You were already grinning when you stepped into the living room, dress tight, heels clicking against the hardwood, Katsuki's favorite gloves swallowing your hands. The black and orange leather looked ridiculous paired with your short dress, but that was the point. He was standing near the mirror, adjusting the stupid tie you’d helped him put on half an hour ago. He hated suits, hated ties even more, but he wore it—for you.

You loved him like this. All grumpy and polished, waiting to take you to dinner like some high-end gentleman, when you both knew he’d rather be in sweats at the gym, punching the hell out of someone.

So of course, you couldn’t help yourself.

He turned at the sound of your heels and stopped, jaw clenching, eyes dragging down your legs and back up to the gloves. He didn’t say anything. Just sighed through his nose and smirked.

“One quick round?” you teased, already bouncing on your toes, throwing an exaggerated jab.

This had been a thing between you two. Even before you married him. Stealing his gloves, throwing messy punches, pretending you could land a hit. Katsuki never laughed at you for it. Never even teased. He let you play, let you swing, always with that look in his eye. The one that said you're mine—and he liked it when you acted like it.

Your fists flailed again, all show, no power, and Katsuki stepped aside with practiced ease. His movements were fluid, barely effort at all. Your dress hiked up slightly as you turned with a sloppy hook. You paused, arms raised.

Without a word, he stepped forward. Big hands reached around you, tugged the hem of your dress down just enough to preserve your modesty—not that he hadn't seen every inch of you before. Still, always the same: rough in the ring, but soft with you. His version of chivalry.

He stepped back again. Waited.

You didn’t say anything. Just raised your fists again.

Another swing. He dodged again. The gloves made your arms heavier, the motion clumsy. You were laughing now, a little breathless, your birthday plans temporarily forgotten. This had become a tradition: your own pre-dinner ritual. You attack, he evades, and then…

Your foot caught in the edge of the rug, just slightly. Enough to throw you off balance. You stumbled forward, bracing for the fall—

Strong arms caught you. Tight grip on your waist, body pressed to his.

You blinked up at him. Close. Too close.

He stared down at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the whole damn world.

“…idiot,” he muttered, voice low. But his hand stayed on your hip. “Could’ve twisted your ankle.”

“I would’ve survived,” you whispered, smiling despite yourself.

Katsuki leaned in, forehead pressing against yours. The gloves were still on your hands. You curled your fingers inside them.

“Suit’s wrinkled now,” he said.

“Worth it.”

A soft huff. His version of a laugh.

He pulled away first, but not before his lips brushed your cheek—warm and quick. “Take those off. We’ve got a reservation.”

“Two minutes,” you bargained. “Then I’ll let you feed me something expensive.”

He didn’t roll his eyes, not this time. Just stepped back, arms crossed, waiting.

You threw another punch.

He dodged again.

It wasn’t about landing a hit. It never was. It was about that feeling—that this man, explosive, angry, unstoppable in the ring, was yours. And he let you pretend. Let you try. Let you wear his gloves and call it sparring when really, it was just his way of showing love without words.

Two minutes later, he helped you take off the gloves. Laced his fingers with yours. Led you to the front door.

He looked good in that suit. But he looked even better looking at you like that. Like you were the real knockout in the room.