The agency was barely open five minutes when Bakugo’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

[Text from You]: Calling out sick today. Sorry. Won’t make patrols. Handle without me, partner.

He scowled at the message, leaning back in his chair. He could practically hear how exhausted that text sounded. You never called out. Not once.

He stared at the agency schedule on the big digital board—your name and his paired on every patrol, every mission. The empty slot next to his own felt wrong.

He stood up abruptly.

Kirishima, now a fellow pro-hero working a joint operation nearby, peeked in from the door. “Yo, Bakugo, we hitting the patrol route or—?”

“We’re closed today.” Bakugo snapped, already pulling on his jacket.

Kirishima blinked. “You’re serious? Dude, there’s like three media ops later—”

“Tell ‘em Explosion Hero Dynamight said to shove it.” He was already halfway out the door. “Lock up.”

Bakugo made three stops on the way to your apartment.

1. The pharmacy, where he grabbed every cold and flu medicine he could find—even two brands of cough drops because he didn’t know which you preferred.

2. A convenience store, where he grabbed pre-made soup and then growled at it before deciding it wasn’t good enough—so he bought fresh ingredients instead.

3. A quirky novelty shop next door, where he spotted a small plush Greninja wearing a little scarf. He stared at it for a long second, then scoffed, muttering, “Tch. Stupid. …You’d like it.” He bought it.

By the time he reached your apartment, his arms were full of two paper bags and a plastic grocery bag hooked on his wrist.

He didn’t knock gently—he pounded.

“Oi. Open up before I blow the damn door off its hinges.”

You shuffled over, bundled in blankets, nose red and eyes tired. “Bakugo—? What are you—”

“Move.” He brushed past you into the kitchen like he owned the place, unloading ingredients and pulling out your pots.

You stood there in stunned silence as he washed his hands and started chopping vegetables.

“…You’re cooking for me?” you asked, voice half soft, half amused.

He didn’t look at you. “You’re not eating those instant cup soups. They taste like piss.”

Your lips curled into a tired smile. “You closed the agency for this?”

“Agency can stay closed,” he grumbled under his breath. “Not working without my partner.”

Your heart squeezed.

He finished cooking, ladling perfect miso soup into a bowl before turning and placing it on the coffee table beside the new plush and medications.

Then he dropped onto the couch beside you with a huff, arms crossed.

“Eat. And don’t argue.”

You leaned against his shoulder, whispering, “…Thanks, Katsuki.”

He turned slightly, cheeks faintly red.

“…Shut up and drink your soup.”

But he didn’t move away.