Eighteen year old Izuku Midoriya never expected that his whole life would change the day that a certain angry blond walked into his florist shop. Katsuki Bakugo demands that he gets a bouquet to passive-aggressively flip off his cheating boyfriend...
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As soon as I get off work the next day, I head straight home and run a shower.
When I finish, I stand in front of my wardrobe and scrutinise my options. I rub at my damp hair with a threadbare towel while I think.
"Hot... I have to make Kacchan look good... so..." I mutter.
"Oh my GOSH, why do I not own any good clothes?!" I screech to no one in particular.
Toot toot!
I run over to my bedroom window and glance outside to see a sleek black car parked on the curb. I whip my hear around to look at the alarm clock on my nightstand.
6:53 pm.
"Shoot! It's time already?! I don't have an outfit!"
I hurriedly pull on briefs, run a brush through my near-dry hair, smooth some moisturiser on my skin. I've got one foot in my favourite pair of jeans when someone knocks on my door.
"Ah— just a sec!"
"Deku, it's me. Your mom let me in. Are you seriously not r—"
"Give me a minute!" I shriek through the door, my voice oddly high-pitched.
"Coming in," Kacchan ignores me and kicks the door open with his scuffed motorcycle boots. "Oh shit, you're not dressed."
"No kidding!" I squeal.
He turns his back to me and stares at the contents of my wardrobe instead. "Why is it so hard for you to choose a goddamn outfit?"
"Cause I don't socialise with cool people who care about clothes!" I snap.
"Tch. Nerd," he mutters.
"W-well, just choose me something to wear, then," I say to his back.
"Okay," he turns around to face me. "Those jeans are ugly."
I take them off, scrunch them into a ball, and throw them at him. They glance off his chest and fall to the floor. He gives me a pissed expression.
Self-consciously, I sit on my bed and tuck my knees up to my chest. "Stop looking at me when I'm undressed," I mumble.
"Why? It's not like there's anything desirab— OW, FUCK!" he shouts when grab a book off my nightstand and hurl it at him.
"Just pick me an outfit, Kacchan."
"Fine, bastard, " he rubs his chest where the book — a hardcover, oops — hit him. "Do you have skinny jeans?"
"Yeah... Third drawer."
He pulls out a pair of acid-washed skinnies and tosses them to me. I pull them on. While he chooses a shirt, I appraise his own outfit.
Black torn jeans, motorcycle boots with a bit of a chunky heel on them, a black tank top, and an orange-and-black souvenir jacket that I really, really love. He also has this amazing black collar-like choker with spikes around it. If anyone looks hot tonight, it's him.
