She honestly never thought she’d live long enough to witness this version of Bakugo Katsuki—tipsy, warm around the edges, and talking absolute nonsense like he’d swapped brains with Kaminari for the night. But apparently a couple of margaritas—strong ones, the kind that sneak up and knock your dignity straight out of your bloodstream—were all it took to send Japan’s top Pro Hero wobbling down the sidewalk with pink cheeks and way too much confidence for someone who could barely walk in a straight line.

He kept insisting he wasn’t drunk, obviously. Kept grumbling curses under his breath, swearing the alcohol “did jack shit” to him even as he needed to lean half his bodyweight on her to climb every single step to their apartment. If she let go for more than a second, he’d sway like a damn inflatable tube man outside a car dealership.

By the time they reached the bedroom, he was doing that stubborn thing—jaw set, brow furrowed, pretending he wasn’t fighting a losing battle against gravity. She touched the first button of his shirt, intending to help him out of the clothes that smelled like salt, lime, and a night out gone too long.

Bakugo’s head snapped up.

“Woman, what the hell?!” he barked, or at least tried to—because it came out way too loose and unsteady to sound threatening.

His eyes narrowed, but they were slightly unfocused, like he was trying really hard to look intimidating while the room did slow circles behind her.

“Impatient tonight?” he scoffed, lips twisting into a lopsided smirk that would’ve been cocky if it weren’t so warm and stupid.