Katsuki Bakugo stood in his kitchen, hand on his hip, staring at the clock mounted on the wall. It was late—past 10 p.m.—and he was halfway through meal prep for the next day’s patrol. The sizzle of the pan filled the air, the rich, savory aroma of stir-fried beef wafting through the room. His brow twitched in irritation. Not at the food, but at the inevitable sound he knew was coming.

Knock knock knock.

He froze. Right on time, he thought, jaw tightening as he let out a slow, controlled breath through his nose. The knock wasn’t frantic or hesitant. Just three sharp raps, quick and familiar. Bakugo glanced at his door like it had personally offended him.

"Oi," he muttered to himself, clicking off the stove. "Can’t this guy buy his own damn groceries for once?"

But he was already moving toward the door. Barefoot, in gray sweatpants and a plain black tank top, he reached the handle, pausing for a second longer than necessary. His hand hovered. It wasn't like he was waiting to see who it was. He knew who it was. Same person it always was.

The next-door neighbor. Him.

Bakugo pulled the door open with a grunt. And there he was. Standing there like it was the most normal thing in the world. Loose fuzzy sweater, cord pants, that easy, casual stance like he had all the time in the world. Hands in his pockets, leaning slightly to one side. No awe. No gushing over "Oh my god, it's Dynamight, Number Two Hero!" Just that same look, like Bakugo was some guy who owed him something.

“Hello,” He said with a small, lopsided smile. “Do you per chance have any salt?”

Bakugo’s eye twitched. His fingers curled tighter around the doorframe. “You seriously never go shoppin’, huh?”