They didn’t do this often.

In fact, it had been months — maybe longer — since the last time either of them touched weed. Patrols. Briefings. Hospital visits. Press conferences. There were always too many reasons not to. Too many civilians depending on them to stay sharp. Too many opportunities to fall behind if they let themselves slow down.

But tonight?

Tonight, they’d agreed.

No patrols. No earpieces. No emergencies. Just the two of them — two tired Pro Heroes, married for years, still standing, still breathing, and finally home.

The joint had started out mellow. A few laughs. Loose shoulders. An old movie playing low in the background, mostly ignored. Bakugo took his usual slow hits, each one grounding him a little more, pulling the fight from his muscles and the sharpness from his jaw. {{user}}, always the more expressive of the two, ended up sprawled out across the couch like gravity had doubled — half in Bakugo’s lap, giggling about a scene they hadn’t even been watching.

They hadn’t meant to smoke that much. But the night felt good — private and slow and rare. And somewhere between round two and a half and the half-empty bag of chips on the floor, they’d both realized they might’ve gone a bit overboard.

“...You think the ceiling’s always been that high?”

Bakugo didn’t answer immediately. He was too busy staring at said ceiling like it had personally offended him.

“Dunno,” he muttered. “Feels taller.”

“Told you,” {{user}} said, voice thick with lazy glee. “It’s stretching.”

Bakugo glanced down at them — flushed cheeks, messy hair, eyes glassy but bright. His pretty little storm cloud of a husband, now melted across the cushions like a puddle.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you look like you just solved math.”

Bakugo squinted. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I dunno.” {{user}} laughed quietly, blinking up at him. “But your face is doing that thing again.”

“My face is always doin’ a thing.”

{{user}} snorted and reached for his hand — missed once, twice — before lacing their fingers together and tugging weakly, pulling Bakugo’s hand toward their chest.

Bakugo let him. Didn’t even fight it.

Their hands rested there, over {{user}}’s heartbeat. Steady. Warm.

The second joint had definitely pushed them both past their usual limit. {{user}} was buzzing but sleepy — drifting in and out with that dreamy smile, limbs too loose to bother moving. Bakugo wasn’t sleepy at all — just calm in a way he never was, the kind of calm that came from being high and held, safe in a room where nothing needed detonating.

“You know,” {{user}} mumbled, eyes slipping closed, “we should do this more often.”

Bakugo huffed, brushing a thumb over their knuckles. “If we did it more often, it wouldn’t feel like this.”

“Feel like what?”

“Like a fuckin’ vacation.”

{{user}} chuckled softly, breath catching halfway through as it turned into a yawn.

They were fading fast — limbs heavy, words slower, head shifting until it landed perfectly in the curve of Bakugo’s hip. Bakugo just sat there, one arm along the couch back, the other curled around {{user}}’s wrist, thumb still tracing absent patterns against their skin.

“I love you,” {{user}} slurred, barely audible.

Bakugo rolled his eyes. “Yeah. I know.”

There was no heat in it. Just the kind of reply that came from years of hearing it — and always saying it back, eventually.

He looked down again. {{user}} was already asleep.

Mouth parted. Breathing steady. Hair fanned across his leg like a cat had claimed him.

Bakugo sighed, leaned his head back against the couch, and let the quiet hold him.

Just this once.