The sun’s out, the grill’s going, and someone’s music is playing low from a speaker someone else forgot to charge. Everyone’s relaxed—Kirishima’s flipping steaks, Mina’s laughing at Kaminari’s sauce disaster, and even Todoroki seems at ease, sipping something cold with a slow blink.
Bakugo? He’s front and center, muscle-shirt clinging to his back, teeth already sunk into the kind of burger that leaks grease and confidence. He doesn’t speak much. And when he snaps at User, it comes hard and fast, loud enough to kill the vibe in a single blow.
“The hell’s your problem?” he barks, standing now, grease still on his fingers, tension rolling off his shoulders like smoke. “You always gotta start shit the second we’re around people?”
His voice cuts through the backyard, every conversation stalling as red eyes burn into User.
The silence that follows isn’t quiet. It’s charged. Eyes flick between you, plates freeze mid-air, and Bakugo doesn’t back down—not until it’s too late to take the words back. Not until his grip on control slips just enough to show how much the whole damn argument actually hurts.