wanted. And apparently, according to rumor and the grading curve, a secret genius who aces every exam without breaking a sweat.

You shake your head. "He won't want to tutor me. I'm not... I'm sure he has more important things to do in his free time."

Dr. Eri raises an eyebrow. "He's not getting a choice. This is mandated by the department. Three sessions a week, minimum, until your next exam shows improvement. He'll meet you tomorrow at seven pm in the library study room 204, don't be late. And don't let his attitude throw you. He's rough around the edges, but he knows the material better than most TAs."

You want to argue, to say you'd rather struggle alone than beg for help from campus royalty. But the D- on your phone screen is still there, burning.

"Okay," you whisper.

She stands, gathering her notes. "You're capable. Don't forget that. Now go home and get some rest, you'll need it."

You watch her leave, the door clicking shut behind her. The lecture hall feels bigger now, and it makes your anxiety fire off in rapid sucession. You close your laptop, sling your bag over your shoulder, and stand. Your reflection catches in the window. Tired eyes, the way your body warps just a little too much at your hips, and you shove at the hem of your cardigan to hopefully help cover the flaws you think you have. Your hair is a mess and you look like someone who just weathered a storm you weren't prepared for.

You sigh as you make your way out the door and down the hall towards the exit. The lights a soft yellow glow as you finally make it to the street. The campus walking paths are already darkening when you finally leave the lecture hall, the November air sharp enough to bite through your cardigan. You keep your head down, bag slung across your body, shoulders hunched like you can make yourself smaller if you try hard enough. The failing grade is still burning like a coal in your pocket. And every time your phone vibrates it's almost a painful reminder that you failed at something you are supposed to be good at.

You could have taken the bus but you didn’t. Walking feels like punishment, and right now punishment is the only thing that makes sense for failing.

The sidewalks are crowded with people who look like they belong here. Laughing in groups heading to the dining hall, couples that are holding hands as they walk side by side. The Athletes from the various sports teams jogging in a wide formation with their official college issued hoodies and confidence on full display. You do your best tot keep to the edges of the walking path when some of them need to pass. Murmuring sorry even though it’s not your fault they are taking up so much room.

Your thighs rub together between your jeans with every step, a small, familiar friction that usually you ignore. Tonight it feels loud, embarrassing, like your body is announcing itself when all you want is to disappear.

By the time you reach your off-campus apartment, the sky has gone dark purple. You climb the three flights of stairs slowly, each step heavier than the last. The hallway smells like someone’s burnt popcorn again. You fumble your keys, let yourself in, and shut the door like you’re sealing off the world.

Inside it’s quiet, too quiet. Your roommate is at her boyfriend’s for the week, so there’s no one here to pretend for. You drop your bag by the couch, kick off your shoes, and stand there for a long minute, staring at nothing.

Then the tears came.

Not dramatic or loud, but silent and hot on your face as they fall. Your bottom lip quivers and you try your best to remain on your feet as you let your head fall to your chest. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes and rub, hoping to wipe away the evidence of being so weak and stupid…but it only makes it worse. You hate this…Hate the fact that one stupid fucking test can unravel everything that you’ve built for yourself. Hate that youre supposed to meet Katsuki Bakugou tomorrow like a fucking charity case. You especially hate that your body feels too big for the space that it takes up tonight, like the room isn’t meant to hold someone of your size.

You strip out of your clothes in the bathroom, avoiding the mirror. The shower is scalding, steam so thick it hurts to breathe. You stand under the spray until your fingertips prune and the water starts to cool, letting it wash away the salt on your face but not the ache in your chest. When you finally step out, you wrap yourself in the biggest towel you own, the one that’s soft from too many washes, and pad back to your room.

You throw on the same shirt you had laying on the bed from this morning and slip into your pajama pants. Crawling into bed and curling into a ball. You deserved a pity party right now, and you were going to make sure that you suffered just a little bit more for your failures. The sheets are cool against your skin. Your phone stays face-down on the nightstand before you finally pick it up and scroll Tik Tok for a while, then Instagram. Watching reels and shorts of people living their lives that look so fucking perfect and effortless. You feel the tiny amount of hate creep into your mind, not just at that but directed at yourself too for not being just as perfect.

Eventually your stomach growls, loud and insistent. You haven’t eaten since breakfast. The thought of cooking makes you want to cry again, so you open the app that will let you order from the local pub down the road instead. You order the greasiest thing on the menu: a double cheeseburger with extra fries, onion rings on the side, and a chocolate milkshake. Comfort food. The kind of thing you know is bad for your health, but will hopefully heal something in your soul tonight.

Forty minutes later you're pulling on leggings and an oversized hoodie that you stole from one of your brother's friends before you moved to campus and shove your feet into some slides. You lock the door behind you as you make your way to the double doors that lead to the street. The night air is colder now, but you don’t care. You just want the food and then bed again.

The pickup spot is outside the campus bar-and-grill hybrid everyone calls “The Ant.” It’s a tiny but well loved spot by many people, and not just by the students that frequent it. It’s busy tonight, because of course it would be on a Thursday night. The music thumps through the open garage style doors, laughter spilling out onto the sidewalk where you stand. You stand off to the side, arms crossed over your chest, trying to look like you’re not waiting for anything important.

That’s when you hear them.

A group of girls, maybe four or five, stumble out of The Ant in a cloud of perfume and giggles. They’re all tiny crop tops and high ponytails, the kind of pretty that gets free drinks and Instagram likes without trying. One of them spots you waiting with your phone out and nudges her friend.

“Oh my god, look at her,” she stage-whispers, just loud enough. “Ordering takeout again? Some people never learn.”

They laugh, high and sharp. Another one chimes in, “Bet it’s, like, a whole pizza, so tragic.”

Your face burns. You keep your eyes on the sidewalk, pretending you didn’t hear. But your hands are shaking now, gripping your phone too tight. You’re normal kitchen guy walks out and smiles up at you when he spots you. Thank god, and you step forward to grab the bag, murmuring thanks without looking up. You don’t wait around to chat this time with him, and you can see the small frown on his face as you turn around to leave.

The Ant’s front windows glow like a stage under the streetlights, all that warm yellow light spilling out onto the sidewalk and turning the whole night into a spotlight you never asked for. You’re frozen just outside, the paper bag from the diner burning against your chest with greasy fingerprints already soaking through, the faint smell of salt and fried regret rising up like evidence. The girls’ laughter from minutes ago is still ringing in your ears, sharp as broken glass.

And now, through the glass, you see exactly where they ended up.

The corner table is a shrine to everything you’re not. Hockey jackets slung over chair backs like trophies. Empty pitchers sweating rings onto the wood. And in the middle of it all was Katsuki Bakugou.

He’s sprawled back, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw set in that permanent scowl you’ve only ever seen in grainy campus photos and highlight reels. The girls from outside have already claimed him. With one perched on the arm of his chair like she owns the real estate, manicured fingers tracing the sleeve of his hoodie. Another leans in so close her lips brush his ear, whispering something that makes her friends giggle. Their hands are everywhere. His shoulder, thigh, casual and so fucking entitled. He doesn’t shove them off. Doesn’t even glance at them. Just stares straight ahead.

Straight at you.

Your eyes lock through the condensation-fogged glass for what feels like a full minute. Though it can’t be more than a heartbeat. Those crimson eyes, sharp enough to cut, the exact shade burned into every poster on the athletic center walls, don’t blink. There’s no smirk. No nod...anything. Just that flat, dissecting stare that peels you open layer by layer. The oversized hoodie suddenly feels paper-thin. The way the waistband of your leggings digs in after the mockery outside feels like a neon sign screaming fat. The bag clutched to your chest might as well be a flashing billboard: Look at the pathetic girl stress-eating her feelings after bombing her midterm.

He knows, he has to know. The tutoring session tomorrow isn’t some secret campus service. It’s mandatory because you tanked that exam so hard the professor practically begged him to take you on as a favor. The Katsuki Bakugou. Star forward and campus legend. The guy who probably never failed anything in his life except maybe basic human politeness. And now he’s been saddled with you. The girl who just got laughed at for daring to exist in her own body.

One of the girls on his lap glances up. She follows his line of sight. Her glossy lips curl into the exact same smirk she wore outside. She leans in again. Murmurs something against his ear. His expression doesn’t change. But his gaze doesn’t either. It stays pinned on you like he’s cataloging every flaw for later.the way your shoulders hunch, the grease stain already blooming on your hoodie, the panic you can feel crawling up your throat in real time.

Your stomach twists so violently the milkshake in the bag sloshes. Heat floods your face, burning hot. The kind of blush that won’t fade for hours. You can already picture tomorrow. Sitting across from him in some quiet library corner while he stares at you exactly like this. Except now there’s no glass between you. Now he’ll have to speak to you. Hear your shaky voice try to explain derivatives or whatever the hell you’re supposed to be learning. Watch you fumble with notes while the memory of this exact moment hangs in the air between you like smoke.

Tragic and pathetic. Not even worth pretending to be civil to.

You rip your gaze away so fast your vision blurs. The bag crinkles loudly in your death grip, it’s too loud. Like everything about you is suddenly amplified. You spin on your heel and walk. Then you’re speed-walking. Then you’re half-jogging. Slides slap wetly against the pavement. The cold night air stings your wet eyes. Every step feels like he’s still watching. Like the girls are already texting screenshots of the “fat girl who ran away” to the group chat he’s definitely in.

You don’t look back, you refuse. Being perceived by him, even for that single, endless heartbeat, feel like someone poured acid straight into the rawest parts of you. Like you can already tell he’s decided exactly what you are before you even get the chance to open your mouth. Before he’s forced to sit there and tutor the girl who couldn’t even order food without becoming a campus joke.

By the time you slam your apartment door behind you, your lungs are burning worse than your face. The bag hits the bed as you throw yourself into it. Opening the bag with one hand and pulling out the contents one by one. You roll onto your back and take a sad little sip of your milkshake as you feel the tears start up again. And as you sit up you feel them fall freely down your face as you eat. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to convince yourself it doesn’t matter. That tomorrow is just two hours. That you can keep your head down, take the notes, and never look him in the eye again.

But the lie tastes like greasy shame. And the worst part, the part that makes your chest cave in, is that you already know it won’t work. You shove food into your mouth and let your mind sit there with the shame of binge eating and trying to fill some hole in your heart that the food never fixes. You barely remember to shove the wrapper into the bag and toss it into the bin before you crawl under the sheets and force yourself to just sleep. Finally full but feeling worse because of it. And sleep takes you, but not carefully. The entire night you feel yourself toss and turn, sleep wrecked with nightmares of every failure you’ve ever had.

And by the time you wake up in the morning the light gray of a cloudy day greets you. Your eyes feel swollen, gritty. The fast food bag is still halfway hanging out of the trash bin by your bed, like it was just the cherry on top of the endless pile of defeat you had.

The alarm on your phone is still going off, soft piano notes that usually feel gentle but today just sound mocking. You slap it silent and lie there on your back, staring at the ceiling cracks you’ve memorized. The scholarship deadline is seven weeks away. The next exam is in twelve days. Katsuki Bakugou is waiting for you tonight at seven sharp.

And you have half a mind to skip out, send Dr. Eri an email with some excuse that you are sick, or you had a family emergency…anything to buy yourself just another day or two. But the thought makes your stomach twist worse than the greasy food ever did. Hiding won’t fix the failing grade, and it sure as hell wont keep you in school.

There is no other way about it.

You drag yourself out of bed. Shower again because yesterday’s doesn’t count anymore. You pull on the softest things you own: high-waisted leggings that don’t pinch, a long-sleeved tunic top that drapes instead of clings, and the same oversized cardigan from yesterday because it still smells faintly like the cupcakes you ate before your last class. You fix your hair into place and make sure even if there is humidity that it will stay in place today. You skip makeup entirely and grab your backpack. The midterm printed out now and folded small so you don;t have to look at the bold red ink.

The day passes in fragments. Morning lecture where you sit in the very back and take notes on autopilot. Lunch alone in the library with a protein bar you barely taste. Afternoon lab where you fumble a titration and your partner gives you a pitying smile you pretend not to see. Every hour feels like it’s stretching toward seven p.m., the study session looming like a guillotine.

By six fortyfive you’re walking across campus toward the library, your stomach knotted so tight you’re not sure you will be able to speak when you get there. The building is quiet as you expect a library to be, even if it is a Friday evening. Most people are at parties or pregaming, or just doing anything but organic chemistry. You take the stairs to the second floor because the elevator had two people talking in it and you didn't want to be rude.

And when you finally make it to room 204, you notice that the solid wood door has a little glass window, you pause outside, heart hammering not just from the steps, but from who is sitting just inside.

He’s already there.

Katsuki Bakugou sits at the table like this is the last place he wants to be. Legs sprawled, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. He’s in a black compression shirt that clings to every line of muscle he earned on the ice. Broad shoulders and defined arms, the kind of build that makes people stare even when he’s just sitting still. Black sweats hang low on his hips. His books and notes are spread out in front of him. a battered copy of the textbook with tabs sticking out, loose-leaf pages covered in sharp, angry handwriting, even a molecular model kit half-assembled into what looks like a benzene ring. He’s tapping a pen against the table, fast and irritated.

You look down to your smartwatch and see that you are still technically two minutes early, and you try to force a smile on your face as you finally push the door open. His head snaps up, crimson eyes locking on you immediately, narrowing with frustration already and you hadn’t even said hello yet.

“You’re late,” he says, voice rough like gravel.

There are no plesantlies like you foolishly hoped for, just an instant jab even though you had just walked in the door.

“I’m… two minutes early.”

“Ten minutes late by my clock.” He jerks his chin toward the empty chair across from him. “Sit. We’re wasting time.”

You hesitate for half a second, then drop your bag and slide into the seat. The table is small enough that your knees almost brush his under it. You keep your legs pressed together.

He doesn’t waste breath on small talk. “Dr. Eri sent me your midterm. it's a fucking disaster. You blanked on half the mechanisms and butchered the stereochemistry. We’re starting from the ground up tonight, no shortcuts. You fuck this up again, it’s on you, not me.”

You swallow. The words sting, but they’re not new. You’ve been saying worse to yourself for days.

“I know,” you say quietly. “That’s why I’m here.”

He stares at you for a beat longer than necessary, like he’s waiting for you to argue or cry or bolt. When you don’t, he huffs and shoves a blank sheet of paper toward you.

“Draw the SNAr mechanism for 2,4-dinitrochlorobenzene with methoxide. Step by step. No looking at your notes.”

You pick up the pen. Your hand shakes at first, but you force it steady. You start with the addition step, the arrow pushing from the nucleophile to the carbon, the negative charge building on the ortho nitro group. It’s messy, but correct.

He watches without comment until you finish.

“Not terrible,” he mutters. “You at least remember the charge delocalization. Most idiots forget that part and turn it into some magic electron-sucking void.”

You blink. Was that… a compliment?

He doesn’t give you time to process past that before hee leans forward, elbows on the table, and taps your drawing with one scarred finger. “Here. You curved the arrow too wide. Makes it look like the charge is floating instead of stabilizing. Fix it.”

You do.

He nods once, short and sharp. “Better. Now explain why the meta nitro doesn’t participate the same way.”

You take a breath and start talking. Your voice is small at first, but the words come. He interrupts twice. once to correct your wording, once to make you redraw an intermediate, but he doesn’t mock you. He just demands precision, the same way he probably demands it on the ice.

Half an hour in, he sits back and crosses his arms. The compression shirt pulls tight across his chest. You try very hard not to notice.

“You’re not as hopeless as your score made it seem,” he says gruffly. “You’ve got the basics. You just panic and second-guess every fucking step. Stop doing that.”

You look down at the table. “Easier said than done.”

“Yeah, well, tough shit. Panic on my watch and I’ll call you on it every time. We’ve got twentyone more sessions minimum before the next exam. You’re not wasting my time, so don’t waste yours.”

You meet his eyes then. There’s no pity in them or charity case there. Just the same intense focus he gives everything else…hockey, grades, apparently now you.

Something in your chest loosens, just a fraction.

“Okay,” you say.

He grunts, flips to a new page in his notes. “Good. Now let’s do the fucking Cope rearrangement. And this time, don’t half-ass the chair transition state.”

You nod and lean in.

The clock on the wall ticks past eight-thirty. Your hand is cramping from redrawing transition states and arrow-pushing mechanisms, but the pages in front of you are starting to make sense again. Not perfect, nowhere near it. But it’s starting to look less like hieroglyphs and more like a language you used to speak fluently.

Bakugou leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, the compression shirt pulling tight enough that you can see the faint outline of old scars across his chest. Something that looks like it was old but still had to hurt from the star shaped pattern you idly notice. He’s been quiet for the last ten minutes, just watching you work through the last problem set he threw at you. No more barking corrections. Just that steady, unblinking stare.

You finish the final arrow, set the pen down, and slide the paper toward him without a word. He scans it quickly, giving it a decent look over and then grunts in approval.

“It’s not shit,” he says. “You fixed the flip on the Cope. And you didn’t draw the methoxide like it’s a goddamn balloon animal this time.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Thanks. I think?”

He doesn’t respond to the thanks. Instead he starts gathering his things. stacking notes, snapping the molecular model kit shut, shoving everything into a beat-up black backpack that looks like it’s seen more hockey rinks than libraries. You start packing too, slower, waiting for the inevitable dismissal. But when you both stand, he doesn’t head straight for the door.

He stops, one hand on the back of his chair, and looks at you in something that isn’t instant dismissal like he gave you when you first walked in.

“Listen,” he says, voice rougher than before, like he’s forcing the words out. “There’s a thing at the house tonight. Delta party. Nothing crazy, just the usual bullshit. Beer, music, people being loud. You could… come. If you want.”

You blink, unsure if he realizes just who exactly he invited to their worst nightmare. Loud music and people being even louder? With alcohol and possibly drugs? That wasn’t your scene, but even if it was there was something that would just make it feel awkward showing up to a stranger's house like that.

He keeps going, eyes flicking away for the first time all night. “Not saying you have to drink or whatever. Just-there’s food. And it’s closer than trekking back to your place in the dark. Could crash on the couch if you get tired. We'll pick up tomorrow anyway.”

The offer hangs there, awkward and unexpected. You can picture it all the thumping bass, with bodies pressed too close together, the smell of cheap beer and sweat and whatever body spray the hockey guys douse themselves in. And you…standing in the corner with your cardigan and your backpack, trying not to look like you wandered into the wrong universe.

He’s still watching you, but there’s no smirk. Just… something almost like consideration. Like he knows exactly what your answer’s going to be, and he’s asking anyway.

You shake your head, gentle but firm. “I… don’t think that’s my scene. Thanks, though. Really.”

He shrugs, like he expected it. “Yeah. Figured.” he says after a beat. “Tomorrow then, same time. We’ll hit the actual books and go over every goddamn question you bombed on the midterm. No excuses, you show up prepared or don’t bother showing up at all.”

You nod. “I’ll be here. On time.”

“Good.” He shoulders his backpack, already turning toward the door. His phone buzzes in his pocket-loud and insistent. He pulls it out, glances at the screen, and answers without breaking stride.

“Oi, shitty hair,” he barks into the phone. “Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving the library now. Keep your panties on. Party’s popping off? Then stop calling me every five minutes like a lost puppy.”

You hear a muffled laugh on the other end, bright and unbothered. Bakugou rolls his eyes, but there’s no real heat in it. He pauses at the door, one hand on the frame, and glances back at you.

“Bookworm,” he says, the nickname landing somewhere between insult and… not. “ Don’t stay up stressing over mechanisms. Save that for tomorrow when I’m there to yell at you about it.”

You open your mouth to maybe say thanks again, maybe say something snarky, but he’s already gone. The door swinging shut behind him with a soft click. You stand there for a second, alone in the empty study room, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. Your backpack feels heavier now, but not in a bad way. The knot in your chest from last night is still there, but it’s s little less constricting now.

You sling the bag over your shoulder and head out into the night.

Tomorrow you’ll face him again. Tomorrow you’ll sit across from him and let him tear apart your mistakes until they stop hurting so much.

In those stories, dragons ruled the skies and knights clashed steel against steel, fighting for glory, honor, love. Wizards whispered secrets that could split mountains and mend hearts. Goblins and orcs waged wars over land and power, their fates written in fire.

And somewhere in those pages were princesses, lonely, lovely things. tucked away in towers where sunlight poured through dust-heavy windows. You imagined them surrounded by meadows of tall grass and wildflowers that grew unruly and free, just like your thoughts.

You dreamed of being one of them. The brave one, the chosen one, the one who mattered.

Because in those stories, no one laughed at you. No one whispered behind your back. No one called you names that burned like salt in a wound.

A nerd.

You hadn’t known what the word meant back then, and neither did they. It was just an echo of cruelty passed down like an old hand-me-down shirt, something picked up too young, too easily.

But it hurt anyway.

Their laughter followed you like a shadow, clinging even when you pretended not to hear it. Adults never stepped in; they only smiled thinly, pity softening their eyes. You learned, then, that the world did not always rush to save quiet girls.

So you taught yourself to hide.

You built your own kingdom of solitude, quiet, steady, safe. You didn’t swing swords or breathe fire. You didn’t need to. You survived in silence, and that became its own kind of courage.

By the time you grew older, the teasing had faded into memory, but the habits remained. You walked through life like a ghost half-seen: polite, careful, invisible by choice.

College came and went in a blur of textbooks and coffee cups. You kept your head down, graduated with honors, and never once missed a deadline. No parties. No drunken nights on rooftops. You had your books, a small circle of friends, and the comfort of predictability.

Your life was quiet, painfully so at times…but it was yours.

Now, as an adult, you found yourself surrounded by the very thing that had once saved you. The library was your sanctuary, all soft lamplight and hushed voices. The scent of old paper and ink hung in the air like incense. Rows upon rows of books stood like old friends waiting to be revisited.

You spent your days shelving stories and your evenings reading them aloud to children whose eyes gleamed with the same wonder you once had. Their laughter was pure, uncruel. It soothed something in you that had ached for years.

Most nights, you didn’t mind being the one who stayed late. It gave you an excuse to linger in the quiet, to wander the aisles, to listen to the old building breathe.

It was a kind of peace. A soft, earned solitude.

You had no way of knowing that peace was about to end.

That on one unremarkable Saturday night, your sanctuary would become the hiding place for someone who didn’t belong to your quiet world at all.

You closed late on the weekends, which meant as the youngest employee it was your job to work into the late evening. Saving your fellow coworkers the misery of closing after a busy day. 

Carefully, as you try to do everything in your life, you stack your books from heaviest to lightest, while also keeping in mind which direction you need to go in order to put them away in the proper spot. The cart that you would normally use sat sadly behind the front desk with a missing wheel, and was going to sit there until your regional manager deemed it the time for new supplies…whenever that was going to come around.

The lights were turned down low, and you finally had a chance to turn on some classical music and fill the huge space with a little lively music. 

With a little bit of a struggle you manage to pull the stack of books off the front desk and into your hands. You lied to yourself thinking you had the strength to carry all of them for long. The strain in your arms was already starting to sting, but as soon as you stepped away from the desk you hear a sound that makes you freeze up, heavy books forgotten as the sound of the main door of the library shuts.

You swore you locked it after the last guest left, but that sound was far too distinctive to ignore. You've heard that door open and close a million times by now and there was no way you just thought you heard it. 

As quickly as your body will move you heard towards the set of front doors, books in hand ready to berate whoever just technically broke into a government building. 

His head was turned and hiding just out of view of the frosted glass. Tall, and pointy blonde hair, massive when you compared him to the entryway. Your eyes scan over him quickly asserting the situation, before you eyes are drawn to the loud voices coming from the other side of the oak doors, accompanied by flashing lights and talks of finding some guy before he gets away. 

They were looking for him, clearly. 

And he had managed to slip away without being seen. His eyes stayed focused on the glass, none the wiser to your presence. His chest heaving slightly as he waited for them to pass by. Trickling down the street until their voices all but disappeared into the evening. 

You waited for the longest time unsure if it was ok to speak up, but when you noticed the slight slump of his shoulders drop you finally decided to gather the courage to speak up. 

“Hi there,” you call out, voice breaking the silence with an almost fragile tremor. “I’m sorry, but the library’s closed.”

It comes out softer than you meant it to…apologetic, almost meek. Hardly fitting in the space where his heavy breathing and the echoes of hurried footsteps had just filled the air.

His head snaps toward you, quick and sharp, like a wild animal startled by a sound. Then his eyes find you. Deep, unsettling crimson in the dim light, hard edges and wary calculation, as if your words were some sort of challenge. The sight of him steals your next breath.

You force a smile, small and uncertain, because that’s what you do when someone looks like they might bite before they speak. But his gaze doesn’t bite. It studies. Drops to the pile of books in your arms, teetering dangerously, then lifts again to your face.

And before you can think of anything else to say, he moves.

One long stride. Then another. The heavy boots of someone who shouldn’t move that quietly. You blink and suddenly he’s right there in front of you, close enough for the scent of smoke and rain to hit your senses. His hand comes out large, calloused…and he takes the stack of books from your arms without so much as a grunt.

He holds them like they weigh nothing at all.

You stare. They were enough to make your shoulders ache, yet he just shifts them in his arms like it’s nothing more than a grocery bag. The way his muscles flex beneath the loose hoodie is frankly unfair.

“Yer gonna blow your back out tryin’ to carry this shit,” he mutters, low and gravelly, like the sound vibrates up from the earth.

You blink, heat creeping up your neck as you scramble for a response.

“I-oh.” You swallow the rest of the sentence that dies halfway out of your mouth. “Um… this way.”

You turn before you can embarrass yourself further, leading him deeper into the stacks. The soft glow of the library lights trails along the rows of shelves, dust motes catching the air between you like tiny stars. You can hear his footsteps behind you steady, grounding…and for some strange reason, it feels like the quiet has changed.

It’s no longer the safe kind of quiet you’ve always loved. It’s charged. Expectant. Alive.

The two of you fall into an unspoken rhythm as you move through the aisles. The storm outside whispers against the tall windows, wind brushing the glass like a tired sigh. The overhead lights hum softly, the kind of noise you stopped noticing years ago.

You take the top book from the stack in his arms, your fingertips grazing the worn leather cover, and slide it neatly back into its place. Then another. And another. The simple repetition feels grounding, the familiar weight of stories, the soft drag of your palm along the spines as if greeting old friends.

He trails behind you, quiet. It’s strange how easily he fits into the stillness. You expected the kind of man who’d fill the space with his presence, loud and rough around the edges. Instead, he just follows, careful and wordless, his heavy steps softened on the old carpet.

You steal a glance at him when you think he won’t notice. His hood’s still up, shadows tracing the sharp cut of his jaw, a single strand of blond hair catching the faint light. There’s tension there coiled tight in his shoulders, in the way his hand grips the stack of books…but something about this place seems to be unwinding him slowly, strand by strand.

He shifts the pile in his arms, the motion quiet but certain, and when he exhales, it’s almost a sigh. The sound barely carries, but it fills the small space between you like warmth.

You don’t ask who he is or why cameras were chasing him. You don’t even really want to know. Whoever he is, he looks like someone who hasn’t had a moment to breathe in a long time. And you, well…you know how that feels.

So you let the silence speak for you both. He hands you another book; holding the depleting pile steady while you slide it into place. Your fingers brush again, and this time neither of you pulls away too quickly.

The air feels different now, softer somehow. The storm outside has quieted, or maybe it’s just that his presence has started to blend into the calm you’ve always found here. You can feel his gaze on you now and then, curious, almost thoughtful, but never invasive.

For once, you don’t feel like a stranger in your own quiet world.

He doesn’t either.

When the last of the books find their rightful homes, you murmur a small, automatic “thank you,” though you’re not sure he even hears it. He gives a small nod anyway, something halfway between acknowledgment and dismissal and follows you back toward the front desk.

You’ve still got a few closing tasks to finish. The mindless end-of-day rituals: logging returns, slipping papers into files, checking the locks on the side doors. Usually it’s your favorite part of the evening, the final quiet before the world outside intrudes again. Tonight, though, you’re not alone in it.

He leans against the front desk, a half step away from the reading lamp’s halo of light. His hoodie hangs loosely over his shoulders, the fabric stretched just enough to hint at what’s beneath. One arm crosses over his chest, the other bent as he holds his phone, thumb moving lazily over the screen. The pale glow lights up his face in soft blues and whites, catching on the curve of his cheekbone and the faint crease between his brows.

He looks utterly absorbed. And unfairly beautiful.

You tell yourself not to stare, but that doesn’t stop your eyes from betraying you. It’s not like men like him show up here often…Tall, dark and handsome, the kind of presence that doesn’t belong among dust and paperbacks. You try to busy yourself, stacking loose receipts and tucking pens back into their holder, but your gaze keeps sliding back to him as if drawn by gravity.

The low light turns his blond hair to gold, the ends slightly damp from the rain. There’s a line of tension still clinging to him, visible in the set of his jaw and the way his fingers tap absently against the counter. But he looks calmer than before…quieter, maybe even content.

You catch yourself wondering what he’s reading. A message? News? Something funny, maybe, because the corner of his mouth twitches once, barely there. The sight sends an unexpected warmth to your chest, like being let in on a secret you haven’t earned.

You shake your head quickly, turning back to your paperwork. It’s ridiculous, really. You’ve spent most of your life surrounded by fictional men who say all the right things and look like they were painted by divine inspiration. You’re not supposed to get flustered over a real one, especially one who probably has no idea you exist beyond being the woman who owns too many books.

Still, you feel his presence like a current in the air, steady and grounding. Every so often, he shifts his weight or clears his throat softly, and the sound pulls at your attention all over again.

By the time you shut down the computer and turn off the final lamp, the library feels different than it did an hour ago. Not empty. Not even quiet. Just shared.

“I’m almost done, I’ll be right back,” you murmur softly, gathering the printed papers from the ancient printer. The machine groans under the weight of modern technology, but you’ve grown accustomed to its quirks. Carefully, you carry the stack to the back office and deposit them neatly in the bin for the morning, the shuffle of paper quiet but satisfying.

Once that’s done, you head for the small staff dining area. You grab your coat from the rack, slip your lunchbox into your bag, and on a whim reach for the refrigerator. Your fingers wrap around a pair of apple juice boxes, one for yourself, one for him.

You don’t know why you’re doing it, exactly. Perhaps it’s the polite instinct to offer hospitality, perhaps it’s the small thrill of sharing something mundane with someone extraordinary.

Returning to the front desk, you hold one out toward him. “Here,” you say with a shy smile. “You helped, so you earned a juice box.”

He barely glances at you at first, absorbed in whatever he’s reading on his phone. His thumb scrolls lazily across the screen, and the faint glow lights up the edge of his sharp features. He looks disinterested…distracted, maybe. But there’s a subtle pull to the way he tilts his head, like he’s trying not to be caught watching the light hit your face.

Finally, curiosity or some unspoken politeness pulls his attention from the screen. He inspects the small juice box in his hand, turning it over slowly, as if weighing the situation. You bite back a laugh at how absurd it looks compared to him. Broad shoulders, tall frame, the quiet intensity that makes him seem larger than life, holding something barely bigger than a shot glass.

“You…” he begins, his voice rough, low, a little confused. “…you really expect me to drink this?”

You shrug, cheeks warming. “Well… yeah. I mean, it’s what you earned, isn’t it?”

His lips twitch in a fleeting smirk, though he doesn’t say anything else. You catch a glimpse of something softer there, perhaps amusement and your heart flutters despite yourself.

You take a small sip of your juice and set it down on the counter, already feeling the evening’s quiet pull you back into routine. The library is almost entirely yours again…just you, the lingering scent of old paper, and him, leaning lazily against the desk like he owns half the space now.

“All right,” you mutter to yourself, more for ritual than necessity, “lights.”

You start at the far end of the room, flipping switches with the kind of exaggerated care only someone who spends all day surrounded by fragile paper and antique bulbs can muster. One by one, the shelves slip into shadow until only the front desk and the entryway remain softly illuminated.

He watches, still quiet, but his stance has softened and less rigid, more… human. You almost expect him to comment on the outdated wiring, the faint hum of fluorescent bulbs, but he doesn’t. Instead, you catch him stretching just a little…and notice the faint flex of his arms. Your brain lurches, briefly, into full-blown nerd panic: Oh my fucking god, this guy is what they keep talking about in my books. 

“Uh…” you clear your throat, heart hammering. “Thanks… for helping with the books. They were… really heavy. I almost-” you gesture vaguely, like anyone could guess the disaster you narrowly avoided. “-dropped them on my feet.”

He smirks faintly, but you can’t tell if it’s amusement or him pretending not to enjoy the compliment.

“You weren’t the worst company,” you mutter after a beat, louder than you intended. “Which… that’s saying something. I’ve had co-workers… worse. Definitely worse.”

Your brain kicks in immediately: Smooth. Real smooth. That was subtle. Totally normal. Definitely didn’t just sound like you were rambling to a stranger who is hotter than most men you've ever encountered!

He glances at you, just a flicker of a raise in his eyebrow, enough to make your stomach do that weird little flop.

You shuffle toward the back door, holding your coat a little closer than necessary. “I-I’m gonna head out,” you mumble. “Back way, if you wanna… follow. I mean… you don’t have to, but, uh… you gotta get out, I can’t leave people locked in the library.”

He tilts his head, curious, but makes no move to argue. That’s fine. You give a little sheepish grin and gesture toward the side exit. “This way. Don’t ask me why it exists. It’s… a secret librarian thing.”

He follows without question, silent except for the occasional scrape of his boots against the old wood. The night air hits you when the door swings open, and you shiver, not from cold, exactly, but from the thrill of having someone this close in a space that’s usually only yours.

“Okay,” you say, fumbling with the locks to make sure no one notices you sneaking him out. “You… didn’t ask why I wasn’t gonna ask why you were running from the paparazzi. And I’m good with that. Really. Totally fine.”

He hums something noncommittal, clearly amused, but otherwise keeps his hands tucked into his hoodie pockets.

You glance up at him, your voice soft but laced with your usual nervous humor. “I mean… you weren’t exactly the worst person to… help me carry books. That’s a compliment. I think. Maybe. I-ugh. Ignore me, God, this is awkward.”

He lets out a small laugh, just enough to make your chest flutter. And for a moment, you both walk in silence, the city sleeping around you, the storm long gone, and the world reduced to two very mismatched people sneaking through shadows together.

By the time you reach the corner where you’re ready to part ways, the air between you feels different. Comfortable. Oddly… like it belongs to both of you, if only for this brief, silly, stolen moment.

“Thanks,” you murmur again, for good measure. “For… everything. I mean, seriously. Books are heavy. People are worse.”

You go to start walking towards the direction you need for home, knowing the door will automatically shut and lock after he lets it close behind him, And your feet barely hit the still wet pavement when his voice stops you. 

“Hey bookworm.”

Your head snaps around, heart stuttering. He’s still leaning against the doorway, casual as ever, one hand tucked in his pocket. You almost stumble over your own feet just trying to form a sentence.

“Yes?” you squeak, unsure if you’re supposed to answer or pretend you didn’t hear him.

“What’s your name?” His tone is low, just enough to be heard, but not intrusive. Somehow… charming, in a gruff, “don’t tell me your life story” kind of way.

You swallow, cheeks warming. “It’s…uh,” you reply with a slight stutter, the only thing your stupid brain is able to come up with is to tap the small nametag attached to your shirt.

He nods once, briefly, as if committing it to memory, then without another word, turns and starts walking away down the quiet street. You stand frozen for a second, wanting to yell something back, but your body is stuck somewhere between awe and indecision.

Finally, you wave. Just a small, awkward wave. Half because it feels polite, half because you’re not ready to let go entirely. He doesn’t turn back, but somehow, that’s fine.

The evening air hits you again as you walk home, the familiar streets blurred by the soft glow of streetlights and your racing thoughts. You can’t stop replaying it: the way he carried the books, the faint twitch of a smirk when you fumbled your words, the heat in his eyes under the dim library lights.

By the time you get inside, you’re still smiling like a fool. You kick off your shoes, toss your coat onto the chair, and curl up on the couch with a bowl of something terribly too convenient for dinner. The TV hums quietly, background noise only, because your mind is elsewhere entirely.

“This is… such a stupid strangers-to-lovers trope,” you mutter to yourself, nudging the bowl aside for emphasis. “And yet… somehow, I don’t care.”

You lean back into the cushions, feet tucked beneath you, and sigh. Nerdy girl logic versus reality: books are predictable, people are messy, and sometimes messy people are exactly what you never knew you needed.

Chapter 2:

Chapter 3:

Chapter 4:

Chapter 5:

Chapter 6:

Chapter 7:

Chapter 8:

Chapter 9:

Chapter 10:

Chapter 11:

Chapter 12:

Chapter 13:

Chapter 14:

Warnings for series:

~~~ 

The grocery store is about thirty minutes away,  a tiny place that sells everything from fishing lures to peanut butter, all under one humming fluorescent roof. As you step inside, a blast of too-cold air smacks you in the face, making you shiver even in your thin sundress.

The place is nearly empty, save for a young cashier lazily flipping through a magazine and an older man in overalls inspecting a wall of fishing lures.

You start with the basics: eggs, milk, and some butter. A few tomatoes that look a little bruised but are good enough.

Your cart squeaks with every push, echoing in the quiet aisles.

You turn a corner and find yourself staring at the candy display near the register—cheap, bright packages: licorice ropes, peppermints, caramel squares in shiny gold wrappers.

Your eyes catch on a bag of strawberry hard candies, the kind wrapped to look like real berries, with tiny green cellophane “leaves.”

Your breath hitches.

Your grandmother used to keep a bowl of them on the kitchen counter, always full no matter what. You remember sneaking them before dinner, the sweet artificial flavor sticking to your tongue, her soft laugh echoing behind you.

You reach out and pick up a bag, turning it over in your hands. Your fingers shake just slightly.

She believed in this place so much, you think. She made it work…she made it home.

You place the candy carefully in your cart.

A few aisles later, you pause in front of a small toy rack jammed between dusty greeting cards and packets of flower seeds.

You spot it instantly, a tiny stuffed cow. Its fur is patchy and its plastic eyes a little crooked, but it has the same wide, dopey expression as the cow you met in the field yesterday.

Something soft and painful blooms in your chest.

You pick it up gently, running your thumb across its little plush ears.

Am I really cut out for this? You wonder. Can I actually do this alone?

Images flash behind your eyes: the broken irrigation pipes, the snarled vines, the tears staining your dirt-caked knees. You squeeze the stuffed cow once, feeling a ridiculous sort of comfort in its silly little shape, and drop it into your cart.

By the time you reach the checkout, your cart looks like a chaotic mess: chicken, flour, wilted lettuce, strawberry candies, and the cow toy peeking out between the bags.

The cashier, a teenage girl with heavy eyeliner and a nose ring, raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. She scans your things in bored silence, popping her gum every few seconds.

You hand over a few crumpled bills, trying not to overthink the way your hands still shake slightly.

Outside, the sun has climbed even higher, the heat radiating off the asphalt in visible waves.

You load your bags into the car, making sure the candy and the little cow sit on top, safe and visible.

As you slide into the driver’s seat, you catch your reflection in the rearview mirror. Your eyes are still a little puffy from yesterday’s tears. A small cut on your cheek throbs in the heat.

You take a slow, shaky breath.

This isn’t going to be easy. You knew that.

You think about the vines waiting to be cleared. The rooms to be scrubbed and painted. The tasting room that still smells like mildew and old dreams.

But it’s yours.

You brush a finger over the cow’s soft head, grounding yourself..

On the drive home, you keep catching yourself humming softly, a little broken tune from some old radio jingle. You don't remember the words, but the sound soothes you.

Maybe today will be better .

~~~

When you turn onto your long dirt driveway, you see a familiar truck parked out front.

Your stomach flips.

You park next to it and step out, clutching a bag of groceries like a shield.

Kirishima hops down from the porch steps the moment he sees you, grinning wide and easy.

"Howdy!" he calls, waving like he’s greeting an old friend.

You can’t help but smile, ducking your head a little. "Hi. Um… what are you doing here?"

He steps forward, eyeing your grocery bags. "Thought I'd come check on you. It’s been a few days. Figured you might’ve gotten yourself tangled up in those vines and needed rescuing."

You let out a strangled little laugh. "Not… not far off, actually."

His eyes light up with interest. "Yeah?"

You set the bag down on the porch, turning slightly so he can see your arms and legs. You spread your hands awkwardly. "I, um… I may have had a small breakdown yesterday. Cried so hard I scared off a whole flock of birds, I think."

Kirishima’s mouth falls open for half a second, then he laughs. Not in a mocking way, but warm and genuine, the sound rolled through the air like summer thunder.

"Aw, c'mon! I bet you scared more than just the birds." He steps closer, squinting at the scratches on your arms. "Holy crap. You look like you wrestled a bobcat and lost."

You huff a shy laugh, hugging your arms to your chest. "It, um… it was not my finest moment."

"Hey," he says, his voice dropping softer. "You’re trying. That’s more than most would do."

The compliment lands in your chest like a small, warm stone. You look down, cheeks burning. "Thanks. Really."

Kirishima steps forward again, his big hands hovering as if he wants to touch your arms but doesn’t want to scare you.

"You sure you don’t want help?" he asks. "I mean, I’ve wrangled thornier problems than grapevines."

You hesitate. The idea of him, of anyone, seeing the total chaos out there makes your stomach twist.

"I… appreciate it. But I think I need to try on my own first," you say finally, forcing a small, apologetic smile. "I need to prove to myself that I can handle at least some of it. Even if it means I look like I got in a fight with a blackberry bush."

His grin softens into something gentler. "Fair enough. You’re stubborn, I respect that."

You grin, shy and crooked. "Thanks."

Kirishima stands there for another moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot. You can tell he wants to say something else, but decides against it.

"Well," he finally says, clapping his big hands together once. "If you change your mind, and I mean if…you know where to find us."

You nod, heart fluttering in a way you’re not ready to name. "I’ll keep that in mind."

He starts to turn back to his truck, then pauses, glancing over his shoulder. "Oh, and… good choice on the dress, given how windy it is.”

Your jaw drops a little, and you look down at yourself, the hem of your sundress fluttering in the breeze.

You sputter out a laugh. "I… yeah, maybe not the smartest wardrobe decision today."

He laughs, bright and genuine, then hops into his truck.

As he starts the engine, he gives you one last grin and a wink. "Hang in there, sunshine."

You watch him drive away, your heart doing cartwheels behind your ribs. When he’s gone, you let out a long breath, picking up the grocery bag and carrying it inside. You unload the rest of your groceries slowly, your mind buzzing with Kirishima’s words, the kindness in his eyes, the way he had looked at your arms without pity…only warmth and understanding.

You leave the screen door propped open as you move around the kitchen, letting the breeze carry in the scent of wildflowers and warm dirt.

You can’t help but smile, even though you’re still scared, even though everything hurts.

You’ve never been much good at letting people help.

But maybe… maybe you won’t have to do all of this alone after all.

The rest of the evening is spent cooking yourself a decent dinner, taking another cold shower, and lying around. You had done a good job, but even you needed a day just to rest. There was no more worrying about weeds and busted pipes outside. Instead, you take the time to clean more in the house. Dusting and bringing out the slightly old, but still usable, paint, and fixing the few rough patches in the house. By the time you crawl into bed, you feel a little bit of the tension that had been sitting in your shoulders since you arrived dissipate, just a little…

~~~

But you wake to the sound of voices.

At first, you think you’re dreaming,  some distant memory of a family reunion or an early morning spent getting brunch with your friends. But as you shift and rub your eyes, the voices grow sharper, punctuated by the dull thud of something heavy being moved.

You sit up abruptly, hair sticking up in a half-dried halo from your restless sleep.

"Shit," you mutter, stumbling to the window.

You yank the curtain aside… and freeze.

There, in the pale morning light, are Kirishima and Bakugou.

Kirishima is hauling old broken fence posts into a pile like they weigh nothing, his red hair tied up messily, sweat already darkening his collar. Bakugou is hacking at a tangle of overgrown bushes near the side of the house with a pair of heavy shears, cursing under his breath with each swing.

Your jaw drops.

"Great," you hiss. "Just great." 

You storm onto the porch, bare feet slapping against the wood.

"What the hell are you doing?!" you shout.

Both men freeze.

Kirishima straightens up first, grinning like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Morning, sunshine!"

Bakugou doesn’t even look at you at first. He just snorts, throws a branch onto the growing pile, and mutters, "Finally up, princess?"

Your face burns so fast it almost knocks you back a step.

"I told you I didn’t need help!" you sputter. "I appreciate it, but you can’t just show up and start hacking at things!"

Bakugou finally turns to face you fully, red eyes sharp and narrow. "Yeah? ‘Cause you were doin’ such a fantastic job on your own. Those vines look real healthy after all that cryin' you did in ‘em.

"

Your mouth drops open, but no words come out. Just an outraged squeak. You turn a glance to Kirishima, who had to read your thoughts as a death threat for telling anyone about your emotional turmoil… especially the blond asshat that was still glaring at you.

Kirishima jumps in quickly, raising his hands in a calming gesture. "Hey now, no fighting before breakfast! We figured you might need a jumpstart. It’s gonna be a hot one today, so we thought we’d get a head start before you came out."

You cross your arms tightly over your chest, which only makes you more aware of how little you’re wearing.

"I-you." You give up with an angry noise, pivoting on your heel. "I’m going to get dressed. Don’t touch my vines without me!"

Bakugou barks a short laugh. "Better hurry up. Before we finish the job for ya."

You slam the screen door behind you so hard it rattles. 

You stomp into your room, rummaging furiously through your drawers for something remotely functional. You end up in an old tank top, a sports bra that’s seen better days, and a pair of denim shorts. As you yank on your boots, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your hair’s a mess. Your cheeks are still flushed with embarrassment.

"Perfect," you mutter sarcastically, jabbing a finger at your reflection. "Just the perfect first impression."

When you reemerge, the sun is already warming the yard, making everything smell like grass and dust and morning dew.

Kirishima looks up first, smiling wide. "Look at you! Ready to kick some ass, huh?"

You roll your eyes, though a reluctant smile tugs at your lips.

Bakugou just scowls at your shorts. "You sure that’s enough fabric to count as pants?"

"Do you have a problem with my shorts?" you snap back, hands on your hips.

He tosses a branch onto the pile with a loud thwack. "Only if you start complainin’ about gettin' scratched up."

Your jaw clenches. You’re about to march over and say something else, something biting and mean and definitely regrettable, when Kirishima cuts in.

"Okay, okay, enough flirting… let’s get to work!"

"FLIRTING?!" you and Bakugou shout at the same time.

Kirishima roars with laughter, doubling over and nearly dropping the fence post he’s holding.

For the next few hours, you focus on clearing the space directly around the house. trimming bushes, hacking away dead rose vines, yanking up weeds that reach halfway up your calves.

At first, you insist on doing it alone, but it quickly becomes obvious that Bakugou’s right: you’re a mess with the shears.

Your arms tire quickly, your strokes are weak and uneven, and the blade keeps getting stuck. You’re nearly in tears again when Bakugou strides over, yanking the shears from your hands.

"Jesus Christ," he snaps. "Move."

Before you can protest, he steps in behind you, looming so close that you can feel the heat of his chest against your back.

You squeak, trying to step away, but his big hands close around yours on the shears’ handles.

"Don’t go floppin’ around like a damn jellyfish," he growls near your ear. "Here. Firm grip. Ground yourself with your feet, use your hips, not just your arms."

You feel your entire face go up in flames.

"U-use my-what?!" you stammer, mortified.

Bakugou grunts in irritation, pressing his chest closer to yours, his calloused hands tightening just slightly. "Like this."

He moves your hands in one smooth, strong motion, the shears glide through a thick branch cleanly.

Your breath catches, heart hammering in your throat.

"There," he mutters, his mouth close enough that his breath tickles your neck. "Not so fuckin' hard when you actually pay attention."

You can’t decide if you want to elbow him in the gut or melt into the ground like a puddle.

When he finally steps back, you nearly fall forward, catching yourself on a low branch. You can’t even look at him as you mutter, "I-I get it. Thanks."

Bakugou snorts, tossing the shears into a nearby bucket. "‘Bout time."

Kirishima, who’s been pretending to work but is definitely watching the entire scene unfold, snickers loudly.

"You two are adorable," he calls.

"Shut the hell up!" Bakugou shouts a little too loudly over his shoulder.

Kirishima just beams, bright as a summer morning.

The rest of the day continues in a blur of sweat, scratches, and bickering. You scold Bakugou for throwing branches too close to your flower beds, he calls you "princess" at least twelve times, and Kirishima somehow manages to mediate without breaking a sweat.

By mid-afternoon, you’re filthy, exhausted, and laughing despite yourself.

You lean against the porch railing, gulping down water, your hair stuck to your forehead. Kirishima collapses on the steps beside you, wiping sweat from his brow. Bakugou stands a few feet away, arms crossed, scowling, though there's something different in his eyes now, something almost approving. It’s not a long break, but definitely appreciated before you all start back on your tasks, which include you mostly avoiding Bakugou at all costs. 

~~~

The sun is hanging low when Kirishima finally tosses the last armful of dead branches onto the pile near the old oak. You’re on your knees by the porch steps, pulling out weeds that have been stubbornly sprouting between the boards. Your whole body aches, your hair is a sticky halo around your face, and you’ve got dirt smudged all across your forehead.

"Alright, that’s enough for you," Bakugou barks, dropping a bundle of vines with a heavy thud.

You look up, squinting at him. "Excuse me?"

He crosses his arms, scowling down at you like a disappointed drill sergeant. "You’re done for the day. Go get cleaned up before you pass out."

"Bakugou’s right," Kirishima chimes in, wiping sweat from his hairline with the hem of his shirt, which rides up enough to reveal a taut line of abs and tanned skin. "We’ll finish up. It’s almost dinner anyway."

You open your mouth to argue. You can still pull a few more weeds, or at least try to help clear the tools, but Bakugou cuts you off with a sharp shake of his head.

"Go," he says again, jerking his chin toward the house. "You’re just gonna get in the way now."

"Wow," you huff, getting to your feet and brushing dirt from your knees. "Ever the charmer."

"Didn’t realize I was supposed to be charming," he fires back, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Yeah, clearly," you shoot over your shoulder as you stomp up the porch steps.

Kirishima’s laughter rings out behind you, warm and easy. "Play nice, you two!"

Inside, you peel off your sweaty clothes and head for the bathroom.

The hot water heater, true to form, refuses to cooperate. You fiddle with the knobs, give the tank a few gentle…then increasingly aggressive kicks, but the water never gets warmer than lukewarm at best.

"Piece of shit," you grumble, teeth chattering as you rinse off. "You have one job!"

Still, after scrubbing off the dirt and sweat, you feel slightly more human.

You towel off and slip into another sundress. This one is a soft yellow with tiny white flowers. The thin cotton clings to your skin in places, still damp from the less-than-satisfying shower. You glance around the kitchen, grimacing at the state of it: boxes still stacked against the walls, counters littered with half-unpacked cookware and random jars.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. They’re eating outside anyway.

You throw together a simple dinner: grilled chicken thighs with rosemary, a quick tomato salad with basil from the scraggly plant you found by the back door, and some leftover bread you managed to save. You hum quietly as you work, your shoulders finally starting to unknot. The house feels warmer somehow, less like a tomb and more like a space that might one day be home again.

You load everything onto a big wooden tray. Plates stacked, bread wrapped in a clean towel, a mason jar of sweet tea tucked in the corner. You balance it carefully, stepping out onto the porch just as the last orange streaks of sunset melt into purple.

Bakugou and Kirishima are still at it, though the yard looks almost entirely cleared now. Kirishima waves the moment he sees you, dropping his rake and bounding over like an eager puppy.

"Smells amazing!" he calls.

Bakugou glances over his shoulder, scowling, but you don’t miss the way his eyes drag down your figure for a half-second too long before he snaps his attention back to the ground.

You set the tray on the porch table, wiping your brow with the back of your hand. "I figured it was the least I could do. Since you two ignored my very reasonable request to leave."

Bakugou tosses a stray stick into the pile and stalks over, wiping sweat from his jaw with his forearm. "We wouldn’t have had to ignore shit if you weren’t so damn stubborn."

You bristle instantly, hands flying to your hips. "I’m not stubborn, I’m independent!"

He snorts, stepping up onto the porch. "Same thing when you don’t know what the hell you’re doing."

Your jaw drops. "Excuse me?!"

"You heard me." He starts to reach for the bread, but you slap his hand away.

"Hands off. Sit down first!" you snap.

He glares at you, and you glare right back, noses almost touching across the small table.

Kirishima slides in between you two with a bright laugh, practically glowing with delight. "Aw, come on, you two, you’re gonna scare off all the food if you keep fighting!"

You huff, stepping back and wiping invisible dust from your dress. Bakugou mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "Stubborn ass princess."

You settle into your seat, ignoring the way Bakugou eyes your dress again when you cross your legs.

Kirishima immediately piles his plate high, beaming at you between bites. "Seriously, this is amazing. You cook too?!"

You shrug, cheeks warming. "I… I used to cook for my family. We didn’t have a lot of money for fancy ingredients, so I learned to make simple stuff taste good."

Bakugou grunts, tearing into a piece of chicken like he’s trying to prove something. "It’s edible," he mutters, but you notice he doesn’t stop eating.

You scoff. "Wow. Such high praise from a culinary expert, I’m sure."

Kirishima nearly chokes laughing. "Bakugou, you eat gas station burritos. You don’t get to judge!"

Bakugou glares at him but doesn’t respond, too busy demolishing his plate.

The three of you eat as the sky turns deep violet, stars starting to blink to life overhead. The porch creaks softly under your feet, and the air smells like fresh earth and woodsmoke from somewhere nearby. Your heart swells unexpectedly, a warmth pooling deep in your chest despite the long day and your still-sore arms.

After dinner, you lean back in your chair, sipping a glass of iced tea. You sigh, glancing between the two men, Kirishima bright and beaming, Bakugou silent but strangely settled, leaning his elbows on his knees.

"Thank you," you say quietly, surprising even yourself with the softness in your voice. "For today. I mean it."

Kirishima’s grin softens into something almost shy. "Anytime."

Bakugou grumbles, looking away toward the yard. "Don’t get used to it."

You roll your eyes, lips twitching into a reluctant smile. "Don’t worry. I won’t."

The evening stretches on, comfortable and buzzing with the gentle hum of crickets. The tension from earlier lingers in the air like heat lightning…sharp, bright, but not quite striking yet.

You think about the sundress sticking to your back, the smell of sweat and rosemary still clinging to your skin, the quiet that seems less heavy now with them here.

Maybe tomorrow will be another shitshow.

But tonight?

Tonight feels like the first real exhale you’ve had in years.