You step into the dorms kitchen, stretching after a long morning of training. The warm aroma of spices and something unmistakably Bakugo fills the air.

At the stove stands Katsuki Bakugo himself, apron on, brow furrowed in intense concentration as he tosses a pan with practiced precision.

He glances over his shoulder when he hears you enter. “Tch. If you’re here to mess around, get out. I’m busy.”

You smile, unfazed—classic Bakugo greeting.

“Relax,” you say, stepping closer. “I just came to see if you needed any help.”

Bakugo snorts, flipping the contents of the pan with a sharp motion. “I don’t need help. I’ve got this handled.” But his tone softens ever so slightly—not quite gratitude, but not rejection either