Bakugou wasn't sure why he bothered. It was early—much earlier than he'd normally be taking this route to school—but he found himself lingering, once again, outside the bar-turned-cafe. It was less gaudy during the day. The neon signage had been stowed indoors at some point over the course of the night and replaced with a simple, black board detailing the menu.

Maybe he desperately wanted a diversion, no matter how small, from the dull structure of daily life. Maybe it was just because the cafe was along the way. Maybe he just wanted to collect on that free drink. In any case, he stepped past the menu board without so much as a glance and pushed open the door. It swung smoothly open with its cheery jingle.

The insides were also more modestly lit, the ambient blue and red mood-lights having been switched off in favor of natural daylight. It was devoid of clientele at this time, and the open space made the small, single-story establishment look far more spacious than it actually was. It was eerily quiet, as if displaced from the early-morning bustle of the outside world, and the only sound in the stillness was the droning melody of a commercial playing on a small television mounted to the wall.

He walked up to the bar, the calm silence and lack of bystanders somehow making him more restless than usual. The setting was idyllic, peaceful, but some instinctual part of him stood alert and anxious. He took up the same seat he had taken the night before, and tacked his fingers against the wood impatiently. There wasn't a single sign of anyone on duty, and his eyes flickered about in an attempt to distract himself. He wasn't in any sort of hurry—he had left home earlier than usual to make time for the detour—but the odd sense of isolation set him on edge.

A small, silver service bell sat on the counter, and he tapped it. When no one came after several moments, he growled, hitting the bell again, more insistently this time. Then again. And again. and—

"So sorry for the wait!" The same cheery voice that had grated on his nerves called hastily from the back. The door to the kitchen swung open, and the waitress bustled out. "Oh, it's you!"

"No wonder there's no one in this dump. The hell you keeping customers waiting for?"

She apologized again, but the languid smile never once wavered. Bakugou shifted in his seat. Something in her expression, the flat amusement in her eyes, sent vague sparks of unease running through him, though he couldn't quite place why. She was toying with him, clearly, but, more than that, he felt as if he were being dissected, the gaze feeling more clinical than teasing. He gave his head a small shake, and growled under his breath, chastising his own wandering imagination.

"I was, erm, taking out the trash," she said. "All sorts of stuff piles up after the night shift, you know!"

She drifted over to where he sat, pulling out a mug along the way. "Let me fix you that drink I promised. Any preference?"

Bakugou grunted, unimpressed. He studied her for a moment. It was much easier to make out her features in the daylight. Pleasantly soft, green eyes, pale skin and straight, dark hair gathered into a small bundle at the back. A single, stray lock fell stubbornly across her face.

He snorted. Why had he found her so unnerving? She was no one of note. A normal person. Boringly average.

Similarly, with the exception of the black choker about her neck, her outfit consisted of the standard cafe staff attire. A plain shirt, plain pants, an apron and—

"That blood?" he asked, eyes widening.

She froze for an instant, then frantically looked herself over, scrubbing at the offending stains on the hem of her apron.

"Ahaha, looks like it is. I had a bit of an accident with the knife in the back. Those, erm, limes can be slippery. Excuse me."

She disappeared back into the kitchen, reemerging wearing a spare.

"Sorry about that. What would you like?"

"Fuck if I know. Coffee, I guess." He had perused the menu in her absence, but found that he couldn't make heads or tails of most of the items. The hell were all these fancy, foreign-looking names?

She smiled, seemingly amused. "Of course."

"And don't put in any weird shit."

She tittered softly, but went to prepare his drink without comment. He followed her movements with vague disinterest, barely paying attention while she worked.

Pale fingers, delicate, and with nary a scar on them, moved with surprising dexterity, gathering ingredients and sifting through the grounds with practiced motions. Setting the pot to boil, she then began whisking a concoction of milk and cream until it began to froth heavily. After several minutes, the unique, smokey aroma of a freshly-brewed pot began to fill the shop.

When she finally placed the steaming mug in front of him, he eyed it dubiously for a moment, surreptitiously sniffing it as he brought it up to his lips for any last-minute surprises. He took a sip. It was a higher-quality brew than the market-grade garbage the old hag bought—even he could tell that much—smoother, rich, with slight hints of something chocolatey. He savored the taste for a moment then set the mug back down.

"It's…alright."

She smirked cheekily and he found the heat rising in his cheeks. He had been too obvious.

"I'm glad," was all she said, winking, before turning her attention to the small stack of dishes in the mini-sink.

For a while, they both lingered in silence, her cleaning while he sat and nursed his drink. The small television was playing a segment of the Musutafun Daily. The headline blared, Hero-Killer Yet to Appear: Is This the End of Stain?. A young hero, likely a newcomer, spoke brashly to the camera, demanding the notorious villain come face him while the anchor nodded along, a vapid, blank smile on his face.

The waitress hummed a contemplative note, half-lidded eyes following the bulletin while her hands worked.

"Bastard still hasn't shown himself yet," Bakugou said, following her gaze. "It's been weeks."

She scratched idly at her neck, a finger lingering for a moment longer on her black choker. "It's a good thing, isn't it? No one has to worry about being attacked anymore. Wouldn't it be fine if he just never showed up again?"

"Like hell. He's still gotta be put away. Can't just let pieces of shit like that run around."

"Hm. Is that so?" Her eyes flicked to his uniform. "U.A., huh?"

"Fuck's it matter to you?" he asked, taking another sip.

"Just making small talk." She dismissed his aggression with an airy wave of the hand. "You seemed the sort. Lots of hot-blooded people come out of there."

"The fu—"

"It's a good school." She cut off the impending tirade. "Though, I never can tell what they're thinking, really. Isn't a calm, easy life best? Why go out of your way to get into trouble?"

"And what? Just let criminals go? That's how you get people like that Stain bastard running around."

"Who hasn't shown up for weeks," she reminded him.

"That doesn't matter!"

She hummed. "Doesn't it? If people like him just disappeared without a trace, then isn't that the same as them getting locked away forever where no one can see them? If it were me, I just wouldn't bother looking for him and stirring up trouble for no reason."

"I'm not like you," he growled. "I'm going to be the number one heroI'm not going to waste my life away in a shitty little cafe."

"Of course you aren't," she said, unphased. "After all, you're the U.A. student. I'm just the waitress that works at this shop. Still," she shifted the topic, "getting into U.A. really is impressive. Hero course, no less. You must really be something else."

Something between a grunt and a growl. A stiff jerk of the head. Her tone had remained even and light, yet Bakugou couldn't shake the feeling that she was still somehow mocking him. "The fuck do you think?"

She nodded pleasantly. "Must be nice. I've always wanted to go."

"What?" he asked incredulously. " After all that shit you just spouted?"

"To school, I mean. I've always wanted to go to school. I never went."

He turned his head slightly to look at her from his periphery. She was still young, likely not even a year or two older than himself. By all rights, she should have been in school. What was she doing working in this shithole? He watched as she scrubbed idly at a particularly stubborn plate. Her eyes had grown unfocused, her gaze peering somewhere far away.

"Well, I guess I went, once."

Bakugou quickly turned his head when she looked at him and huffed, but remained silent, unsure of how to respond. People rarely held a conversation with him for this long—hell, people rarely held conversations with him at all—and the subject wasn't one that he knew how to navigate.

He was saved the trouble when she glanced at the clock, a fine eyebrow rising.

"Speaking of school, shouldn't you get going?"

His head swiveled. Ten to eight. Shit. He swiftly stood, the wooden stool pushed back with a clatter. Collecting his things, he rushed to the door. Behind him, the waitress called out.

"Thank you, please come again."

"Don't hold your breath," he snapped over his shoulder, and was gone.