CHAPTER THIRTEEN
--DREAMS START--
The air in The Crucible always smelled like sweat and scorched adrenaline—but today?
It smelled like him.
And she knew why.
Because he was already in the dome.
Because he was waiting.
Because they’d scheduled this match three days ago—and because neither of them had let anyone else spar with them all week.
They didn’t need warmups. They didn’t need warm-downs.
They needed each other.
Aurelia rolled her neck once, then stepped inside.
The lights adjusted automatically—sensors reading her vitals, matching her Quirk pressure. But she didn’t need the dome’s calibration.
She was already steady.
Twenty meters ahead, Katsuki Bakugo stood at the center of the ring—feet planted, arms loose at his sides, head tilted slightly like he’d already run every possible outcome.
His mouth twitched when he saw her.
Not a smile.
A warning.
> “Been three days.”
She smirked. “You count better than you hit.”
He snorted. “Says the girl who tapped out in thirty seconds last time.”
“I let you win.”
“Try that again.”
The lights above dimmed—auto-fade engaged.
The match was live.
But Aurelia didn’t wait for the bell.
She dropped her jacket mid-step.
Tight crimson sports bra. Tactical leggings. Her braid slung over one shoulder, loose and high like it was ready to be grabbed.
Bakugo’s gaze flicked down—just once.
Then his fingers twitched.
She activated her Command Zone.
“Gravity’s mine.”
Bakugo grinned.
The dome exploded.
---
They met in the center like twin detonations—one made of heat, one made of pressure.
She moved first. Fast. Brutal.
A leg sweep aimed low, her upper body twisting into a counter-grapple—but he blocked it with a palm to her hip and spun her in place, redirecting her momentum like a goddamn dance partner.
> “You’re slower today.”
“Or you’re just cockier.”
His hand snagged her forearm.
Pulled her in.
Not enough to unbalance.
Just enough to let her feel his chest brush hers. To feel the heat through her top.
His mouth was a breath from her ear.
> “You wore red.”
“I always wear red.”
“This shade’s mine.”
"I'm yours."
She shoved him backward with her knee, flipped over his shoulder, and twisted midair.
He turned to meet her.
Didn’t block.
Caught.
Their bodies slammed together in the center of the dome. Her Quirk flared. His palm sparked.
“Friction’s gone,” she hissed.
Bakugo’s boots skidded.
But he didn’t fall.
He grabbed.
Arms around her waist. Legs locked behind hers.
And then he drove her down to the mat like a claim.
Not painful.
Deliberate.
She landed on her back.
He was over her.
Arms on either side of her shoulders. Chest rising.
Face flushed.
“Say it,” he growled.
Aurelia narrowed her eyes.
“What?”
“That you wanted to fight me.”
“I wanted to win.”
His gaze burned down her body.
“You came dressed to lose.”
Her smile was razor-sharp.
“You think this is losing?”
Then she surged up.
Kissed him.
Hard.
He caught her neck in one hand. Pulled her tighter. His other arm slid beneath her waist and lifted—off the mat, into his lap.
Still in the middle of the dome.
Still lit by arena lights.
And he whispered into her mouth:
> “You wanna keep fighting—”
“Or admit you missed me?”
She bit his lower lip—gently. Just enough to make his breath catch.
“Why can’t it be both?”
---
The match had ended hours ago.
But his blood still hadn’t settled.
Bakugo stood on the shared balcony, back pressed to the cold railing, breath slow and sharp like he was still waiting for the next move.
She hadn’t said goodnight.
Hadn’t kissed him when she left the mat.
She’d just looked at him—sweaty, flushed, hair half-escaped from the braid he loved yanking during cooldowns—and said, “Don’t go anywhere.”
So he didn’t.
The sliding door creaked open.
And there she was.
No shoes.
No armor.
Just black joggers slung low on her hips and a cropped crimson tank that clung to the lingering sheen of sweat across her chest.
Hair?
Loose.
That braid he loved?
Gone.
Her waves tumbled over her shoulders like smoke, wild and soft and real in a way no one else got to see.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t dare break it.
She padded over like the ground didn’t exist—just air and intention—and leaned against the railing beside him, shoulder brushing his.
Still quiet.
Still them.
Finally, she spoke. “You always beat me in the dome.”
Bakugo snorted. “That wasn’t a win.”
“No?”
“You didn’t tap.”
“You didn’t pin.”
“I held you.”
A pause.
Then she turned, head tilting slightly so her loose hair brushed against his jaw. “You always hold me. Doesn’t mean I lose.”
His hand found her waist on instinct. Anchored. Grounded.
“You always drop weight when you’re tired,” he murmured, voice low. “Let your ribs soften.”
“I do not.”
“You just did.”
She turned toward him—slow, intentional.
His hand slid up her back.
Into her hair.
And he held her gaze like a fuse waiting to be struck.
“You unbraided it,” he said.
She didn’t blink. “Didn’t feel like armor tonight.”
Bakugo’s thumb brushed along the base of her neck.
“I like it like this,” he said.
“You want me soft?” she asked, not accusing—just curious.
He stepped closer.
Pressed his forehead to hers.
“I want you real.” His breath ticked hot against her lips. “And when you let yourself be real, it fucking wrecks me.”
She kissed him.
Soft, at first.
Then rough.
His hands tightened—one at her hip, one in her hair—and she gasped against his mouth like she forgot how to breathe without fire.
When she pulled back, barely an inch, she whispered:
> “This wasn’t in the playbook.”
He stared at her.
Flushed. Focused. Home.
> “I don’t want a playbook.”
She smiled.
"I love you Suki."
"I love you Rel."
She leaned back on the rail, letting her hair fall over her shoulder again like a challenge.
He stared.
Like he always did.
Because no matter how long he had her, he never got used to it.
And the worst part?
He didn’t want to.
---
She ran to forget.
Or that’s what she told herself.
That’s what she used to believe.
But tonight?
She wasn’t running from anything.
She was running to him.
The training dome had been stifling earlier. The party, even worse. Too many questions, too much heat that wasn’t his.
So she’d laced her boots, pulled her hair into a high ponytail, and hit the track just outside the Beacon Core perimeter.
The air was cool. The moon high. Her breath even.
She rounded the corner by the auxiliary quad, earbuds halfway in, the Arctic Monkeys humming low.
And there he was.
Exactly where she knew he’d be.
Leaning against the light post like he owned the damn path, arms crossed over his black tank, joggers riding low on his hips, heat rolling off him in waves.
Bakugo.
She slowed. Pulled one earbud out. Didn’t speak.
He didn’t either.
Just watched her.
Like he always did.
Like he could hear something she hadn’t said yet.
“You followin’ me?” she asked, one brow lifted, breath still high in her throat.
“No,” he said, voice low, steady. “Just waitin’ for my girl to finish runnin’ from her own damn thoughts.”
Her chest ached. Just a little.
“You don’t sleep anymore?”
“Not when you’re out here.”
She didn’t argue.
She didn’t need to.
He stepped forward. Met her halfway. Hands sliding up to her jaw like he needed to check if she was real.
“You good?” he asked.
She nodded. “Mostly.”
He leaned in. Pressed a kiss to her forehead. Just there. Just enough.
“Then keep goin’. I’ll run with you.”
And he did.
Side by side.
Silent.
Until her phone buzzed.
She didn’t check the screen at first.
Didn’t need to.
She already knew.
Tobias.
She felt the tension in her spine before the guilt caught up.
Bakugo didn’t say a word.
Just stopped running when she did. Watched her step back into the grass and swipe the call.
“Tobias,” she said, tone neutral. “It’s late.”
Bakugo stayed where he was. Calm. Still.
But his arms had crossed again.
Not defensive.
Just controlled.
She shifted the phone between her cheek and shoulder. Adjusted her ponytail. The wind caught the sweat at her temples.
“No, I’m not back in the States. Why would I be?” A pause. “Yeah. Still at U.A.”
She didn’t notice the change in Bakugo’s posture.
Didn’t see the way his jaw ticked when she called the guy Toby.
But he felt it.
All of it.
> “I just… I thought maybe you’d be back by now. That you’d need your things. Or want to talk.”
> “I don’t need anything.”
Aurelia’s voice dipped.
“I’m not the same girl, Tobias.”
Bakugo looked away.
Not far.
Just enough to let her have her moment.
> “I know. I just… I miss you. I still do.”
She said nothing.
Bakugo stepped closer.
Still not interrupting.
Just there.
He waited for her to hang up.
But she didn’t.
> “There’s no one else, right? You haven’t…”
That’s when Bakugo took the phone from her hand.
Aurelia blinked—stunned—but didn’t stop him.
Didn’t protest.
He brought the phone to his mouth. Voice low. Lethal.
> “There is someone else.”
Silence.
Then Bakugo added, slow and deliberate:
> “She's mine.”
He ended the call.
Gave the phone back.
Said nothing else.
Just turned and started walking.
But she chased him.
Grabbed his wrist.
Stopped him in his tracks.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I did.”
“I could’ve handled it.”
He turned to face her.
Dark eyes blazing. Calm voice gone.
“You did handle it. For four months. You held that line while he kept calling and thinking he still had a piece of you.”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“I just reminded him what it feels like to lose.”
She stared at him.
Heart pounding.
Field humming.
Then, quiet:
“I’m not hard to hold, you know.”
Bakugo stepped in.
Crowded her against the tree line.
Fingers curling around her waist.
“No,” he said, lips against her hair. “You’re not.”
She looked up. “Then why do people keep letting go?”
He stared at her for a long time.
Then said:
> “Because they weren’t fuckin’ ready for your fire.”
And then he kissed her.
Slow.
Hot.
Like she was the first answer he’d ever believed in.
She gripped his shirt. Pulled him closer.
Let him mark her mouth with everything he couldn’t say.
And when he finally leaned back, both of them flushed and wrecked, she whispered:
> “And you?"
He growled low.
Pressed her against the tree again.
And said:
> “I was built to burn.”
---
He hadn’t meant to open the damn file.
Not during class. Not during downtime. Not while she sat two rows away, stretching out her legs under the desk like her presence wasn’t the loudest thing in the room.
But there it was.
A ping in the archive’s private drop queue.
[Lux Academy – Pair Performance Archive]
[Rosier, Aurelia + Laurent, Tobias]
He knew the name.
Didn’t like it.
Didn’t care.
Until the first file loaded.
Aurelia. In tactical black. Combat hair. Rain on her collarbones. Tobias’s gloved hands cradling her face.
Their foreheads touching.
Like they were syncing.
Like they’d earned each other.
Bakugo’s hand clenched around his stylus. The pressure bent it clean in half.
He didn’t even flinch.
The next image loaded.
Same day. Same sim. She’s walking away this time.
Tobias behind her. Arm out. Mouth open. Desperate.
And her?
Cold.
She didn’t look angry. Didn’t look sad.
She looked done.
Bakugo didn’t blink.
Because that?
That was his girl.
The one who walked away and never looked back.
The last image hit harder.
A single tear.
Cutting across her face like it had no business there.
Like it had crept up on her in the dark and she’d let it fall just once—before erasing it forever.
He didn’t feel rage.
Not really.
What he felt was wrong.
Like something sacred had been borrowed by someone who didn’t know how to hold it.
He closed the archive.
Stood.
Didn’t wait.
He was at her desk in three steps.
Mina blinked up at him. Jirou flinched.
Aurelia looked up, brows raised.
“Need something?”
He held up his holo tab.
Didn’t say a word.
She tilted her head. “You went digging?”
“You let me.”
“I didn’t give permission.”
“You didn’t stop me.”
They stared at each other.
Long.
Unflinching.
And then he leaned down.
Real close.
So only she could hear.
“You let that prick touch you like he deserved it.”
She blinked. Once. “And?”
“You think he earned that?”
Her jaw flexed.
“I was grieving.”
Bakugo’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You weren’t his to hold.”
She froze.
Not visibly.
But he saw it.
The shift.
The breath.
The part of her that wanted to flinch but didn’t.
“I’m not property,” she said.
“You’re mine. That’s different.”
Silence.
Then she stood.
Right there in the middle of the class.
Closed her tab.
Picked up her jacket.
And said:
“Then prove it.”
They didn’t make it far.
Not the dorm.
Not the lounge.
Not even the Gauntlet.
Bakugo dragged her into the empty atrium outside the elevator bank.
Glass walls. No cameras.
No exits.
Just them.
He shoved her gently—but firmly—against the cool surface.
Hands braced beside her head.
His mouth a breath from hers.
“You mad?” he asked.
Her smile was deadly.
“Only because you’re still talking.”
He kissed her.
Not soft.
Not brutal.
Clean.
Like a man wiping the last fingerprint off something he’d already claimed.
Her legs hooked around his hips instantly.
Her hands fisted in his shirt.
They broke apart only once.
Long enough for him to whisper:
> “He didn’t deserve you.”
She replied:
> “You gonna make up for it?”
His mouth ghosted her neck. “Already am.”
Later, when they finally caught their breath, sprawled in her bed, her hair a mess across his bare chest, she reached for her phone.
Opened her gallery.
Scrolled to an old photo.
Tobias.
Arm around her. Smile fake. Hand wrong.
Bakugo didn’t flinch.
Just took the phone.
Deleted it.
Handed it back.
Didn’t speak.
But she smiled.
And said:
> “He never marked me.”
He kissed her jaw.
Whispered:
> “I don’t need to mark you.”
> “I just need you to stay mine.”
---
She was already standing in front of her closet when he walked in.
Didn’t turn. Didn’t glance over.
Just said, “Shut the door behind you.”
He did.
She was barefoot, hair wet from her post-run shower, towel still looped over her shoulders. Her skin gleamed under the soft dorm light—flushed, clean, and unguarded.
The bed was a war zone of leather, mesh, and crimson.
He recognized half the outfits.
Lux gala relics. Combat-rated corsets. Tactical thigh-slits. A few too many things she claimed were “functional” but looked like declarations of war stitched in thread.
“What’s the mission?” he asked, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on her back.
She didn’t answer. Just held up two options.
One was black. Subtle. Straps and zip. Sharp angles.
The other—
Red.
Blood-red leather. Curved boning. A zipper down the center. Matching lace underwear folded beneath it like a secret no one was supposed to see.
“I already know which one you want,” she said.
He raised a brow. “Then why’d you ask?”
“I didn’t. I just wanted to watch your face when you realized I was wearing it.”
He snorted, but the sound burned in his throat.
Because fuck, he did want that one.
And not because of the lace. Or the fit. Or the way it screamed control.
Because Tobias had never seen it.
This one?
This one was his.
“You wearing that out there?” he asked, voice lower now. “Or just showing me?”
She turned then. Tossed the black option aside. Held the red corset against her chest with one hand, lazy and unbothered.
“Depends,” she said. “Do I need to prove something?”
“To them?” he scoffed. “No. To me?”
She blinked. Smiled slow. “Do I ever?”
He stepped closer.
Hands sliding around her waist, fingers brushing bare skin as they hooked into the waistband of her shorts.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t shy away.
Just looked up at him and said:
> “You always watch me like you’re waiting for me to belong to someone else.”
He clenched his jaw. “You don’t.”
“Then act like it.”
Her towel dropped.
His breath caught.
She turned away, walked toward the mirror, and began unbuttoning her top.
One clasp.
Then two.
Then the fabric slipped off her shoulders and pooled on the floor.
Bakugo didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Because the ink.
God, the ink.
Her back was a garden of grief and fury. Vines traced her spine. Blooms stretched along her ribs. Stars looped under her breast, tucked just above the line of her waistband.
He’d seen most of them before.
During training. After shower sex. In pieces. In shadows.
But now?
She was giving him all of them.
He stepped forward, hands hovering at her hips.
She nodded once—barely.
Permission granted.
He touched her.
Not hard.
Not filthy.
Worshipful.
His fingers brushed over her shoulder blade, down to the small sprig tucked behind her ribs. “This one?”
“For the part of me that used to break first.”
He nodded. Traced lower.
The vines on her back looped inward, circling her waist and disappearing beneath the band of her crimson lace panties.
She turned then.
Slow.
One arm across her chest. The other lifting—casual, calculated—as she pulled the corset against her ribs.
“You gonna help me zip it,” she said, “or just keep studying?”
Bakugo didn’t answer.
Because then he saw it.
Small.
Black ink.
Delicate and devastating.
Right over her heart, just beneath the curve of her left breast.
Two flowers.
A sweet pea and a cherry blossom.
Twined.
Intimate.
One petal falling, just above the other.
His knees almost buckled.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t touch.
Just stared.
Like that ink had written something onto his soul.
She noticed.
Of course she did.
And in the silence, she said—soft, honest:
> “I designed it for you.”
His head lifted.
Eyes met hers.
“You're birthday is in April. Sakura's are April's flower in Japan, Sweet Pea's are April's flower in the US. My home, your home, your birth month."
Bakugo stepped forward.
Dropped to his knees.
Pressed his mouth just below the tattoo and whispered, “I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else.”
Her breath hitched.
"You already have."
But she didn’t move.
Didn’t stop him.
His tongue traced the edge of the ink. Gentle. Careful. Hungry.
And she groaned—low, deep, real.
He stood.
Gripped her waist.
Spun her to face the mirror.
Held the corset against her chest as his other hand slid the zipper up her spine.
He met her eyes in the mirror.
Said:
> “You wear this out there? Every single fucker is gonna know exactly who you belong to.”
She smirked.
“Then zip it tight.”
He did.
Then kissed her throat.
Right over the line of the cord she wore beneath it all.
She turned.
Pressed her mouth to his.
Pulled back just enough to whisper:
> “Still wanna study?”
He grinned.
> “You haven’t shown me everything yet.”
---
The party had barely started when he knew something was off.
Aurelia had slipped into his lap without ceremony—one thigh hooked over his, her elbow resting on the curve of his shoulder like she belonged there.
Which she did.
But something in her posture was different tonight.
A little too still.
A little too sharp.
So he watched.
Waited.
Waited through Kaminari’s idiot confessions.
Through Jirou’s dry glances.
Through the glittering chaos of Mina, who knew too much and said too little.
He felt Aurelia’s weight shift every time the group pressed too close to something real.
But she didn’t flinch.
Didn’t drink.
Not until the moment that sentence hit the room like a warhead.
> “Tobias never went down on me.”
It didn’t register, at first.
Not really.
He was too busy processing the silence that followed.
Too busy watching the way her fingers tensed against her glass—but not her face.
Because her face didn’t change.
Not a flicker.
Not a tremble.
Just that cold, lethal calm that she wore like armor.
And that?
That made it worse.
Bakugo didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
But inside?
Inside, something snapped.
Because he’d seen that man’s face.
Seen the photos.
The archive entries.
The soft fucking grip on her jaw. The forehead pressed to hers.
He’d touched her ink. Worshipped it. Memorized every line she designed.
And that man?
He hadn’t even tried.
He didn’t study her.
Didn’t learn her.
Didn’t get on his fucking knees like she was the war worth losing for.
Bakugo’s grip on her thigh tightened slightly.
She didn’t stop him.
Didn’t react.
Didn’t look at him.
But he could feel the tension in her bones now—coiled, resigned.
Like she thought he might be ashamed.
Or worse—unaffected.
He set his drink down.
Didn’t touch it again.
Ten minutes passed.
Maybe twenty.
The game moved on.
But he didn’t.
He was still back there—in the space between her confession and the silence that followed.
And when the group started to scatter?
When Mina called for a reset, and people stood, stretching and laughing like nothing had happened?
He didn’t move.
Neither did she.
So when she finally stood—cup empty, cheeks slightly flushed—he stood too.
Wordless.
And followed her.
Out of the lounge.
Down the hall.
Into the dark.
She didn’t question it.
Didn’t ask.
Just glanced back at him once, eyes unreadable.
And said:
> “You okay?”
He didn’t answer.
Just opened the door to his room.
Let her walk in first.
Closed it behind them.
Locked it.
Then turned.
And said, low, even:
> “Tell me that wasn’t the first time you said it out loud.”
She froze.
Just for a second.
Then:
> “It doesn’t matter.”
He stepped forward.
Eyes locked on hers.
> “It does to me.”
A pause.
Then she looked away.
Not like she was hiding.
Like she was bracing.
> “It was.”
Bakugo stared at her.
She crossed her arms.
> “You don’t need to—”
He was already in front of her.
Already sinking to his knees.
She gasped.
“Wait—Kat—what are you—”
He looked up.
Grabbed her thighs.
Held her steady.
Spoke slow.
Fierce.
> “You don’t tell me some motherfucker spent two years touching your skin and never thought to worship it—then expect me not to correct that mistake.”
She blinked.
Jaw slack.
Breath caught.
He kissed the inside of her left thigh.
Right where the edge of her skirt met the top of her stocking.
> “You think I could sit through that and not want to destroy every inch of him still in your memory?”
“Kat—”
Another kiss.
Lower.
> “You let me see the tattoo over your heart. You made that for me.”
> “You think I’m gonna let you keep a body that’s only been touched by someone who didn’t earn it?”
Her knees buckled.
He caught her.
Pulled her forward.
Pressed his mouth to the space above her panties and breathed her in.
> “You said he never offered.”
She nodded—barely.
He gritted his teeth.
Pulled her panties down with slow, reverent hands.
> “I'll never stop, even if I have to beg.”
And when his mouth touched her?
She moaned like she was coming undone from the inside out.
Her hands fisted in his hair.
Her thighs trembled.
And he didn’t stop.
Didn’t slow.
Didn’t let her fall apart without catching every piece.
When she came, she didn’t scream.
She said his name.
Broken.
Raw.
Real.
And when he rose—mouth wet, jaw locked, eyes dark—she stared at him like she was seeing something sacred.
> “I didn’t know it could feel like that,” she whispered.
He leaned in.
Kissed her throat.
> “Then one star was never enough.”
She laughed—hoarse, breathless.
> “You think you earned five?”
He grinned.
And picked her up.
Carried her to his bed.
Laid her down like a fucking offering.
> “I’m not stopping,” he said. “Until you forget his name.”
> “What name?” she whispered.
And he kissed her again.
Hard.
And made her say his.
Over.
And over.
And over.
---
“Pick two people,” Mina read aloud, voice gleaming with mischief. “Make them sit shoulder-to-shoulder and maintain contact for five minutes. They can’t speak to each other. Everyone else gets to ask them questions.”
Groans. Laughter. The crackle of challenge.
She didn’t even pause.
Her eyes flicked straight to them. “Aurelia. Katsuki. Front and center.”
Bakugo didn’t wait.
He rose like a weapon being drawn, hand already extended toward Aurelia without a single word.
She took it.
Without question.
They walked together to the circle’s center and sat—shoulder to shoulder, legs brushing, heat shared.
No hesitation.
No adjustment.
It was like they’d already done this a hundred times.
Because they had.
Because this was normal for them.
Because this was them.
Mina’s grin could’ve split her face in half. “Excellent. Rules start now. No talking. Only answers.”
She held up a card.
“First question—what’s the first thing you noticed about each other?”
Bakugo didn’t turn.
“Her stance.”
Aurelia smirked. “His eyes.”
Mina whistled, low. “You’re disgusting already. Next—what’s their most distracting trait?”
Aurelia answered first. “The way he breathes when he’s about to lose it.”
Bakugo: “Her mouth. Especially when she’s trying not to smile.”
Jirou choked on her drink.
“Okay, okay,” Kaminari said, waving his hands like he could disperse the tension with air alone. “What would happen if you kissed right now?”
Aurelia leaned slightly into Bakugo, her tone level. “You’d all need to clear the room.”
Bakugo grunted. “She wouldn’t walk straight tomorrow.”
Groans. Screams. Someone across the circle clapped. Monoma muttered something about needing therapy.
Mina didn’t blink. “You’re welcome. Next. What do they do that makes you feel safest?”
Aurelia paused. Then: “He doesn’t flinch when I snap.”
Bakugo’s voice was quieter. “She always knows when I need to be held—before I do.”
The room fell quiet again.
Mina flipped a card. “What do you wish they’d believe?”
Aurelia didn’t look at him. “That I chose him. And I’ll keep choosing him.”
Bakugo: “That she doesn’t have to prove anything. Not to me.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Reverent. Jirou reached over and set her hand on Kaminari’s knee without saying a word.
“Next,” Mina whispered. “If they were in danger—real danger—what would you do?”
Bakugo’s voice was instant. “I’d take the hit.”
Aurelia: “I’d burn the world.”
Kirishima let out a low, breathy “Damn.”
“Alright,” Mina said, softly now, “What do you think they haven’t forgiven themselves for?”
Aurelia answered first, her voice like a knife wrapped in silk. “That he thinks he failed someone he never could’ve saved.”
Bakugo didn’t speak at first.
Then: “That she thinks she has to survive alone.”
Jirou blinked like she’d just been punched in the ribs.
Mina cleared her throat, but her eyes were too wide now. “Okay. Okay, fine. What would you say if they left tomorrow?”
Aurelia turned her face slightly, enough that her temple brushed his. “I’d go with him.”
Bakugo leaned in, breath hitting her jaw. “I’d take her.”
No pause.
No smile.
Just fact.
Truth. Weight. Something so real the air between them felt electric.
“Last one,” Mina said, barely a whisper now. “If you could say one thing to them right now—no fear, no consequences—what would it be?”
Aurelia’s voice came first.
“I love you.”
Bakugo answered without breathing.
“Stay the night.”
The room didn’t applaud.
Didn’t cheer.
They just watched.
As Aurelia reached down.
And took his hand.
Because it wasn’t a dare.
It was a promise.
--DREAMS END--