The first three months had been survivable. Not soft, not gentle—just survivable.

Loving Katsuki Bakugo was like living beside a controlled demolition. You knew the blast would come, but you trusted the engineers. In the beginning, he’d tried to be careful. His temper still sparked and hissed, but it was directed outward—at traffic, at broken appliances, at the unfair curve of the world. You stood beside him like someone watching fireworks: close enough to feel the heat, far enough not to burn.

He was rough-edged affection. A hand on the small of your back that felt more like a claim than comfort. A muttered, “Text me when you get there,” disguised as a command. His care came wrapped in barbed wire, but it was care.

Then something shifted.

He matured everywhere else.

Professors praised his restraint in simulations. Civilians whispered about how much calmer he seemed on patrol. He learned to pause before detonating, to measure the radius of his anger like a seasoned strategist. His explosions became precise, contained—beautiful, even.

But at home, the walls were thinner.

It wasn’t that he meant to be cruel. It was that he never learned how to set down the weight he carried outside. Irritation clung to him like sweat after training, and if you happened to brush against him at the wrong moment—if you asked a question while his jaw was tight, if you laughed too loud when his head was already ringing—he snapped.

Not always. Not every day. That was the worst part.

There were nights he’d sit beside you on the couch, shoulders warm and solid, quietly scrolling while your legs rested over his. He’d hum under his breath, a low vibration against your calf. Calm. Present. Almost tender.

And then there were mornings where a misplaced mug became an accusation. Where your silence felt like defiance. Where his voice cracked like thunder over something so small it barely deserved a ripple.

You’d stand there, stunned—not because he was angry, but because he was better than this. You had seen it. Everyone had.

Sometimes you’d say, softly, “You don’t talk to other people like that.”

He’d flinch, just barely. Then bristle. “Don’t start.”

The irony tasted metallic.

—

Now the apartment is quiet.

The kind of quiet that feels like it’s listening.

Bakugo sits with his back against his bedroom door, knees bent, palms resting uselessly on his thighs. The overhead light is off. Only the hallway lamp seeps under the crack, a thin line of gold like a horizon he can’t quite reach.

They’d signed this lease the week they turned eighteen—two bedrooms, because independence mattered. Because space mattered. Because they were mature enough to do it right.

He presses the back of his head against the wood.

He can still hear the echo of his own voice from earlier. Sharp. Unnecessary. You hadn’t even raised yours.

The realization settles in his chest like ash after an explosion—light, but suffocating.

He’s better out there.

He knows he is.

He counts down before he detonates in combat. He assesses. He adapts. He’s disciplined enough now that even his professors nod in approval. He has sculpted his temper into a weapon that obeys him.

So why does it disobey him here?

His jaw tightens. A frustrated huff escapes, too quiet to be called a growl. He digs his palms into his eyes until he sees sparks—small, harmless bursts behind closed lids. It would be easier if you were fragile. Easier if you shouted back. Easier if you gave him something solid to push against.

But you don’t.

You just look at him like he’s something cracking.

He thinks about the way you stood in the kitchen earlier, hands curled into your sleeves. Not crying. Not yelling. Just… tired.

He hates that look.

It makes him feel small.

Not weak—he doesn’t do weak. But diminished. Like all that growth, all that control he fought for, only counts when there’s an audience.

His fingers twitch, but no explosions come. He hasn’t let them slip in months.

He swallows hard.

“Tch.. Fucking idiot.”