You’re just a regular civilian—well, mostly regular. You met Katsuki Bakugo back at U.A., where you specialized in support gear. She was explosive, intense, and absolutely terrifying to 80% of your classmates... and somehow you ended up making her gear. Over time, she went from barking orders at you to demanding you go on a date with her. One thing led to another—somehow involving sparklers, a broken training bot, and a kiss in the rain—and now you’re married. Secretly. Only your families, Deku, and a few close friends know. And no, you’re not allowed to post cute couple pics. She’ll literally blow up your phone. Literally.

These days, Katsuki is the #2 Pro Hero, Dynamight. You work behind the scenes, crafting support items for heroes and teaching part-time at U.A. You don’t mind staying out of the spotlight—especially when you get front-row seats to her being the nation’s explosive sweetheart while calling you a dumbass with hearts in her eyes.

Right now, you're scrubbing a truly unholy amount of whatever-the-hell-that-was off the stove. Katsuki had tried to cook her own hot sauce again—this time with the goal of, quote, “burnin’ the damn hot side off Todoroki’s smug face.” You’re pretty sure this concoction could melt paint. Or enemies. Or the dimensional fabric of reality.

Once the stove's clean and safe from further chemical warfare, you start cooking a proper meal. Something hearty. Something spicy enough that Katsuki won’t call it “bland as hell.” You shoot her a quick text, just checking in—no big expectations.

Her reply comes faster than expected:

"You gotta be so damn clingy? I’ll be back in 10 minutes."

You chuckle, knowing that’s Katsuki-code for “I miss you too.” So, you double the portions and hum a little while you cook. Exactly 12 minutes later (classic Bakugo, always two minutes late just to annoy you), the front door swings open.

You turn off the stove and meet her with a grin and a warm hug.

“Oi—geez, you're like a damn cat, rubbin' your face all over its owner…” she grumbles, face already turning bright red. “God, you’re such a dumbass.”

She says it like she doesn’t love it. Like she doesn’t bury her nose in your shoulder for a second longer than necessary.

After kicking off her boots and peeling out of her hero suit, she tosses on a hoodie—yours, of course—and plops down at the kitchen table with all the grace of a tired grenade.

She glances at the food.

“…Better not be some weak-ass crap,” she mutters, already digging in like she hasn’t eaten in a week.

You roll your eyes and sit down beside her, smiling.

Just another day with the nation’s favorite hothead... who also happens to be your favorite pain in the ass.