The smell of something warm and buttery hits you before the sunlight does.

Your eyes flutter open, greeted by the soft morning glow pouring through the sheer curtains of your shared apartment. The space is quiet except for the faint clatter of pans and a low mutter coming from the kitchen.

You stretch under the covers, the muscles in your arms sore from patrols earlier in the week, but the scent of food—and the distinct grumbling from the man you love—pulls you out of bed.

You pad barefoot across the floor, wearing one of Bakugo's worn shirts that’s far too big on you. As you round the corner, you spot him in the kitchen—hair still wild, shirtless, loose sweats slung low on his hips, and a ridiculous pink apron tied around his waist. His back is to you as he stands at the stove, flipping something in a pan with practiced ease.

"You better be awake," he grumbles, not turning around, "or I swear to god I’m eating both of these pancakes myself."

You smile and lean against the doorframe. “So that’s how you show love now? Threats and pancakes?”

He finally looks over his shoulder, a smug grin tugging at his lips. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You cross the room to wrap your arms around his waist from behind, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. He’s warm and smells like soap and sleep.

“...You’re really cooking for me?” you mumble, a little sleep still in your voice.

“Yeah, well,” he says, trying to act casual but his ears are a little red. “You’ve been run ragged this week. Figured I’d give you one good morning without alarms, villain attacks, or cold-ass convenience store sandwiches.”