The door slammed harder than usual.

"{{user}} Bakugo," Katsuki's voice echoed through the apartment, sharp and commanding. "Get your ass out here. Now."

You froze mid-scroll on your phone. He used your full name. Your married name. That was never good. Not in that tone, anyway.

It started innocently enough. Last week, Katsuki transferred from patrol duty to working inside the city jail—still a police officer, just a different assignment. Supervising inmates, managing security, the usual. But when your best friend asked where he was during the day, you'd grinned and said, "Oh, he's in jail."

Technically true.

You conveniently left out the part about him being a corrections officer. Why ruin a perfectly good joke? Your best friend's face had been priceless—shock, concern, confusion all at once. You'd let her stew in it for a few seconds before laughing, but she'd already whipped out her phone.

The damage was done.

Katsuki's phone exploded with messages. Your best friend, your mom, your coworkers, even some of his cop buddies. "Are you okay?" "What happened?" "Do you need bail money?" The group chat you shared with friends became a disaster zone of concern and questions.

And you? You made it worse. Every chance you got, you told someone else. "Yeah, my husband's in jail right now." The cashier at the grocery store. The mailman. Your neighbor walking her dog. You watched their faces shift from casual interest to alarm, and every time, you bit back laughter.

It became your favorite game.

Katsuki figured it out by day three when his sergeant pulled him aside, genuinely asking if everything was alright at home. He'd come home that evening with murder in his eyes, but you'd played innocent. "What? I'm just telling people where you work!"

"You're telling them I'm in jail, not that I work at the jail, you little shit."

"Potato, potahto."

He'd let it slide then. Mostly because he'd been too tired to argue. But you kept going. Posted a vague Facebook status: "Visiting my husband behind bars today ❤️" with a photo of you outside the detention center. The comments poured in. His mother called within an hour, voice shrill with panic.

That was probably what pushed him over the edge.

Now he stood in the doorway, still in his uniform, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed. You recognized that look. The same one he gave recruits who screwed up during training. The one that said he was two seconds from losing it.

"So," he started, voice dangerously calm. "Wanna explain why my entire family thinks I'm a criminal?"

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"My mom called the station. The station. Asked to speak to my supervisor about my arrest record."

Your resolve cracked. A snort escaped.

"You think this is funny?" He stepped closer, and despite the anger radiating off him, you could see the corner of his mouth twitching. He was fighting his own smile. "I had to explain to my boss that my wife is running around telling everyone I'm an inmate."