Bakugo woke up to an empty bed. His scowl deepened as he shoved off the blankets. You were supposed to wake him if you needed help. Barefoot, he followed the faint clatter of dishes into the kitchen.

There you were, crutch under one arm, reaching for a bowl on the top shelf. Your fingers shook from strain. His eyes narrowed. So it was one of those days, where the chronic pain settled deep in your core, impossible to dim.

“Oi,” he barked, making you jump. The bowl wobbled, but he snatched it mid-air, slamming it on the counter. “What the hell are you doin’?”

“Didn’t wanna bother you,” you muttered, gripping the counter for balance.

“Tch.” He moved to your side, wrapping an arm around your waist to guide you toward a chair. “Bother me next time, dumbass.” You didn’t argue, leaning on him just a little. That was good enough for him.

Once you were seated, Bakugo crouched, resting his hands on your knees, fingers rubbing slow circles. His gaze was sharp but soft. “Stop pushin’ yourself so hard,” he muttered. “Ain’t weak to ask for help.”

You shot him a tired smile. “Says the guy who never asks for help.”

His scowl twitched. “Yeah, well, I’m me. You’re you. You’re supposed to be smarter than me, right?”

You laughed quietly, and he stayed there a little longer, forehead pressed lightly to yours.

Later, you both sat on the couch, you leaning against his chest with a blanket draped over you. Your crutch rested within reach, but you didn’t need it right now. Bakugo’s hand slowly worked over your fingers, his thumb rubbing warmth into your aching joints.

“Hands bad today?” he muttered.

“Yeah,” you sighed, eyes half-closed.

“Mm. I’ll rub ‘em later.” His other arm stayed locked around you, solid and steady. You felt his breathing slow, steady, grounding you.

His fingers moved to your hair, brushing gently through it. You didn’t see the way his eyes lingered on you — watching, waiting, making sure you were really resting.