a little bit harder now..

so you lie there in the dark and watch the minutes drag by, grinning like you’ve got a secret. at 11:58, you shift a little closer and slide your hand up his bare arm.

nothing.

at 11:59, you lean in and press your mouth to the corner of his jaw.

“katsuki,” you whisper.

he frowns without waking. “mm.”

“katsuki.”

one red eye cracks open, glassy with sleep and immediate irritation. “the hell.”

you have to bite back a laugh. he looks so offended to be conscious.

“c’mere,” you whisper.

“i am here.”

“baby.”

he squints at you, then at the clock, then back at you, suspicion slowly dawning through the fog. “no.”

you beam.

“don’t,” he mutters, already trying to roll away and somehow also drag you with him by the waist at the same time. “don’t start.”

the clock ticks over.

12:00.

you tuck yourself right into his space, nose brushing his, and say it soft like it’s something precious.

“happy birthday.”

he shuts his eye like he can undo the moment by refusing to witness it.

“oh my god,” he groans.

you laugh into the pillow. “you’re twenty-six.”

“i know how old i am.”

“happy birthday, handsome.”

he makes the most put-upon sound in the world and then, because he is bakugou and can never just let a thing sit sweetly, he hooks an arm around your middle and bodily hauls you under him.

you yelp, then laugh harder when he pins you down with all his sleepy weight, face buried in your neck, hair tickling your cheek.

“you are a fuckin’ freak, ‘s too early for this shit,” he mumbles against your skin.

“it’s only just midnight, you grandpa.”

he lifts his head just enough to glare at you.

the glare would work better if his face wasn’t still creased from sleep, or if his eyes weren’t a little puffy, or if his mouth wasn’t already softening at the corners despite himself. you smooth your thumb over the line between his brows.

“wanted to be the first one to tell you.”

his expression flickers. just for a second. that tiny, helpless kind of softness he hates getting caught with. then he scowls on instinct and drops his forehead against yours.

“could’ve done that in the morning.”

“nope. had to be exact.”

“insane as shit.”

“thank you.”

he exhales hard through his nose, like you are personally exhausting, and then kisses you.

not dramatic. not rushed.

just warm and sleepy and deep enough to make your chest ache with it.

that’s the thing about him— how even half awake, half annoyed, he kisses like he means it. like there’s no version of touching you that’s careless. his hand slides up under your sleep shirt, broad palm settling warm against your side, thumb sweeping once over bare skin. he huffs when you smile into his mouth.

“don’t get smug,” he mutters.

“you tackled me.”

“yeah, ‘cause you woke me up at midnight.”

“for a very good reason.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you. “this your excuse for everything now?”

“yes.”

his mouth twitches.

you kiss the corner of it before he can stop it.

the room is dark except for the clock, except for the city light leaking blue-gray through the curtains, enough to make the edges of him visible: the strong slope of his shoulders, the scars at his collarbone at the centre of his chest, the lines of him all familiar under your hands. you drag your fingers lightly up his back and feel him shiver.

that makes you go soft all over.

“birthday boy,” you murmur.

he gives you a look. “do not start calling me that.”

“why? it’s true.”

“it’s awful.”

“you’re awful.”

“yeah? still in my bed.”

you grin. “lucky me.”

his eyes drop to your mouth. “lucky fuckin’ me,” he says, quieter.

and then he kisses you again, and this one changes shape somewhere in the middle.

sleep falls away from him by degrees. you can feel it happen under your hands— his body waking, the lazy heaviness sharpening into purpose, his palm sliding from your side to your waist, his other hand cupping the back of your neck so he can take his time with your mouth. he kisses like he’s still trying to grumble and still failing at it, all warmth and impatience and devotion tangled together.

you slide your leg between his and he makes a low sound in his throat, forehead bumping yours.

“oh, so that’s what this is,” he says.

you widen your eyes innocently. “what? i’m just being affectionate on your birthday.”

“bullshit.”

“you think so little of me.”

“i know too much about you, that’s the problem.”

he kisses down your jaw, says into your skin, “woke me up all sweet just to start somethin’. you been waitin’ all night to do this?” he murmurs against you.

“i mean. it is on the schedule.”

he snorts softly. “you got a fuckin’ birthday itinerary?”

“maybe.”

“control freak.”

“says you, asshole.”

but his hand is already at the hem of your shirt, pushing it up slow, eyes following every inch of skin he uncovers like he’s memorising you all over again. you help him tug it over your head, and his expression does that thing it always does— goes briefly intent, almost reverent, all the sharp edges in him going still.

the look alone is enough to make your breath catch.

“there she is,” he murmurs.

your laugh comes out smaller than you mean it to. “that line work on everyone?”

“wouldn’t know.”

he leans down and kisses the top of your shoulder, then lower, then lower still, taking his time in a way that feels almost unfair. his hands are everywhere before anything else— waist, ribs, thigh, the curve of you like he has to reacquaint himself with every part. he always starts with his hands. always. like he needs the proof of you there under his palms before he can think about anything else.

you run your fingers through his hair when his mouth finds your chest and he hums like he’s pleased with himself.

“katsuki.”

“what.”

“that’s not fair.”

“it’s my birthday, lemme talk to my girls.” his hands both come up to cup your breasts as his lips find one of your nipples already stiff and waiting for him, a calloused thumb pressing over the other bud with a reverence.

“that’s not talking.”

“says who.”

he doesn’t look up, just keeps kissing a path that leaves you warm all over, smug in that quiet way he gets when he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. you can feel the smile against your skin even before you hear it in his voice.

“m’allowed to be greedy.”

“you’re always greedy.”

“yeah,” he says, and finally lifts his head enough to look at you properly. “with you.”

the words land somewhere deep.

bakugou says things like that by accident sometimes. not because he doesn’t mean them— because he means them too much, and they slip out while he’s busy loving you with his whole chest and forgets to guard himself.

you reach for him automatically, and he lets you pull him back up long enough to kiss him, slow and sweet, your hand against his face.

“i should be spoiling you,” you whisper.

he blinks once, then snorts softly. “you are.”

“i mean it.”

“so do i.”

his fingers hook in the waistband of your shorts. he glances down, then back at you, one brow lifting.

“cute.”

your face warms. “don’t.”

“cute,” he repeats, with a little more satisfaction. then, because he is terrible, adds, “too bad.”

“you’re impossible.”

“yeah, and these are goin’ on the goddamn floor.”

you laugh so hard you have to hide your face in his shoulder, which only seems to encourage him. he presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth while he tugs your shorts and underwear down your legs with infuriating patience, like he has all the time in the world and knows it.

when you reach for him in return, he catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it.

“nah,” he says.

you frown up at him. “nah?”

“it’s my birthday.”

“that is not an explanation.”

“it is to me.”

“you’re such a dictator.”

“and you like that about me.”

unfortunately, you do. a little.

he strips off the last of his own clothes with far less ceremony, all brisk efficiency until he’s back over you again, warm and broad and familiar, the weight of him settling between your thighs like a promise. then the efficiency disappears completely. he just looks at you for a second, breathing a little harder now, eyes dragging over your face like he’s checking in.

“you good?”

“yeah.”

he brushes his thumb over your cheek. “tell me if you’re not.”

“okay.”

the next kiss is softer than the ones before it. it almost undoes you more than the hot ones.

he makes good on his greed slowly.

not rushed, not sloppy, not like something to get through on the way to somewhere else. he takes his time kissing you apart piece by piece, mouth travelling down your body again while his hands pin you gently in place only to soothe over the same skin a second later. you complain, because you feel morally obligated to at least pretend you remember whose birthday this is, and he only grunts against you and goes right on ignoring you.

“katsuki,” you say, breath catching as he mouths at your cunt with obscene reverence. “i’m serious—”

“yeah?” he says, voice rough and maddeningly calm. “so am i.”

then he proves it.

the room narrows to him in increments. to the drag of his hands, the hot wet of his mouth, the way he seems to know exactly how to make your whole body tense and soften and shake by turns. he likes it— likes the effect he has, likes watching you come apart under him. you know that already. he’s vain enough about pleasing you that it circles back around into being almost embarrassing.

tonight— this morning— he’s worse.

every time you try to pull him back up, he catches your hands and presses them into the sheets. every time you protest, he says some version of lemme do what i want, like this is his gift and he’s unwrapping it exactly how he pleases. he makes you come twice over, with his mouth and fingers in tandem. by the time he finally lifts his head again, cheeks flushed and mouth pink and wet with you and eyes bright with satisfaction, you could probably kill him for how smug he looks.

he kisses you before you can say so.

you taste yourself on his mouth, and the intimacy of that— of him giving it back to you like something shared, not taken— makes you make a helpless little sound into the kiss. he swallows it with obvious delight.

“there you go,” he murmurs against your lips, all rough affection and quiet triumph. “that’s my girl.”

“conceited ass,” you breathe.

“and?”

“and i hate you.”

“no, you don’t.”

“no,” you admit, pulling him back down. “i really don’t.”

something in his face shifts at that.

still soft. still heated. but suddenly more open too, more tender than teasing. he nudges his nose against yours, then kisses you once, twice, three times, like he can’t help it. you wrap your arms around his neck and he lets himself be held for exactly one breath before he’s moving again, guiding you onto your back properly, settling over you with one hand braced by your head and the other tangled with yours.

this is the part of him that always gets you.

not the heat, though there’s plenty of that. not the confidence, though he has that in spades too. it’s the way he never stops looking at you. like he can’t stand the thought of missing a single expression. like even now, especially now, the point of it is not just feeling good but being with you in it.

he presses his forehead to yours. “still good?”

you nod, and he presses on for something verbal from you with a gentle nudge of his nose against your own.

“yeah?”

“yes,” you whisper, and kiss him once. “please.”

the breath he takes sounds like it hurts him.

when he presses his cock into you, it’s slow enough to turn your whole body liquid with it. you're warm and wet enough for him to bottom out slowly, but in one full motion.

no hurry. no rough edge.

just that careful, breathless press forward, the both of you clinging a little tighter as he works you through every inch of closeness like it matters. like he’d rather take forever than miss the feeling of it. your mouth falls open and he kisses you immediately, swallowing the sound, his free hand sliding from your hip up to your ribs and back down again in a soothing pass.

“there,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours between words. “there you are.”

you laugh shakily, a gentle keening moan slipping from your lips.

“you’re gonna kill me,” he says, almost accusing.

“it’s your birthday, call it a present.”

“worst gift ever.” he breathes like he means it, and then the rhythm finds you both.

gentle is somehow more devastating with him.

it doesn’t stay still, exactly— he’s still bakugou, still intense, still incapable of doing anything halfway— but even when the pace picks up there’s something clingy about it, something almost desperately affectionate. he kisses you through half of it, mouths at your jaw through the other half, breathes your name into your skin like a prayer he’d never admit to saying. the hand holding yours tightens every time you arch up into him. his other arm slides under your back eventually, hauling you closer like close is still not enough.

you can’t tell where one kiss ends and the next begins.

at one point you break just to breathe and he follows, panting against your mouth, eyes glassy and dark and so unfairly pretty it makes your stomach flip. a strand of hair has fallen into his face. his brows are pulled together. he looks wrecked already.

you push it back.

he leans into the touch without thinking.

that, more than anything, is what does you in.

“look at me,” he says softly.

you are. you have been.

still, you nod like you understand what he means, and keep your eyes on his while he moves, while the room goes warm and blurry and impossibly small around the two of you. his mouth opens on a breath. his expression folds in on itself in that lovely, miserable way it always does when he gets close— brows pinched, cheeks flushed scarlet, lower lip threatening a pout like he’s personally offended by how much he feels. it would be funny if it weren’t so devastatingly dear.

“there,” you whisper, because you can’t help yourself. “there’s my pretty boy.”

his whole face goes pinker.

“shut up,” he says weakly, which only proves your point.

you kiss him through it when the last of his composure gives way.

he comes apart beautifully— quiet for him, just a broken sound into your mouth and a helpless shudder that runs through his whole body all at once, like pleasure catches him by surprise every time. you hold him while it happens. of course you do. one hand in his hair, the other at the back of his neck, keeping him close while he breathes hard against your lips and then your cheek and then finally buries his face in the curve of your throat like he’s embarrassed by the entire concept of being witnessed.

you stroke your hand down his back.

“hi,” you murmur.

he makes a sound that might be a laugh and might be a groan.

“you okay?”

“no,” he says into your skin. “i’m dyin’.”

“on your birthday too. that’s rough.”

“shut up.”

you smile and kiss his temple.

he stays there for a while, heavy and warm and boneless in a way he only ever lets himself be with you. when he finally lifts his head, his hair is an absolute disaster and his mouth is swollen and his expression is still just this side of wounded. you smooth the line of your thumb over his bottom lip. he catches your wrist and kisses your palm.

“told you i should be spoiling you,” you say quietly.

he gives you a flat look. “you think that wasn’t for me?”

you laugh. “you are unbelievable.”

“damn right.”

he kisses you one more time, lazy now, all the sharpness gone out of him. then he rolls enough to tug the blanket back over both of you and drags you in against his chest like he’s reclaiming his original position from before you interrupted his sleep with your schemes.

“there,” he mutters.

“there what?”

“birthday started right.”

your heart goes so soft it almost hurts.

you tilt your chin up. “oh?”

he immediately regrets having spoken at all. you can see it happen.

“don’t start.”

“i just think—”

“don’t.”

“— that was awfully sentimental—”

he squishes your face with one big hand until you squeak. “go to sleep.”

laughing, you pry his hand off and tuck yourself into him properly. he’s still warm everywhere, heartbeat steady under your ear now, one arm slung heavy over your waist again. his chin ends up on top of your head after a minute, like it always does.

“happy birthday,” you whisper one more time into the dark.

he’s quiet so long you think he might already be drifting.

then, rough with sleep and something softer, he says, “yeah. thanks, baby.”

⁠⊰—

you both sleep again until morning properly, tangled up in the sheets, the room washed gold this time instead of blue. you wake the second his 7:00 alarm starts shrilling from the nightstand. it only gets through half a second of the default tone before bakugou’s hand shoots out from under the blankets and smacks his phone silent with deadly accuracy. years of early patrols have trained the motion into his bones. even half asleep, he moves like someone answering a call.

for one weird, quiet moment, he stays there exactly as he is— face buried in the pillow, one arm slung heavy over your waist, hair a mess of warm ash-blond against the sheets.

then his shoulders tense.

you feel him remember.

work.

you keep your eyes mostly shut, just enough to watch him through your lashes as he drags a slow breath in through his nose. he sounds so tired it makes your chest ache a little. not miserable-tired, not bone-deep exhausted the way he gets after multi-day operations, but the ordinary kind he never lets himself indulge. the kind he works through because that’s what he does. because if he’s got somewhere to be, he goes. simple as that.

he lifts his head, blinking blearily at the dim gray-blue room. the curtains are still drawn, and the apartment has that muffled early-morning hush to it, the kind that makes everything feel soft around the edges. he glances at the time on his phone, rubs at one eye, then looks over at you.

his whole face changes.

not by much— bakugou never does anything by much first thing in the morning— but enough that you see it. the irritation leaves. his mouth softens.

“sorry,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “didn’t mean to wake you.”

you make a vague little noise and curl closer on purpose, slipping a leg between his and burrowing into the heat of him. he’s always furnace-hot in the mornings, all solid muscle and warm skin and sleep-heavy softness that disappears the second he fully wakes up.

“s’okay, basically revenge for midnight” you mumble into his shoulder.

he huffs out a laugh as he brushes his knuckles over your side, slow and absent. “go back to sleep.”

“mhm.”

another moment. he doesn’t move.

you know he wants to. you can feel it in the way he’s holding himself— caught halfway between getting up and staying put. like some part of him is already standing in the agency, halfway through paperwork, already checking schedules and route changes and incident reports.

then he sighs and tips his forehead against yours.

“dinner when i get back,” he says quietly, like a promise made in the dark. “yeah?”

you open your eyes fully then, because there’s something so horribly sweet about that— about him apologising for having to go in on his own birthday, like you’re the one being deprived of him.

“yeah?” he prompts, softer this time.

you smile a little. “you asking me out?”

he cracks one eye open to glare at you.

“at seven in the damn morning?”

“you did wake me up.”

“you did worse earlier, and i said sorry.”

“you did.” you tilt your chin up and kiss the corner of his mouth. “very gentlemanly of you.”

he huffs. “brat.”

still, he kisses you back properly this time, brief and warm and lingering just enough to say what he doesn’t bother putting into words. his hand slides up your back, palm broad and warm through your sleep shirt, holding you there while the room sits quiet around you.

then he pulls away with obvious effort.

“c’mon,” he mutters, already shifting to sit up. “i gotta get moving.”

he swings his legs over the side of the bed.

“actually,” you say brightly, still half wrapped in the blankets, “no you don’t.”

he pauses.

slowly, he turns his head.

“what.”

you prop yourself up on one elbow, trying and failing to hide your smile. “you’re sick today.”

there is a beat of complete silence.

then: “i’m what.”

“terribly sick. very tragic.”

bakugou just stares at you.

you can practically see the gears grinding. his face is still a little puffy with sleep, hair sticking up in every direction, bare back lit faintly by the weak morning light leaking around the curtains, and somehow that only makes the look he gives you more severe.

“the hell are you talking about? i feel fine.”

“you can’t go in,” you tell him, folding your arms with the smug serenity of a woman who has already won. “doctor’s orders.”

“you are not a doctor.”

“i might as well be.”

he squints.

then his eyes narrow even further. “what did you do.”

that’s the moment it clicks for him. you watch it happen in real time— the suspicion, the dawning horror, the immediate offence.

you press your lips together. “nothing.”

“bullshit.”

“mhm.”

“what did you do.”

you sit up fully, blanket pooling around your waist, and give him your sweetest smile. “kirishima very valiantly agreed to take your patrol.”

bakugou goes completely still.

you can actually see the exact second his brain short-circuits.

“you—”

“he was very brave about it.”

“you called my agency?”

“i may have made a little birthday-related executive decision.”

“with whose fuckin’ authority?”

“mine.”

his mouth drops open a fraction. “don’t fuck with my schedule.”

“you say that like i moved open-heart surgery.”

“i’m a goddamn pro hero.”

“and now you’re a goddamn pro hero with the day off.”

he runs a hand down his face, groaning into his palm. “jesus christ.”

there’s real irritation there. of course there is. he likes order. he likes knowing what his day looks like, what he’s responsible for, where he’s meant to be and when. he’s built his whole life around the discipline it takes to do this job well, and you just reached into that system and yanked a piece out because you wanted him home.

but beneath it— threaded through the grumbling and the affront and the instinctive resistance— is something else.

relief.

you know him well enough to hear it.

he sits there on the edge of the bed for a second with his shoulders tense, staring at the wall like maybe if he glares hard enough the agency will reassemble itself around him. then he exhales hard through his nose.

“y’get one day,” he grumbles. “one. don’t make this a habit.”

your grin goes blinding.

he looks over and catches it immediately. “don’t start.”

“start what?”

“that look on your face.”

“what look?”

“the one that means you’re about to be annoying.”

“i’m always annoying.”

“yeah, and i’m always right.”

he’s still half turned away from you, reaching down for the sweatpants he dumped on the floor the night before, when the sudden, irresistible urge hits.

you lean over and pinch his butt.

not hard. just enough.

bakugou jolts like you’ve electrocuted him.

he whips around so fast you nearly fall backward laughing.

“fuck off!” he snaps, scandalised.

he is instantly red— truly, deeply, helplessly red— from the tips of his ears right down under his collarbones. it blooms fast on him, warm across his cheeks, and if he weren’t so furious about it, it would be the cutest thing on earth.

you bite your lip, badly suppressing a grin. “good morning to you too.”

“do not start.”

“i didn’t start anything.”

“you pinched my ass.”

“in my defence, you have a cute ass.”

“shut your goddamn mouth!”

you laugh outright then, and that’s apparently the wrong move, because he lunges.

you yelp as he catches you around the waist and shoves you backward into the mattress, all blankets and limbs and sleepy morning violence. he’s careful even when he’s not pretending to be— never lands with full weight on you, never lets an elbow or knee go anywhere it shouldn’t— but he makes a very convincing show of trying to squash the life out of you anyway.

“you got too much fuckin’ energy already,” he mutters, wrestling one of your wrists down while you squirm and laugh beneath him. “seven in the morning and you’re already on bullshit.”

“you love my bullshit. you’re smiling.”

“i am not.”

he is, a little. mostly with his eyes. there’s still sleep stuck to him, still warmth and looseness in his limbs, and now that he’s not going in, that urgency has bled out of him enough for the mood to settle. he’s grumbling on principle. you know it, and worse, he knows you know it.

you twist under him enough to free one hand and shove at his face. he catches your wrist before you can fully push him off and bites lightly at the heel of your palm in retaliation.

you gasp. “oh, you little—”

“watch it.”

“it is my civic duty to harass the birthday boy.”

“your civic duty is to shut the hell up.”

he pins both your wrists over your head with one hand just because he can, leans over you with that mean, smug look that always means trouble, and for a second it threatens to become something else— something slower, warmer, the kind of thing that would drag the whole morning sideways before either of you ever made it to breakfast.

then a loud, demanding meow echoes from the hallway.

both of you go still.

another meow. longer this time. more pathetic. the sound of a cat who has apparently never been fed in her life.

you dissolve into helpless laughter.

bakugou drops his head to your shoulder with a long, suffering groan. “unbelievable.”

lambchop meows again, louder, scraping one imperious paw against the bedroom door like the world’s most oppressed princess.

bakugou lifts his head, glaring toward the sound. “you had late-ass dinner last night and a snack, you greedy bastard.”

another meow.

he releases your wrists and sits back on his heels, annoyed beyond words. “she knows we’re awake.”

“she smells weakness.”

“she smells the guy who opens the wet food for her.”

“she also smells weakness.”

he shoots you a look, then reaches down to pat your thigh once, twice— firm little smacks through the blanket. “c’mon. get dressed. i’ll deal with the fatass and start breakfast.”

you blink up at him. “oh? the kitchen control freak is allowing me out of my enclosure?”

“don’t push your luck.”

“yes, chef.”

“shut up.”

he stands, drags his sweatpants on properly, and stalks toward the bedroom door with the stiff-backed dignity of a man pretending he has not just spent five minutes play-fighting in bed instead of going to work.

the second he opens the door, lambchop sweeps in like a fuzzy brown-and-white missile and winds around his ankles with an accusing trill.

bakugou looks down at her in feigned disgust.

“you are not starvin’,” he tells her.

lambchop opens her mouth and lets out the frailest, most theatrical meow she’s ever produced.

you hear his whole voice change.

it always does.

it drops into that absurdly soft, low, babying tone he uses only for her— sweet enough to rot teeth, gentle as anything, completely at odds with every other sound the man makes.

“oh my god,” he murmurs, scooping her up under her little front legs so her back feet dangle. “listen to you. you’re such a damn liar.”

lambchop blinks at him, angelic.

he adjusts her against his chest, one big hand spanning almost her whole side. “yeah, i know, baby. life’s so hard. nobody ever feeds you. you’re wastin’ away to nothin’.”

from the bed, you clap a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing too loudly.

he continues down the hall, muttering to her the whole way.

“fat as hell and still screamin’ at me. shameful. you know that? damn near twenty pounds of freeloadin’ attitude...”

lambchop chirps.

“yeah, okay, i hear you. don’t give me that voice. we’re movin’ ain’t we?”

he disappears into the kitchen, but his voice carries easily in the quiet apartment. you can hear the rustle of the food bag, the clink of her dish, the soft, ridiculous stream of commentary he keeps up all the while.

“my poor baby, huh? cruel world. terrible conditions. somebody should call the papers.”

you drag yourself out of bed grinning so hard your face hurts.

by the time you’ve pulled on one of his old shirts and washed your face, the apartment smells faintly of coffee and butter. morning light has started to seep in for real now, thin and pale gold through the windows, touching the edges of the counter tops, the back of the couch, the framed hero rankings magazine cover kirishima gave him as a joke and he pretended not to like enough to hang in the hall anyway.

you shuffle into the kitchen to find bakugou at the stove, hair still a disaster, glasses perched low on his nose because he hasn’t bothered with contacts yet. he’s barefoot, broad shoulders and back bare above the waistband of his sweats, and he’s already halfway into making breakfast with the laser-focus of a man entering combat.

and holding lambchop in one arm like a baby.

not tucked against his side. not perched on his hip. properly held— one big forearm under her fat little body, her front paws draped over the crook of his elbow, her round face turned toward the pan like she’s personally supervising.

you stop in the doorway.

bakugou glances over at the lack of noise and catches you just standing there, toothpaste still minty on your tongue, staring at the sight of him in his kitchen with your ridiculous cat bundled up against his bare chest.

“the hell are you lurkin’ for,” he asks, but there’s no heat in it. his cheeks are already pink.

you don’t answer right away. you can’t. he looks so unfairly soft like this that it nearly takes the air out of you. sleep-mussed and warm and pink in the face on his own birthday, glasses sliding down his nose, cat in hand, spatula in the other.

lambchop chirps at you as if to say, yes, this is my father.

“oh my god,” you breathe.

his brows knit. “what.”

“you are literally breastfeeding her.”

“i am not.”

“you kind of are.”

“she won’t get down.”

“‘cause you won’t put her down!”

as if on cue, lambchop presses herself closer to his chest with a pleased little mrrow.

you clap a hand over your mouth.

bakugou glares. “don’t start.”

“you’re holding her like she’s six months old and colicky.”

“she was yellin’.”

“she is always yelling.”

“yeah, well.” he looks down at her and adjusts her automatically, tucking her in more securely. “she’s dramatic.”

lambchop blinks at him, smug and serene.

you finally make yourself move, padding farther into the kitchen. the tile is cool under your feet. the coffee pot gurgles quietly on the bench behind him, and butter pops low and steady in the pan. there’s toast waiting, salmon going crisp at the edges, fruit cut up on the board. he’s already halfway through a proper breakfast, of course he is. the man doesn’t know how to cook casually.

he properly looks you over once, quick and instinctive, like he does every time you enter a room. it starts at your face, drops to the line of his old shirt hanging off your shoulders, and then goes still.

there’s a pause.

his eyes narrow.

“what d’we have on under that?”

you lean a hip against the counter, trying and failing to keep your mouth straight. “nothing.”

another pause.

then his ears go bright red.

he clicks his tongue and looks back at the stove like it personally offended him. “shit,” he mutters. “guess it is my birthday.”

you laugh so hard you have to grab the edge of the counter.

he cuts you a dirty look, which is made significantly less effective by the fact that he’s blushing from the collar up and still cradling the cat.

“oh, that got you?” you ask sweetly.

“shut up.”

“no, really, i just want to understand where your threshold is. because apparently it’s one oversized shirt.”

“it’s seven-thirty in the damn morning.”

“and?”

“and you know exactly what the hell you’re doin’.”

you push off the counter and come up beside him, peering into the pan. “i’m being cute.”

“you’re bein’ an ass.”

“tomato, tomahto.”

he snorts despite himself.

lambchop twists in his arm to look at you, then stretches one paw toward the pan with criminal intent. bakugou catches it against his chest without even glancing down.

“don’t,” he tells her.

she gives a tiny, offended squeak.

“you already ate.”

she stares.

“you are not gettin’ my salmon.”

she continues staring, unblinking.

bakugou stares right back at her like she’s a seasoned rival hero trying to outmanoeuvre him. “don’t try that manipulative bullshit with me.”

you lean your elbows on the counter and grin. “you say, while holding her like you birthed her.”

he very deliberately does not look at you. “gonna need both hands in a second.”

“mhm.”

“just letting her get some love before i gotta put her down, that’s it.”

“mhm.”

“don’t make that sound.”

“you’re such a good dad, katsuki.”

he turns to glare at you fully, scandalised. “i’m not her dad.”

lambchop makes a soft little trill and rubs her face against the underside of his jaw.

his whole expression folds in on itself. not enough for anyone else to notice, maybe, but enough for you. the stern mouth softens. his eyes lose their bite. he dips his head, just a little, so she can do it better.

then he realises you’re watching and stiffens back up.

“get the coffee,” he orders.

“ooooh, bossy.”

“coffee,” he repeats.

you salute lazily and move to the machine, still smiling to yourself. over your shoulder, you hear him murmuring to lambchop under his breath in that absurdly soft baby voice he only ever uses for her.

“no, don’t act sweet now. i know what you are. greedy little bastard…”

the cat purrs loud enough to rattle windows.

you pour two mugs and set his beside the stove. he thanks you without thinking, low and distracted, then seems to realise what he said and gets pinker somehow.

you glance at him sidelong. “polite today.”

“don’t push it.”

“birthday manners.”

“keep talkin’ and i’ll ruin yours.”

“oh, no,” you deadpan. “anything but that.”

his gaze snaps back to you.

there it is again— that immediate flush, that instant heat blooming over his cheeks, his ears, the bridge of his nose. he’s been pink all morning, ever since midnight, every soft thing apparently hitting him twice as hard today. maybe because he’s off-balance. maybe because he’s home. maybe because he secretly likes being fussed over more than he’ll ever admit and now there’s no work to hide behind.

whatever it is, it is destroying him.

you hop up onto the counter anyway.

“the hell are you doing.”

“supervising.”

“you’re in the way.”

“you love me.”

“that ain’t the issue.”

you take a sip of coffee and hum like you’re considering it. “i think it is.”

he takes lambchop by the middle and deposits her onto the floor with far more ceremony than necessary. she immediately circles his ankles in protest.

“stay out from under me,” he tells her, pointing the spatula down at her little face. “you trip me, i’m sendin’ you to live with kaminari.”

she meows once— deeply unimpressed.

he turns back to the stove. you watch the muscles in his back shift as he moves, the long line of him warm in the weak gold of the kitchen light, and something fond and aching swells up so fast in your chest it nearly hurts.

maybe he feels you staring again, because he glances over, catches the look on your face, and immediately scowls.

“what now, the fuck are you starin’ at me for?”

because you’re beautiful, you think. because you’re home. because you’re twenty-six and pink all over and were carrying your fat cat like an infant while making me breakfast in your bare feet and your glasses. because even when you complain, you’re so obviously happy to be here that it makes me stupid.

you don't say all of that, he’d implode, so instead you settle for something gentler on his stomach and heart alike.

“‘cause you’re cute.”

he almost drops the spatula.

“the hell is wrong with you,” he mutters.

“so much, probably.”

“no, seriously.”

you smile into your mug. “can’t help it.”

he clicks his tongue, but his mouth twitches. then he steps closer— just enough to nudge your knees apart with one thigh so he can stand between them for a second while he reaches past you for the salt.

the move is thoughtless. automatic. he never seems fully aware of how often he touches you when you’re near— hip to thigh, hand to knee, a little push at your shoulder, fingers curling briefly around the back of your neck when he passes. like proximity alone isn’t enough. like he has to confirm you’re really there.

his hand lands on your bare thigh now, warm and broad, just above the hem of the shirt.

he freezes.

because, right. nothing under it.

you watch the realisation move up his spine in real time.

bakugou closes his eyes for one long second, takes a breath through his nose, and says, very carefully, “you are bein’ a real asshole today.”

“you asked.”

“you answered.”

“that’s usually how conversations work, babe.”

he gives your thigh one firm squeeze— punishment or affection, impossible to tell with him— then pulls away before he can linger too long and goes back to plating breakfast with exaggerated focus.

you grin and swing one foot lightly against his calf.

he slaps a piece of toast onto your plate harder than strictly necessary.

breakfast itself is easy in the way the best mornings are easy. you stay on the counter, stealing fruit and getting your hand smacked away for it at least twice. he insists on cutting the salmon properly and portioning everything “like a normal fuckin’ person.” lambchop stations herself beneath him like a furry threat. the coffee is strong and hot enough to wake the dead.

at one point you reach out and push his glasses back up his nose with one finger.

he goes still.

“what.”

“they were slipping.”

he stares at you a second, red-eyed and pink-faced and so thoroughly yours it makes your stomach flip.

then he mutters, “eat your food,” and turns away like that solved anything.

you do. mostly. in between talking and stealing bites off his plate and kicking him lightly every time he gets too smug.

lambchop gets one tiny flake of salmon after making the most pitiful noise alive. bakugou acts like he’s being extorted for state secrets. you act like you’re witnessing a moral collapse in real time.

“oh, so the diet’s over now?” you ask, watching him crouch to feed her.

“she’s celebratin’.”

“she does that every day.”

“she’s supportin’ me.”

“she’d sell you for one churu.”

bakugou looks genuinely offended by that. “she would not.”

lambchop, chewing her stolen salmon with great concentration, declines to comment.

eventually he takes his own plate and nudges your knees wider again with a gruff, “move,” so he can stand between them while he eats. you tilt your face up when he leans in for a quick kiss between bites. he does it absentmindedly, like it’s just another part of breakfast. coffee. eggs. toast. kiss your girl. feed the cat. tell everyone in the room they’re annoying.

there’s something so domestic about it it nearly kills you.

he notices when you go quiet.

“the hell’s with that face.”

“what face?”

“that one.”

you look down at your plate. “nothing.”

“bullshit.”

you smile a little and shrug. “i just like having you home.”

that lands. you can tell by the way he stops chewing.

not for long. just a second.

then he looks away, ears going pink all over again. “yeah,” he says, voice rougher than before. “well.”

you wait.

he clears his throat, still not looking at you. “wanted to be here.”

and there it is. no fanfare. no poetry. just the truth, dragged out of him and offered up plain.

your heart goes soft as butter in a hot pan.

you set your plate aside and hold your hands out to him. “c’mere.”

he rolls his eyes like you’re unbearably embarrassing, but he steps even further into your space anyway, lets you take hold of the back of his neck and pull him closer until your forehead rests against his chest.

his free hand settles on your waist.

you stay like that for a moment, quiet in the bright little kitchen, his heartbeat slow and steady under your ear, lambchop winding around his ankles like she’s blessing the union.

then he says, “food’s gettin’ cold.”

you laugh against him. “romantic.”

“practical.”

he huffs, but when you lift your head he kisses you first.

breakfast gets finished eventually, though not quickly. you eat the last bites off each other’s plates. he drinks the dregs of his coffee cold because he got distracted listening to you ramble. you steal the second half of his toast and he lets you. lambchop migrates to a patch of sunlight on the floor and collapses there like a queen after a banquet.

then the plates are empty, and the apartment is warmer now, properly awake, full of the quiet little sounds of a day with nowhere urgent to be.

bakugou stacks the dishes, runs water into the sink.

you slide off the counter and come up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face between his shoulder blades. he smells like soap and coffee and the butter from the pan.

he covers your hands with one of his.

“you full?” he asks.

“mhm.”

“too full?”

you lift your head slowly.

he turns just enough to look back at you over his shoulder, red eyes sharp behind his glasses, mouth tipped at one corner. he’s pink again— he’s been pink all damn morning— but there’s that familiar glint in him now too, warm and wicked and fond.

you smile.

“depends.”

“on what.”

“how much trouble you’re trying to cause.”

he snorts and shuts off the faucet.

then he turns fully, crowds you back against the counter with a hand planted on either side of your hips, and looks down at the borrowed shirt hanging off you like it’s the single greatest gift he’s gotten all day.

“c’mere,” he says, low.

you laugh a little as he lifts you up to sit on the counter again, big hands firm on your thighs. “am i a counter girlfriend now? is this my new abode?”

“babe. shut up.” his mouth finds yours before you can say anything smarter.

the kiss starts teasingly, all heat and amusement and morning laziness, but it doesn’t stay that way. not with him. not with the kitchen still smelling like coffee and salmon and the whole day stretching open behind you. his hand slides under the hem of the shirt, warm against bare skin, and his mouth drifts from yours with a soft noise like he’s already decided exactly how the next little while is going to go.

you make a startled, breathless sound when he kisses you again, slower this time.

“katsuki—”

“it’s my birthday,” he reminds you against your mouth, voice rough with a smile.

which, frankly, is not an argument you have any interest in fighting.

so when he plants you more securely on the counter in his stupid shirt and nothing else, all pink ears and warm hands and quiet determination, you let him. and when the kissing turns sweeter and more intent, when his head dips and your fingers catch in his hair, the bright kitchen and the dirty dishes and the cooling pan at the stove can wait a little longer.

after all, he’s home.

and the day is his.

⁠⊰—

by the time evening settles properly over the apartment, the whole place feels slow and warm and lived-in in that especially satisfying way it only ever does after a day with nowhere else to be.

dinner has come and gone in a happy haze of domestic nonsense. bakugou, unsurprisingly, insisted on cooking again despite it being his own birthday and despite your repeated, valiant offers to take over “just one thing.” he had refused all assistance except the kind he can bully into usefulness— hand me that, stir this, taste this, get the bowls out— and even that came with enough grumbling to suggest he was being drafted into active combat.

so you’d sat on the counter again, because obviously, and he’d cooked while pink-eared and beautiful in the kitchen light, shoulders loose with ease, occasionally leaning over to steal a kiss from you between checking pans. lambchop had haunted the entire affair like a little furry ghost of greed, camping out at his feet and screaming every time fish so much as entered her line of sight.

now the dishes are done. the lights are low. the city outside the windows has gone dusky and glittering, little pinpricks of yellow and white against the dark. somewhere down below, traffic hums faintly. inside, though, it’s just the three of you and the soft aftermath of a day well spent.

bakugou is stretched out on the couch in gray sweats and a black t-shirt now, hair still a little damp from his shower, one arm thrown over the back cushions. lambchop is asleep in a fat brown-and-white crescent against his thigh, dead to the world after a full day of emotional labour. the tv’s on mute, playing something he isn’t really watching. you’ve been hovering suspiciously for the last ten minutes, fiddling with the corner of a gift bag and failing miserably to act normal.

he notices, because of course he does.

“the hell are you skulkin’ around for,” he asks, eyes narrowing over the top of his phone.

“i’m not skulking.”

“you are skulkin’.”

“i’m being mysterious.”

“you’re bein’ obvious as shit.”

you stand there for another second, trying to maintain your dignity, and then just give up and clutch the first bag to your chest.

his expression shifts immediately.

not a lot. but enough.

he sits up a little.

you feel your own nerves all at once, stupid and fluttery in your chest. ridiculous, really. you’ve spent the whole day with him. he’s been soft and pink and clingy and happy in that gruff little bakugou way for hours now. but this part always gets you. the part where he has to take your love in both hands and look at it directly.

you come around the couch and stop in front of him.

he glances from your face to the bag, then back up again. “you already did enough for me today.”

“no, i didn’t.”

“yes, you did.”

“nope.”

“i’m serious.”

“so am i.”

he lets out a long suffering breath through his nose. “you’re a pain in the ass.”

“happy birthday,” you say, and hand him the bag.

he eyes it like it might explode.

then, because it’s you and because for all his complaining he would walk into any fire you put in front of him if you asked sweetly enough, he takes it.

lambchop cracks one eye open as the tissue paper rustles, then goes back to sleep when it becomes clear none of it is food.

bakugou reaches inside, fishes around, and pulls out the hard plastic sleeve.

he goes still.

completely, instantly still.

the room goes quiet in a way that feels almost sacred.you knew he’d know it immediately. you knew he would. still, seeing it happen is something else. watching the recognition hit his face all at once— that tiny flash in his eyes, the way his mouth parts a little, the way his grip tightens unconsciously around the sleeve.

it’s a card.

a very specific all might trading card.

the one he’d wanted since he was little. the one he’d only ever mentioned in passing, months ago, in that offhand way people do when they’re trying to make it sound like something didn’t matter all that much after all. the one he’d never gotten because it was too expensive, because it was absurd to spend that kind of money on a piece of cardboard when you’re a kid, because life is full of small desires you grow around and call it maturity.

you had remembered anyway.

bakugou looks at the card for so long you start to feel light-headed.

then slowly, very slowly, he lifts his gaze to you.

there’s something naked in his expression for a second. something so open it makes your chest ache.

and then, because he is bakugou katsuki and god forbid he ever let a moment stand on its own without trying to fight it first, his brows crash down.

“how much was this.”

you exhale a laugh that comes out a little shaky. “you’re welcome, katsuki, yes i’m so glad you love it.”

“how. much.”

“it doesn’t matter.”

“it matters to me.”

“well, that sounds like a you problem.”

he squints at you, scandalised. “don’t start your bullshit.”

“don’t start your bullshit. just appreciate it.”

“i am appreciatin’ it, dumbass, i’m also askin’ how much you spent.”

“that sounds suspiciously like two separate activities.”

bakugou looks back at the card like it has personally betrayed him by existing in your hands at all. “this thing was insane even back then.”

“mhm.”

he looks up again, horrified anew. “how much.”

you cross your arms. “not telling.”

“you are outta your damn mind.”

“i know.”

“this is stupid.”

“i know.”

he glares.

you smile.

his face does that thing it always does when he’s trying very hard not to be affected— like all the emotion in him has nowhere to go except into irritation, into offence, into a scowl that doesn’t fool either of you.

he swallows once.

looks back at the card.

runs his thumb very carefully over the plastic sleeve without quite touching the card itself.

then mutters, so rough it’s almost inaudible, “you remembered.”

that hits you like a punch straight to the heart.

you soften instantly. “yeah, baby. ‘course i remembered.”

his jaw flexes.

he leans back against the couch and stares up at the ceiling for a second like maybe that’ll help him get his face under control. it does not. when he looks back down at the card, his eyes are already glassier than before.

you sit beside him carefully, tucking one leg under yourself.

“that’s not all,” you say gently.

he turns his head. “you’re jokin’.”

“nope.”

“jesus christ.”

you reach for the envelope next.

this one makes him suspicious all over again, which is fair. it’s thick, cream-coloured, his name written on the front in your hand. just seeing it seems to put him on edge in a whole new way.

he takes it with a frown. “what’s this.”

“a birthday card.”

“i can see that.”

“okay, then why’d you ask?”

he gives you a flat look.

you grin and pat his knee. “there’s no glitter this year, promise. open it.”

he does, slower than before. when he slides the card free and opens it, several folded pages tucked inside it nearly fall into his lap.bakugou stares.then he looks at you in alarm. “what the hell is this.”

“you got a card.”

“that ain’t a card, that’s an essay.”

“it’s heartfelt.”

“it’s hostile, is what it is.”

“it’s your birthday. read it.”

he immediately tries to hand it back. “no.”

you shove it right back at him. “yes.”

“i can read it in my head.”

“no, you can’t.”

“the hell i can’t.”

“you have to read it out loud.”

bakugou looks at you like you’ve proposed a public execution.

“absolutely not.”

“absolutely yes.”

“why.”

“because i said so.”

“that’s not a reason.”

“maybe not when you say it.”

he gapes at you.

you lean forward and smile sweetly. “c’mon. read your card.”

“this is some weird torture porn shit.”

“that’s a very big feeling about paper.”

“you did this on purpose.”

“i did!”

“yeah, no shit!”

he looks down at the card again like maybe the pages will spontaneously combust and save him from the experience. they do not. lambchop snores softly against his thigh, completely unbothered.

finally, with the expression of a man being marched to the gallows, he clears his throat and starts.

at first his voice is rough with embarrassment, clipped and irritated on purpose.

“‘katsuki—’”

he stops.

looks at the page.

looks at you.

“why am i doin’ this shit. you wrote so goddamn much.”

“because i’m serious.”

“you’re always serious. that’s the problem.”

“read. it.”

he huffs and starts again.

“‘katsuki. happy birthday, baby. i know you don’t like a big fuss and you’d rather fight a million all for ones than sit through a party where everybody stares at you and sings, so i’m not doing that. but i am going to say what i want to say, because it’s your birthday and you can yell at me after.’”

already his ears are pink again.

you’re biting the inside of your cheek so hard it nearly hurts.

he keeps going, slower now.

“‘i think one of my favourite things about loving you is that there are so many versions of you that only make sense once you know you properly. other people get dynamight. they get the loud part, the sharp part, the part that burns hot and bright and scary enough to make villains think twice. i get that too, and i love him. but i also get the version of you that carries our cat around like a baby while calling her fat. i get the version of you that pretends you don’t care and then remembers tiny things i say months later. i get the version of you that wakes up at stupid hours for work and still apologises if your alarm disturbs me. i get the version of you that loves so deeply it embarrasses you.’”

his voice catches just slightly on the last line.

just enough.

you see it happen— the way his eyes dart away from the page for a second, the way he presses his lips together and breathes out through his nose like he’s annoyed with himself already.

“aww,” you say softly, because you cannot help yourself.

“shut up.”

“you’re doing so good.”

“shut. up.”

but he doesn’t stop reading.

“‘you are so much softer than people know, and i think it’s one of the greatest privileges of my life that i get to see it. i get to be loved by you in all the quiet ways too— in breakfast made before i’m fully awake, in the way you always reach for me when you pass me in the kitchen, in the way you make space for me in every part of your life without even thinking about it. even when you’re grumpy. even when you’re busy. even when you act like you’re not sentimental, which is honestly one of the biggest lies ever told.’”

at that, his head drops.

actually drops.

he bends forward, one hand coming up to cover his mouth as he laughs once through his nose in sheer disbelief, shoulders bunching. but when he looks back up at you there’s already tears brimming properly now, bright and heavy on his lower lashes.

your whole face crumples fondly. “baby…”

“don’t,” he mutters, voice wrecked.

“you’re crying.”

“i am not.”

“you literally are.”

“read it your damn self, then.”

“nope. keep going.”

he shoots you a betrayed look, wet-eyed and pink from his throat to the tips of his ears, and somehow even now— sniffling on the couch with a birthday card in his hand— he still looks frightening enough that a stranger would probably flee on sight.you, meanwhile, want to crawl into his ribcage and live there.he drags the heel of his palm under one eye and forces himself to keep reading.

“‘you make my life bigger and safer and louder and warmer all at once. you make ordinary days feel like something precious just because you’re in them. i love the way you care. i love the way you try. i love the way you still blush when i flirt with you even though you act so tough. i love the little boy in you who wanted that all might card so badly. i love the man you are now, who built himself with so much effort and fire and heart. i love loving you. and i hope when you look at your life, and at yourself, you see even a fraction of what i see when i look at you.’”

by now his voice has gone low and uneven.

he swallows again. tries one more line. fails. silence.

he stares down at the page for a long second, blinking hard. then his free hand comes up and covers his eyes completely.

you melt. “aww, baby, no…”

“don’t,” he says again, but it’s ruined by the fact that he sounds so obviously teary. “don’t do the voice.”

you immediately do the voice worse. “my birthday boyyyy.”

“jesus christ.”

he’s laughing and crying now in that embarrassed, furious way he only ever does when you’ve gotten him too dead-centre with something soft. he keeps the heel of his hand over his eyes like maybe if he can’t see you, he can preserve some shred of dignity. you take the card carefully from his lap, set it aside with the all might card, and climb straight into his space.

he lets you. of course he lets you.

you slide one arm around his shoulders and cup the back of his head with the other, pulling him into you until his forehead bumps against your collarbone.

“there he is,” you murmur, smiling helplessly into his hair. “there’s my sensitive scary pro hero.”

“fuck off.”

“nope.”

“you did this shit on purpose.”

“yes, i did. because i love you.” he makes a rough, offended noise and just stays there, letting you hold him while he gets himself together. one big hand lands on your waist, grip firm. his face is hot where it presses into you. lambchop wakes up enough to stare at the two of you, judges the crying to be non-emergency, and goes back to sleep.

eventually he lifts his head, glaring up at you with red-rimmed eyes.

“you are evil.”

“you love me.” he clicks his tongue, which is not a denial.

you kiss the damp corner of one eye. then the other. he lets you, scowling the whole time.

“still more presents,” you whisper.

his expression turns appalled. “no.”

“yes.”

“no, absolutely not.”

“yes, absolutely yes.”

“you’re gonna kill me.”

“we’ve established that would be very rude on your birthday.” he grumbles under his breath but shifts enough for you to reach the small box waiting on the coffee table.

this one he opens with visible caution. inside is a silver chain— simple, clean, solid. close enough in style to the one he used to wear all the time that it feels familiar, but better made, heavier, something that will sit at his throat exactly the way the old one used to.

the moment he sees it, his whole face softens again. not dramatically. just enough that you know you got it right.

he picks it up carefully, letting it drape over his fingers.

“the other one broke,” you say quietly, though you both know that. “and i know you were pretending you didn’t care, but you were being weird and mopey about it for like a week.”

“i was not.”

“you literally kept touching your collarbone like the widow of a man dead at sea.”

he huffs a laugh, wiping under one eye again with the heel of his hand. “shut up.”

“you liked the old one.”

he nods once, small and absent, still looking at the new chain. “you got me that one too,” he says.

“i know.” another pause.

then, softer: “liked it a lot.”

that nearly gets you crying too.

you smile and hold your hand out. “want me to put it on?”

he hesitates for about half a second before nodding again and shifting closer.

you take it from him, brush his hair gently out of the way, and fasten the clasp at the back of his neck. his skin is warm under your fingertips. when you’re done, he reaches up immediately, touching it the same way he used to touch the old one— two fingers at his throat, absent and fond.

“it suits you,” you tell him.

he glances at you sideways. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

he gives the smallest hum of acknowledgement, then leans in and kisses you once, quiet and grateful and so tender it almost hurts.

“and,” you say, because you are relentless, “one more thing.”

his head falls back against the couch cushion. “you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

“never.”

you hand him the envelope from the home and kitchen goods shop.

he stares at the logo.

then at you.

then back at the envelope. “you didn’t.”

“oh, i did.”

he opens it and finds the voucher inside— fat enough to be dangerous.

for a second he looks almost offended again. not because he doesn’t want it, but because he does. because you know exactly what he likes and exactly how to get it for him without risking buying the wrong thing. fancy knives are serious business. he’d want to choose them himself. so you let him.

“you said you wanted to replace those two beat-up chef knives you keep complaining about,” you say. “and every time we walk past that shop you go all weird and reverent.”

“i do not go weird and reverent.”

“you practically black out in front of the japanese steel section.”

“that is not what happens.”

“that is exactly what happens.”

he looks down at the voucher again, then laughs once— soft and disbelieving and still a little wrecked from the card.

“you’re insane,” he murmurs.

“correct.”

“this is too much shit.”

“nope.”

“it is.”

“it’s your birthday.”

“that don’t mean you get to bankrupt yourself.”

“i’m not bankrupt.”

“you better not be.”

“i’m not!”

he gives you a long look, like he’s trying to assess whether you can be trusted with finances at all. then, with that same helpless fondness creeping through despite his best efforts, he shakes his head and gathers the little pile of gifts closer to him— the card, the chain, the voucher, the all might card in its sleeve.

he looks down at all of it in silence.

then back at you.

and this time there’s no fight in his face at all. just emotion, plain as day, warm and huge and almost shy in how honestly it sits there.

“you spoil me,” he says quietly.

the words hit even harder because of how rare they are. because they come without protest this time. no bark around the edges. no immediate correction.you reach over and touch his cheek. “good.”

he leans into your hand before he can stop himself.

“you shouldn’t,” he says, but there’s no conviction in it.

“i should, actually.”

“shut up, i’m serious.”

“so am i. you deserve nice things.”

his eyes flick away.

you follow the line of his jaw with your thumb. “you deserve to be loved a lot, too.”

that does it.

his throat works once. his lashes lower. when he looks back at you, he’s gone soft all over again— that same helpless, wrecked tenderness from before, only quieter now. deeper.

then he reaches out, hooks an arm around your waist, and hauls you bodily into his lap with no warning.

you yelp and laugh as you land against him. he ignores this, tucking you in close against his chest like he’s reclaiming something.

“enough,” he mutters into your hair.

“enough what?”

“enough talkin’.”

“oh, someone’s emotional.”

“someone’s gonna get launched across the room.”

“you’re crying on your birthday and threatening me in the same breath. that’s impeccable range, great explosion murder.”

he pinches your side and you squeak.

he presses his face into your neck so you can’t see him smile, which unfortunately does not stop you from hearing it. his arms stay locked around you, big and warm and unmovable. his hand slides under the back of your shirt and settles against your spine, just holding.

after a minute or two he says, very low, “thank you.”

there it is.

not dragged out. not bullied into the light.

just offered.

you soften against him completely. “you’re welcome, baby.”

he’s quiet a second longer.

then: “best birthday i’ve had.”

you pull back just enough to look at him.

he grimaces immediately. “don’t make a face.”

“i’m making a face.”

“i can see that.”

“that’s so sweet. you love me so bad.”

“yeah, well.” his ears go a little pink again. “you make it hard not to.”

you stare at him. he stares back.

then you grab his face in both hands and kiss him hard enough to make him grunt. he kisses you right back, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, the other still firm at your waist. the chain glints at his throat when you finally pull away. behind you, the city glows through the windows. the apartment is warm. the cat is snoring. there are dishes drying in the rack and wrapping paper on the coffee table and a ridiculous little pile of gifts gathered against his thigh like proof.

he looks happy.

really happy.

not loudly. not in some big obvious way. just settled all the way through. full. loved. home. you smooth your thumb under one eye one last time. “you okay?”

he nods once.

then, after a moment, with that familiar tiny roughness creeping back into his voice just enough to make it his again, he says, “c’mere.”

“i’m already here.”

“closer.”

you laugh softly and go, because of course you do.

he tucks you back against him, presses one final kiss to your temple, and looks down at the all might card still sitting in its sleeve on the coffee table.

“… still not tellin’ me how much that thing cost?” he asks.

you grin into his chest. “nope.”

he sighs like the universe is cruel and unfair.

then his arm tightens around you, and after everything— after the blushing and the roughhousing and the breakfast and the stolen day off and the card and the tears and the chain and the voucher and every single quiet thing in between— he just holds you there and lets himself be loved.

which, really, was always the whole point.

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