Katsuki Bakugo had one weakness in this world, and that weakness was sitting across from him on the couch right now, arms crossed and bottom lip jutted out in the most ridiculous pout he'd ever seen.

You.

His wife. The only person who could make him do absolutely anything. The only person he couldn't say no to, ever. And you knew it. You wielded that power over him like a weapon, and honestly, he didn't even care most of the time.

Most of the time.

But this? This was different.

"No," he said firmly, crossing his arms to mirror your stance. "We aren't getting a cat."

Your eyes went wide, scandalized, like he'd just told you the sky wasn't blue. This was new. He never said no to you. In three years of marriage, he'd bought you everything you wanted, took you everywhere you asked, did every stupid couple thing you suggested even when it made him want to combust.

But a cat? Hell no.

"You don't love me," you said, voice going soft and wounded.

Here we go, he thought. He knew this routine. You'd perfected it over the years—the whiny, pouty tantrum that usually ended with him caving. But not today. He was standing his ground.

"Yes, I do," he replied, keeping his voice steady.

"You don't want to see me happy."

"Yes, I do."

"You hate the idea of us having a little family."

"No, I don't."

"You think I ask for too much."

"No, I don't."

Back and forth it went, your accusations getting more dramatic, his responses automatic. He'd learned to handle these tantrums perfectly by now. Stay calm, keep answering, wait for you to run out of steam.

"You want me to be sad forever," you tried.

"No, I don't."

"You don't care about my dreams."

"Yes, I do."

"You probably don't even think I'd be a good cat mom."

"Yes, I— No, that's not—"

"You don't want a cat!"

You turned to face him fully, pulling out the big guns. Your eyes got glossier, your lip trembled just slightly. "You don't want a cat."

He was tired. You could see it in the way his shoulders sagged. He'd been up early for patrol, dealt with three villain attacks, and came home to his spouse staging a full-scale emotional warfare campaign over a hypothetical pet. He was running on autopilot now.

"Yes, I do."

Your head shot up so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. A grin spread across your face like sunrise breaking over a mountain. "Really?"

Katsuki froze. His brain caught up to his mouth about three seconds too late. His eyes widened. "Wait—"

"You said you want a cat! You said it! No take-backs!" You were practically vibrating with joy, already pulling out your phone to look at adoption websites.

Katsuki stared at you, watching you scroll through photos of kittens with the kind of pure happiness that made his chest feel weird and tight. You looked so damn excited, showing him a tiny orange tabby, then a black one with white paws, then a grey one with huge eyes.

He could say no. He could put his foot down, explain that he'd answered on autopilot, that he didn't actually want a cat shedding everywhere and knocking shit off counters. But then you looked up at him with those bright eyes, and he knew he'd lost before the battle even started.

He'd always lose to you.

"Fine," he muttered, pulling you into his chest so you wouldn't see how his lips twitched into an almost-smile. "But I'm naming it."

You squealed and kissed him so hard you both nearly fell over.