Chapter Text
The sharp, comforting scent of dark roast and the mechanical symphony of the espresso machine ruled here at Ground Zero Coffee. It was Katsuki Bakugo’s domain, a temple of precision and controlled chaos, staffed by a crew who knew better than to cross him. Usually.
Kaminari was chatting up a customer at the register, Mina was sketching on a napkin between customers, Sero was meticulously stacking cups, and Jiro was fiddling with the speaker system, a critical frown on her face.
The door chimed, and in he walked.
He was a burst of vibrant, spiky red hair and a grin so wide and genuine it seemed to brighten the industrial-chic interior. He was broad-shouldered, wearing a tight black tank top under an open flannel, looking less like a college kid and more like a cheerful mountain that had decided to go for a stroll. His eyes, a warm, dark crimson, scanned the menu with open enthusiasm.
Bakugo, who was adjusting the pressure on a portafilter with lethal focus, glanced up. His hands stilled.
The guy—all bright energy and obvious strength—loped up to the counter where Kaminari stood. “Hey, man!” he said, his voice a friendly, steady rumble. “What’s the most heroic smoothie you’ve got? Something solid for after a workout!”
A smoothie. In this bastion of serious, grown-up caffeine. Bakugo’s brain, for a half-second, refused to compute the order. It wasn’t the drink itself—they had a menu, it was fine—it was the sheer, unadulterated vibrancy of the customer. He was like a personified energy bar, all positive vibes and sharp teeth in that easy smile.
Kaminari opened his mouth, then followed Bakugo’s frozen, slightly bewildered stare. The boss wasn’t scowling; he was just… stopped. A rare, silent system error.
Seizing the moment, Kaminari jumped in with a slightly-too-loud, “Heroic smoothie? Dude, we have a Peak Performance Punch! Banana, peanut butter, oats, the works!”
“Perfect! That’s manly as heck!” the redhead boomed, flashing a thumbs-up.
The sound of his voice seemed to reboot Bakugo. He scowled fiercely, turning back to his machine with a muttered, “Peak performance… it’s blended mush.” But the tips of his ears, visible under his spiky blonde hair, were undeniably pink.
The order proceeded normally. The guy—Eijiro, he gave his name as Eijiro—paid, his demeanor so openly friendly it was almost disarming. He moved to the pickup area, humming something upbeat and drumming his fingers on his denim-clad thigh.
Bakugo focused on pouring a latte art heart, then violently swirled it into an abstract blob.
“Order for Eijiro!” Mina called, sliding the thick, beige smoothie across the counter.
“Thanks! You guys rock!” Eijiro said, his grin encompassing the whole shop before his eyes briefly, curiously, flicked to the intensely focused blonde owner. Then he was out the door, the bell chiming behind him.
The silence he left was instantly and thoroughly violated.
“Woah,” Kaminari breathed, spinning around. “That was a lot of… personality.”
“Personality?” Sero snorted, crossing his arms. “Bakugo looked like he got hit with a sunshine beam. Frozen solid. I thought we’d have to reboot him.”
“He was cute!” Mina sang, bouncing on her toes. “So sturdy! And that smile! All those teeth! Bakugo, you were checking out his arm muscles. Don’t even deny it.”
“I was NOT!” Bakugo roared, finally slamming his hand on the counter. “I was evaluating a customer who orders a infant’s meal in a professional coffee establishment!”
Jiro raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Your evaluation seemed to consist of staring at his hair. Did the red confuse you? Thought it was a fire alarm?”
“His hair is spiky,” Sero mused, tapping his chin. “Almost as spiky as a certain someone’s. Maybe you felt a kinship. A spiky-haired kinship.”
“SHUT UP!” Bakugo snarled, his face flushing. “He’s just some over-enthusiastic jock who doesn’t know a cold brew from a milkshake!”
“Over-enthusiastic jock,” Kaminari repeated, nodding sagely. “That’s the issue. Definitely not the friendly, mega-watt vibe or the fact that he called a smoothie ‘manly.’ Which, by the way, was kind of awesome.”
“We should make it a permanent menu item,” Mina suggested, eyes sparkling with mischief. “The ‘Manly Eijiro.’ Extra protein, extra grit.”
“I WILL FIRE ALL OF YOU!” Bakugo bellowed, storming toward the back. “CLEAN THE STEAM WANDS!”
They dispersed, but the grins stayed. For the rest of the afternoon, every time a tall, broad-shouldered person walked by the window, Bakugo’s gaze would dart toward the door. And when Sero later joked about needing a “manly” napkin for a spill, the resulting explosion of wrath was so specific it only confirmed their suspicions.
At closing, Jiro nudged a grumpy Bakugo as she passed him her apron. “Relax, boss. Maybe he’ll come back for a real drink. A dark roast. Something… hardcore.”
Bakugo just grunted, locking the front door with a definitive click. Alone in the quiet shop, his eyes drifted past the elegant bags of single-origin beans to the bulky, much-despised blender.
“Peak Performance Punch,” he muttered to the empty room, the echo of a booming, cheerful laugh and the image of a brilliant, spiky red grin stubbornly stuck in his head. “Goddamn ridiculous.”
It was, he realized with immense irritation, probably going to be a long month.