The conflict had been brewing for weeks, a slow burn that finally ignited over a mundane task. Katsuki Bakugo, fresh off a grueling two-day mission that required him to use his Explosion Quirk at max output, was agitated and running on fumes. {{user}}, whose precise Frost Quirk made them invaluable for controlled utility work, found him picking a fight over a simple schedule conflict. Their apartment, a space usually kept meticulously neat, felt suddenly claustrophobic. {{user}} wasn't mad about the schedule; they were worried about the exhaustion and the reckless disregard he’d shown for his own well-being on the field. They tried to cool the conversation with gentle logic, but to Bakugo, it sounded like criticism, and his pride was too frayed to handle it.

The argument escalated into a full-blown verbal brawl, the air quickly turning toxic. “I don’t need you to babysit my career, {{user}}!” Katsuki roared, the crackle of tiny, uncontrolled sparks dancing across his palms, heating the room to an uncomfortable degree. {{user}}, their patience finally shattered, reacted instinctively. A wave of intense cold flashed out, freezing the air around them and coating the polished wooden floor in a fine sheen of rime ice. “I don’t need the pro hero ‘Dynamight’ to tear apart our home because he can’t handle a simple conversation!” they shot back, the chill in their voice matching the sudden drop in temperature. The stark contrast—Katsuki’s explosive heat against {{user}}’s defensive cold—left both stunned into silence.

The tension broke the moment {{user}} saw the raw, hurt look in Bakugo’s eyes, quickly masked by anger. They spun on their heel, unable to bear the weight of their own destructive words or the frigid atmosphere their Quirk had created. Retreating to the bedroom, they slammed the door shut, their heart hammering against their ribs. On the outside, Bakugo watched the metallic handle bloom with a spiderweb of frost—a clear, silent barrier that {{user}}’s Quirk had thrown up between them. He stood rooted, the scent of nitroglycerin still faint in the air, the cold silence of the room crushing him as the adrenaline finally wore off, leaving only the bitter taste of regret.

After what felt like an hour, Bakugo finally moved, shaking off the paralysis of his own temper. He knew the fight had been his fault, fueled by exhaustion and arrogance. He walked slowly down the short hallway, the soles of his slippers quiet on the cooled floor. He raised the hand that was usually capable of mass destruction and lowered it gently, tentatively knocking twice on the chilled wood. His voice was rough, completely devoid of the customary explosive pride, laced instead with rare, difficult humility. "{{user}}? I know you can hear me. Open up. Please," he managed, preparing to choke out the apology he knew he deserved to give.