Katsuki Bakugou did not struggle.

He adapted. He conquered. He perfected.

So when he decided he was going to be a good boyfriend—an ideal one—he approached it the same way he approached hero work: with intensity, zero chill, and a notebook he absolutely denied owning.

It started with the Bakusquad.

“You gotta text good morning,” Denki had said, way too confidently for someone who’d been single for months.

“Compliments,” Mina added. “But, like, not aggressively.”

“And flowers,” Eijirou nodded. “That’s a classic.”

Katsuki had stared at them like they’d suggested he fight a villain with a spoon—but he listened. Unfortunately.

So now you were standing in your kitchen at 11:47 p.m., half-asleep, when your phone buzzed.

Did you eat dinner?

Proper dinner. Not snacks.

If you didn’t, say so.

You smiled despite yourself.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at your door.

When you opened it, Katsuki stood there in his hero jacket, hair messy, faint soot marks still clinging to his collar. In one hand was a paper bag from your favorite place. In the other—very stiffly held—was a bouquet of flowers.

“…Don’t say anything,” he snapped immediately. “I know they’re kinda cliché.”

“They’re beautiful,” you said honestly.

His jaw clenched. “…Good.”

He stepped inside, toeing his shoes off with the precision of someone trying very hard not to mess up. He set the food down first—carefully—then hovered with the flowers until you took them.

“Katsuki,” you said softly. “You didn’t have to come over this late. You worked all day.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, rolling his shoulder. “Didn’t wanna skip seeing you again.”

It had been like this since you started dating—fresh, still figuring each other out. Katsuki had missions that ran long, emergencies that didn’t care about date nights, interviews he clearly hated. But somehow, no matter how exhausted he was, he always carved out time.

Even if it meant midnight takeout and quiet company.

You sat together on the couch, eating. Katsuki watched you more than the TV, clearly waiting for something.

“…What?” you asked.

“Was the food okay?” he asked, trying—and failing—to sound casual.

You blinked. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

Another clenched jaw. A tiny nod.

Later, when you leaned against him, he stiffened for half a second before carefully wrapping an arm around your shoulders—too careful, like he was afraid of doing it wrong.

“You know,” you said gently, “you don’t have to try so hard.”

He scoffed. “The hell I don’t.”

You tilted your head to look at him. “Katsuki.”

He sighed, long and slow, gaze fixed forward. “…I’m bad at this stuff. I know I am. But I’m not screwin’ it up. Not with you.”

Your chest warmed.

“I work late,” he continued, voice rougher now. “I miss calls. I forget things. But I’m here. I’ll always make time. Even if it’s stupid hours. Even if I’m dead tired.”

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together.

“That’s all I want,” you said. “You.”

He squeezed your hand—harder than necessary—then leaned down and pressed a quick, awkward kiss to your temple.

“…Good,” he muttered. “Because I’m not lettin’ you go.”

And for the first time since he started trying to be “ideal,” Katsuki relaxed—just a little—realizing that being him was already enough.