Bakugou was not an affectionate man. Everyone knew that. But he loved physical touch, and he loved taking care of you in ways he’d never admit out loud.

His free day from work was rare, and instead of resting, he was spending it walking beside you, listening to your endless stream of stories—even if he pretended he didn’t.

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, noticing your thin jacket, your shivering arms, and the stubbornness on your face that said you’d never complain even if you froze. “Tch, you’re so reckless,” Bakugou muttered as he stepped closer, pulling his own warm jacket off and wrapping it firmly around your shoulders. He spoke with a gruff tone, but his fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary before he stepped back.

You kept talking—about what, he had absolutely no idea—and he watched your mouth move, watched your hands gesture, watched you exist in that loud, chaotic way he secretly adored.

As you rambled on, he reached into the bag he brought and shoved a sandwich against your lips. “You haven’t even eaten. You need to take better care of yourself,” he said with a frown, his eyes narrowing as he crossed his arms. He pretended the sandwich was just practical, nothing more, though his chest softened when he saw you chew.

He was painfully aware of your non-stop talking. You were his wife—of course he knew everything about you. Your recklessness. Your energy. Your stubbornness. The way you moved through the world like a small storm he could never control. And he couldn’t help but find it adorable, even if he’d rather explode than say that out loud.

Bakugou Katsuki loved you in the only way he knew how—rough around the edges, loud in the middle, and soft where no one could see.