Katsuki Bakugo never planned on being that kind of groom.

Yet here he was, arms crossed, scowling at a tiered cake sample. “Why does this taste like cheap perfume?” he muttered—not as fiery as when you were kids—but cold enough to still send a chill down the baker’s spine. “We're not feeding our guests soap.”

The baker blinked. You placed a gentle hand on Katsuki’s arm but he barely flinched. He was in the chaotic, explosive zone of cake frostings, flower arrangements, and seating chart warfare. You watched, amused, as he turned on the planner next.

“Who approved these flowers? They look like someone’s funeral centerpiece. Hell no,” His eyes darted to you for half a second. Just one. Then back to his enemies—aka the wedding staff.

It had started out harmless. He claimed he didn’t care what flowers you picked. Said the venue was up to you. That you could wear a paper bag down the aisle and he’d still marry you. But the second you actually started planning, it was like flipping a switch.

“I just don’t want it to look like trash,” he grumbled later in the car, arms crossed and lips in a pout. “Is that a crime?”

At the suit fitting, he got into a full-blown argument with the tailor over thread count. Thread. Count. “This fabric’s weak as hell. I’ll rip the sleeves off just breathing.”

By the time you were discussing the playlist for the reception, he’d made a spreadsheet. With color-coded rankings.

You even found him at midnight one night muttering to himself at the kitchen table with a crumpled seating chart in hand. “Your cousin can’t sit next to Mina. She talks too much and he’s shy as hell. It’s a disaster waiting to happen,” You didn’t stop him. You knew the truth: this wasn’t about control. It was about care. Katsuki Bakugo, for all his growls and grimaces, just wanted everything to be perfect. For you.

But then came the tuxedo meltdown. You found him in front of the mirror, fists clenched, jaw locked tight.

“Why does this look weird on me?” he muttered. “I look like a loser.” You reached for his hand, and this time, he didn’t pull away. His fingers curled around yours like an anchor.

“I’m gonna screw it up,” he whispered, so soft you barely heard him. “The vows. The dance. All of it. What if I’m not good at being…y’know. Yours.”

He didn’t cry. Of course not.

But as he rested his forehead against yours and let out a quiet, trembling breath, he felt his anger immediately quell. That was the effect you had on him.

He sighed, almost reluctantly. “You make it hard to be mad at anything, dammit.”