Chapter Text
The first thing that registered was the smell. Not the acrid, familiar scent of nitroglycerin that clung to his own sheets, but something sweet and savory. Buttered pancakes and sizzling bacon.
Katsuki Bakugo's eyes flew open, instantly alert. The light was wrong. Softer, filtered through pale yellow curtains instead of his blackout shades. The sheets were wrong—a soft, worn-in cotton instead of high-thread-count linen. And the weight... the weight was definitely wrong.
A warm, solid weight was draped over his side. A head of soft brown hair was pillowed on his shoulder, and a steady, quiet breathing fanned across his chest.
Uraraka.
Right. Her apartment. Again.
The memories of the night before crashed over him in a wave of sensation—the frantic, desperate clash after a brutal joint patrol, the way they'd practically fallen through her door, already a tangle of limbs and hungry mouths. It was supposed to be simple. A perfect, explosive release of tension. That was the deal. That was what friends with benefits meant.
The deal, he was sure, had not included... this.
He should extract himself. He always did. He'd slide out from under her, dress in the clothes scattered on her floor, and leave before the sun fully rose. It was clean. Simple.
But his body felt heavy and lax in a way it never did in his own sterile, quiet apartment. And her arm was a comfortable, grounding weight across his stomach.
Before he could muster the willpower to move, she stirred. A soft, sleepy sound escaped her lips as she nuzzled unconsciously into his shoulder before stilling again. Bakugo held his breath, every muscle tense. But she didn't wake. He slowly, carefully, let the air out of his lungs.
This was a problem.
He was just about to attempt a more strategic retreat when she suddenly shifted, rolling away from him and sitting up in one fluid motion. She stretched her arms high above her head, her ridiculous space-print pajama top riding up, and let out a yawn.
"Mornin'," she mumbled, her voice raspy with sleep. She blinked down at him, a soft, unfocused smile on her face. "You're thinking too loud. I could hear you all the way over here."
"Tch. Don't be ridiculous," he grumbled, sitting up and raking a hand through his hopelessly spiky hair. "And I'm not staying. I've got shit to do."
"Uh-huh," she said, utterly unconvinced as she slid out of bed. She padded barefoot toward her small kitchenette, not even bothering to look back. "Pancakes or french toast? I'm feeling pancakes. I got fresh blueberries."
"I said I'm not staying for breakfast, Cheeks," he insisted, though the protest sounded weak even to his own ears. His stomach chose that moment to betray him with a low growl, attracted by the smell of bacon already in the pan.
She glanced over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised, a knowing glint in her eye.
"Sounds like your stomach disagrees. And it's rude to refuse a home-cooked meal after you... well." She waved a spatula vaguely in the direction of the bed. "Blueberries? Yes or no?"
He glared at her back, a scowl firmly etched on his face. He should leave. He really should. But the pragmatic part of his brain calculated the time it would take to get back to his place, shower, and find something edible versus the time it would take to just eat here. The path of least resistance, currently, was paved with pancakes.
"Whatever," he finally bit out, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Don't drown 'em in syrup. It's disgusting."
"Yes, sir," she chirped, a laugh in her voice.
Twenty minutes later, he was sitting at her small, two-person table, shoveling a stack of perfect, golden-brown blueberry pancakes onto his plate. She hummed as she moved around her sunlit kitchen, flipping the last of the bacon onto a paper towel. It was... domestic. Comfortable. Words that had no business being associated with him.
He ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the clink of cutlery and the city traffic far below. It was Uraraka who broke it.
"So," she said, sipping her tea. "You're on that downtown patrol with Cellophane and Chargebolt today, right? Think you'll run into that sludge villain again? The one with the weird quirk evolution?"
Bakugo froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. He slowly lowered it, staring at her. She wasn't even looking at him; she was scrolling through her phone with one hand, holding her tea with the other, asking about his schedule as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Why did she know that? Why did she remember some throwaway comment he'd made days ago about a minor villain?
"Tch. Probably not," he muttered, focusing intently on cutting his pancakes. "That loser's probably dissolved in a sewer drain after I blew half his face off last time."
"Mm, good," she said, finally looking up. Her expression was thoughtful, professional. "Just be careful. His composition looked tricky. Hard to get a solid hit on without causing collateral damage. Maybe aim for a contained, concussive blast underneath him next time? Try to disrupt his center of gravity."
He stared at her. She wasn't just making conversation. She was offering tactical advice. Sharp, insightful, and exactly the kind of strategic thinking he respected.
It was a hell of a lot more than just benefits.
He grunted a non-committal response, the last bite of pancake suddenly feeling like a lead weight in his stomach. This was a problem. A big one. Because as he sat there, in her sunny apartment, eating her food and discussing villain takedown strategies, the thought of pulling on his gear and walking out her door felt less like a return to normalcy and more like stepping out into a cold, empty void.
He was Katsuki Bakugo. He didn't do domestic. He didn't do cozy mornings. He didn't miss people.
So why was the idea of leaving already putting him in a worse mood than when he'd woken up?