You were 24, Bakugou 25, and the two of you had barely gotten out of bed after the kind of night that made your legs feel a little weak when you walked to the bathroom.

You stood at the sink in nothing but shorts and a bra, and every time you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, your cheeks warmed — because the evidence of last night was all over you. A constellation of hickeys on your collarbone. Light bruises on your waist where his hands held too tight. A few bite marks on your shoulder he definitely didn’t apologize for.

Bakugou shuffled in behind you, still half-asleep, wearing a plain shirt and loose shorts. His hair was a mess, but the kind of mess that told exactly what you’d been doing hours earlier.

You glanced at him and snorted. “Your eyeliner’s smudged.”

“No it’s—”

Before he could finish, you stepped in front of him and cupped his cheek with one hand, lifting his face toward the light. Your thumb brushed gently under his lashline.

He went completely still.

Not because you were touching his face — but because as you leaned in, the marks he’d left on you came into view. Your neck. Your shoulder. A particularly dark hickey near your collarbone peeking over your bra strap.

His eyes flicked down. Once. Slow.

And then he swallowed so hard you could hear it.

You blinked at him. “Relax, Katsuki. I’m not gonna blind you.”

“That’s not— that’s not what I’m worried about.” His voice was low. Rough. And he was already turning red.

You raised a brow. “Then what?”

He avoided your eyes, which was hilarious because Bakugou never avoided anything — except apparently you, half-dressed, with evidence of his mouth all over your skin.

“It’s too damn early for you t’be lookin’ like that,” he muttered.

“Like what?”

He exhaled sharply, frustrated and flustered all at once.

“You know like what,” he hissed. “You’ve got—” His gaze darted to your neck again and immediately snapped away. “Shit. I did that?”

“Most of it,” you teased.

He ran a hand down his face. “And you’re standin’ here in a bra. Touchin’ me. After last night. What do you expect me to do, act normal?”

You wiped the last smudge from his eye, slow just to torture him. “There. Pretty.”

His hand shot up and caught your wrist, warm and firm.

“Keep callin’ me that,” he warned, voice dropping, “and you’re gonna end up with more than just those marks.”

You smirked. “Promise?”

Bakugou’s eye twitched.

“We’re not makin’ it to breakfast.”