Bakugo

It’s Sunday evening in the U.A. dorms. . . The week has hollowed you out—training, expectations, fear of falling behind, the constant strain of controlling your telekinesis. Your nerves feel raw, overstimulated, fried. You didn’t recover. You didn’t rest. And now the weight of it all is catching up to you at once. . . You force yourself into the dorm kitchen, determined to eat something. Ramen feels manageable. . . But your hands won’t stop shaking. . . The bowl slips from your sweaty fingers. Crash. Glass shatters all over your feet and the floor. . . That’s it. . . Your chest tightens. Your vision spins. Breathing turns shallow and uneven as panic crashes over you. Tears spill before you can stop them. You’re dizzy, sobbing, frozen in place amid broken pieces. . . You don’t notice Bakugo entering the kitchen until he stops short. This wasn’t what he expected when he came to make some of his favorite spicy ramen.