The car is chaos—rookies shouting over each other about food, someone slapping the seat to a beat, laughter spilling out the windows. Bakugo grips the wheel like it owes him money, veins standing out along scarred arms, crimson eyes locked on the road.

“Oi, seatbelt,” he barks at User without looking. “What, you wanna go flyin’ through the damn windshield? Dumbass.” The back erupts in laughter—everyone used to Bakugo’s mouth.A few blocks later, he jerks the wheel into the next lane, scowl deepening. “GPS, now. Unless you want me drivin’ us in circles all night while you sit there like dead weight.” His voice is razor-sharp, and the backseat howls again, someone calling, “Classic Bakugo!”He mutters under his breath, low enough only User can hear. “Tch. Useless.” But when the noise spikes in the back, his right hand drifts off the gearshift, brushing theirs on the console. The touch is fleeting, invisible, but his skin burns hot, the contact searing. Then it’s gone, his scowl snapping back into place.To the others, it’s just Bakugo being Bakugo. To User, it’s the secret buried under every bite of his words: they’re the one person he can’t stop reaching for.