I Had to Fake a Relationship With My Explosive Hero Partner, But Our Kiss Wasn't Part of the Mission

The briefing room was sterile, all white walls and brushed steel, a stark contrast to the vibrant, full-color satellite images of the Elysian Isles Resort projected onto the main screen. The water was an impossible shade of turquoise, the sand a brilliant white. It looked like paradise. It was, according to their agency handler, a nest of the world’s most sophisticated snakes.

“The target is a brokerage,” Agent Takeda said, her voice flat and devoid of emotion as she clicked to the next slide. A network chart appeared, lines connecting shadowy profiles. “They deal in information, illegal support gear, and occasionally, people. We need to get inside, identify the leadership, and dismantle it. The problem is, security is absolute. You don’t get onto the island, let alone into their inner circle, without being one of them.”

Kirishima leaned forward, his elbows on the polished table, his chin resting in his hands. He was completely focused, his red eyes tracking every new piece of information. Beside him, Bakugo was a coiled spring of impatience, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his signature scowl firmly in place. He hated briefings. He especially hated briefings that took longer than five minutes.

“So how do we get in?” Bakugo grunted, his voice a low growl. “Blast our way through the front door?”

“No, Dynamight,” Takeda said, not missing a beat. She clicked the remote again. The screen changed to show two new profiles, complete with fabricated histories, bank statements, and social media accounts. “You get in as Katsu Yanai and Eiji Shima. A wealthy, established couple on an extended holiday.”

The silence in the room was absolute. Kirishima blinked, slowly processing the words. Couple. He flicked his eyes toward Bakugo, whose entire body had gone rigid.

“What the hell did you just say?” Bakugo’s voice was dangerously low.

“Your cover,” Takeda continued, ignoring the simmering threat, “is that of a long-term couple. Shima is the doting, good-natured heir to a shipping fortune. Yanai is his partner—a brilliant but notoriously difficult venture capitalist. The dynamic is designed to be memorable. Your loud arguments and public displays of affection will make you stand out, but in a way that seems authentic to high-society drama. They won’t see you as a threat; they’ll see you as entertainment.”

Kirishima felt a slow, incredulous smile spread across his face. It was insane. It was also, he had to admit, kind of brilliant. No one would ever suspect the perpetually enraged Dynamight of being in a loving relationship. It was the perfect cover.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Bakugo finally exploded, slamming a hand on the table. The metal groaned in protest, and a faint smell of burnt sugar filled the air. “Me? And him? No. Absolutely not. Find another way.”

“There is no other way,” Takeda stated calmly. “Your existing public dynamic makes this plausible. Red Riot is the only person who can consistently manage your temper. It’s a known fact. This cover leverages that reality. You will share a suite. You will attend couples’ events. You will be convincing. The mission depends on it.”

Bakugo stared at her, his crimson eyes practically glowing with fury. Kirishima could feel the heat rolling off him. For a moment, he thought Bakugo might actually refuse, might just walk out and damn the consequences. But then, a muscle in Bakugo’s jaw jumped, and he let out a harsh, frustrated breath through his nose. He wouldn’t compromise a mission, not even for his own pride. He sank back into his chair, a thundercloud of pure rage.

Kirishima cleared his throat, trying to break the suffocating tension. “Right,” he said, his voice a little too bright. “So… a couple. We can do that. It’s just acting, right, Bakugo?”

Bakugo didn’t answer. He just glared at the file Takeda slid across the table, the one with their new, shared identity printed on the front.

Kirishima, true to form, threw himself into the role with the same relentless energy he brought to training. The days leading up to their departure were filled with him poring over luxury lifestyle magazines and watching documentaries on the obscenely wealthy. He practiced holding a wine glass correctly, learned the names of watchmakers he couldn't pronounce, and peppered his speech with the kind of casual arrogance that made Bakugo’s eye twitch.

“Did you know that the Audemars Piguet Royal Oak is considered a masterpiece of modern horology, Bakugo?” Kirishima would ask, holding his wrist out for inspection. “My character, Shima, would definitely have one. Maybe two.”

Bakugo would just grunt from the corner where he was sharpening his gauntlet bracers, the rhythmic scrape of metal on stone a clear indication of his mounting irritation.

The breaking point came at the agency’s bespoke tailor shop. It was a discreet, high-end establishment that catered exclusively to heroes needing civilian disguises. Racks of fine wools and silks lined the walls. Their cover identities’ wardrobes were already laid out, a collection of linen shirts, tailored trousers, and designer jackets that cost more than Kirishima’s apartment.

He slipped into his own clothes easily—a soft cream-colored cashmere sweater and light trousers that felt sinfully comfortable. He looked relaxed, wealthy, and carefree. Perfect.

Bakugo, however, looked like a caged animal. He stood stiffly in front of the three-way mirror, encased in a sharply tailored charcoal suit. The jacket fit perfectly across his broad shoulders, and the trousers were cut to emphasize his powerful legs. He looked incredible, like he’d been carved from stone and draped in expensive fabric, but his posture was all wrong. He was rigid, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he glared at his own reflection.

“The tie is crooked,” Bakugo snarled, yanking at the knot of the silver silk tie.

“Here, let me,” Kirishima said, stepping forward before he could think better of it.

He moved into Bakugo’s space, his own reflection appearing beside Bakugo’s in the mirror. The air immediately grew thick and heavy. Bakugo went utterly still, his breath catching as Kirishima’s fingers brushed against his throat. Kirishima’s heart started to pound, a frantic, heavy rhythm against his ribs. He could feel the heat radiating from Bakugo’s skin, could smell the clean, sharp scent of the soap he used, a faint trace of caramel underneath it all.

His hands felt clumsy as he undid the mangled knot and slowly, carefully, began to re-tie it. He focused on the task, on the smooth slide of the silk, on the crisp fabric of Bakugo’s shirt beneath his knuckles. He could feel Bakugo’s eyes on him, intense and unwavering. The silence stretched, filled only by the whisper of fabric and their own strained breathing. When he was done, he smoothed the lapels of the jacket, his palms resting for a fraction of a second on the solid wall of Bakugo’s chest. He could feel the thud of Bakugo’s heart, just as fast as his own.

He forced himself to take a step back, needing the space to breathe again. He looked at the finished product in the mirror. At the powerful man in the perfect suit, his blond hair looking even sharper against the dark fabric, his red eyes burning with a fierce, contained energy.

Kirishima let out a low whistle, a genuine smile finally breaking through the tension. “Damn, Bakugo,” he said, his voice a little rough. “You clean up nice.”

He watched in the mirror as a dark blush crept up from the collar of Bakugo’s pristine white shirt, flooding his neck and the tips of his ears. Bakugo’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He just stared, utterly stunned, at the man standing beside him.

The memory of Bakugo’s blush stayed with Kirishima all the way to the island, a hot, private secret he kept replaying in his mind. The flight on the private seaplane was smooth, the turquoise water below looking exactly like the pictures, but all Kirishima could feel was the ghost of Bakugo’s solid chest under his palms. Bakugo had been silent ever since the fitting, a brooding storm cloud packed into the seat beside him.

Their arrival was seamless. A smiling concierge with perfectly white teeth greeted them by their false names, "Mr. Shima, Mr. Yanai, welcome to Elysian Isles." Kirishima, slipping easily into his role, gave a charming, easygoing smile and slid his hand into the crook of Bakugo’s arm. Bakugo went rigid, but didn't pull away, his compliance a testament to his professionalism, even if the glower he shot the concierge could have curdled milk.

They were led through an open-air lobby of white marble and lush greenery to a private elevator that whisked them to the top floor. “The Elysian Grand Penthouse,” the concierge announced as he unlocked a set of double doors. “We trust you’ll find it to your liking.”

The doors swung open, and Kirishima’s practiced smile faltered for a genuine, stunned second. The suite was bigger than his entire apartment. A wall of glass offered a breathtaking, panoramic view of the ocean, the setting sun painting the water in shades of orange and pink. White couches, a sleek black bar, and polished dark wood floors screamed of obscene wealth. And in the center of the room, raised on a low platform like a throne, was a single, enormous king-sized bed.

It dominated the space, a vast expanse of white linens and an army of pillows. One bed. For the two of them.

The concierge gestured toward it. “The suite is designed for ultimate romantic seclusion. I’ll send your luggage up immediately. Please let us know if you require anything at all.”

Kirishima’s throat was dry. He managed to press a ridiculously large bill into the man’s hand, his mind screaming. “Thank you, that’s very kind,” he heard himself say, his voice sounding distant.

The moment the door clicked shut, plunging the room into a heavy silence broken only by the distant sound of waves, Bakugo’s control finally snapped.

“One. Fucking. Bed.” His voice was a low, lethal whisper that carried more menace than any of his usual shouts. He dropped his carry-on bag with a thud.

Kirishima swallowed hard, forcing a laugh that sounded brittle even to his own ears. “Well, I guess the agency really wanted us to commit to the role, huh?” He gestured vaguely around the opulent room, avoiding looking at the bed. “They weren’t kidding about the luxury, though. This place is insane.”

Bakugo ignored him. He stalked over to the bed, his movements stiff with rage. He looked at it like it was a villain he was about to incinerate. With a sharp, angry motion, he threw his bag onto the side farthest from the door.

“This side,” he growled, jabbing a finger down at the mattress. “Is mine. You stay on your half. Your leg touches mine, your arm, anything—and I will personally throw you off that balcony.”

Kirishima’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm. The sheer intimacy of the threat, of negotiating the shared space of a bed with Bakugo, was overwhelming. He tried to keep his tone light, to push back against the suffocating tension. “Right. Got it. A literal line drawn in the Egyptian cotton. Man, this is gonna be an adventure.”

He walked over to the windows, turning his back to Bakugo just to get a moment’s reprieve. He rested his hands on the cool glass, staring out at the endless ocean, but he couldn’t see it. All he was aware of was Bakugo behind him, the sound of his harsh, controlled breathing, the sheer, overwhelming presence of him in this beautiful, impossible room. The mission was one thing. This was another. This was a line he wasn’t sure either of them was prepared to cross.