Katsuki Bakugo didn’t want to do the damn Calvin Klein ad.

He fought his management on it for a week—loudly, with many choice words and a few half-exploded staplers—but in the end, they won. Something about “modern branding” and “broadening public appeal”. He hated every part of the pitch, but he showed up anyway, grumbling, his jaw clenched, muscles flexed, scowl permanently etched on his face.

They ate it up.

Of course they did. A few broody poses, low-hung jeans, and that stupid white tank top later, and the internet lost its collective mind. The ad went live the next morning, and by noon, he was trending—with way too many thirsty tweets for Bakugo’s comfort.

But none of that got to him. Not the attention. Not the stares. Not even the journalists calling it “the explosive thirst trap of the pro hero world.”

What did get to him?

The look on his boyfriend’s face.

He came home to find the guy sitting on their couch, arms crossed, lips pushed into a pout that was equal parts annoyed and adorable. The Calvin Klein ad was paused on the TV, showing Bakugo mid-turn.

Bakugo stood in the doorway, dropping his bag and raising a brow. “You mad at me or the jeans?”

His boyfriend didn’t answer. Just squinted at the screen, then back at Bakugo in a silent judging sort of way.

Bakugo snorted, walking over and dropping onto the couch beside him, legs spread out like he owned the whole damn room—which, to be fair, he kind of did. “What?” he asked, feigning innocence. “You don’t like it?”

“I do,” his boyfriend muttered. “Apparently so does half the population.”

“Jealous?” Bakugo teased, his lips twitching into a smug grin.

His boyfriend glanced at him with a look that was all fire and zero words. He could handle villains, disasters, and PR campaigns—but that look? That look melted him.

Bakugo leaned in, pressing a warm kiss just below his jaw, where he knew the skin was sensitive. “Let ’em look,” he murmured. “You’re the only one who gets the real thing.”