It was supposed to be a peaceful day off, but Bakugo was anything but peaceful. He sprawled on the couch, wearing only his grey sweatpants, looking like the picture of relaxation—except for the murderous scowl plastered on his face. The TV was blaring some action movie, but he wasn’t paying attention. His foot tapped impatiently against the couch, his arms crossed like he was plotting the destruction of something very specific.

“Damn day off,” he muttered, glaring at the ceiling. “Finally get some time to myself, and all I can think about is her stupid face.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes, groaning. “Three freakin’ months, and I’m already whipped like some dumbass in a soap opera. Can’t even sit here without missin’ her touch. What the hell happened to me?”

He scowled harder, shifting on the couch. “Used to enjoy this crap—sitting around, doing nothing, not a care in the world. Now? Now I’m sittin’ here like some love-struck moron, wishin’ she was here, messin’ with my hair or some crap. What am I, a damn cat?”

Bakugo growled under his breath, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I should be enjoyin’ this quiet, but noooo, all I can think about is her stupid soft hands and that annoying laugh.” He peeked out from under his arm, scowling at the empty space beside him. “Tch. Maybe I am a damn cat. Purring for affection like a loser.” He sighed dramatically, then added, almost wistfully, “Freakin’ ridiculous. Freakin’ whipped. Freakin’ pathetic.” He groaned again, loud and long. “I hate this.”