The club looked like a health inspector's worst nightmare, and Jiro couldn't have been happier.
The Broken Amp crouched at the end of an alley in the entertainment district, its neon sign missing half its letters so it just read "BRO EN A P" in sputtering pink light. Band stickers covered every available surface. Layers upon layers of them, some dating back decades, creating a geological record of the local music scene. The floor stuck to her boots with each step. The air tasted like cigarette smoke, cheap beer, and the particular brand of electricity that only came from live amplifiers pushed past their safety limits.
Heaven. Pure heaven.
She glanced sideways at Izuku as they approached the entrance, her jacks twitching with barely concealed anticipation.
Okay. Here it comes. The moment of truth.
This was the real test. Not the entrance exam. Not the robots. This right here. Because she'd seen his type before. The pretty boys with their expensive clothes and their charming smiles. They always said they were "into music" until they actually had to set foot in a real venue. Then suddenly they had somewhere else to be, and gee, wasn't that place down the street much nicer?
He's going to take one look at this beautiful disaster and run for the hills. Good. Fine. Whatever. That'll just prove I was right about him all along.
Izuku stopped at the threshold. His green eyes swept across the interior, cataloging everything with that same calm analysis she'd seen during the exam.
Jiro waited. Her arms crossed. Her expression carefully neutral.
Three... two... one...
"Good acoustics in here." His voice carried genuine interest. "The low ceiling and irregular surfaces will prevent a lot of reverb. Smart design choice, even if it was probably accidental."
Jiro's brain experienced a critical error.
He didn't mention the smell. He didn't wrinkle his nose at the sticky floor. He didn't make some snide comment about the lighting or the lack of proper ventilation.
He talked about acoustics.
The nerdiest, most unexpectedly perfect thing he could have possibly said.
She grabbed his sleeve and dragged him toward the stage, mostly so he couldn't see the heat rising in her cheeks.
The opening act was already setting up. Five people who looked like they hadn't slept in three days, which was the correct aesthetic for this kind of show. Their equipment was held together with duct tape and prayers. The bassist was doing a final tune-up, and even from across the room, Jiro could hear the slight buzz from a grounding issue in his amp.
Third fret needs adjustment. Bridge pickup's running hot. Amateur.
But she kept those observations to herself. Tonight wasn't about analysis. Tonight was about feeling.
The lights dropped.
The first chord hit like a punch to the chest.
And Jiro Kyoka came alive.
The music crashed over her in waves of distorted guitar and thundering drums. Her body moved without conscious thought, swaying to the rhythm that felt as natural as breathing. Her jacks twitched in time with the bass line, picking up frequencies that normal ears couldn't process.
This. This was where she belonged. Not in a classroom. Not in some sterile hero agency. Here, surrounded by noise and chaos and the raw energy of sound made physical.
For a blessed moment, she forgot about the green-haired disaster standing next to her.
Then she remembered.
She turned to look at him, expecting... well, she wasn't sure what she expected. Confusion, probably. That stiff awkwardness that non-music people always displayed when confronted with something this raw.
Izuku Midoriya stood like a statue.
His foot tapped. Slightly off-beat. His head nodded in a rhythm that bore only a passing resemblance to the actual song.
Oh my god.
He was trying. He was genuinely, adorably, hopelessly trying to get into it.
And he was absolutely terrible at it.
That's... kind of cute.
NO. Not cute. Pathetic. Obviously pathetic.
She rolled her eyes so hard she probably pulled something.
"You're hurting my ears more than the music." She grabbed his wrist without thinking. "Stop thinking so hard, Broccoli. Just feel it."
His skin was warm under her fingers. Calloused from years of training. She ignored that. Completely. One hundred percent.
"Feel what, exactly?"
"The beat, idiot. Here." She pressed his hand against her hip, making him mirror her movement. "Your body knows what to do. Your brain just needs to shut up and let it happen."
Wait. Why did I put his hand on my hip.
But she couldn't take it back now without making things weird. Weirder. So she just kept moving, guiding him through the rhythm, trying very hard not to notice how quickly he adapted.
Because of course he adapted quickly. The guy learned combat techniques by watching. Learning how to bob his head to music was probably child's play by comparison.
Within thirty seconds, his movements had smoothed out. Within a minute, he actually looked like he belonged here.
Cheater. Stupid talented cheater.
The opening act finished their set to enthusiastic cheers. Jiro released his wrist like it had burned her, pretending she hadn't been holding on to it for the past three songs.
"Not bad." She didn't look at him. "For a beginner."
"I had a good teacher."
"Don't push your luck."
The main act took the stage.
Static Shock. Five members. Two guitars, bass, drums, and a vocalist who screamed like she was trying to exorcise demons. They'd been on Jiro's playlist since she was twelve, and seeing them live had been on her bucket list for almost as long.
The first song hit, and the crowd surged forward.
Bodies pressed against bodies. The mosh pit opened up near the front, a churning mass of controlled chaos that looked violent from the outside but followed its own strange rules of respect and community. You fell down, someone picked you up. You got tired, you moved to the edge. It was tribal. Primal.
Jiro moved toward the pit without conscious thought.
A hand caught her shoulder.
She spun, ready to tear into whoever was trying to stop her, and found Izuku standing like a wall between her and an especially aggressive drunk guy who'd been careening toward them.
He hadn't grabbed her to hold her back. He'd moved to intercept the collision.
"Space." His voice was barely audible over the music, but she could read his lips. "Making space."
And he was. Using his height and his ridiculous shoulders to create a pocket in the crowd. Not shielding her like some delicate flower that needed protecting. Just... clearing room. So they could both enjoy the show without getting elbowed in the face every thirty seconds.
That's... actually really thoughtful.
She refused to acknowledge the thought. Absolutely refused.
The setlist progressed. Song after song of raw, unfiltered aggression and emotion. Jiro sang along, shouted along, screamed along. She jumped when the crowd jumped. She threw her fist in the air during the breakdowns.
Her favorite song came on.
"Broken Frequency."
The opening riff was unmistakable. That descending chromatic line that built into a wall of sound. The lyrics about being too loud for a world that wanted you quiet. The desperate, defiant energy of refusing to turn down the volume on who you were.
Jiro let go.
All of it. The walls she'd built. The sarcasm she used as armor. The constant, exhausting effort of pretending not to care about anything.
She jumped. She sang. She threw her head back and let the music consume her completely.
Her hair flew wild around her face. Her smile was huge and genuine and totally unguarded. Her jacks whipped through the air, absorbing frequencies like they were drinking nectar.
The song built to its climax. She turned, still moving, still lost in the music.
And caught Izuku staring at her.
He wasn't watching the band anymore. His green eyes were locked on her face with an expression she couldn't quite read. It wasn't judgment. It wasn't confusion. It wasn't even the usual smug amusement he wore like a second skin.
It was... awe?
Like he was watching something incredible. Something precious. Something he'd never seen before and wasn't sure he'd ever see again.
Her heart stuttered in her chest.
She looked away. Had to. Because if she kept meeting his eyes, she was going to do something stupid like smile at him.
The song ended. The crowd roared. The next track started with a slower, more melodic opening that gave everyone a brief chance to breathe.
Izuku leaned in close.
His mouth positioned itself next to her ear. His hand rested on her waist to steady them both in the swaying crowd. His breath was warm against her neck.
SYSTEM OVERLOAD. SYSTEM OVERLOAD.
Why did he still smell good? They'd been in this sweaty, smoky club for almost two hours. He should smell like everyone else. Like beer and body odor and desperation.
Instead he smelled like something clean and slightly spicy and entirely too distracting.
His hand felt like a brand on her hip.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to escape.
This is bad. This is very, very bad. He's a player. A scumbag. A greedy hero with a harem protagonist complex. I'm just another girl on his list. I'm just...
"You're incredible when you're like this."
His voice was a low rumble against her ear. She felt the words as much as heard them, the vibration traveling through her skull and straight into her chest.
"What?" Her voice came out weaker than intended.
"Completely free." He pulled back just enough to look at her face. "I've never seen anything like it."
She stared at him.
He didn't say she was pretty. He didn't comment on her body or her face or any of the things she'd always felt inadequate about.
He said she was free.
That was... that was the single most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her.
Her throat tightened.
She opened her mouth to say something. A comeback. A deflection. Anything to restore the normal banter between them.
Nothing came out.
She just stood there, her purple eyes wide and vulnerable, her carefully constructed walls crumbling around her feet.
The next song started. Loud and aggressive and everything she usually loved.
She barely heard it.
The concert ended too soon.
Or maybe too late. Time had become a meaningless concept somewhere around the fifth song.
They stumbled out into the cool night air, ears ringing with ghost frequencies. The silence after a concert was always strange. Like the world had gone temporarily deaf and was slowly remembering how to hear normal sounds again.
Jiro's throat was raw from singing. Her feet ached from jumping. Her hair was a complete disaster.
She felt amazing.
They walked in comfortable silence. The tension from earlier had evaporated somewhere in the mosh pit, replaced by something softer.
This was a mistake.
He'd done everything right.
He'd noticed the acoustics. He'd tried to learn the rhythm. He'd protected her space without being condescending about it. He'd watched her dance like she was the most fascinating thing in the room.
No one's ever done that before.
Other guys had taken her to concerts. Or tried to. They'd spent the whole time on their phones, or complaining about the noise, or trying to use the crowded venue as an excuse to grope her.
Izuku had just... been there. Present. Engaged. Trying to understand something that mattered to her.
But he's still him.
The guy who openly admitted he wanted multiple girlfriends. The guy who flirted with Uraraka right in front of her. The guy who treated charm like a weapon and wielded it with terrifying effectiveness.
Am I just another conquest? Another box to check?
Maybe this is all a game to him. Maybe he's just testing which approach works best on which girl.
They turned onto her street. The familiar houses passed by in the darkness. Porch lights flickered. A dog barked somewhere in the distance.
Her doorstep appeared too quickly.
She checked her phone. 9:58 PM.
He kept his promise.
Izuku stopped at the base of the front steps. He didn't follow her up. Didn't crowd her space. Didn't try any of the moves that guys in movies always tried at the end of a date.
Not that this was a date.
He just stood there, looking up at her with that small, genuine smile that somehow didn't carry any of his usual smugness.
"I had a great time tonight, Jiro."
"Me too." Her voice came out quiet. Barely more than a whisper.
He nodded. "Well, goodnight."
He then turned and walked away.
Jiro stood on her doorstep. Her hand rested on the railing. Her eyes tracked his silhouette as it grew smaller in the darkness.
She touched her ear. The skin still tingled where his breath had been warm against it. Where he'd called her incredible.
The front door opened behind her.
"Kyoka?" Her mother's voice was soft with poorly concealed curiosity. "How was it?"
She didn't turn around. Couldn't. Not until her expression was back under control.
"Fine." The word came out steadier than she felt. "It was fine."
"Just fine?"
"Mom."
"Okay, okay." Mika's smile was audible. "I'll heat up some tea."
The door closed.
Jiro stood alone on the doorstep for another long moment. The night air cooled her flushed cheeks. The last echoes of music faded from her enhanced hearing.
Somewhere down the street, Izuku's footsteps grew too distant to track.
She pulled out her phone. Opened their text conversation. Stared at the blank message field for what felt like an eternity.
Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
Say something. Anything. Just...
She typed three words. Deleted them. Typed them again.
Deleted them again.
Finally, she settled on something safe.
"Your dancing still sucks."
The reply came almost immediately.
"Teach me again sometime?"
She stared at the screen. Her lips twitched. The expression felt suspiciously like a smile.
"Maybe. If you're lucky."
"I'm always lucky."
"Go away."
"Goodnight, Compass."
She should have been annoyed by the nickname. She really should have.
Instead, she caught herself touching her ear again. Remembering warmth. Remembering words that had hit harder than any music.
You're incredible when you're like this.
Her phone buzzed one more time.
"Sweet dreams."
She typed her response with fingers that definitely weren't trembling.
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
She didn't reply.
Because he was right.