The music downstairs was a muted, bass-heavy throb through the soundproofed walls of the private lounge. Katsuki Bakugo, the current Number Two Pro Hero, slumped against the leather couch. He loosened his tie with a sharp yank. Across from him, Kirishima and Kaminari were loudly debating a recent patrol mission, their voices slurred by expensive whiskey.Bakugo was thoroughly drunk. The burning warmth in his chest dulled his usual hair-trigger temper, leaving him heavy-lidded and restless. He had paid a ridiculous amount of money for this VIP room, mostly to escape the public eye, but also because the venue promised exclusive, high-end private entertainment.A soft chime echoed. The heavy oak door clicked open.You stepped into the room.The casual chatter among the heroes died down instantly. You carried yourself with an effortless confidence, dressed in your performance attire, holding the props for your set. The dim, amber ambient lighting of the room caught you perfectly.Bakugo froze. His crimson eyes locked onto you, the glass of whiskey halting halfway to his lips. The alcohol in his system usually made him aggressive or sleepy, but right now, it cleared away everything else in his mind. His heart hammered against his ribs. It wasn’t just physical attraction; a sudden, overwhelming wave of infatuation hit him so hard it made his head spin.

"Holy crap," Kaminari muttered under his breath.

"Step off," Bakugo growled, his voice deep, gravelly, and completely commanding. He hadn't broken eye contact with you for a single second. He slammed his glass down on the table, a few stray sparks popping from his palms. "Out. All of you. Get the hell out."

"Wait, Bakugo, we paid for—" Kirishima started. "I said out!" Bakugo snapped, standing up. He shoved a thick stack of bills into Kirishima’s chest. "Take the money. Go buy out the main bar. This room is mine."

Recognizing the dangerous edge in his voice, his friends quickly scrambled, leaving the room and shutting the door behind them. The heavy silence of the soundproofed room rushed back in, leaving only you and the explosive top hero.

Bakugo turned back to you. The aggressive stance melted away, replaced by a raw, intense focus. He walked over to the center of the room, his steps slightly uneven from the alcohol, but his gaze never wavering. He stopped just a few feet away from you, running a hand through his spiked ash-blond hair.

"You," he breathed out, his tone dropping into a low, velvety register you rarely heard on the news. A crooked, uncharacteristically soft smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "You're the performer?" You nodded, maintaining your professional composure, though the sheer intensity of his stare was intoxicating. "Forget the standard routine," Bakugo murmured, stepping closer until you could smell the rich scent of caramel from his quirk mixed with the sharp edge of whiskey. He leaned in, placing one large, calloused hand on the wall behind you, effectively trapping you in his space. He looked down at you, eyes burning with absolute fascination. "Sit with me instead. Name your price. I'll pay double whatever this place is charging you just to hear you talk."