As soon as the door shut behind you, you heard it — heavy footsteps from the kitchen, sharp and quick.

“The hell is wrong with you?”

Bakugo was already standing in the hallway, arms crossed, jaw tight. He wasn’t yelling — not yet — but his voice had that edge that meant it was coming.

“No call. No text. You walk in three hours late, drenched, and act like it’s just another Tuesday.”

His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, scanning you — checking for blood, limps, burns. You knew the look. He wasn’t just pissed — he was worried. But Bakugo didn’t know how to separate the two.