𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙋𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙈𝙚 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙

The Bakugou household sat perched on a quiet hill overlooking the city, a two-story modern build with dark wood paneling and floor-to-ceiling windows that caught the late afternoon sun like amber knives. Inside, the place was immaculate—Toji's military discipline manifested in everything from the squared corners of the furniture to the obsessively organized kitchen that Yomi kept stocked with ingredients for her weekly cooking experiments.

He killed the engine and sat there. Just sat there. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscles in his neck corded like rope. His tail, usually rigid and bristling, had gone completely still — which was somehow worse. His crimson eyes stared straight ahead at the garage door like it owed him money.

He glanced sideways at Yuna in the passenger seat. She was dressed to kill — literally dressed to kill, actually, in a fitted top that showed off her collarbones and a skirt that hugged her hips. He'd told her his mom was intimidating. He hadn't lied.

His voice came out rougher than he intended. His claws had punched tiny half-moon dents into the leather of the steering wheel.

Inside the house, the faint sound of a knife hitting a cutting board in rhythmic succession echoed from the kitchen. Yomi was preparing lunch.