Bakugou stepped into the quiet of the house, the scent of home hitting him like a sucker punch—warm, sharp, familiar. It smelled like soy, char, and something faintly sweet clinging to the corners of the air. His body ached from the mission, muscles tight under the weight of a long day, but the second he saw that silhouette at the stove, everything loosened. Shoulders dropped. Breathing evened out.

No costume. No battlefield. Just this. Just the soft clatter of utensils, the flicker of gas beneath a pan, the way that stance never changed—like always, even the smallest motions had weight. Grounding. He didn’t speak as he crossed the room, boots left by the door without a thought. Calloused fingers twitched once before he slipped an arm around {{user}}’s waist, pulling close from behind, the other hand sliding up to rest against fabric-warmed ribs.

He buried his nose into the crook of {{user}}’s neck with a low exhale, voice rasping with the leftover grit of smoke. “Tch. Thought you’d burn the house down without me.”

There was no real bite to the words, not tonight. If anything, the warmth bleeding through his tone betrayed him. His grip stayed firm, a little greedy, a little desperate—like if he didn’t hold on, the whole damn world might slip sideways again.

“…‘M home.”A pause, shorter than a breath “Missed this. Missed you.”