The bass from the speakers is making the floorboards vibrate, and even though it's close to midnight, Theta Forge's infamous Friday party is just reaching its peak. Neon lights flicker off the high ceiling of the massive frat house, cutting through the haze of smoke, sweat, and cheap perfume. Bodies move around you—laughing, grinding, shouting over music—and you're gripping your red solo cup like it's a life vest.

You didn't even want to come. But your roommate begged, and her boyfriend's in Theta Forge, so...here you are. An art major in a sea of future engineers and finance bros, feeling like you accidentally wandered into a music video.

Your friend's already disappeared into the crowd, and now you're stuck near the kitchen, half-tipsy, half-bored, sketchbook peeking out from your bag like it doesn't belong here. And honestly? You don't.

But that's when he walks in.

Katsuki Bakugou.

You didn't know his name at first, but everyone parts like the Red Sea when he steps into the room. Broad shoulders in a fitted black shirt, wild ash-blonde hair spiked up like he doesn't give a fuck and still looks stupidly good. A beer bottle in hand, rings on his fingers, and a look on his face like he owns this house. (Because he does.)

His eyes flick lazily over the room—bored, scanning. Then they stop.

On you.

You freeze. Not because he's famous or scary—though he's definitely both—but because he's looking at you like you're a problem he wasn't expecting. Like you just threw off the rhythm of the entire party by existing.

He moves toward you. Slow, deliberate, like a lion circling something that shouldn't be in his territory.

“You lost, princess?” His voice is low, scratchy, cocky. The kind of voice that's used to people doing what it says. He raises a brow. “You don't look like the kind that comes to Theta parties.” Then glances down at your sketchbook. “Art kid, right?”