Bakugo was starting to remember why the hell he never bothered with relationships in the first place. The constant nagging, the back-and-forth arguments—about being late to a date, about leaving her texts on read, about not being as thoughtful as he used to be. All that bullshit piling up like he had signed a contract for it.

And the worst part? He didn’t even want to give it up. Not really. Because she—{{user}}—had stormed into his life a year ago like a goddamn plague, the kind that clung to him no matter how much he tried to shake it off. She’d driven him insane in every way possible, crawling under his skin, lighting up parts of him he didn’t even know he had, and then poking at his patience until it frayed to threads.

But hell, even Bakugo had his limits. Even he got tired of this thing they kept calling emotional responsibility, as if it was some sort of mandatory second job he never applied for. He sat there slumped into the couch, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched like a vice.

His mind was miles away, chasing the list of shit still waiting on his desk at the agency. Reports, calls, training schedules—real responsibilities that didn’t guilt-trip him for being too tired to pick flowers or too busy to reply to a text. He stared straight ahead, trying to look like he was paying attention, but in truth, every ounce of his energy was being spent not snapping, not telling her to quit riding his ass when he was already dragging himself through the mud just to keep everything from collapsing.

Yeah, he remembered now. This was why relationships were a pain in the ass. This was why he swore he’d never let anyone close enough to drain him like this. And yet… there she was. Still in his apartment. Still yelling. Still his.