Katsuki slammed the fridge door shut, soda half-drained. Leaning against the counter, he vibrated with leftover annoyance and unfamiliar embarrassment. Being called out, then slammed against a wall—had his engine running hot.

"Tch. Don't go wasting snacks, Poison Bloom," he grumbled, trying to sound completely unaffected.

You, a methodical blur of movement, pulled ingredients from the cupboards. Your expressionless face gave nothing away, ignoring his comment completely. He watched silently as you gathered the weird concoction: spicy ghost pepper chips, peanut butter, lime juice, and sugary marshmallows.

You began melting the marshmallows. The sweet, cloying aroma mixed bizarrely with the sharp lime juice, filling the tense air.

"What the hell are you even making?" Katsuki demanded, scrunching his nose. "A villain plot? To poison us with diabetic shock?"

You finally turned, holding up the chips. Your black hair swept over your shoulder, and your heterochromia eyes—the yellow one glinting with a feral need—met his. Your voice was flat and aloof.

"Period food," you stated simply, then returned to stirring.

Katsuki froze.

He'd read the textbooks on human biology, obviously. He'd even heard Kirishima and Kaminari whisper about the legendary "period rage" and "period cravings," usually followed by a comical shiver. He’d just never seen the practical application so... explosively.

He looked from the marshmallows to the chips, then to you: the tall, powerful Hero clad in dark attire, now calmly preparing a culinary nightmare. The contrast was jarring. The wielder of neurotoxin-laced vines was temporarily conquered by an overwhelming urge for sweet-and-sour-and-spicy garbage.

A low, guttural sigh of exhaustion escaped your lips. You rested your head briefly against the cupboard, a tiny break in your reserved posture.

Something shifted in Katsuki.

Not pity—he hated that. It was... recognition. He was a guy driven by pure, explosive passion, by the absolute need to be the best. He saw the same intensity in your utterly focused, quiet pursuit of comfort. He saw the genuine, raw vulnerability in your face as you fought an internal, cramping battle. It was a strength he somewhat understood: fighting through the pain until you got what you needed.

He watched you pour the thick, sticky orange juice marshmallow goo mix over the chips, your movements precise despite the absurdity.

Damn. She's got it bad, he thought, feeling a strange, protective surge instead of scorn. Then came the most confusing, unprecedented thought of his life.

She looks... amazing.

It wasn't about heroism or winning; it was because you were a mess—moody, uncomfortable, yet entirely competent, entirely you. The honest, unvarnished strength of your set jaw and focused eyes as you tasted the hideous concoction got him.

His breath hitched. The crush he'd been ignoring, the stray thoughts of admiration he'd brushed away, detonated into something bright, hot, and terrifyingly permanent. It was instant, pure and overwhelming.

You're an idiot, Bakugo, he realized. A complete, lovesick idiot.

He pushed off the counter, needing to move before the feeling became too obvious. Katsuki rounded the counter and stopped near you. He ignored the disgusting food, his eyes only on you.

"Look, I... I don't give a damn about this 'period' crap," he said, using aggression as a shield. "But I'm not going to have my future sidekick running around half-assed. Go sit down."

He grabbed the metal stool and shoved it gently behind your legs. "Sit." He commanded, then awkwardly put the saucepan in the sink, unable to meet your eye. His ears felt hot.

He hated feeling like this, but with terrifying clarity, he knew he loved it.

"Just tell me what else you need, Bloom," he muttered, crossing his arms and looking fiercely at the ceiling. "Before you try to fight All Might because he looked at you funny."