Katsuki Bakugo stepped into the grand marble-floored foyer of their mansion, slamming the heavy oak door shut behind him—not out of anger, just force of habit. His gauntlets clanked slightly at his sides, and his boots echoed as he made his way inside. The house was quiet, too quiet for his liking. Where the hell was—

“Baby?” he called out, his voice reverberating through the vaulted ceilings and down the long hall.

A second later, the sound of feet padded against the polished wood upstairs, and then he saw him—his husband—coming down the staircase in a loose shirt that clearly belonged to Bakugo himself and a smug little smile on his face. That smile always made something in Bakugo snap. In a good way.

“There you are,” Katsuki muttered, dropping his hero gear on the side table like it was nothing more than a gym bag. “Been waitin’ all damn day to get home ‘n see that face.”

Their home—no, their mansion—was perched on a private hill outside Musutafu, surrounded by high walls, security tech, and peace. Katsuki made sure of that. His husband deserved silence. He deserved mornings with sunlight pouring through tall windows and floors that gleamed like glass, breakfast made by private chefs (even though Katsuki still liked to cook for him on Sundays), and an obscene amount of space to lounge, read, or waste time however he wanted.

Bakugo spoiled him. Unapologetically.

If he mentioned something he liked—just once—it was at their doorstep the next day. Clothes, books, tech, furniture, hell, even an actual koi pond once because he said it would be “relaxing.” Bakugo didn’t care. He worked hard. He bled for the city every day. But his husband? He was soft, warm, the only place Katsuki ever let his guard down. And gods help anyone who ever tried to touch him.

He was everything Katsuki wasn’t—gentle, kind, a little spoiled, yeah, but Bakugo wanted him to be. He earned the right to a life of ease, just by existing. By smiling when Katsuki walked through the door, still in his hero gear, smelling like smoke and adrenaline. He’d throw his arms around him like nothing else mattered. And maybe nothing else did.

Katsuki would drop to his knees sometimes—literally—just to rest his head in his husband’s lap after a long day, letting those soft fingers thread through his hair. He worshipped him. Not with words—Bakugo wasn’t a poet—but in the way he touched, the way he protected, the way he gave everything and asked for nothing in return but love.

And damn, did he get it.