#simillia

And thankfully, the apartment complex you chose was magnificent, modest, but absolutely stunning. It certainly made the pill easier to swallow. Especially now, with the incredible salary increase, you could finally afford something more comfortable; at least by your standards. It had only been a few days since you moved in, settling into a corner unit just beneath a set of condos that luxuriously occupied the top floor.

With hardly any time between moving everything in and attempting to get situated, you hadn’t even purchased groceries. Which is why you were currently standing in the lobby, half-asleep, hoodie lopsided, flip-flops smacking against the tile; waiting patiently for the elevator, arms heavy with crinkling plastic bags from a convenience store run at two in the morning. Perhaps going this late had been a mistake, or possibly a stroke of genius. It was hard to tell when you were juggling three packs of instant ramen, a bag of sour gummies, some chips, and two volumes of a shoujo manga you definitely didn’t need.

And as fate—or the universe, or some overworked celestial intern—would have it, this would be the exact moment you met the finest man in the entire complex. Perhaps the entire planet. While looking like you’d been rotting in bed since Tuesday.

They say first impressions are everything. A silent but lasting judgment, stamped onto you the moment someone lays eyes. And in this fleeting instant, it took less than a second for you to be seen as the resident weirdo. Which, clearly, wasn’t the kind of impression you’d hoped to leave on anyone outside of work. But lo’ and behold, it happened. Starting the moment the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. You stepped inside without so much a thought, more focused on not dropping anything than on checking your surroundings. Arms full and vision partially blocked by plastic bags, you fumbled to press the button for your floor, mumbling quiet curses under your breath.

Then, without a word, a hand reached out and pressed the button marked 9, the movement so swift you flinched, startled by the realization that you weren’t alone.

“Thanks,” you offered, flashing a polite smile over your shoulder.

That’s when you saw him.

A tall, really tall, man who had been built like a battering ram, standing just behind you, dressed head to toe in black tactical gear. His collar sat low on his neck, clinging to the sheen of sweat that slicked his skin. Damp blonde hair curled near his forehead, and the faint scent of smoke lingered in the narrow space between you. His eyes were a sharp crimson, shining brighter than rubies—as they flicked to you, unimpressed and dragging over you in a slow sweep that felt more like a judgment than a glance.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared.

And somehow, that said plenty.

With a sharp jawline and heavy-lidded eyes, he wore exhaustion like armor. It was a weariness that suggested the day had gone, at least, twelve rounds with him and almost won. If looks could kill, his would’ve cleared out a building. Or, at the very least, cause you to nearly drop every last one of your bags.

“Wait,” you blurted before your brain could catch up. “Aren’t you…?”

This question was self-explanatory and didn’t need an answer. You’d seen that face enough times on the news, splashed across headlines, or caught mid-detonation in grainy footage to know that he was, in fact, the Dynamight. One of the top pro-heroes in the country. A living explosion with a public temper and a hero license to match.

But up close with keys clenched between his teeth and a duffel bag sliding off one shoulder, he didn’t look like a menace.

Yes, he held an atypical scowl but he just looked tired.

And big. Definitely big.

Even slightly hunched under the weight of his gear, with gauntlets dangling from his other shoulder like boxing gloves, his biceps looked like they were on the verge of starting a fight with his sleeves.

“Tch,” his tongue clicks, side-eyeing you with perplexing precision. “Don’t tell me you’re a fan or some shit.”

“It’s hard not to be when you’re always on the news.”

That gets you a sharp snort as he shifts his weight onto one leg, arms crossed over his chest in that way that screams don’t get comfortable. The elevator hums softly around you, fluorescent lights flickering a little overhead. You swear the silence between floors drags a second too long.

“Yeah, well—,” he mutters, glancing at the elevator buttons like they’re the real enemy here. “People love watchin’ shit blow up.”

“That must make you a real box office hit.”

“Sure. Whatever you say,” he didn’t even look at you when he answered, voice low and edged with a bite—but there was a smugness under it too, like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Just don’t go expectin’ any autographs.”

“I’d manage just fine. Though I’d probably make a pretty penny pawning off your signature.”

The quip earned you the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was almost fighting showing a glimpse of his teeth. Still it counts as a win, if you were keeping score. Knowing someone in the building—especially someone not totally allergic to conversation—might not be the worst thing.

“Real fuckin’ cute,” he mutters, more gruff and amused than flirty. “You always talk this much, or just when you’re stuck in a metal box with a pro?”

Lifting a brow, your arms tightening slightly around your grocery bags. “Only when said ‘pro’ nearly scares me into dropping three cups of instant ramen.”

His gaze flicks to the bags, then back to you. “At two in the goddamn morning?”

“I was hungry,” you shrug. “Hope that’s not a crime.”

He clicks his tongue again, but you catch the way his eyes narrow—not angry, more curious now. Maybe just squinting at the absurdity of this shared moment.

Then the elevator dings, sliding open on your floor. You move to step out, but his boots echo behind you.

“Hmm? Don’t tell me…”

He jerks his chin toward the hallway, “9C.”

“Wait. Really?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, striding ahead without so much as a glance back. “I’ve got enough shit to deal with, so try not to be another pain in my fuckin’ ass.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you say back, jaw slack with pure amusement. “And here I thought the worst thing about this city would be the traffic.”

He snorts, tossing a look over his shoulder, “Keep talkin’, smartass. I’ll have a noise complaint in before you even finish unpackin’.”

Then his hand lifts in a lazy wave as he slides his key into the lock, clearly at home and completely unbothered. The door shuts behind him with a decisive thunk. And despite yourself, you grin. Still standing in the hall with a bag full of junk food, and already one story deep into the chaos that is your new neighbor.

In Bakugou’s defense, none of this was ever meant to become a habit. But scientifically speaking, fate isn’t something he can regulate; it’s a force of nature with a will of its own. And lately, it’s been working overtime to make you a recurring fixture in his day. Sometimes, in the smallest, stickiest ways.

Each encounter usually starts with you catching the elevator doors with that slippered foot of yours, smiling up at him, chatting about nothing: bad office coffee, some new ramen place a few blocks down, how that damn mailman kept mixing their packages up. He never said much. Mostly watched. But sometimes he’d grunt in agreement, or pull an earbud out when you got particularly animated.

Sometimes, he even helped you carry your groceries—in those rare moments you’d actually went shopping—always wearing a scowl. Like it pissed him off how heavy the bags were. With all that muscle mass, they weren’t. But who would he be if he acted like he enjoyed it?

This time around, though, it was purely accidental. Completely uncalled for.

Another elevator run-in. With you, looking so fucking pretty, it is actually annoying, humming to yourself, laundry basket hitched at the hip in the lobby. And when the doors dinged open ahead, it felt like an angel had been revealed to the world.

He fucking hated it.

“Look at that,” you grinned, pulling an earbud out. “Fate strikes again.”

He didn’t even try to hide the annoyance, already jabbing the “door close” button like it owed him lunch money.

“Tch. More like bad fuckin’ luck.”

But you stepped into the elevator anyway, cheerful as ever. “Mm. Sure. Or maybe you’ve just got my schedule memorized.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered. “This dumb ass elevator just hates me.”

Adjusting the basket, you gave a soft huff, “Well, lucky for you, I come bearing fresh-dried towels and small talk.”

His eyes flickered down to the basket like it personally insulted him; and hell yeah it did. Because why the fuck are you carrying anything in his presence? “Give it here. You’re goin’ to throw your back out carrying that shit by yourself.”

“Should I thank you for caring so much about my spinal health?”

“Shut up,” he scoffed, reaching to take the basket from you with one hand like it weighed nothing. “Don’t make it weird.”

The snicker that came from those lips, plump, glossed-up, and so damn soft looking, made his stomach turn, eyes narrow and heart race.

“Didn’t take you for the chivalrous type.”

He turned away from you, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Barely. It was so easy for you to tease him, and that infuriated his heart in a gentle way. “Keep fuckin’ yappin’ and I’ll throw your towels down the damn stairwell.”

“You wouldn’t dare. That’s premium detergent you’re threatening.”

The elevator jerked to a stop at their floor, and he stepped out first, still holding your basket like it was his sworn duty now. He didn’t wait or look back— he knew you were trailing after him, arms folded behind your back with a curious look directed toward him.

“You know, if this keeps up, I might start thinking you like running into me.”

He shot a glare over his shoulder—maybe he did, maybe he didn’t—eyes narrowing more, “You tryin’ to piss me off?”

“I’m just getting started.”

He muttered something under his breath, a gentle pain in my ass, while waiting at your door, shifting the basket to one arm while you fumbled with your keys.

In all his time living in this complex, no one had ever caught his interest. All his previous neighbors were idiots; extras in a world way too big for them. Some were stalkers, others were fans, and the rest? Just plain fucking boring. He didn’t care. None of them mattered. Until you, the elevator weirdo, moved in. Now, for some reason, he can’t stop wanting to matter to you; can’t stop wanting to be relevant in your world. He grumbled all the time about these stupid ass emotions. Because to him, the shit is wack as hell. But at this point, what can he do?

“Thanks,” you say quietly, taking the basket back once the door swung open.

“Yeah. Whatever,” his eyes met yours for a beat too long before he turned, striding off down the hallway, earbuds back in, hand raised lazily over his shoulder like punctuation.

And when he heard you step into your apartment—he hoped you were grinning stupidly, heart racing—because, though he wasn’t smiling, his own damn heart was pounding. There was always this softness that settled in after the two of you talked. Like you were holding something delicate and didn’t wanna drop it. It hadn’t even been that long since you moved in, and yet fuck. Was he suddenly developing some kind of weird ass emotional disease?

Not that he could ever think of you like that, but—well, shit—he wasn’t blind. He saw the way your eyes lit up when you spotted him. Felt how easy it was to fall into a rhythm with you, banter came naturally to both of you without even trying. It was stupid. Dangerous. And yet, for someone with a personality intense enough to make most people keep their distance; he didn’t mind seeing you. Didn’t mind those few minutes between floors. Maybe even looked forward to them. Even if it did only exist in the confines of elevator talk.

About three days later, what began as a harmless distraction ended up serving as a harsh reminder that instincts exist for a reason. It started with a drink and a smile before turning into an awful gut feeling the moment he referred to himself as an ‘alpha male’. Unironically, this would be the first date you’d been on in months and it was already a complete disaster. He laughed at the wrong moments, touched your waist even after you flinched, and tossed out a crude remark he had the nerve to call a compliment.

He is everything Bakugou Katsuki isn’t, and that is a compliment to the explosive hero himself. Because despite all his rough edges, you’d come to terms with one undeniable truth: you were utterly attracted to him and not this vile man sitting in front of you right now.

It was the reason you decided to go on a date to begin with. To try to shake this impending crush you had.

Not that it actually mattered.

He was the boy next door—well, more like the smoldering, broad-shouldered pro-hero who lived one apartment over—and you? Just a regular woman working a 9-to-5, trying to keep her life in order. A relationship like that could never work… right? Or maybe you were just overthinking it. Psyching yourself out before giving it a shot, too afraid of rejection, or too afraid of ruining whatever fragile, budding connection the two of you actually had.

Time couldn’t have dragged any slower. Some distraction this turned out to be. Eventually, you made a flimsy excuse, bailed, and practically sprinted home in heels. But, as if the night couldn’t get any worse, the psycho followed you.

Right up to the front of your building where he forcefully grabbed your arm.

“Why’d you run off like that, baby? We were just getting to the good part,” it was meant to be endearing but it only made you cringe in disgust.

“What the hell? Let me go,” you snapped, heart pounding loud in your ears. You tried to pull away, but his fingers clamped tighter, digging into your skin.

He leaned in closer, breath sour with whiskey. “C’mon, don’t be like that. You were flirting all night. What, suddenly you’re too good now?”

In that moment, your stomach flipped and panic clawed its way up your throat like a noose tightening with every breath. This isn’t just an awkward date anymore. This is dangerous.

“You’re drunk,” you reason, voice trembling despite your best effort to sound firm. “Go home and sleep this off before I have to call the police.”

He just smiled wider, like it was all a game. The glint in his eye made one thing painfully clear: he didn’t think you’d actually do anything about it. And maybe—maybe he was right. You would’ve stayed frozen there, caught in the moment, heart rattling like a warning siren in your chest if not for the voice that cut through the air behind you.

“Oi.”

One word barked out in a warning.

“What the fuck d’you think you’re doin’, huh?”

As if he were the sun cutting through clouds after a storm. There emerged, Bakugou Katsuki, looming and furious, wearing sweatpants and a tight fitted tank top, with eyes glowing like embers. His pace was slow, almost lethal. There was something predatory in the way he moved, hands buried deep in his pockets, looking like he had just come back from an evening jog.

The guy stepped back immediately. Trying to look as innocent as possible while attempting to appear tough.

“Leave us alone, man. We’re having a private conversation here,” the sleazy guy bit out.

“That ain’t what it looked like to me,” Bakugou snapped back, voice low.

“It doesn’t really matter what it looked like to you. This is between me and her.”

Bakugou stopped a few paces away, head tilted slightly, and jaw flexing. His voice dropped even lower, almost calm, but somehow more menacing. Then he stepped in. Close enough to shift the air. Close enough for the guy to realize just how badly he’d fucked up.

“Hah. Nah, it’s between all of us now,” he cuts his eyes to you, sharp but waiting. “Still wanna deal with this fuckin’ loser?”

In response to his question, you quickly shook your head. That was all the confirmation he needed because then, the man couldn’t help but to flinch when Bakugou raised a hand, embers sparking off his palm with loud, crackling pops that matched the fury climbing up his spine.

His expression didn’t shift, but his eyes were burning.

“I’ll give you three seconds to fuck off before I make it real hard for you to walk away.”

The guy blinked, stumbled backwards before muttering something about you being “crazy” and “not worth it” then storming off in a rush of cowardice.

“Fuckin’ bastard,” Bakugou muttered. The words were lethal, but they weren’t aimed at you.

After he left and the adrenaline ebbed into silence, is when you finally felt calm enough to release the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding until now. In fact, you just stood there, shoulders hunched, fists clenched tight at your sides.

Bakugou didn’t move right away either. He just stood there, with eyes sweeping over your face and body in a quick, practiced scan for any signs of damage. He did it so seamlessly, you almost didn’t notice. Must’ve been part of his pro-hero training. He exhaled slowly through his nose and you could tell he wanted to hit something. The twitch in his fingers gave it away. Suddenly, you wondered what he was thinking? When his eyes found yours again, that edge softened just enough.

“You hurt?” he asked, rough and to the point.

In the moment, you didn’t answer. Maybe you couldn’t. Maybe the answer was already written on your face.

He took a step toward you, then stopped short, he hesitated as if he didn’t trust himself not to scare you. The thought made his frown deepen.

“Hey,” his voice dropped, quieter now. “I’m talkin’ to you. You good?”

Another beat of silence passes before you shook your head, again, eyes burning.

Bakugou sighed and without another word, he stepped forward, gently pulled the strap of your bag off your shoulder, muttering:

“C’mon. I’m cookin’.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

This time around, the elevator ride remained silent. Neither of you, but mainly you, had much to say after that encounter earlier. Internally, you were grateful to have had a pro-hero as a neighbor. His timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Any second later and… the mere thought made you shiver. Who knew what would’ve happened.

When the doors opened to floor nine, he led the way, sticking a key in the lock before twisting the knob. In a gruff, rough-edged way, he chivalrously allowed you to walk ahead, telling you to leave your shoes at the door.

His apartment smelled of soap and charcoal, which could only be summed up as a direct result of his quirk. Regardless, it is clean in a way yours could never quite managed to be. With the income he undoubtedly earned, every piece of furniture looked hand-made, wooden and modernized. He has a black ornate clock ticking steadily on the wall, a simple case of classic movies lined the shelf, and even his fridge—based on the quick glimpse you caught—is fully stocked.

Sitting on a stool at his kitchen island with a glass of water, you watched as he moved like an executive chef who’d cooked for thousands more times than you could imagine. Contrary to popular belief, there were no explosions, no yelling, not even a single mess. Just quiet control and simple peace.

Was this truly the same man you’d seen screaming his head off on television? In fact, the way he handled situations, the way he spoke to you, was rough but stripped of aggression. This is your neighbor, the one you really fucking liked.

He cooked you soba, setting the plate down in front of you with chopsticks hanging in the noodles like a flag.

“Eat,” he muttered. “And stop lookin’ at me like I’m ‘bout to bite you.”

His words made you smile, and you obeyed by taking a bite in hopes it’ll anchor you. The flavor profile is immense, like good—so, so good. This bowl stands to be the best thing you’d eaten in weeks. And although, he didn’t hover, he still leaned against the counter sipping tea, with eyes flicking to you like he couldn’t help himself. Maybe a part of him wanted to gauge your reaction, to observe genuine emotion.

“Thank you,” you say softly, after finishing the meal he so diligently prepared. “For stepping in. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t.”

“Don’t thank me, dumbass. I just got a knack for chasin’ off weirdos.”

“That you do,” you agree with a laugh, he also had a knack for making you laugh. “Who knew having a pro as a neighbor would come with such perks?”

“Tch,” his teeth clicks lightly. “Pro or not, nobody’s layin’ a fuckin’ hand on you while I’m around.”

His words touched you, truly. It made your heart race to the point you actually started to cry softly. The reality set in, and you were so incredibly lucky to have made such a wonderful connection. At the sight of tears, he winced, fumbling for tissues.

“Don’t start cryin’, damnit.”

After that, something shifted.

Bakugou had to give you his phone number. If going out on dates, which he fucking despised the idea of, was going to be part of your routine, he found it best to grant you permission to access him personally. He tried to justify it as protection, but honestly, his reasoning was more selfish than noble.

Was it bad that he wanted to talk to you outside that godforsaken elevator? He didn’t think so. And neither did you, because soon, you started making yourself comfortable by becoming a frequent in his life. It took a matter of seconds before you started crashing on his bed whenever you were too tired to walk down the hall. Sometimes, you’d insist on sleeping on the couch, but he just couldn’t stomach the idea of letting his unexpected guest do so. He’d grown so accustomed to having you over, that he’d even leave a pillow fluffed up with extra blankets folded, waiting just in case.

He thought he’d get annoyed by your frequent texts, but it turned out to be the highlight of his day—especially when you sent those stupid-ass moving pictures or chatted about the little things.

His favorite is always about the elevator.

Pain In My Ass:

Not them finally fixing the metal box after a month…

Still can’t believe they had us walking up nine flights of stairs for that long.

read ✔️

He’d then respond, “Bet it breaks again tomorrow.”

Then you’d send a laughing emoji with this little quip:

Pain In My Ass:

Should we sue?

delivered ✔️

And slowly, slowly, he began to soften. He grumbled less, and smirked a bit more. He let you decorate his fridge with those dumb ass magnets you always seemed to find on clearance at the convenience store you loved so much. He let you call him by his first name, and you let him call you by yours. It felt familiar, as if he’d known you for a lifetime. And he reluctantly liked the sound of it rolling off his tongue.

Bakugou was shit at admitting it, but he actually fucking liked you. A bit too much. He’d been suppressing it for a while, but attraction, chemistry, and connection couldn’t be hidden in moments filled with intimacy—like right now, on a night you asked him over to watch a movie, and he’d taken over the kitchen like he always does, preparing an array of snacks.

“For someone who doesn’t live here, you’ve got a real habit of acting like this is your place,” you teased with a smile, watching him pace around.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the attention.

“If you stocked your damn fridge, I wouldn’t have to.”

He constantly fussed at you for your lack of food, but always mentally created a grocery list, knowing he’d make it his mission to have it filled by the next evening.

“I’ll just start charging you rent since you seem to greatly dislike my limited grocery spend.”

He snorted, grabbing another bowl from the cabinet. “Yeah? Then I’ll pawn off those shitty magnets on my fridge to cover it.”

Laughter rang through the air at his response, and you lightly smacked his shoulder. “I thought you liked them?”

“They’re fuckin’ stupid,” he muttered, lips tugging into a smirk. “But I put up with ‘em ‘cause they’re yours.”

He avoided looking at you directly, pretending to focus on the snacks, but the slight curl at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. The banter, the conversation, nothing ever seemed to falter with you. Not many people got his sense of humor, nor did they grasp his personality.

But you, fucking you, read him perfectly. And he appreciated that more than he’d ever admit.

As you kept talking, he placed some final touches on the food and slid a plate toward you. His eyes, watchful as always, stayed locked on you as you took a bite. The hum that slipped from your throat when the flavor hit made his pulse spike in an uncontrollable wave, much like a fuse hissing down to detonation.

“It’s so good,” you murmured, already snagging another bite.

“Damn right it is.”

Bakugou meant to leave it at that. He really did. But when his hand lifted to brush a crumb from the corner of your mouth, the atmosphere shifted, suddenly turning sensual. He couldn’t resist the temptation of your lips—so soft to the touch and pleasant to look at. His thumb lingered too long, dragging against the plumpness of your lower lip before he pulled his hand back, jaw clenched tight.

Fuck.

FUCKKKKKK.

He shouldn’t want this so badly. But you were standing right there, lips practically begging for him. If that wasn’t enough, there were your eyes too, locked on his like you could see every thought running through his head. He hated how easy it was for you to undo him, how much he wanted to drown in you. His gaze dropped again, lingering on the way your mouth parted as you breathed. He could almost picture it: how you’d taste, and how you’d sound when he finally kissed you.

Then you leaned in, just barely, perhaps without even realizing it. But regardless, it was enough.

A curse tore from him as he closed the space, crashing his mouth against yours. This kiss was a mixture of everything—rough, messy, charged with the restraint that had been silently breaking for months. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb pressing firm against your cheek as if to pin you in place, to make sure you couldn’t slip away now that he had you.

And you kissed him back just as desperately, clutching at him like you had been starving too.

“Shit,” he muttered, trying to regain control, trying to remind himself to stop before he went too far. Pulling back slightly, breathing heavy, eyes dark with restraint.

“Katsuki,” you murmured, tilting your chin up to kiss him again. This time, your hand fisted his shirt, pulling him closer. Your insistence made a low growl escape him. “I really like you.”

“Tch,” he froze for half a second, struggling against the chaos you’d unleashed, before giving it up entirely. “You’re really something,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to yours. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you impossibly close. “I like you too, idiot.”

The next kiss was fiercer, hungrier, desperate in a way that left both of you reeling. Hands tangled in each other’s hair, hearts slamming, lips colliding again and again. Time had denied you this euphoric experience long enough, and now it erupted into one impossible, burning instant.

“Wait—,” you laugh, pulling back, and he lets you, only to dip lower, pressing hot kisses down your neck and nipping at your bare shoulder. “What about our movie?”

“Why the hell do you care about some shitty movie right now?” he mutters against your neck, smirking when you shiver.

“Guess you’ve got a point,” you tease. “But you’re going to have to prove you’re worth missing the ending for.”

“Heh,” he smirks against your skin, teeth scraping your shoulder. “I’ll have you forgettin’ about it in ten fuckin’ seconds.”

He smirks, grabs you like you weigh nothing, and tosses you over his shoulder. Striding past the couch without a second glance at the untouched snacks and abandoned movie, he carries you upstairs—your laughter mixing with his low, satisfied chuckle.

In no way, shape, or form did you ever expect to feel so blissfully at peace with the most passionate man on planet earth. Everything Bakugou Katsuki did was never half-assed, and that included his love. Every heartbeat felt synchronized, and the world would fall away every time his lips found yours. The intention hadn’t been to fall in love, let alone so seamlessly. But somehow it had come to this point where everything just fell together.

Groceries were still an unspoken shared duty, mainly one-sided with Bakugou grumbling as he hauled the heavier bags and you teasing him mercilessly.

“Y’know, you could probably bench press the whole building,” you’d joke.

“Shut up,” he’d snort, one eyebrow raised, though secretly you knew he liked the praise.

The elevator remained a stage for your endless chatter, small talk now punctuated with laughter and a quiet, comfortable familiarity. On late patrol nights you’d wait for him in the lobby, a huge smile on your face. He’d want to hear about your day, and you’d tell him everything—whether it was complaining about the office or recounting some absurd city mishap.

He listened, muttering a single gruff word of acknowledgment, occasionally cracking the tiniest smirk when your stories grew ridiculous.

And then there were the little moments that made your chest tighten and your stomach flip with quiet wonder. Like when the lights flickered one evening and your hand instinctively found his. How he didn’t pull away, but held it firm, like it was his job to keep you safe—and always had been.

Being with him like this, amid the domestic chaos, the soft quiet, the everyday intimacy, was something you never could have imagined when you first stepped into that elevator. The man who once radiated fire and scowls now let his walls down just enough for you to see him fully. And in turn, you realized that you didn’t need grand gestures to feel sparks.

Sometimes he caught you staring, eyes lingering too long on the curve of his jaw, the slope of his broad shoulders, the way his hands moved when he cooked or carried your bags. He’d clear his throat, scowl, and mutter,

“Don’t get all sappy on me,” but his fingers would brush against yours anyway, a quiet reassurance that needed no words.

It felt good to love him. And to know he loved you too—because he’d said it first, with that gruff certainty that made your heart ache. Being his was unpredictable, but perfect. Being yours was the softest thing about him.

And in a world that was always loud, explosive, and uncertain, this quiet, reckless, tender space was yours.

Together.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆────── the end.

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