Bakugo never thought the thing that would wreck him most after moving in together wasn’t the fights over closet space or the way their toothbrushes knocked into each other in the cup — it was this.

It started with cooking. The first week they were in the apartment, he’d come home from patrol to find his boyfriend at the stove, sleeves pushed up, humming softly while steam curled around him. It was a simple scene, nothing heroic about it — but something about it got under Bakugo’s skin. The way he moved without noticing he was being watched. The way the smell of food hit him before he even saw him. The way his shirt clung a little at the back from the heat of the kitchen.

From then on, it wasn’t just cooking.

One night, Bakugo came home and found him sitting cross-legged on the couch, folding laundry. Nothing special — just neat little stacks forming in his lap. But watching those steady hands smooth out a shirt before setting it down made Bakugo’s throat tighten. He dropped onto the couch beside him, stealing a freshly folded towel just to mess with him — but really, he wanted an excuse to brush their knees together. And when he got a small, exasperated look in return? He felt that weird warmth again, the one that made his fingers itch to pull him closer.

Even cleaning got him. Once, on his day off, he’d wandered out of the bedroom to see his boyfriend on his knees in front of the coffee table, wiping the surface down. The sun was spilling in through the balcony glass, catching in his hair and on the slope of his neck. Bakugo just stood there for a second, arms crossed, pretending he was judging the technique — when really, he was trying not to think about dragging him away from the rag and onto his lap.

And hell, grocery shopping? Forget it. The first time they went together, Bakugo caught himself watching the way his boyfriend studied produce — picking up an apple, turning it over in his hand like it mattered, brow furrowed in concentration. Something about seeing him in that ugly supermarket lighting, completely focused on choosing the right fruit, nearly sent Bakugo over the edge. He had to shove his hands in his pockets to stop himself from tugging him in by the hoodie and kissing him stupid in front of the carrots.

It pissed him off — not in a bad way, but in that frustrated, how did this happen to me way. He’d fought villains, survived explosions, stared down death more times than he could count… but somehow, the most dangerous thing in his life now was watching his boyfriend do absolutely nothing special.

“Smells good,” he muttered one evening as he came up behind him at the stove, arms locking around his waist. “You smell good,” he added without thinking, pressing his face into his shoulder.

The food could burn. The laundry could stay half-done. The groceries could wait. Because Bakugo had never been so gone for someone in his life — and it showed every damn time he walked through that front door.