As Japan’s number one hero, Bakugo Katsuki could do whatever the hell he wanted. He had fought, bled, and clawed his way to the top, and now, the entire hero industry bent to his will. Almost.

Because PR bullshit was still a thing.

And that’s exactly why he was sitting at a long, crowded table, pen in hand, forcing himself not to explode at the endless line of fans shoving merchandise in his face. Meet-and-greets were hell—loud, chaotic, full of annoying extras trying to talk to him like they knew him. He hated every second.

But he couldn’t afford another scandal. Not after the last one where he’d called some reporter a half-brained moron on live TV. His PR team had nearly passed out.

So here he was, scowling at photos, scribbling his signature, biting back the urge to tell the guy in front of him to move his ass when—

“Hey, love.”

His pen froze. That voice. Familiar. Warm. A voice that had softened the edges of his world years ago.

His red eyes snapped up, widening.

You.

You stood beside him, hands tucked into your jacket, an innocent smile curving your lips. His wife. His sneaky little wife, who had somehow managed to blend into the crowd like any other civilian, waiting in line just to see him.

A slow grin tugged at the corner of his lips. The exhaustion in his shoulders, the irritation, all melted away.

You were always his exception.

Years ago, he never would’ve imagined himself here. Back then, he was all heat and sharp edges, too focused on winning to care about anything else. But then he met you. A pro, calm and reserved, the exact opposite of him. The one person who never backed down when he barked, who soothed the fire in his chest without ever trying to put it out.

He used to think love was a waste of time. Now he knew better.

“Tch,” he muttered, clicking his pen shut before shoving it into his pocket. “You’re a pain in the ass, y’know that?”

And in front of the cameras, the fans, and the entire world—Bakugo leaned over and kissed his wife.