Shortly afterward, the last mission is clear: hostage rescue in a collapsed building. Uraraka lightens the beams with the precision of someone who organizes her thoughts; Bakugo opens passages without randomly smashing everything. They speak little this time (perhaps due to fatigue) but they listen closely. The timer overhead ticks and they move around it without tripping. Coordinated. Effective.
When they come back, he looks like someone who (I won't say "melts") but trusts his posture. You see it in his shoulder that drops a half centimeter, in his breathing that doesn't scratch.
I see it. You see it with me. Does it hurt?...a little.
It's not like a knife cut; but like a needle prick that lingers in your hand for a while. I put the sting in the "procedure" box, close the lid, and rest my hand on it for a second. Then I take it out. Because...yes: today we're working. And tomorrow...tomorrow we'll see what my heart does when the monitor flashes my nam…
Here it is, the monitor changes. Junko Ino + Midoriya Izuku. Okay. Now it's my turn. (Step aside with me so we can keep an eye on everything without making any noise.)
Scenario: urban area, civilian evacuation under simulated attack. Ten minutes max, beneath us is a rubber floor that smells new, while above us there is a projector that sounds like it's frying chips. Midoriya gives me a look that it's a green light.
"I'll push forward, you cover the flanks?"
"Roger."
And it works. Great.
He draws trajectories like a patient engineer; I open invisible corridors that bend the concussives to the side, like curtains moved by a hand. The fake civilians become counted steps: one, two, three... out.
His analysis fits seamlessly with my breathing. I inhale twice. I exhale six times. And, for once, the world moves to our rhythm, not the other way around.
No big words are needed. Little nods, shoulders that say "now," wrists that respond "already done." No one falls to the ground, no hesitation. The silence in here isn't empty: it's trust.
Finally, the clock read: 7:42. Zero penalties. Mission perfect. Aizawa marks on the clipboard without comment. Which, translated, means: "perfect."
And me? I come back without being out of breath, without scratches in places you can't see. Mission clear, clean, efficient. With Midoriya, you don't need fireworks or screams: you need to breathe. (And this time, I'm breathing. You can feel it too, right? That regular, unwavering heartbeat.)
Somewhere behind us, a "tsk" scratches the air. I don't turn around. I put the data in the "it works" folder, close the clip, and go to fill my lungs once more: inhale two, exhale six.
We return to the control room, our shoes scuffing the floor as the projector buzzes like an old bee. Aizawa updates the scores on the monitor, and here they are:
Uraraka + Bakugo → 9:15. Penalty: 2.
Ino + Midoriya → 7:42. Penalty: 0.
No one's cheering. It's not a football match, eh? But the silence weighs more than the voices: the air pressure changes, like before a storm. I feel it. You feel it with me, right?
Uraraka wipes her forehead; Kirishima gives her a sincere "well done!", then raises a thumbs-up toward me, amused. Bakugo stays a step back, his jaw clenched and his mouth pursed. He doesn't look at her. He doesn't look at the monitor. He looks at me.
His crimson eyes lock onto mine: one, two seconds...too long. It's the silence before the thunder, the one that asks you if you're going to stay still. (I stay still.)
Midoriya, nearby, smiles discreetly. "Great teamwork, Ino. Really."
"Same, I think so, " I say. Nothing more. (Inhale two. Exhale six.)
I feel his breath like a shard of metal touching my skin and then disappearing. His fingers make that micro-crackling sound like sparks held in too long; his gaze slides to Midoriya, back to me, then back to the numbers. He doesn't like the coldness of the numbers: you can't yell at a 7:42. You can't call it "just a quickie." It stings because it's clear. And the reason for all this is because he is not included. (Oh God, the smell of nitro in the air!)
Aizawa looks up for half a second. "Missions completed. Debriefing in the afternoon. Disband."
End of class, officially.
(Meanwhile, I take the numbers, put them in the "procedure" box too, and close the lid. You stay here next to me for a moment: as long as I hear that "tsk" vibrate, I know it wasn't indifference. And that, yes, hurts a little, but it also straightens my back.)
I turn to you, trusted friend: what did I expect from him? A "well done"? A pat on the back? No. He's not the type. But that flame in his eyes... that, yes, burns. And it's not hate. It's that other thing he doesn't want to say.
And then I inhale four times. I exhale four times.
***
The briefing room is cold, dimly lit, and poorly lit with fluorescent lights. The tables are lined up, the chairs upright like sentries. The interior of the room is bare, the blackboard in front of me is perfectly clean, and the air smells of chalk and coffee left too long in the thermos. You smell it too, right? It's a tension of "first the numbers speak, then you speak."
Aizawa attacks without drama: "Mission feedback. One at a time."
Uraraka stands up, paper in hand:
"The recovery with Bakugo was quick. I managed the load, he opened the gates. Communications penalty: we could have been clearer."
(I'll translate it for you: he kept going, she followed him. Well said, though...and that's saying something.)
Bakugo snaps: "We did everything on time. The rest is just idle chatter."
Typical. But the word "idle chatter" barely breaks his voice. He doesn't look at Uraraka. He doesn't look at the numbers. He looks at me. And then I understand: it's not the "idle chatter" that bothers him. It's the fact that today's best time, my time, wasn't with him.
It's Midoriya's turn. His voice is flat and clear: "Constant communication with Ino. She stabilized the critical points, I managed the trajectories. There was immediate synchronization."
He calls it "synchronization." I feel "calm." (And yes, I'm only saying this to you.)
Aizawa puts two checkmarks on the clipboard. "Perfect. Zero penalty, excellent time."
He says it like he reads the grocery list. But he says it. (First time…wow!)
Then it happens. Bakugo leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on us.
"Yeah. Everything perfect. Are you happy, Deku and Miss Idiot? You've found each other." His voice is clinically poisonous: low, but it gets under your skin.
Half the room stiffens. Iida clears his throat, ready with his "unprofessional behavior."
Uraraka lowers her eyes, fingers intertwined. Kirishima sends him a "bro" with just a look, as if to say: slow down, don't make a mess right now.
Me? I look at him. Coldly. No excuses.
"At least this is a team." Slowly, but cleanly. I let the blow come.
For a moment, his eyes really burn: not flames, but embers. Then that quick, dry breath, the patch he uses to keep the rest from being said. The tendons in his neck tighten, his hands make that micro-crackling sound of trapped sparks. He looks at the "we" that doesn't include him. That's what stings him.
Aizawa closes the folder, then exclaims, "Enough, you two!" Which makes the neon lights vibrate. "Missions completed. Now get loose."
The chairs scrape the floor. I pick up the file and take a breath. Yes, it hurts in a specific spot, but today I try to stand. And for now, that's enough.
***
AFTER WORKOUT.
I'm in the locker room. Everything in here is a hum of slamming lockers, sweat-soaked bandanas hanging from the handles, slippers thumping on the floor. I fold my shirt too carefully, as if I could stuff something precious inside.
I see Kaminari approaching from the side, a towel around his neck and bare-chested. He whistles calmly, then jabs me with his elbow:
"Hey... he logged you in like a bug in the system, huh?" He tries to laugh, but it comes out badly.
Sero stretches the tape as if it were a meter: he stretches it in the air and cuts it with two fingers.
"He measured you three times today," he says, half joking, half factual. "Let's see... mmm...: he grabbed your wrist, he pushed you with his shoulder, he stole his lane. All correct!"
"I'm fine." (Short lie. No need to say it: it shows in the eyes.)
Kiri stands beside me as I close my bag. He has that strange smile as he folds his arms.
"Hey," he says softly. "Everything okay?"
"Sure." I reply.
He scratches the back of his neck. Then he comes straight to the point, without mincing words:
"Bakugo has you in his sights, huh?" The sentence sticks in my stomach, making a noise.
"In his sights?" I pretend not to understand. I zip up my hoodie all the way.
"Yes." He nods his chin toward the field. "He looks at you when he shouldn't, and when he should, he pretends not to. It's classic with him: explosions outside, chaos inside."
Mina Ashido, another Delta girl I met on her first day, appears from behind a door with a rubber band around her wrist.
"I say he was too close to you today." She rotates her index finger in the air, as if drawing an orbit. "Like an angry satellite."
Mina's friend Jiro stands squarely in the corner, her headphones dangling. She raises an eyebrow. "He changed lanes three times just to run into you." She says it as a statement, not with malice.
Uraraka arrives shortly after, her hair still wet, a bottle in her hand. She's heard the conversation from afar and stops in front of us, her eyes clear but attentive.
"Did you notice too?" she asks.
"What?" I answer too quickly.
"That Bakugo screamed twice as loud today. And every time I tripped..." She touches her wrist, where he caught it. "He seemed more scared than me." She smiles softly. "Isn't that weird?"
Kiri spreads his arms. "It's him. He never tells you anything, but he keeps you under control. In his own way, he's..." He searches for the word with a hand on his chin: "loyal."
Uraraka turns to me. She lowers her voice slightly: "And I don't think it was just for me." She places her sentence like a crystal glass on a table.
My throat goes dry. I look at a cracked tile and pretend it's interesting. "I... I don't know."
Outside, a cold draft blows down the corridor: someone runs, someone laughs. Then, in a second, the room shrinks, seems to become smaller. Bakugo passes in front of the door, towel pulled over his shoulder, bare chest, his gaze drawn forward like a knife's edge. He stops at the threshold. He doesn't enter. His mere step is enough for everyone to fall silent mid-sentence. His red eyes are fixed solely on me.
"Tsk." He turns and leaves.
Mina looks at me, then at him, then at me. "I can tell," she murmurs, her words uncovered. Jiro doesn't nod, but she doesn't deny it. Sero whistles, very softly. "…Yeah." Kaminari makes a zipper-like gesture over his mouth, for once.
Midoriya appears from the other side, his hands still red from training. He gives me a gentle, brief look. He doesn't say anything, just: "Do you need anything?" It's all there, in his eyes.
I, on the other hand, think about this morning. The moment Bakugo grabbed my wrist to move me out of the way. I jerked my wrist out of his grasp, and a moment later he placed my water bottle on the table as if it were my fault for being thirsty. With Uraraka, however, his hand remained raised for half a second longer, giving a command that covered it, without pushing.
Kiri sighs, shrugging as if to brush off the dust of unsaid words. "Tch, what a mess. Bakugo will never learn to say things normally. He yells to hide everything. But anyway..." He raises his chin toward the door. "You can see."
They all move toward the exit, one by one. There's a rustling sound, buckles closing, the final sniff of laughter that changes the subject. I, however, remain alone for a moment in front of the fogged-up mirror. With my index finger, I draw a straight arrow, then write on it. (I didn't want to hear it, but now it's there.)
You can see it.
Bakugo says, "Just a quickie." His body betrays him. The others noticed. It wasn't my head making it up. I wasn't dreaming it alone. (Then let me know what you think, okay?)
I touch my pulse with two fingers, counting my heartbeats until I get to 100.
The heartbeat doesn't lie. Never.