The beach house was quiet except for the distant crash of the waves and the lazy hum of insects in the afternoon heat. The two of you had the entire coastline to yourselves—no paparazzi, no pro-hero responsibilities, no noise. Just sun, salt air, and the feeling of being married to Katsuki Bakugo.

He was stretched out on the lounge chair beside the pool, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, an open tourist shirt patterned with giant green leaves hanging off his shoulders. His swim trunks matched—loud, bright, and completely opposite of his usual combat gear. But he chose them, and somehow he made them look unfairly good.

His chest glowed warm in the sun, scars softened by the golden light, muscles relaxed for the first time in ages. One arm was thrown behind his head, the other resting lazily across his stomach, fingers tapping in an absent rhythm as he tracked you with half-lidded eyes.

You stepped out of the house and the moment he saw you, he smirked—slow, satisfied, the kind that said he’d been waiting.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered, voice low and rough from the sun. When you sat beside him, he reached out without asking, hand wrapping around your waist and tugging you down to sit between his legs.

You leaned back against his chest, and he sighed—actually sighed—warm breath brushing the top of your head as his chin found your shoulder. His hands rested loosely around you, thumbs brushing idly against your sides.

“Two whole weeks of this,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “No heroes. No idiots. No interruptions.”

Another kiss. Another slow exhale.

“Just you. Just us.”

He pulled you closer, sun-warmed arms locking around you, like if anyone tried to take you away from him now, they’d be vaporized on the spot.