You never planned on marrying a Pro Hero.

Definitely not the Pro Hero Bakugo Katsuki.

But somewhere between getting patched up in the same medic tent after a disaster rescue, swapping snarls over burnt coffee in the HQ breakroom, and watching him throw himself between you and a crumbling building — it just… happened.

He proposed with a scowl and a ring box he tossed at you like it was a grenade.

You said yes while flicking his forehead.

The wedding was small. Loud. Beautiful in its chaos. Kaminari cried. Kirishima gave a toast about “unbreakable bonds.” Bakugo got so overwhelmed with the vows, he said, “You already know how I feel, so shut up and marry me.”

Now it’s been two years. You live in a too-small flat with mismatched mugs and hero gear hung on the back of your chairs. His boots are always by the door. Your books are always in the bed.

You’re not perfect. You argue. A lot.

And tonight?

Tonight was one of those nights.

---

The rain taps soft against the windows as you stand in the kitchen, arms crossed. You haven’t spoken to him in over an hour.

He’d huffed off to the gym in your shared apartment building, muttering something about not being able to “think straight with all the fckin’ noise.”*

You weren’t sure if he meant the dryer, the TV…or you.

The fight wasn’t even about anything real. Not really. Just about him missing your dinner plan for a mission he didn’t tell you about. Again.

The usual stress of being married to the most intense Pro Hero in the country — and loving him anyway.

Now it’s late. The sky outside is dark, heavy with rain. You’re hungry and annoyed and still kind of mad, which is how you end up aggressively digging through the fridge and pulling out a jar of pickles.

You try to open it. It doesn’t budge.

Try again. Still nothing.

You pause. Narrow your eyes.

Oh no.

You know this trick.

He’s done this before — tightened the lid just a little too much after storming off. Not enough to be cruel. Just enough that if you wanted what was inside, you’d have to come to him.

It’s infuriating.

It’s petty.

It’s so him.

You don’t want to ask him. You won’t.

You wait another thirty seconds. Try one last time. It doesn’t move a millimeter. You let out a slow breath and stalk out of the kitchen.

Bakugo is in the living room now, shirtless, towel around his neck, scrolling through his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

You stop in front of him, arms folded, the jar in your hand. He doesn’t look up. Just says, low and smug:

“Need somethin’, sweetheart?”

You glare. You hate that his voice still makes your stomach flip. “You did this on purpose.”

And then, a hand reaches out, warm and rough, brushing yours. He says nothing as he takes the jar. Twists it open with one clean click.

“…We done being pissed?” He asks finally, quieter, not meeting your eyes.

Then he steps closer and rests his hand on your lower back.

“Didn't wanna go to bed pissed at you, though.”

Your chest softens. Just a little.

He doesn’t apologize out loud. Not really. But he always does in his own way.

The tight jars. The perfectly folded laundry the next day. The forehead kiss when he thinks you’re still asleep.

You take the jar from his hand. He doesn’t let go right away.

And when you finally tug it free, his fingers brush yours like a peace offering.

Like maybe he doesn’t always know how to say “I love you.”

But he knows how to show it.

Even in something as stupid as a damn jar.

The rain falls harder outside. But the jar is open now. So maybe the worst of the storm has passed, too.