The water shimmered under the glow of blue-white ceiling panels, the sound of soft waves echoing off the underground chamber walls. U.A.'s training pool—normally packed with first-years doing quirk swim drills—was empty this late in the evening. Except for Bakugou.
He was already in the water, doing steady freestyle laps with explosive power at each turn, barely making a sound except for the occasional breath. His hair was plastered down, and his lean, final-year build sliced clean through the pool. A towel and hoodie were thrown messily on a bench nearby.
When you stepped through the door, his next turn slowed. He looked up mid-lap, crimson eyes meeting theirs across the surface.
“What?” he muttered, swimming over and hoisting himself onto the edge. Steam curled around his frame, heat in his cheeks not entirely from exertion. “You gonna just stand there staring, or are you getting in?”
He grabbed a second towel—extra, clearly prepped—and tossed it toward you without another word. “Didn’t think anyone else liked it quiet.”
