Day three of her period.
The worst day.
Always the worst day.
Amaya woke up wanting to fight someone. Anyone. For no reason.
Her coffee tasted wrong. The shower was too hot then too cold then too hot again. Her uniform felt tight. Everything felt tight.
Her stomach cramped.
She took two painkillers.
They didn't help.
Nothing helped on day three.
She got to the agency at 8:45. Late. Not technically late. But later than usual.
The operations floor was busy.
Too busy.
Too loud.
Someone laughed near the coffee machine. High-pitched. Grating.
Amaya wanted to throw something at them.
She didn't.
Just walked past. Got her own coffee. Added too much sugar. Drank it anyway.
Hana was at her desk.
"Morning," Hana said without looking up. "You're on inventory today. Storage room. Third floor."
Inventory.
Fucking inventory.
The most boring, tedious, pointless task in the entire agency.
Counting gear. Checking expiration dates on medical supplies. Cataloging support items that nobody used.
"Great," Amaya said.
It came out sharp.
Hana looked up.
"You good?"
"Fine."
She wasn't fine.
She was on day three of her period and everything hurt and everyone was annoying and she had to spend the next four hours in a storage room counting shit.
But sure.
Fine.
She took the elevator to the third floor.
The storage room was at the end of the hall. Big. Windowless. Shelves floor to ceiling. Boxes everywhere.
She propped the door open.
Started counting.
Box one: Smoke grenades. Twelve units. Expiration date 2028. Check.
Box two: Tourniquets. Thirty units. Two expired. Set aside for disposal.
Box three: Zip-tie cuffs. Fifty units. Check.
Her stomach cramped again.
She paused. Breathed through it.
This was hell.
This was actual hell.
She moved to the next shelf.
Comm units. Batteries. Charging cables.
Someone walked past the door.
She glanced up.
It was her.
Tanaka Yuki.
The liaison.
The woman with the perfect ponytail and the perfect blazer and the perfect legs.
She was on her phone. Laughing at something. Probably talking to someone important. Probably coordinating something that actually mattered instead of counting fucking batteries in a storage room.
Amaya's jaw clenched.
She went back to counting.
Lost track.
Had to start over.
Fuck.
An hour later, Bakugo walked in.
She didn't hear him coming.
Just looked up and he was there.
Standing in the doorway.
"How's it going?"
She stared at him.
He was in his costume. Full gear. Like he'd just come from patrol or was about to leave for one.
His hair was messier than usual.
She hated that she noticed.
"Fine," she said.
"You look pissed."
"I'm not."
"You're scowling."
"I'm concentrating."
He raised an eyebrow.
Walked into the room.
Started looking through the shelves. Like he was checking her work.
Her hands clenched.
"I know how to count," she said.
"Didn't say you didn't."
"Then why are you here?"
"Checking inventory."
"That's my job today."
"It's my agency."
He pulled down a box. Opened it. Frowned.
"These filters are expired."
"I know. I was going to mark them."
"Do it now."
She grabbed the clipboard. Wrote it down. Too hard. The pen almost tore through the paper.
Bakugo glanced at her.
"You good?"
"I'm fine."
"You said that already."
"Because it's still true."
He didn't look convinced.
She went back to the shelf. Reached for a box on the top row.
Too high.
She stretched. Her fingertips barely grazed it.
Before she could ask for help—before she could even decide if she wanted help—Bakugo moved.
Stepped behind her.
Reached up.
His chest brushed her back.
Not pressed. Just... brushed.
Close.
Too close.
She could smell the caramel. The burnt sugar. The smoke.
He grabbed the box. Pulled it down.
Set it on the table next to her.
Stepped back.
"There."
Her face was hot.
Her brain had short-circuited.
He'd just—
He'd been—
That was nothing. That was a normal thing. Helping someone reach something. People did it all the time. It didn't mean anything.
But her skin was tingling where his chest had touched her back.
Through the costume.
Through layers of fabric.
She could still feel it.
"Thanks," she said.
Her voice sounded normal.
How.
How did her voice sound normal.
He was already looking at something else. Another shelf. Completely unbothered.
Like he hadn't just—
Like it was nothing.
Because it was nothing.
She opened the box.
Her hands were shaking.
Slightly.
Not enough for him to notice.
Probably.
Inside the box: Quirk suppressant cuffs. Standard issue. Eight pairs.
She counted them.
Wrote it down.
Her stomach cramped again.
Worse this time.
She must've made a noise. A small one. Involuntary.
Bakugo looked at her.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Bullshit."
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that and I keep not believing you."
She turned to face him.
Bad idea.
Because he was close. Still close. Like three feet away. In this small room with no windows and shelves on every side and the smell of caramel everywhere.
"I'm on my period," she said.
Flat. Blunt.
Because fuck it.
If he was going to keep asking, she was going to tell him.
He blinked.
Then nodded.
"You need the day off?"
"What?"
"Day off. You need one?"
"No. I can—it's just inventory. I can do inventory."
"I'm not asking if you can. I'm asking if you want to."
Did she want to?
Yes.
She wanted to go home. Crawl into bed. Eat chocolate. Watch stupid videos. Not think about Bakugo or Tanaka Yuki or the way his chest had felt against her back or—
"I'm fine," she said again.
His eyes narrowed.
"Tsukino—"
"I said I'm fine."
She was being unreasonable.
She knew she was being unreasonable.
But she couldn't stop.
Day three.
Always day three.
Bakugo stared at her.
Then sighed.
"Fine. Finish this by 1400. Then go home."
"I have patrol—"
"I'll reassign it."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm not asking."
He turned.
Walked to the door.
Stopped.
"And Tsukino?"
"What."
"Next time just say you need a break. Don't wait until you're about to bite someone's head off."
He left.
She stood there.
Holding the clipboard.
Staring at the empty doorway.
He'd just—
He'd given her the afternoon off.
Because she was on her period.
And he hadn't been weird about it.
Hadn't made a joke. Hadn't acted uncomfortable.
Just... dealt with it.
Like a normal fucking person.
Which shouldn't have been surprising.
But it was.
Because most men were idiots about periods.
But apparently Bakugo wasn't.
Her chest felt tight again.
Different tight.
Not the angry tight.
The other one.
The one she was trying not to think about.
She finished the inventory by 1:00.
Submitted the report to Hana.
Went to the locker room.
Changed into street clothes.
Left the agency.
It was raining.
Of course it was raining.
She didn't have an umbrella.
Of course she didn't.
She walked home in the rain.
Got soaked.
Didn't care.
By the time she got to her apartment, her hair was dripping. Her clothes stuck to her skin. She was cold and wet and her stomach still hurt.
She changed. Put on the biggest, softest sweater she owned. Sweatpants. Fuzzy socks.
Made tea.
Sat on the couch.
Opened her phone.
The fan club chat was active.
Someone had posted a new photo. Bakugo leaving the agency. This morning. Before the rain.
He looked good.
He always looked good.
She scrolled through the comments.
god I love him
he could destroy me and I'd say thank you
why is he so hot when he's angry
Someone else had posted a photo of Tanaka Yuki.
From some hero commission event. She was standing next to Bakugo. Smiling. Professional. Perfect.
The comments were different on that one.
who is she??
his PR manager
they look good together
do you think they're dating?
no way. bakugo doesn't date
everyone dates
not him
Amaya closed the app.
Put her phone face-down.
Picked up the Dynamight plushie.
Looked at it.
"You're an asshole," she told it.
The plushie didn't respond.
Obviously.
"You and that perfect woman with her perfect ponytail and her perfect job."
Still nothing.
"And you don't even care. You just... exist. Being hot. Being good at everything. Making me feel insane."
She squeezed the plushie.
"I hate you."
She didn't hate him.
She was just... on day three.
And everything was terrible.
And he'd touched her back and it had felt like fire and he probably hadn't even noticed.
And that woman got to smile at him every day. Got to touch his arm. Got to be in his life in a way that actually mattered.
And Amaya was just... here.
In her apartment.
Talking to a plushie.
On her period.
Living her best life.
She lay down on the couch.
Hugged the plushie to her chest.
Closed her eyes.
Tomorrow would be better.
Day four was always better.
The cramps would ease. The mood swings would calm down. She'd stop wanting to fight people for breathing too loud.
She'd go back to work.
Be professional.
Competent.
Normal.
And she'd stop thinking about the way his chest had felt against her back.
Eventually.
...
Probably.
...
Maybe.
Fuck.