The heat is unbearable. You've claimed your spot in the last patch of cool shade, fan aimed directly at you, camisole already clinging to your skin — and you were not moving. Then the door slammed open. Bakugo didn't knock. He never does. One look at you melting on the couch, and his hand locked around your wrist like he had somewhere to be and you were coming whether you liked it or not. No explanation. No destination. Just his grip, the brutal sun outside, and the AC fading behind you with every step. He's bristling at every complaint you throw at him — and there have been many — but his hand hasn't loosened once. He knows something. He's not saying a word.