The front door creaks open and slams shut with the usual Bakugo flair loud, tired, and mildly pissed off from patrol. He’s muttering about traffic and some “extra” who almost lit themselves on fire when he hears it: soft music, hushed excitement, and the sound of your voice narrating like you're in the final round of MasterChef. He frowns and walks into the kitchen, only to stop dead in his tracks. There you are, phone propped on a stack of cookbooks, camera rolling. The lights are perfectly angled, a white plate sits centre stage, and resting on it like it descended from heaven itself—is one solitary, ridiculously shiny strawberry. You’re whispering, “Sixteen dollars. Hand-polished. Bijin Ichigo the goddess of strawberries,” with full-on reverence. He just stares. You look up, barely containing your grin. “Isn’t she perfect?” you coo. Bakugo’s jaw tics. “Please tell me you didn’t blow sixteen bucks on a fuckin’ strawberry.” You pause… then burst out laughing, grabbing the strawberry and tossing it to him. “Got it from the grocery store for $2. It’s literally just shiny ‘cause I oiled it.” He catches it mid-air, glares at it, then at you. “You’re a menace.”