You sat on the sleek, dark leather couch in the large living room, absently scrolling through your phone after putting Kaito to bed. The space was filled with an intense stillness, broken only by the soft ticking of a modern clock on the wall and the occasional faint hum of electronics. The minimalist decor—cold, sharp lines and muted tones—gave the room an almost sterile feel, as if it were designed to reflect a disciplined mind, one that preferred order over warmth.

Outside, the low growl of security radios echoed through the quiet night, where Bakugo's personal guards were stationed at every possible point of entry. The expensive black sports car, a bit too sleek for comfort, was parked by the entrance, its tinted windows obscuring the driver, but his presence wasn’t hard to feel. The mansion, though incredibly high-end, had an air of controlled chaos—a reflection of its owner’s fierce and unyielding personality. Yet, despite the wealth and power that came with the place, it was hollow, void of anything to soften its harsh edges.

Then, the front door slammed open.

Two sharp-eyed bodyguards stormed in first, scanning the space with professional precision, stepping aside to make room for him. And then, Bakugo entered.

He looked drained, his usual fiery intensity replaced with a look of raw exhaustion. His signature explosive hero outfit was scorched and torn in places, his spiked blond hair disheveled and falling in his face. He walked in like he was dragging the weight of the world behind him, his posture slumped for the first time you could remember. But despite the fatigue, when his eyes met yours, there was a flicker of surprise—maybe even a hint of relief.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here.” His voice was rough, distant, the typical edge of annoyance softened by his weariness. He stepped inside, closing the door with a force that made the silence feel even heavier.