I Just Really Love Dogs

satoru blinks at the ceiling, and his eyebrows pull together slightly. are you talking to him? no — you’re not in the living room yet. you’re still in the kitchen, and your voice has that particular cadence it gets when you’re on the phone; slightly louder than necessary, slightly more animated.

he doesn’t think too much of it at first, because, well… you talk to your friends all the time.

he’s about to tune it out again, let the familiar rhythm of your voice wash over him like background noise, when he catches the next words and something in his brain snaps to attention.

“look, i’m just saying. you’re out here looking for prince charming when you should be focusing on, like… basic human decency. that’s the bar. that’s literally the bar.”

satoru’s head lifts slightly off the couch cushion — just a few inches, just enough to confirm that yes, you’re definitely on the phone, your shoulder pressed against the kitchen doorway, one hand wrapped around your mug while the other holds your phone to your ear.

he lets his head fall back.

okay. fine. it’s just a phone call. nothing weird.

“you know what my boyfriend always says?”

satoru’s ears perk up, you’re talking about him, and a slow, satisfied smile starts to spread across his face.

oh, this is going to be good.

you’re probably bragging about him — how could you not? he’s so tall, he’s gorgeous, he’s got the kind of jawline that makes people stop mid-sentence just to stare. he’s a catch. really, it’s the total package.

satoru settles back into the couch, ready to soak in the praise that’s surely about to come his way.

“he always says that expecting a partner to be both good-looking and emotionally intelligent is like expecting a dog to do your taxes.”

the smile freezes on satoru’s face.

…what?

he must have heard that wrong. there’s no way — no, you definitely said something else. something complimentary. something that doesn’t compare him to a dog doing taxes.

satoru stays perfectly still, waiting for the correction, for the part where you laugh and go, just kidding, he’s actually the most gorgeous man who’s ever existed.

but it doesn’t come.

instead, you take a sip of your tea — satoru hears it, the little exhale you do when it’s still too hot — and keep going like you didn’t just commit a federal offense against his ego.

“my point is, you need to drastically lower your standards. like, way down. think about what you’re actually qualified for.”

satoru’s eye twitches.

he’s not sure what the hell is happening right now. his brain is trying to process the words coming out of your mouth and failing spectacularly, like a computer trying to run a program it wasn’t designed for. lower your standards? you’re telling your friend to lower their standards, while you’re dating him?

satoru slowly sits up properly.

the blood rushes out of his head and he gets a little dizzy, but he’s too focused on the sound of your voice to care. he swings his legs over the edge of the couch and plants his feet on the floor, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the kitchen doorway like it might spontaneously combust.

you’re still talking. you haven’t even noticed he’s moved.

“and honestly it’s so much better that way. like, when you stop caring about looks, you open yourself up to so many more options. you get to actually connect with someone as a person, you know? you’re not distracted by, like, a pretty face.”

satoru makes a sound. it’s not quite a word, it’s more of a really strangled, indignant noise that gets stuck somewhere between his throat and his mouth.

his hand comes up to press against his chest, right over his heart, like he’s checking to make sure it’s still beating after whatever the hell you just said.

pretty face.

you said 'pretty face' like it’s a bad thing, like his face — this face, this objectively perfect, sculpted by the gods, should-be-in-a-museum face — is somehow a distraction.

satoru stands up. he’s not entirely sure when he decided to do that, but suddenly he’s on his feet, moving toward the kitchen doorway with the kind of silent, predatory grace that usually precedes him stealing food off your plate.

you’re leaning against the counter now, mug cradled in both hands, your phone wedged between your ear and your shoulder. you look really comfortable and relaxed. completely unaware that your boyfriend is currently experiencing what can only be described as an existential crisis in the doorway.

“i mean, just look at my boyfriend,” you say, and satoru freezes mid-step.

okay, here it is.

the part where you clarify. the part where you say something like he’s so gorgeous i can barely function or i’m obviously joking, he’s the most attractive person i’ve ever seen.

“he’s the perfect example of what i’m talking about.”

satoru waits.

but you don’t say anything else for a moment, you simply nod along to whatever your friend is saying, like you didn’t just drop the verbal equivalent of the biggest nuclear bomb on his entire sense of self-worth.

he’s the perfect example.

example of what, exactly? of lowered standards? of settling? of not caring about looks?

satoru’s mouth falls open. his hands come up — one presses flat against his chest once again, and the other reaches out like he’s trying to grab your words out of the air and shake them until they make sense.

you finally glance up, and your eyes meet his.

and for a moment, just a split second, he sees it — the tiniest flicker of something in your expression. a micro-expression, a flash of amusement so quick he almost misses it.

but satoru doesn’t miss it, and he narrows his eyes.

you look away immediately, bringing your mug to your lips, and he swears he sees the corner of your mouth twitch.

oh.

oh.

you’re fucking with him.

or—no, wait. you’re on the phone, so you’re actually talking to someone… but you definitely just looked at him like a cat that knows exactly which vase it’s about to knock off the shelf. that was a look. that was a 'i know exactly what i’m doing and i’m enjoying every second of it' look.

satoru crosses his arms as he leans against the doorframe. he simply decides to wait and see just how deep this hole you’re digging is going to get.

you clear your throat. “anyway, yeah. like, my boyfriend isn’t conventionally attractive by any means—”

satoru actually chokes at your words. his hand flies to his throat like you’ve physically struck him.

“—but he’s got a great personality. well… decent. yeah, he’s decent. he’s learning.”

learning. he’s learning. like basic human decency is a skill he’s acquiring. like a toddler learning to share his toys.

satoru’s arms completely drop to his sides, and he takes a step into the kitchen.

“i’m sorry,” he says, and his voice comes out weird — higher than usual, a little strained, like someone’s squeezing his windpipe. “what did you just say?”

you hold up a finger. you hold up a finger, like he’s interrupting something important, and you keep talking into the phone.

“no, sorry, that was just my boyfriend. he’s—” you glance at him, and this time he definitely sees the amusement in your eyes, the barely-suppressed grin fighting to break free. “—he’s doing his thing.”

“my thing?” satoru repeats.

his voice cracks on the word, and he’s not even embarrassed about it. hell, he’s way too busy being personally victimized by the love of his life.

“what thing? what thing am i doing?”

but you ignore him. you turn your back to him, even, which is a bold choice, a very dangerous choice.

“honestly, the whole experience has been really humbling for me,” you continue, and satoru can hear the smile in your voice now, can hear it getting harder and harder to suppress. “i used to have such high standards, you know? but then i met him and i was like… okay. this is fine. maybe this is what i deserve.”

maybe this is what i deserve.

satoru makes a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and his huge hands come up to frame his face, palms pressed to his cheeks, fingers splayed against his temples.

he’s standing in the middle of the kitchen like a man who’s just been told his entire life has been a lie.

“my face,” satoru says, and his voice is genuinely offended now, wounded in a way that’s so over-the-top it circles back around to sincere. “you’re talking about my face. this face. this face that has been on a billboard. this face that people pay money to photograph.”

you wave a dismissive hand at him without turning around.

“hmm. yeah, no, he’s really insecure about his looks, actually. it’s kind of sad. i feel bad for him.”

satoru’s mouth opens, closes, and opens again, but literally no sound comes out.

you called him insecure. the most confident man on the planet — the man who looks in the mirror every morning and winks at himself, who has never once doubted his own attractiveness for a single second of his entire life — and you just told your friend he’s insecure about his looks.

“i’m sorry?” he says again, and this time his voice is deadly calm; the kind of calm that comes right before something very dramatic happens. “baby, i think i need you to repeat that last part. for posterity.”

you finally turn around, and there it is — the grin. it was bright and wicked and absolutely delighted. you’re not even trying to hide it anymore. your phone is still pressed to your ear, but your shoulders are shaking with suppressed laughter, your teeth digging into your bottom lip like that’s going to do anything to stop the smile taking over your whole face.

“oh, you’re still here?” you ask, and your voice is so fake-innocent it’s practically dripping. “i thought you were back in the living room.”

“you thought—” satoru starts, but you’re already turning away again, bringing the phone back to your mouth.

“sorry, what were we saying? right, right. honestly, the biggest thing i’ve learned is that you can’t have everything. you have to pick what’s most important to you. for me, it was having someone who remembers to eat vegetables sometimes.”

satoru stares at the back of your head, and his eye is actually twitching now; he can feel it.

“i eat vegetables,” he says, and his voice has gone up about three octaves. “i ate a carrot yesterday. you saw me. you watched me eat that carrot.”

“and the rest of the time,” you continue smoothly, like he hasn’t spoken. “you just have to accept that you’re not going to be physically attracted to your partner. and that’s okay! there’s more to a relationship than sex.”

“more to a—” satoru’s voice actually breaks.

it cracks right down the middle, like a teenage boy going through puberty, and he has to stop and clear his throat, and even then, when he speaks again, his voice is strangled;

“more to a relationship than sex? i’m a ten. i’m objectively a ten. i’ve been rated. professionally. by people whose entire job is rating faces.”

you simply hum thoughtfully, nodding along to whatever your friend is saying.

“yeah, exactly. that’s what i mean. like, my boyfriend is a solid three on a good day. maybe a four if the lighting is forgiving.”

something in satoru’s brain snaps.

it’s not a bad snap, it’s not even an angry snap; it’s the snap of a man who has realized, with absolute certainty, that he is being thoroughly and magnificently fucked with, and that his only recourse is to retaliate with equal and opposite force.

satoru moves.

he’s really fast, and before you can even react, he’s right behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you clean off the ground.

you yelp, the sound sharp and surprised, and your phone slips from your grip, clattering onto the counter. but satoru doesn’t care about that right now. all he cares about is the way you’re squirming in his arms, laughing already, the sound bubbling out of you like you’ve been holding it in for way too long.

“put me down!” you gasp, but you’re laughing too hard for it to be convincing, your hands coming down to grip his arms where they’re locked around your waist.

“a three,” satoru says, and his voice is right next to your ear, low and mock-serious. “a three. maybe a four on a good day with forgiving lighting?”

“i said what i said!” you’re kicking your legs now, not actually trying to get away — you could get away if you really wanted to, he’s not holding you that tight — but putting up enough of a fight to make this fun. “put me down, toru!”

“no.”

satoru shifts his grip, one arm still around your waist while the other hand finds your side, fingers splaying against the soft spot just below your ribs.

“i think we need to have a conversation about your rating system. i think it might be… flawed.”

you freeze.

you know exactly what’s coming, and satoru can feel it in the way your body goes still against his, the sudden tension in your shoulders, the way your breath catches.

“toru,” you say, and now there’s a warning in your voice, almost a pleading. “satoru, don’t you dare—”

satoru tickles you.

your reaction is immediate and violent — you jerk in his arms, a shriek ripping out of your throat that’s half-laugh, half-scream. your body twists, trying to escape, but he’s got you locked in, his fingers dancing along your ribs, finding every spot he knows will make you absolutely lose your mind.

“what was that?” satoru asks, and this brat is grinning now, wide and wicked, watching your face contort with laughter as you try to bat his hands away. “i didn’t quite catch that rating. could you repeat it?”

“sto-op!” you’re gasping, tears already forming at the corners of your eyes, your whole body shaking with laughter.

your hands are grabbing at his wrists, his forearms, literally anything you can reach, but he’s stronger than you and he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“satoru—please—!”

“a three,” satoru muses, dragging his fingers up to your underarms and delighting in the full-body shudder that ripples through you. “maybe a four if the lighting is forgiving. those were your exact words, i believe.”

“i was kidding! i was kidding!”

“oh, you were kidding?” satoru’s voice is all false innocence, exactly the same tone you used on him earlier. “so you don’t think i’m a three?”

“no! no, you’re—you’re a ten! you’re a ten, okay, you’re the most beautiful man i’ve ever—”

satoru changes tactics, spinning you around in his arms so you’re facing him, your back now against the counter.

your face is completely flushed, your hair a mess, tears streaking down your cheeks from laughing so hard, and you’re still giggling, little breathless sounds that escape despite your best efforts to glare at him.

“say it again,” he demands, and he’s not even pretending to be serious anymore — he’s grinning, the kind of grin that takes up his whole face. “say it like you mean it.”

you open your mouth — probably to insult him again, satoru can see it in your eyes, the mischief still burning there — but he doesn’t give you the chance. he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then the other cheek, then your nose, then your chin. then your forehead again (just for good measure).

you’re laughing still, softer now, your hands coming up to cup satoru’s face, your thumbs brushing against his cheekbones. he gently kisses your eyelids — both of them — and then pulls back just enough to look at you.

“what was that rating?” he asks, and his voice has gone soft, the teasing still there but wrapped around something warmer.

you look at him, and your eyes are bright, your smile so wide it’s making your cheeks round, and there’s something in your expression that makes satoru’s chest feel too full, like his heart’s expanding past the point his ribs can contain.

“a ten,” you say, and your voice is quiet now, sincere in a way that makes his stomach flip. “you’re a ten, toru.”

he narrows his eyes, suspicious. “you mean that?”

“i mean that you’re the most annoying person i’ve ever met,” you say, and your hands slide from his face to his shoulders, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. “i mean that you’re really dramatic and ridiculous and you eat an entire bag of marshmallows in one sitting and then won’t stop complain that your stomach hurts.”

satoru waits.

“i also mean,” you continue, and your smile softens, your thumb tracing the collar of his shirt. “that you’re the most beautiful person i’ve ever seen. and i was lying, obviously. you know i was lying.”

“i know,” satoru says, and he does.

he knew from the moment you looked at him with that little smirk of yours, that glint in your pretty eye that said you were up to something.

“i still can’t believe you called me insecure about my looks, though. that was cold.”

your laugh is bright and genuine, your head tipping back against the cabinet behind you.

“your face was so offended. i almost lost it.”

“i was offended! my feelings were hurt!”

“your feelings,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “your feelings. about your face.”

“my face is very important to me,” satoru says it with complete seriousness, but he’s leaning into you now, his forehead pressing against yours, his arms still wrapped around your waist. “it’s my best feature.”

“mmh,” your fingers find his hair, carding through the white strands, and satoru makes a sound low in his throat, something content and pleased. “i thought your best feature was your personality.”

“my personality,” he says flatly. “my personality that you described as 'decent' and 'learning'.”

“i was setting realistic expectations for my friend.”

“nah, you were slandering me,” satoru noses along your jaw, pressing a soft kiss to the skin just below your ear. “publicly. in my own kitchen.”

“your kitchen?” you laugh, tilting your head to give him better access. “it’s my kitchen too.”

“our kitchen,” he amends, and he can feel your pulse under his lips, steady and warm. “you slandered me in our kitchen, in front of our appliances. the toaster heard everything.”

“oh no,” you say dryly. “not the toaster.”

“it’s going to be awkward at breakfast tomorrow.”

you laugh again, and he pulls back to completely look at you.

your cheeks are still flushed from laughing, your eyes a little red-rimmed, your hair sticking up in about twelve different directions. you’re wearing satoru’s hoodie — the oversized one that swallows you whole, the one he’s been looking for all week — and there’s a smudge of something on your chin that’s probably from the toast you made earlier.

you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“for the record,” satoru says, and his voice is softer now, the teasing fading into something gentler. “you are a ten. a twelve, even. maybe a fifteen.”

your eyebrows rise. “fifteen? that’s a very specific number.”

“i’m a very specific person,” he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “and i think your rating system is broken, because you somehow ended up with me, and i’m clearlyyy way out of your league.”

you shove at satoru’s chest, but you’re still laughing, and he catches your hands, brings them to his mouth, kissing your knuckles one by one.

“i love you,” you say, and it’s so simple, so matter-of-fact, like you’re telling him the weather. “even though you’re the most dramatic person i’ve ever met.”

“i love you too,” he says, and he’s grinning again, that stupid, lopsided grin that he knows makes you weak. “even though you publicly humiliated me in front of our kitchen appliances.”

“the toaster will recover.”

“i’m not sure it will. it witnessed something truly traumatic.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling brightly, and satoru can’t resist that smile — he dips down, catches your mouth with his, and kisses you properly.

As quickly as you can, you lift Bakugou's arm off of you, carefully inching towards the edge of the bed before finally stuffing a pillow under his muscled limb in your place. He stirs just as you let go of him, and you freeze with bated breath, letting out a relieved albeit low exhale when he eventually stills.

You don't waste another second after that, hurriedly collecting your clothes and underwear off the floor, choosing to clumsily shimmy into them as you walk out of the bedroom and gently close the door behind you.

The instant it clicks into place, a tidal wave of relief washes over you, your racing heart stuttering in repose—

—although you don't get to bask in it for too long before a particularly nauseating pang of guilt hits you.

You know you shouldn't be acting like this.

You shouldn't be acting as if Bakugou was someone you half-regret finally having had sex with, as if he was someone you needed to get away from, as if he wasn't the one person allowed to see you in this excruciatingly vulnerable state.

And yet.

Shaking your head, you pad your way towards your modest living room, plopping down on the sizeable sofa with a soft thud. You grab the nearest throw pillow you can reach, clutching it close to your chest as you mentally resign yourself to staring out of the sliding doors that lead to the small balcony.

You don't know how much time passes with you wrestling yourself into thinking of anything else but last night and spectacularly failing, but you would've probably ruminated yourself late into the evening if it weren't for a low, rumbling sound a few feet behind you, effectively startling you into attention.

Before you can stop yourself, you whip around and sure enough, a squinting Bakugou is standing in the middle of your apartment—ash-blonde hair unrulier than usual and decked in nothing but one of those flannel pajama pants he liked to keep in your closet for emergencies.

For a solid moment, you only gawk at each other—your mouth opening but failing to produce any form of sound. It's you, though, who recovers first—promptly breaking eye contact as you jump on your feet, barreling past him towards the kitchen.

"Great, you're up," you croak rather discordantly, reaching for the tap and soap mainly to give your hands something to do. "What do you want for breakfast?"

You can practically hear Bakugou's freshly-woken gears turning in slow motion before he finally responds with a gruff voice. "Uh—I'm fine with whatever you wanna eat."

"Okay," you retort as coolly as you can, keeping your back turned towards Bakugou while you go through the overhead cabinets for the ingredients to make waffles.

A tense silence follows shortly after—stretching for a beat—which is why you can't help but flinch when a voice suddenly emerges from right beside you. "How long have you been awake? Here, let me do it—"

"No, it's okay—" you quickly interject, lightly shrugging off his reaching hands, keeping your gaze trained on the bowl in yours, "I got it."

Bakugou is quiet for another beat, before—finally: "You sure?"

"I'm pretty sure I can manage at least waffles, Kats," you try to chuckle, although it comes out a bit stilted.

"That's not—"

"Would you mind setting up the table?" you cut him off once more, nodding to the space behind you, "This won't take too long."

At this point, you know the pro-hero well enough to sense his begrudging without having to look at him, gratitude blooming in your chest when he chooses to relent anyway. "Uh—sure."

No further words are exchanged as you go through the familiar motions of whipping up two servings of waffles, a routine that you would almost consider therapeutic if it weren't for the unsettling feeling of a pair of eyes fixed on your back as you moved around the kitchen.

As you promised, it doesn't take long for the dough to become a mouthwatering golden brown, your movements nearly automatic as you pile on both of your plates with generous portions. You try your best to ignore his unrelenting stare as you trudge towards your small dining table with the food and toppings in tow, making one last trip to fetch the pot of freshly brewed coffee before finally settling in the seat across from him.

To your dismay, Bakugou doesn't immediately dig in like he normally would in the rare instances of you offering him your cooking. Instead, he only continues to stare at you, an inexplicable expression etched on his otherwise impassive features.

Still refusing to meet his gaze, you gesture to his food in a silent invitation to start eating after swallowing your own first bite, but instead of a wordless acquiescence, Bakugou—sternly—says your name.

You stiffen for a millisecond—although you're quick to regain footing—quietly slicing away albeit with your eyebrows raised as a subtle indication that you're listening.

Unsurprisingly, that doesn't cut it for Bakugou. Still, you feel yourself tensing anyway when he speaks again.

"Babe."

This time, you make a small sound of acknowledgment but keep your eyes downcast, stabbing a piece of waffle with your fork.

The butter-laden pastry is about two-thirds of the way towards your waiting mouth when Bakugou decides he's had enough.

"Look at me."

Instantly, you still.

Then, lowering your utensil-clad hands on the table, you stare at your barely eaten plate of breakfast for a beat, before slowly forcing your gaze upwards to meet the crimsons you've been avoiding this entire morning.

One look at them and you know there's no point in feigning ignorance anymore.

You find yourself schooling your features into an expectant expression anyway.

Although—in hindsight—maybe you shouldn't have, because whatever restraint Bakugou had on his emotions a mere second ago instantly crumbles at the sight of it, leaving him with a scathing scowl and a look that reads a little bit too much like hurt.

Frozen, you scramble for something to say.

Bakugou beats you to it.

"Are you being serious right now?"

You blanch. "I don't—"

"You fuck me one second, and the next, you can't even be bothered to look me in the eye?"

Flaming, you sputter. "I-I mean, you fucked me, too…"

"Exactly," Bakugou spits without missing a beat, face now a prominent scarlet. "And do you see me looking at everywhere else but you?"

"I-I'm just embarrassed—"

"And you think I'm not?" Bakugou cries, incredulous. "That was the first time anyone has ever seen me like that—just as much as it was for you—and it was with you of all people!"

You frown. "What do you—it's just me—"

"It's because it's you that makes it all the more embarrassing! I swear—" Bakugou curses, shaking his head. "Jesus."

"I-I'm sorry, Kats. I just—" you falter, your hammering heart making it impossible to think of what else to say. You force out a shaky breath, letting your gaze fall back to your trembling hands, suddenly feeling utterly defeated.

For a prolonged moment, neither of you says a word.

It's you, though, who somehow dares to speak first.

"I was scared, alright?" you finally manage to say, voice barely above a whisper. "I was scared that once you finally managed to get one good look at me after last night, you'd realize I'm not all that you wanted after all."

You stare down at your hands, letting the silence hang heavily in the air. It doesn't take long for the telltale pinprick of tears to come, with you narrowly blinking them away before they can materialize into something that can embarrass you even further.

You're just about to accept his lack of response as unequivocal confirmation when Bakugou suddenly pipes up, catching you off guard.

"For someone so infuriatingly smart, you sure can be fucking clueless sometimes."

You jerk your head up, stunned. You're by no means trying to be funny—absolutely not now of all times—but whatever emotion that's palpable on your face must be rather amusing, because the corners of Bakugou's mouth turn upwards ever so slightly, just enough to betray his mirth.

You don't know why, then, but the mere sight of him smiling makes your chest tremor with relief, the profound anxiety from only a moment ago now but a strangely distant memory.

The relief must be evident on your face, because Bakugou's eyes soften when they eventually return to you, something akin to understanding dawning on his features.

Before you can reflexively shrink into yourself, however, he's already shaking his head.

"I can't believe you still need convincing, but I guess that's on me for not being clear enough."

Then, before you can even ask him what he meant, he fixes you with a stare, and suddenly there's nothing left for you to do but listen.

"I want you, you hear me? Always have, always will. And, after last night, I want you even more," Bakugou rasps before quickly looking away, seemingly unable to hold your gaze for far longer.

"Kats—"

"Didn't even think that was still possible, you know?" he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head once more. You feel your face twitch into a smile, eyes not once leaving his.

"…I should've known, though," Bakugou eventually finishes, smiling almost wistfully down onto the table that separates you. "Every single time I've convinced myself that I can't get further down, you've always pulled the rug under me, and I'd end up stumbling even deeper."

Another huff—this one, a little lighter. "I should've known this wouldn't be any different."

"If it's any consolation," you somehow find yourself responding, catching Bakugou off guard, "It's like that for me, too."

You chuckle to yourself, hoping the embarrassment that you're sure is written all over your face by now isn't too painful to witness, at least. "It scares me sometimes—how much I love you."

"And I want you, too," you hurriedly add on—gaze still averted—before your sudden burst of courage ultimately runs out. "Just so you know."

"Just as much," you finish quietly, then: "If not more."

"Psh."

You look up, horrified.

But then you see the face that Bakugou makes when he gets weirdly competitive, and you can't help but let out a startled laugh.

He shakes his head in mock offense, not even trying to hide his smile at this point. "You sure you wanna bet me on that?"

You laugh again, reaching for his hand across the table.

He mirrors you, meeting you halfway.

Eventually, the air settles into a comfortable lull.

You look down at your interlocked fingers and smile mournfully. "I really am sorry, Kats."

He squeezes your hand, and somehow that's enough to tell you everything's going to be alright. "Don't be," he replies easily, shooting you one of his boyish smirks. "Although, can we go back to bed now?"

Only then does it dawn on you that, in the course of having been swept into this morning's events, you completely failed to realize that it's way too early for your boyfriend to be awake, let alone be out of bed.

"Of course," you quickly retort—suddenly feeling guilty—but pause when you catch sight of the now forgotten breakfast sitting grimly between the two of you. "Uh—but can we at least finish eating first? It'd be a shame if these went to waste…"

Bakugou—who only seems to remember breakfast at your mentioning—wavers similarly, tossing his cold waffles an icy look before finally plopping back down, picking up his utensils almost petulantly. "Fine, but only because you make the best waffles."

You snort, reaching for the jar of maple syrup. "Now you're just gassing me up."

"’m not," Bakugou grumbles over a mouthful of dough, gulping it down with ease. "'Sides, that's not the only reason why I'm scarfing these down."

"Oh, yeah?" you chuckle, bringing a piece up to your mouth, "What's the other one, then?"

"One word," Bakugou replies without missing a beat.

Then—reminiscent of the devil—he grins.

"Stamina."

You choke.