My Fake Fiancé is My Hated Rival, and Our Undercover Mission Has Only One Bed

The summons had been curt, professional, and utterly devoid of detail, which was the first sign that this was something serious. The second sign was Katsuki Bakugo, already seated at the polished conference table, looking just as displeased to see Shoto as Shoto was to see him. Years had passed since their time at U.A., but the air between them still crackled with the same volatile energy, a rivalry that had cooled from a raging fire to smoldering embers but had never fully extinguished.

Bakugo’s hero costume was off, but even in civilian clothes—a tight black t-shirt that strained across his shoulders and dark cargo pants—he looked like a barely contained explosion. He didn’t acknowledge Shoto’s arrival beyond a sharp, irritated glance from his crimson eyes. Shoto took the seat opposite him, his own posture a study in practiced calm that he did not feel.

Their agency handler, a stern woman named Kenjaku, didn’t waste time with pleasantries. She activated the holographic display in the center of the table, and schematics of a high-end residential tower filled the space between them. “The Hassaikai’s remnants have rebranded,” she began, her tone all business. “We have credible intel they’re developing and distributing a new variant of a quirk-enhancing drug from a penthouse laboratory in this building. Security is biometric, paranoid, and absolute. We can’t get in. You will.”

Shoto absorbed the information, his mind already cataloging tactical approaches. An infiltration mission. Difficult, but standard. He glanced at Bakugo, who was leaning forward now, his scowl deepening with intense focus. This, they could do. They were professionals.

“The organization is insular,” Kenjaku continued, swiping the display to show two fabricated profiles. “They only deal with the ultra-wealthy, the kind of people who can buy their way into silent partnerships. Your cover is a newly engaged couple, heirs to competing tech fortunes, looking to invest in a… discreet enterprise.”

The room went utterly silent. Shoto’s brain simply stopped working for a full second. He stared at the profiles—his own face next to Bakugo’s, smiling softly in a doctored photo—and felt a cold dread wash over him that had nothing to do with his quirk. Engaged. To Bakugo. The thought was so absurd, so fundamentally wrong, that he couldn’t process it.

He chanced a look across the table. Bakugo’s face had gone slack with disbelief, his red eyes wide. Then, as the reality of the words sank in, his expression curdled into pure rage.

“Absolutely not,” Bakugo snarled, the words low and dangerous. He shot to his feet, his palms slamming down on the table with a deafening bang that made the holographic display flicker. Tiny, furious sparks danced across his knuckles. “Are you out of your goddamn minds? Me? And him? No. Fucking. Way. Find someone else.”

“There is no one else,” Kenjaku stated, unmoved by the outburst. “Your public personas are perfect. Both highly successful, but intensely private. There’s no established romantic history for the media to pick apart. You’re both powerful enough to be believable as high-value investors. It’s the only way in, Bakugo.”

“I don’t give a shit! I’m not playing house with Icy-Hot!”

Shoto remained seated, his hands resting on his knees. He had to consciously stop his right side from frosting the metal legs of his chair. He forced himself to analyze the mission parameters, to push aside the suffocating image of sharing a home, a life, a bed with the man currently radiating enough fury to level the building. The logic was sound. Annoyingly, infuriatingly sound. But the prospect of that much proximity, of forced intimacy with the one person who had always unsettled him on a primal level, made his stomach clench.

“I’ll do it,” Shoto said, his voice even. The words felt foreign in his own mouth.

Bakugo whipped his head around to stare at him, his face a mask of incandescent fury and utter betrayal. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s the most logical path to mission success,” Shoto stated, meeting that furious gaze without flinching, even as his heart hammered against his ribs. He was reeling, but he would not let it show. He would not give Bakugo the satisfaction.

Bakugo’s overruled objections echoed in the tense silence of the ride over. The safe house was a luxury apartment on the twenty-seventh floor of a nondescript high-rise, all clean lines, minimalist furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a sterile, impersonal view of the city. It was also suffocatingly small. A combined living and kitchen area flowed directly into the single, unavoidable bedroom. And in that bedroom was a single, king-sized bed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bakugo bit out, dropping his duffel bag on the floor with a heavy thud. He stalked into the bedroom and stared at the bed as if it had personally offended him. “One bed. One. What the hell are we supposed to do with that?”

“The mission requires us to maintain our cover at all times,” Shoto said, his own voice tight. He followed Bakugo into the room, the space immediately shrinking with both of them in it. “Presumably, an engaged couple would share a bed.”

“I’m not sleeping next to you.” The statement was flat, absolute.

“I am not particularly enthusiastic about the arrangement either,” Shoto replied, a cool edge to his tone. “But it’s strategically necessary.”

“Fuck strategy.” Bakugo jabbed a finger toward the bed. “I’ll take the couch.”

“The couch doesn’t fold out. And one of us sleeping on it would be an immediate red flag if they have surveillance in the building, which we have to assume they do.” Shoto’s logic was a shield, but it felt thin. The thought of lying next to Bakugo, of feeling the heat radiate from his body in the dark, sent a jolt of something unwelcome and sharp through him.

The argument that followed was low and vicious, a battle of wills fought in harsh whispers. It ended, as most things with them did, in a tense, unsatisfactory stalemate. They would divide the bed down the middle, a barrier of pillows forming a pathetic little wall between them.

Later, after a silent and methodical unpacking, Shoto attempted to salvage some semblance of professionalism. “We need rules,” he said, standing by the kitchen island while Bakugo scowled from the living room. “Inside the apartment, we maintain professional distance. No unnecessary physical contact.”

“Glad we agree on something,” Bakugo grunted, not looking at him.

The bathroom door clicked shut a moment later, and Shoto heard the shower turn on. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the sound of running water temporarily muffling the oppressive tension. He busied himself reviewing the digital files for their cover identities, trying to focus. But his senses were on high alert, every nerve ending aware of the other man’s presence just a few feet away.

The water shut off. The silence that followed was worse. When the bathroom door opened, Shoto didn’t look up from his datapad, determined to uphold the rule they had just established. But his eyes were drawn against his will as Bakugo walked past him toward the bedroom.

He was shirtless, a towel slung low around his hips. Water droplets traced paths down the sharp planes of his chest, catching in the defined ridges of his abdomen. His shoulders and back were a roadmap of lean, powerful muscle, honed by years of relentless combat, marked with the faint, silvery lines of old scars. Shoto’s gaze snagged on the taut skin of his obliques, the way the muscles shifted as he moved. A dry heat bloomed in Shoto’s throat. He snapped his eyes back to his screen, but the image was burned into his mind. His face felt hot, and he had to consciously force the temperature of his left hand down before the datapad’s case began to warm. He heard Bakugo rummaging in his bag and then a soft curse.

“Did you see where I put my black shirt?” Bakugo asked, his voice rough.

Shoto swallowed, his own voice coming out stiff. “No.” He kept his eyes locked on the screen, feeling the weight of Bakugo’s stare on him, and knew, with a sinking certainty, that their flimsy rules were never going to be enough.

The next day was spent in a private, obscenely expensive department store that catered to the city’s elite. The air smelled of money and imported perfume. Bakugo radiated misery, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he stalked behind Shoto and the personal shopper, his expression a thunderous warning to anyone who made eye contact. He hated the quiet reverence of the place, the fawning assistants, the sheer, pointless stillness of it all.

“And this one, Todoroki-sama,” the shopper chirped, holding up a cashmere sweater that cost more than Shoto’s monthly rent. “The color would be stunning on your fiancé.”

Bakugo made a noise in the back of his throat like a cornered animal. Shoto felt the explosive energy rolling off him in waves and placed a placating hand on his arm, a gesture meant for their audience. “Thank you, we’ll consider it.”

Bakugo’s arm went rigid under his touch, the muscle jumping as if shocked. He shot Shoto a venomous look, but didn't pull away. The contact was brief, purely for show, but Shoto could feel the heat of Bakugo’s skin through his own sleeve, a stark contrast to the store’s placid chill.

An hour later, Shoto stood in a spacious dressing room, the door left slightly ajar. He was wearing a charcoal-grey suit tailored so perfectly it felt like a second skin. It pulled taut across his shoulders and tapered at his waist, the fine wool doing little to hide the athletic build beneath. He adjusted the collar, his movements stiff as he stared at his reflection in the three-way mirror. He looked like a stranger—a wealthy, confident man about to marry his rival. The absurdity of it was a physical weight.

Outside, the personal shopper was trying to engage Bakugo, who was leaning against a display case, looking bored and murderous. “Now, for the tie,” she said brightly, holding up two silk options. “A classic silver, or perhaps this lovely navy?”

Shoto watched Bakugo’s reflection in the mirror. He saw the crimson eyes flick dismissively toward the ties, then drift toward the gap in the dressing room door, catching a glimpse of Shoto inside. A muscle in Bakugo’s jaw ticked.

“Tch. No,” Bakugo muttered, his voice a low growl that was clearly not intended for the shopper, but for himself. “The color needs to be darker. Something that won’t wash out his eyes.”

The words, rough and unplanned, carried into the silence of the dressing room. Shoto froze, his hands stilling on the crisp collar of the shirt. It wasn’t the criticism that struck him, but the observation behind it. Bakugo hadn’t just looked at him; he had seen him. He’d noticed the subtle duality of his eyes and had a concrete opinion on what would complement them. It was a detail so personal, so unexpectedly perceptive, that it felt more intimate than the hand on his arm.

A wave of heat washed over Shoto’s neck and climbed into his face. For a dizzying moment, his meticulous control over his own body faltered. He watched, helpless, as a delicate, crystalline web of frost spread silently across the surface of the mirror in front of him, obscuring his own shocked expression. The cold leeched into the air. He stared at the impossible ice, his heart hammering against his ribs. He quickly pressed his right palm flat against the glass, the frost vanishing into a slick of condensation under his touch. He took a shaky breath, forcing the chill back down, his composure fractured. On the other side of the door, Bakugo had no idea he’d just landed a more effective blow than any explosion.