Three AM.
Zone 6 was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that either meant nothing was happening or everything was about to happen.
She'd been walking for five hours.
Her feet hurt.
The hoodie was doing nothing now. The temperature had dropped further. That specific kind of cold that got into your joints. Made your knuckles ache.
She walked past a convenience store. Bright lights. Empty inside except for a bored cashier watching something on their phone.
She went in.
Grabbed a hot coffee from the machine.
Stood outside drinking it.
Let the warmth spread from her hands to her arms to somewhere in the center of her chest.
The city was beautiful at three AM.
She'd never noticed that before. Or maybe she had but never let herself just... stand with it. The empty streets. The orange wash of the sodium lights. The way sounds traveled differently. Footsteps. Distant trains. Someone laughing three streets over.
Her earpiece had been quiet for an hour.
She pressed her comm.
"Zone 6. All clear."
"Copy," the coordinator said.
Not Bakugo.
He'd gone quiet around 1 AM.
She wondered where he was.
She took another sip of coffee.
Turned to head back to her route.
And walked directly into a chest.
Hot coffee went everywhere.
She stumbled.
A hand caught her arm.
Steadied her.
She looked up.
Of course.
Of course it was him.
Bakugo stared down at her. Coffee on his shirt. A dark splatter across the black fabric. His expression unreadable.
"Sorry," she said immediately.
"I'm fine."
"Your shirt—"
"I said I'm fine."
He let go of her arm.
She became aware suddenly of how close they were.
The doorway of the convenience store was narrow. He'd come through it at the same time she'd turned. Now they were—
Close.
Very close.
She stepped back.
Bumped into the door frame.
Smooth.
Very smooth.
Bakugo looked down at his shirt. Back at her. At the empty coffee cup in her hand.
"How much of that did you actually drink?" he asked.
"Some of it."
"So I'm wearing most of it."
"...Yes."
He sighed.
Went inside.
She stood there for a second. Then followed because she didn't know what else to do.
He grabbed a pack of wet wipes from a shelf. Tore it open at the counter. Pressed one to his shirt. The stain spread.
He made a face.
"I'll pay for the shirt," she said.
"You're not paying for my shirt."
"I ruined it."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine, there's a massive—"
"Tsukino."
"—coffee stain right on the—"
"Tsukino."
She stopped.
He was looking at her with that expression.
The one that meant she was talking too much.
"It's a shirt," he said. "Drop it."
She dropped it.
He paid for the wipes. Grabbed a water from the fridge. Started walking.
She fell into step beside him.
They walked in silence.
It wasn't uncomfortable.
Just quiet.
Their routes had apparently merged somewhere. Or maybe he'd deliberately crossed into Zone 6. She didn't ask.
He handed her the water.
She took it without thinking.
"You haven't eaten," he said.
"I had coffee."
"That's not eating."
"It has calories."
He gave her a look.
"There's a place on Kita Street that stays open until four," he said. "Ramen. We've got forty minutes before shift end."
She looked at him.
Was he—
Was he suggesting they get food?
Together?
At three in the morning?
"Okay," she said.
Too fast.
She said it too fast.
But he was already walking.
The ramen place was small.
Six seats at a counter. A man in the back who looked like he'd been awake for a hundred years. Steam rising from a massive pot.
The smell hit her the second they walked in.
Her stomach growled. Loud.
Bakugo glanced at her.
She stared straight ahead.
They sat.
The man behind the counter didn't react to seeing one of Japan's top five heroes walk into his shop at three AM. Just looked up. Waited.
"Two," Bakugo said. "Spicy. Extra pork."
He'd ordered for her.
Without asking.
She should have said something about that.
She didn't.
Because extra pork was exactly what she wanted.
They sat in silence while the food was prepared. She wrapped both hands around the glass of water. Letting it warm her fingers.
Bakugo had taken off his jacket. The coffee-stained shirt underneath pulled across his shoulders when he moved. She could see the outline of his arms. The muscle in his forearm when he rested it on the counter.
She looked away.
Looked at the menu on the wall instead.
The food arrived.
She ate.
It was extraordinary. The broth was deep. Rich. The kind of flavor that required hours and someone who cared. The pork was soft. The noodles perfect.
She might have made a noise.
"Good?" Bakugo asked.
"Really good."
He nodded. Like he'd known that.
They ate.
Halfway through her bowl she realized this was the longest she'd been near him without either being on a mission or actively panicking about something.
It was... normal.
Weirdly normal.
He wasn't performing. Wasn't directing. Wasn't assessing her quirk or her gear or her injury.
Just eating ramen.
At three AM.
Next to her.
"You should stop covering other people's shifts," he said.
She looked at him.
He was still eating. Eyes on his bowl.
"You're burning yourself out," he continued. "I've seen your hours. You're coming in early. Staying late. Now night shifts."
"I want to climb."
"You'll climb faster if you're rested."
"With respect—"
"Don't say with respect when you're about to disagree with me."
She paused.
"...I learn more doing extra hours."
"You learn more doing the right hours." He set down his chopsticks. Looked at her. "There's a difference between working hard and working stupid."
"I know that."
"Do you?"
She met his eyes.
His gaze was direct. Not unkind. Just... honest. The way he was always honest. No softening. No pretense.
"I'm rank 91," she said. "You're rank 5. The gap doesn't close by working normal hours."
"The gap closes by being better. Not tired."
"Maybe I'm better when I'm tired."
The corner of his mouth moved.
Just barely.
"You're better than you think," he said.
She blinked.
He picked his chopsticks back up.
Went back to eating.
Like he hadn't just—
Like that was a normal thing to say.
Casually.
Over ramen at three AM.
Her chest was doing the thing again.
The tight thing.
She focused on her bowl.
Finished eating.
The man behind the counter took their bowls. Didn't speak.
Bakugo paid.
She tried to argue.
He ignored her.
They walked out.
The cold hit again. Sharper after the warmth of the shop.
She pulled the hoodie tighter.
They walked back toward the agency.
Two blocks.
The same two blocks as before but different. Slower. Her shift was ending. The urgency was gone.
Just walking.
Him beside her.
The street was completely empty.
Their footsteps were the only sound.
She was acutely aware of every time their arms almost touched. The proximity. The warmth that radiated off him even in the cold.
Her mind wandered.
Against her will.
The way he'd leaned over her in the storage room. His chest against her back. The smell of caramel.
The way his shirt pulled across his shoulders right now.
The way his hands—
Stop.
She was at work.
Technically.
Sort of.
Her shift ended in fifteen minutes.
She was mostly at work.
She kept her eyes forward.
Thought about ramen.
Thought about the patrol route.
Thought about anything except the fact that he was three inches away from her and smelled like burnt sugar and she was deeply, catastrophically in love with him and had been for approximately six years.
"Tsukino."
"What."
"You're walking into a lamppost."
She looked up.
Lamppost.
Right there.
She sidestepped it.
He said nothing.
But she heard it.
The exhale.
The one that wasn't quite a laugh.
She kept walking.
Face forward.
Face completely on fire.
The agency.
4 AM.
She signed out.
Changed in the locker room.
Came back out.
He was still there. Of course he was. Probably had a briefing in three hours. Probably wasn't going to sleep. Probably considered sleep a suggestion.
He was at Hana's empty desk. Looking at something on the computer.
She slung her bag over her shoulder.
"I'm heading out," she said.
He didn't look up.
"Take the day tomorrow," he said.
"I have a shift—"
"I'm reassigning it. Take the day."
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
"Okay," she said.
He nodded. Still looking at the screen.
She walked to the elevator.
Pressed the button.
The doors opened.
She got in.
Turned to press the lobby button.
He was still at the desk.
Just before the doors closed she let herself look.
Really look.
The line of his back. His shoulders. The coffee stain on his shirt. His jaw illuminated by the screen. His hands on the keyboard.
The doors closed.
She exhaled.
Leaned against the wall.
Her legs felt slightly unsteady.
The elevator went down.
Ground floor.
She walked out.
Into the early morning.
The sky was starting to lighten. Just barely. That specific shade of dark blue that meant dawn was coming but hadn't arrived yet.
She walked home.
Her mind was very loud.
The ramen. His voice. You're better than you think.
The lamppost.
The exhale.
The almost-laugh.
By the time she got to her apartment, she was too tired and too awake at the same time. That horrible state where your body was done but your brain refused to cooperate.
She changed.
Lay down.
Stared at the ceiling.
Thought about his hands.
His forearms.
The shirt.
The way he'd sat next to her like it was easy.
Like it was normal.
Her hand drifted.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
She closed her eyes.
Let the thoughts come.
The storage room. His chest against her back. What if he hadn't stepped away. What if his hands had come down to her hips instead. What if he'd—
Her breath caught.
She thought about his hands.
Rough. Calloused. Strong.
The way he grabbed things. Direct. No hesitation.
The way he'd grabbed her arm tonight when she'd stumbled.
Steadying her.
What if he hadn't let go.
What if instead he'd pulled her closer. Turned her around. Looked at her with those red eyes and—
Her fingers moved.
She thought about the ramen place. The way his eyes had met hers. Direct. Honest.
You're better than you think.
What if he'd said something else instead.
What if he'd said her name.
Not Tsukino.
Amaya.
Low. Rough. Like the night made his voice quieter except for her.
Her back arched slightly.
She thought about his body.
The scars. The abs. The shoulders.
The shirt pulling across his back when he moved.
What it would feel like.
Under her hands.
What he would feel like.
Pressed against her.
All that heat. All that barely-contained energy.
Directed at her.
She thought about his hands on her.
Her specifically.
Not clinical. Not assessing.
Wanting.
Possessive.
The way he was possessive about everything he decided was his.
His agency.
His team.
What if—
Her breath hitched.
She held onto the thought.
Chased it.
Further.
His mouth. Her neck. Her shoulder.
Lower.
His hands.
God his hands.
She gasped quietly.
The neighbor's TV was on through the wall.
She didn't care.
Her mind cataloged everything.
The lamppost.
The almost-laugh.
The caramel smell.
The ramen at three AM like it was nothing.
Like she was someone worth doing that for.
She came undone quietly.
In the blue-dark of early morning.
His name somewhere in the back of her throat that she didn't let out.
Just barely.
After, she lay still.
Her breathing slowly evening out.
The ceiling.
The lightening sky outside.
The neighbor's TV.
She reached over.
Grabbed the plushie.
Pressed her face into it.
Her chest felt full.
The good kind of full.
The unbearable kind.
...
She was so fucked.