The morning has that particular scent, the scent of water seeping into the ground and lingering there all night. The cave is brighter with the sun's rays; the fire is now just a quiet ember. I move the radios close enough to the heat to dry out the last bit of dampness. I feel an impulse: two clicks.
It works. A light comes on that didn't seem to work yesterday.
"You try," I say.
Bakugo makes two clean clicks. Two moments pass, and the response comes from the base: two clicks + one (which translates to: stable connection, go ahead). It's our green light.
I hold the channel. He looks outside. "Retrieval request," I signal with the sequence. The wait stretches into a long second. Then a voice comes through...static and Aizawa, flat as always. Permission for extraction.
"Roger. Thirty minutes to yesterday's point."
"Confirmed." I reply.
Bakugo turns just to signal me...okay, let's get going.
We dismantle everything without leaving any crumbs: we cover the embers with a layer of damp earth, we shuffle the branches so as not to reveal anything. The forest outside drips gently from every corner, as if counting the seconds with us.
We descend onto the north ridge. We don't talk: there's no point. The ground is friendlier now, but not enough to distract us. We walk along the stream on the large stone; I lead, he follows. Every now and then he stops and listens (that way of planting his feet and the air together), then he starts again.
Hey, yes: I'm fine. My head isn't spinning, my arm is just a reminder. (Believe me!)
Two bends from the service track, I see the rusty sign, the one with the half-detached arrow I'd seen at the entrance. I see the same sign, like yesterday. Nearby, a crow cries three times; I don't know why, but it almost makes me laugh. The radio vibrates in my wrist: twenty-minute check. Two clicks from me, two clicks from the base. Everything is in the table.
We hear the engine before we see it: a light diesel, kept low. The off-roader comes around the bend with its headlights off, then flashes them twice...a signal. The driver has the same expression as yesterday: blank as a blank sheet of paper. We climb in. Bakugo closes the tailgate in his signature way, which isn't a sound, but a fixed point.
The ride back is tough, we're covered in mud that's slowly drying, and tiredness refuses to let us go. We lean against the side benches, shoulders on our backpacks. My eyes start to close. I count the rocks and potholes under the wheels, his eyes fixed on a bolt, who knows what he's thinking about. Maybe nothing, which is already a lot.
Once we arrive, the base welcomes us with the usual hum of the generators.When we step out of the vehicle, when our eyes settle on what we know by heart, the daily routine picks up again. First, we hand over the radios ("the ones that got wet before, they're fine now"). Then we sign the clipboard to confirm our safe return and the equipment's transfer to storage. The armorer inspects the transmitters and gives a brief nod: they're alive.
Aizawa, as usual, waits for us in the briefing room with his tense look and arms folded. (I wonder if he's married... I wonder.) The map is the same as yesterday, but with more red pins and more blue streaks. There's also some writing I hadn't seen yesterday.
He doesn't ask how we're doing. (I think he's angry.)
"Only the essentials."
Let's get to the point...no romance, I promise (I don't want to bore you):
- Confirmed site in the western valley: camouflaged prefabricated building, short antenna, low generator.
- Perimeter with drones: at least two, one high, one low.
- Tracked vehicle track in the last 12-24 hours, heading northwest.
- Possible covered side entrance (not verified).
- We've been locked on (acoustic trigger). Exiting north in the rain.
- Comms restored at dawn (manual drying).
Aizawa says nothing but listens to everything.
"Useful extract. Not enough."
He runs his index finger over two notes, then over us. "Rest until 2 PM. At 3 PM: pair synchronization on the mobile path. I want you to explain to me in detail everything that happened and what you saw."
"Got it," I say.
Bakugo says his "Hn," which in this language is a yes through gritted teeth.
He dismisses us. In the hallway, I sense Bakugo's tension rising. His breathing becomes shallow, his fingers clenched into fists.
I approach. "What's wrong with you?"
He looks up, his eyes wide. "Nothing. Mind your own business."
I clench my fists. Heat rises to my cheeks, but I don't look down. "It doesn't seem like anything. You're getting worked up for no reason."
"I said nothing!" he snaps, his voice bouncing off the walls. A couple of recruits turn around and then pretend nothing happened. "What part of 'nothing' don't you understand, idiot?"
I snort. "The one where you think I can keep quiet in front of you. I'm not one to lower my head just so you can scream louder."
He growls, takes a step toward me. "Tch. Always poking your nose into shit that doesn't concern you."
"And you're always acting tough when you're the one who's wobbly." The words come out before I can stop them. His eyes narrow, and for a moment I think I've pushed him too hard.
"Wobbly!?" he blurts out, his breathing growing faster and faster. "I'm standing while everyone else collapses. You don't need to be on top of me!"
"I'm not on top of you," I retort, right in his face. "I see you like this, it's normal for me to ask. We're a team, after all."
We stare at each other, very close. The air between us vibrates like before an explosion. He breathes heavily, I grit my teeth.
Then he snorts, snaps his head around. "Tch. Fuck you." He turns and pushes the cafeteria door too hard: it slams against the wall.
I leave him alone.
***
In the cafeteria, things certainly aren't getting any better. We're sitting far enough apart that we can't hear what the classmates sitting next to us are discussing, but close enough that we're looking at each other and staring at each other every couple of minutes. I don't know if he's doing it to challenge me or if there are other reasons behind it. But whatever, I'll never know, unfortunately, because he doesn't speak.
I try to think about something else and not look at him anymore, even though my stomach is twisting. It seems like after what happened in the cave, he's gotten worse. I mean, he seems to hate me even more. I get up, clear my tray, and leave the cafeteria for the courtyard. (Maybe I should go for a walk to clear my head, okay?!)
I arrange my dog tags on my chest, and when I look up, there he is.
Bakugo. Leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his foot tapping on the ground like a clattering detonator. He looks at me as if I'd killed his cat.
"What's wrong?" I blurt out immediately. I don't feel like playing games.
He looks up at me, his eyes burning. "You. What the fuck are you staring at me like that in the cafeteria?"
I raise my eyebrows. "Me? I didn't do anything."
"Bullshit!" he lunges forward, his finger pointing at my chest. "You think you're smart, huh? That 'I'm stronger than your explosions' look."
I push him away with my forearm. "I don't think anything of myself, Katsuki. You're the one who looks like he's about to explode every time I breathe near you. Why do you hate me so much?"
His eyes light up, a short spark crackles between his fingers.
"Don't turn this around, idiot!" he snarls. "Do me a fucking favor and don't psychoanalyze me every damn time!"
"Then stop acting like everyone should be able to read your mind!"
My voice comes out louder than I intended, but I don't hold back. "If you have a problem, spit it out! If you don't have one, shut up. But I'm not going to let anyone walk all over me."
He stands there, a step away from me. He's breathing like he's been running for miles. For a moment I think he's still screaming, telling me to go to hell.
Instead, he snorts. "Tch. You're such a pain in the ass." He lowers his gaze for a second, then looks me straight in the eye. "And don't you ever fucking change."
I remain silent, surprised. It's not a caress, but from him it's almost worse: he's sincere.
"Now get out of my way before I really explode." He turns around sharply, his step sharp, the sound of his boots echoing down the hallway.
I stand still. (But since you're my friend, are you going to tell me what's wrong with this guy?)
And at that moment, as if fate were enjoying testing us, the door opens behind me.
"Ooooh?" Mina (a girl from Team Gamma she met on the first day) drawls out the vowel, her eyes shining with mischief. "What's going on here, hm?"
Behind her appears Kirishima, also from Team Gamma, raising both hands in surrender. "Hey, calm down! I heard screaming… you're not killing yourselves, are you?"
"Not yet," Bakugo growls without even turning around, his hands still clenched into fists.
"Ahhh," says Kaminari (another member of the Gamma team), craning his neck, appearing behind the others. "I say this is sentimental."
"Shut up, Dunce Face!" Bakugo explodes, and this time a spark actually lights up in the palm of his hand, making them all step back at once.
I cross my arms, trying to calm the situation. "There's nothing to see here. The show's over."
"Exactly!" Mina smiles and grabs Kaminari by the sleeve of his uniform to pull him away. "Nothing to see, but everything to feel. The walls here are very thin, guys."
Kirishima shakes his head and lowers his voice, as if he were speaking only to me. "Don't worry. That's just the way he is. But..." he gives me a sincere half-smile, "...if he yells at you, it means he cares."
I don't answer. Bakugo snorts, turns toward the door, and growls again: "Mind your own business, or I'll blow you up."
The others laugh and scatter. The corridor once again vibrates only with our silence.
And I remain there, my heart pounding too fast and my lips still reminiscent of the cave. His hands, now clenched into fists, anchored to my hips, and his breath, now unable to calm, hot on my cheek.
When we step out into the courtyard, the others are in the hallway: Midoriya with his hands almost falling out of his pockets, Iida already standing straight as if he were about to formally greet us, Uraraka casting a tender gaze over me...(I think she's the kind of friend who doesn't pretend or pretend to be one). Tsuyu raises a small hand: "Welcome back."
"Brief report," Bakugo anticipates, cutting off any questions. "There's stuff in the valley."
Midoriya nods seriously. "We knew... some of it. Do you have any fresh data? Thanks."
I give a curt nod. "The wet radios were the only problem. But this morning, everything was resolved."
Uraraka smiles slightly, as if to say, "Good." No one asks for more than what's necessary, and that's the greatest gift this morning.
Aizawa peeks out again from afar: "At 3 pm in the square. Don't be late." He doesn't say it in a romantic tone, but today I forgive him for that too.
I'll end it like this, friend: the return went smoothly. No conversation, no wasted time. Just the machine getting back on track: last night we slept a couple of hours, then this morning we went out to fix what broke yesterday and also what, surprisingly, worked once it was dry. If you're looking for clues (a "we"), today you'll find them in the way we step on each other's toes in the hallway and in the strange looks in the cafeteria. Little things. The ones that, in our own way, are worth more than a thousand words.
***
The cafeteria always makes the same noise: dishes clanking against trays, a few forks falling here and there, chairs scraping on the linoleum, chatter and laughter overlapping in the distance and echoing off the walls, the smell of broth diluted with water and toasted bread wafts through the air.
I'm with Kirishima and Kaminari, both from the Gamma team and, as I mentioned before, both met on the first day: we're back to back with our trays lined up and the usual jokes spilling out almost by reflex. "I swear, nothing more!" I say, and indeed, just one look from Kirishima is enough to make me laugh even though I don't want to. Kaminari has already started his Aizawa impression (eyes half-closed, shoulders slumped) and the table next to us steals a laugh.
And then...bang. A tray slams onto the table in front of us. I look up and see him: Bakugo. He flops into the chair across from us, arms outstretched, jaw tense. He doesn't say "hi," he doesn't ask permission. He just stands there as if the table were his. He looks at me. Pissed off.
For a moment, the air freezes. Kaminari tries with a tentative smile: he grins broadly:
"Hey, Katsuki, you missed the part where Junko was imitating the drone for us..."
"Shut up, you idiot," he cuts him off, without even looking at him.
Kirishima, faithful to his role as firefighter: "Come on, bro, relax. Nothing happened..."
"Don't tell me what the fuck to do," Bakugo growls. His tone is sharp; Kirishima freezes mid-gesture, eyes wide, fork poised. Silence. He doesn't even look at him. He's looking at me. I don't even need to open my mouth: he's pissed off. (Part 2)
I lower my eyes to the tray, as if nothing had happened. A forkful of rice, I chew slowly. But I feel his attention on me, precise, insistent. Like pressure on my sternum. I'm certain that if I raise my head, we'll both burn.
Kaminari coughs, uncomfortable. "Wow... okay, calm down, it was just..."
"If you don't shut your mouth, I'll shove the tray in there."
Silence. End of conversation. The laughter slides off the table like water from greasy glasses. Someone behind us is laughing about their own business; not here. Here in front of us is a coal that isn't flaming but is heating poorly.
I stand there, with Bakugo in front of me, not saying a word, but burning inside. He doesn't make a scene, he doesn't explode, he doesn't say anything else: he just sits there, furious (Part 3), as if every second were an accusation that couldn't be put into words. White knuckles, the tray perfectly centered, his jaw grinding.
That's where things get really messy: Uraraka and Iida approach the table, tray in hand.
"Can I?" she asks, smiling.
"Of course!" Kaminari replies, already pulling up his chair next to me.
And, as if that weren't enough, the latter does his usual trick: he throws his arm around my shoulders, leaning in to whisper a silly joke. Something about Iida and his way of saying "protocol" even when ordering dessert. I burst out laughing...heartily, I admit.
And that's when I feel it, without even looking: Bakugo stiffens. His fork pauses in midair, his gaze darkens even more. He doesn't say anything, not yet. But the wind is enough to tell that a storm is brewing.
Kaminari's arm moves from my shoulders to wrap around my back, his fingers landing in front of me, on my ribs. Suddenly, Bakugo leaps up from the table, his chair slamming back with a sharp bang that silences half the aisle of tables. The sound bounces off the ceiling and fades into our silence. With one hand, he literally rips Kaminari's arm from my back, a clean, unhesitating gesture, as if he were deflecting a bullet.
"Don't you dare touch her, idiot!" He growls, his voice cutting through the cafeteria like a warning whistle.
Kaminari's eyes widen, his hand left alone, suspended in midair. "Uh-oh, calm down, it was just a joke..."
"I TOLD YOU NOT TOUCH HER, YOU BASTARD!" The word bounces from the wall of trays to the windowpane, and somewhere a fork slips from the plate and clinks on the floor. Three tables away, someone mutters a "Wow," someone else holds their breath. Me too.
Bakugo is there, a foot away from me, tense like a cable pulled to its limit. His hands are shaking not with fear but with suppressed anxiety: I know it, that micro-tremor that rises from his forearms when the explosions knock at his knuckles to escape. His scars pale for a second, then redden again. The acrid smell of his nitroglycerin lingers in the air like a trail, a metallic note amidst the stench of broth.
For a moment I think he's going to say something...but he doesn't. He growls, picks up his tray, and walks away, his chair still tipped over behind him.
The sounds of the cafeteria come back in fits and starts, as if after a blackout: first a strangled giggle, then the buzz of neon lights, the rustle of hoodies against sweatshirts. Kirishima straightens his chair with a slow, calm gesture, then spreads his hands, his face twisted into a half-smile that's meant to be reassuring.
"Sorry, Junko... that's just how he is." His voice tries to fill the hole left by Bakugo's words, but fails.
Kaminari rubs his shoulder as if checking to make sure it's still attached.
"Wow. Okay. I think he doesn't like me anymore." He laughs softly, but the laughter quickly dies away. He looks down at his tray, picks up a grain of rice with the tip of his fork, and doesn't watch it fall.
And me? I don't move a muscle. I remain seated, my hands flat on the edge of the table, my gaze fixed on a bread crumb shaped like a small lightning bolt. I can still feel the imprint of his voice in my ear, like when an explosion leaves a ringing sound inside you. I don't say a word: it's pointless. Sometimes words just add noise.
Kirishima starts to say something, then closes his mouth. His gaze slides to the door where Bakugo has disappeared, then returns to me with that question that doesn't dare come out. I give him a tiny nod, as if to say "leave it." A glass is still vibrating, millimeters away, on someone's tray. The broth in front of me seems to be drawing circles, first small, then larger.
I can tell you: it was pure jealousy. The kind that grips you in the gut and makes decisions for itself, that speaks with the body before the head. He will never admit it, not even under torture. He'll call it "order," "discipline," "don't distract me," he'll invent any word that keeps his feelings under control. But I saw it. And you, reading this, saw it with me: there was a "mine" that escaped his eyes before it reached his lips.
I don't think twice. The tray scrapes on the table, the chair creaks, and I'm already on my feet. I leave the cafeteria with the short stride of someone who doesn't want to waste time. The corridor to the dormitories is a tunnel of buzzing neon lights, gray walls plastered with crumpled notices: "No phones in service," "Patrol shifts," "Remember to hydrate." In the background, the noise of the base continues to pulsate, but here the noises, along with their echo, are all ours.
I see him. Tall, square-shouldered, tight trapezius muscles, the tense, heavy stride of a suppressed explosion. Every other stride, his hands open and close as if to pull a trigger. I can see the annoyance all over him.
"Bakugo!" My voice comes out louder than I'd like; two recruits quickly turn and look at me with round eyes. "What the fuck are you thinking?! Are you stupid or something?!"