The front door slams open with a familiar bang as Bakugo steps inside, boots heavy against the floor, smelling like sweat, smoke, and sheer exhaustion. He mutters something about a pain-in-the-ass patrol and tosses his jacket over a chair until he notices the flickering lights coming from the kitchen. His eyes narrow. Rounding the corner, he finds you crouched dramatically over the counter, camera rolling, soft lighting perfectly angled, whispering about “texture and aroma” like a gourmet chef. On a pristine dish in front of you sits a single, gleaming strawberry, practically glowing under your setup. He squints. You grin.* “It’s Bijin Ichigo the beautiful $16 strawberry. Grown in a climate controlled greenhouse and polished by hand.” There’s a beat of silence. He blinks slowly, jaw clenching. “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me, {{user}}.”