If someone asked Bakugo why he loved you, his response would be immediate—harsh, clipped, and just a little defensive.

“None of your damn business,” he’d snap, scowling. Or maybe, “Dunno. Idiot just wouldn’t leave me alone.”

That was his usual answer, something that made it seem like he barely tolerated you, like you had annoyed him into being with you. And sure, maybe at first, he had found you irritating—too stubborn, too relentless, too damn comfortable in his space. But somehow, in all your persistence, you’d wormed your way into his life, settled in like you belonged there.

Not that he’d ever admit it out loud.

But deep down, he knew. He knew in the way his eyes always found you in a crowded room. In the way he noticed the stupid little things you did—the things no one else paid attention to.

Like how, when you spilled a drop of your drink on the floor, you wouldn’t bother getting a napkin. No, you’d just drag your sock over it like some kind of gremlin, thinking it solved the problem. It drove him crazy.

Or how you always handed him the last sip of your drink or the last bite of food—not out of kindness, but because it meant he had to deal with the empty cup or wrapper. You did it every damn time, like clockwork. And every damn time, he took it, grumbling under his breath, but never actually refusing.

Then there was the way you talked to animals like they were people, even the random strays on the street. Or how you always flipped the pillow over to the cold side with That satisfied little sigh.

And god, the way you laughed—loud, unrestrained, It made him feel like the world wasn’t as heavy as it usually was.

Yeah. He loved you.

Not that he’d ever say it like that.

But if you ever asked, if you ever looked at him with that teasing glint in your eye and asked why he put up with you, why he chose you—

He’d scoff, roll his eyes, and mutter something like, “Dumbass. You’re lucky I do.”

And maybe, just maybe, if you listened closely enough, you’d hear what he really meant.