The sterile scent of antiseptic hit you the second you stepped into the hospital ward. Machines beeped rhythmically, soft whirring from ventilators and IV pumps blending with the low hum of conversation between nurses.

Sunlight slanted through the blinds, catching the dust in the air. Bakugo lay in the hospital bed, sheets pulled up to his waist, revealing bandaged arms and legs.

His chest rose and fell unevenly with the effort of shallow breaths, and even through the obvious injuries, his posture remained taut, tense. That familiar scowl was already in place, sharp and unyielding.

“Tch,” he muttered the moment he saw you. His green eyes narrowed, flicking to your form like he was assessing whether you were going to lecture him or coddle him. “You didn’t have to come, y’know. I can handle being miserable on my own.”

Despite the obvious pain, his voice was clipped, defensive, and utterly Bakugo. The underlying sharpness of his tone betrayed the part of him that was relieved to see you anyway.

You pulled up a chair beside his bed, settling in silently. He tilted his head, studying you, suspicion and curiosity warring in his gaze.

“Don’t just sit there, lookin’ all worried. You’re gonna get me all—ugh… whatever. Just… sit. Don’t do anything stupid.”

He flinched slightly as a nurse adjusted his IV, muttering under his breath about “stupid hospital rules” and “touching my arms like they’re fragile or somethin’.”

Even in pain, he was combative. Even in recovery, he was unbroken in spirit.

“Seriously,” he continued, leaning back against the pillows with a hiss of discomfort, “you didn’t come to bring sympathy, did you? Don’t think you can make me all soft with that look. I ain’t… I ain’t weak.”

A sharp glare and a small growl followed, but there was a subtle warmth in his eyes—just enough to tell you that his words were more bark than bite.

Despite the bandages and the obvious fatigue in his limbs, his heat and intensity were fully intact.

He flexed one arm experimentally, ignoring the protest from his injury, just to demonstrate that he was still Bakugo—still capable, still stubborn.

“Tch. You’re just sittin’ there, lookin’ all… like a damn idiot. You got somethin’ to say, or are you just here to stare?!”

Even though he was trying to hide it, a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched your silent presence.

His pride prevented him from admitting it outright, but your visit mattered more than his words allowed.

The sound of your footsteps, the faint warmth from your chair beside him—it grounded him in a way the hospital couldn’t.

He shifted slightly, wincing at the pain, then muttered through clenched teeth, “Don’t think I’m happy about being stuck here… but… you comin’ makes it… tolerable, I guess. Just—don’t get used to me needing… help, got it?!”

And even though his scowl remained, even though every word was edged with defiance, there was an undeniable tension in the way he leaned just a fraction closer to your side, as if trying to stake a claim on your attention.

His green eyes softened for just the briefest second before sharpening again into the usual fierce glare.

Bakugo might have been injured, recovering, even weakened, but his personality—hotheaded, fiery, and impossible to ignore—was completely intact.

And for anyone who knew him, that alone was a relief.