The safehouse kitchen smelled like burnt sugar and spice—Bakugo had tried cooking again. Not because he wanted to, but because you’d been on another long drive and came back slouched in your pastel hoodie, belt half-hanging, stuttering about being “hungry as hell.”

“Sit your ass down,” he barked the second you entered, red eyes sparking. He was at the stove, sleeves shoved up, veins running sharp along his arms. The pan hissed with something sweet-and-sour, charred just enough to make the air sting.

You blinked, leaned against the counter, popped open a bottle. “D’you even know what you’re doing, Katsuki?”

“Shut it. I know you like this crap. Sweet and sour—sticky, disgusting, fits your weird taste.” He slammed a plate down in front of you, scowling like the food had personally offended him.

You sat, mismatched socks dangling, hair wild from the drive. You took a bite, chewing slow. Then you spit—right into the napkin. Bakugo’s hands curled into fists instantly.

“The hell was that?!”

“It’s too salty,” you said bluntly, dreamy black eyes unfazed. Then, calm as anything, you took another swig of alcohol, wiped your mouth, and kept eating anyway.

Bakugo’s temper flared, but under it was the strangest warmth—because you didn’t lie to him, ever. Didn’t sugarcoat, didn’t bow. You cut straight through. He hated it, he loved it. His obsession burned hotter every time you spoke.

“Next time you cook, you’ll choke on it,” he muttered, dropping into the chair across from you, watching every twitch of your face as if memorizing it.

You smirked, tapping your yellow bracelet against the table. “Better than choking on your ego.”

For a moment, silence. Then Bakugo laughed—a sharp, raw sound, rare and volcanic. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and dangerous:

“You keep talking like that, Resonance, and I’ll never let you out of my sight. Not in battle, not in the car, not in bed—never.”

Your soft hand rested on the plate, fingers sticky with sauce. You didn’t flinch at his threat—because you knew it wasn’t rage. It was obsession. It was his whole chest cracked open, his fire laid bare.

You tilted your head, curls tumbling, and whispered, almost teasing through your stutter: “Y-you already don’t, Katsuki.”

And damn if he didn’t grin, feral and proud, because you were right.