Chapter Text
“He’s going to propose to you,” Jirou tells you in that blunt tone of hers. She watches you spray light puffs of mist on your flowers, reapplying her eyeliner. “I can feel it.”
“Don’t bring my hopes up,” you chastise, spraying water in her face. She sputters at the sudden motion, caught off-guard as she blinks the water away frantically. “It’s just one dinner, and besides, our relationship isn’t out in the open. His agency would go ballistic if they knew.”
She cracks one eye open, capping her eyeliner shut. “Bakugou’s crazy for you. I’m sure he’ll disregard them and go through with it.”
You suck in a breath, shooting her a look. Jirou returns it just as easily, leaning over the counter and making the stool underneath squeak. She has a point. Your boyfriend isn’t the type to do things by halves. It’s why, despite your protests, Jirou’s conjecture rings with a hint of truth to it, no matter how absurd it might be. He doesn’t care for the media at all, and very rarely does he listen to his agency.
The last text from Bakugou consists of the address of a Michelin star restaurant with a date and time attached, which is tonight.
“We’re going out to dinner for the first time this year,” you muse aloud, locking the spray bottle in place with a twist of your fingers.
“First time—?”
Jirou’s about to drop some obscenities, all directed toward your boyfriend. You know that it’s unusual for couples to date like this, having few to no dinner dates each year, but your relationship relies on other things, not necessarily big events that fit an Instagram square post to show off to the world (or rather, your friends). You don’t mind how unorthodox your relationship is, and you’re happy like this. Whenever possible, he slips into your flat or flower shop to hang out with you with impromptu little date ideas and surprises that make your heart burst.
You don’t need the fancy dinners and evening dates to be won over.
All you need is him, and that’s good enough for you.
She composes herself in time when the mailman comes into the shop, completely ignorant to your conversation. You direct him to the array of bouquets sitting near the front of the shop, prepared at the break of dawn. They shimmer dewily, droplets of water nearly hanging off the petals and stems of the flowers within.
When he exits, Jirou’s lips are downturned, deep in thought.
“I feel like a homewrecker now that I know I’ve taken you out on more boba dates than he has.”
“How scandalous,” you drawl, a laugh dipping into your voice. “Can you imagine the headlines? ‘Local Pro Hero Earphone Jack is dating a civilian’?”
“Bakugou’s going to kill me if that ever happens before he announces his relationship,” she bemoans, tugging at your sleeve. “‘Top hero Dynamight murders his associate, due to relationship conflicts’—it already sounds terrible.”
Your conversation dissipates into laughter and banter, all good-natured. It’s rare that any of your Pro Hero friends have time to stop by your shop, so you appreciate Jirou’s efforts. She fixes you with a speculative look, sobering up.
“The dinner’s happening at that fancy restaurant that everyone’s been raving about, right?” Jirou asks, changing the subject.
You open up an app, filled with local restaurant reviews. Leaning against the counter, you let Jirou peer over your shoulder. The restaurant that Bakugou has made a reservation for tonight pops up within a matter of seconds after you type it into the search bar, some fancy French name that you’ll never be able to properly pronounce with your luck. The dishes are mouthwatering, vibrant with color and savoriness. With the four dollar signs neatly tacked onto the restaurant’s name at the top, you don’t want to imagine the expenses of this dinner (since Bakugou always insists on covering the bill).
“You see,” she starts, her eyes glinting as you flit through the photos of the dining facility and food, “this is proposal material.”
“Katsuki’s flamboyant,” you argue, although your resolve is starting to weaken.
Bakugou is a career man. You know of his plans to make it to the top (and he’s already there), but marriage has never come up in your conversations before. For the two of you, it’s just enough to be with each other. For some people, it might be a necessity to label themselves with “dating” versus “married,” but it’s practically the same to you and him.
“If I’m right, make me the maid of honor at your wedding,” Jirou says with a grin.
“He’s going to argue against that,” you warn.
“Would you rather that I convince Kaminari to be his best man?” she says pointedly. Her eyes light up with more thoughts, all devious and mischievous. “Or what about Sero being ordained?”
“We won’t have a wedding. We would probably have a funeral at that point,” you muse, making her choke on a laugh.
Your heart warms at the thought of your friends altogether, even if the chaos would make the event even more difficult.
Jirou’s prediction makes curiosity stir in your stomach. For all Bakugou is, he’s a good boyfriend to you, caring and loving—everything you need. All the same, you wonder if she’s right. What would exactly entail for the two of you from there on out? you ponder.
He comes into your flat by using your window, and you have to suppress a fond sigh of exasperation when you hear him knock against the glass pane of your window.
“You’re going to injure yourself one day,” you scold, eyes widening at his appearance.
You usher him in, hoisting him up by sliding your palm on top of his. His callused grip is familiar, complementing your hands’ shape, and it’s almost like old times at Yuuei where you had to do rescue exercises. You dismiss the thought, shooing away the wave of nostalgia. It’s easy to lift him into your apartment, watching him tip over into your living room. He’s completely unperturbed by his chosen method of entrance, slipping off his shoes and placing them at the entrance.
Figures for your boyfriend to be like this, you think wryly to yourself.
He looks incredibly nice in his dress shirt, probably from his parents’ fashion brand (“He’s practically a walking advertisement for us,” his mother has told you, earning complaints from Bakugou in return). His pants fit his shape, filling him out perfectly and ironed to a tee. It’s a wonder how his clothes aren’t ruined by the physical activities that got him up at your apartment. There aren’t any notable charred marks on his clothes either, much to your chagrin and relief.
Bakugou dusts himself off, unfazed by your concern.
“I’m a Pro Hero. That’s nearly impossible,” he scoffs.
“The keyword is ‘nearly,’” you emphasize.
Your thoughts of scolding him go down the drain when you meet his gaze. His lips are pursed, lacking any of his usual quips. There’s a molten-like quality to his eyes, soft and subtle, and you find yourself lingering in that cozy, embracing warmth. His gaze slowly breaks you down, scrutinizing you for your every tell. Bakugou presses a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your stomach never fails to flip into itself from the affectionate motion, and he grins against your mouth.
“You look good in that. Is that from the old hag?” Bakugou observes, tugging at your chiffon sleeve. He seizes you by the waist, earning a squeal from you, and your body is trapped in his embrace. A slow chuckle rumbles from his chest at your reaction. “Hold on, let me tuck it in for you.”
“Tuck it in?”
You look at him, confused.
“It’s from one of their sketches that they haven’t released yet. It’s probably going to come out in a couple of seasons since the timing isn’t right,” he explains off-handedly—as if you’re not wearing one-of-a-kind designer clothing from M&M, Mitsuki and Masaru’s fashion brand. He expertly folds the shirt into your slacks, tugging it outward a little. “You’re supposed to wear it tucked in.”
You examine yourself in the bathroom mirror, the clothes fitting to your form loosely but giving it shape to your edges and curves. A thrill runs through you as you twirl around to check your reflection out. There’s something about pretty clothes that make you go oh, your heart bursting with confidence. Bakugou watches you from the doorway of your bathroom, mirth crinkling at the edges of his eyes.
“You’re making me want to stay at home with you,” he says, stopping you mid-spin. You turn to him questioningly. He rests his lips against your nape, his eyes brewing with desire. His voice cracks. “I missed you so much.”
Shivering from his touch, you swallow audibly, biting down all your yearning. It has been a couple of weeks since you’ve last seen him since he’s working on a classified mission. Even his texts came sparsely, happening at the oddest hours, and you weren’t able to hold any conversations with him for any longer than three messages on his end.
You lean into him, meeting his reflection’s eyes. Despite the flurry of thoughts in your mind, none can ever convey what you feel properly, and he knows that just as well, kissing your neck so tenderly. Your forearms lay on top of his arms, your hands fitting over his over your stomach. Closing your eyes, you tilt your head for him to have easier access.
“You sure you want to miss our reservation?” you tease.
Bakugou lets out a groan. “I wouldn’t mind.”
The offer’s tempting—to stay in your apartment and lounge around with Bakugou, especially not having seen him for so long. His touches are especially persuasive, soft, and all-knowing, and you nearly give into them.
“I heard that you need to make a reservation six months in advance.”
“I can pull some strings to move it around.”
“And I know that their seasonal menu ends today,” you prod.
“It sounds like you’re more attracted to the food than me,” he mumbles sullenly.
“Food is an indulgent mistress,” you agree, causing him to bite your neck unexpectedly. It’s a little nip, nothing painful, but it catches your attention. “Katsuki!”
“What?” he says, blinking innocently. What a dog. His voice turns coy, unlike his complaisant expression. “You taste better than any of the foods that they make.”
“You’re shameless—!” you burst out, pushing him away.
He breaks away from you and slides down the wall in his laughter.
In the end, the two of you go to the restaurant, much to your boyfriend’s chagrin.
Despite looking the type to own ostentatious cars, Bakugou prefers to keep a low-key profile. He doesn’t like going under or over the speed limit, pissing off cars and getting pissed by cars left and right. (The one time that Bakugou wasn’t the designated driver, he had scolded Kaminari for going over the speed limit, and the rest of your friends were appalled by Bakugou’s driving etiquette.) His car is in mint condition, one of the typical red cars anyone would see on the road. It’s probably one of the least expected things about him, seeing how much he tends to stand out in his own way.
Throughout the ride, you babble aimlessly about your flower shop and your customers, describing various incidents in the store. In contrast to his public persona, Bakugou’s a good listener, adding bits and pieces of commentary here and there. What brings a smile to his face is your story about a customer, around the age of a middle school student. Every day, he comes to your store, determined to confess to his crush. The only thing is that he fails miserably day after day.
“Want me to give him a pep talk?” Bakugou offers, eyeing you speculatively. “It’s good that you’re having a returning customer, but a month of being unable to confess?”
“Kaminari told me that you had to rehearse your ‘asking me out’ speech with him,” you shoot back.
“That’s different,” he protests, and you choke back a laugh on the flustered blush threatening to spread on his face. “I’m saying that he’s wasting money and time. I’m better than that kid.”
That indignant blush on his face remains on his face when you enter the restaurant.
On the outside, the building’s quite plain, made of white bricks that tower over you and Bakugou. It’s located on the outskirts of Tokyo, requiring a little longer than an average drive in the city. Inside is deceivingly intricate in ways more inclined to simplicity. The owner has taken a liking to playing with light. Beams of golden light lead you to the front of the restaurant from the parking lot.
He’s able to collect himself in front of the starry-eyed host of the restaurant. The fact that they’re serving Dynamight, one of the top Pro Heroes of the nation, has them poorly attempting to hide their excitement. They shoot you a curious look, wondering about this unnamed companion of Dynamight, but they don’t say anything out of the ordinary, though, only pleasantries.
You’re led to a secluded part of the restaurant, away from the rest of the customers.
A private room.
Night floods these walls, only illuminated by an amber hanging light over the circular table in the middle of the room. A single red rose is off to the side on the table, sitting inside a glass bottle. The minimalist aesthetics of the restaurant create an ambience, and your heart grows warm. You seat yourself in front of Bakugou.
In this kind of restaurant, you are not to order. It’s all left to the chef’s discretion—ingredients, the meal, and just everything. You’re given a basket of sourdough, steam rising through the cracks between the slices.
“Don’t eat too much of it, or else you won’t have any room left for the three courses ahead,” Bakugou warns, tipping his chin toward the bread.
“I know, but I loave bread,” you chime.
Your wordplay earns you a dirty look from Bakugou.
“That sounds more like ‘loathe’ than ‘love,’ you know,” he points out.
“Just go with it,” you say with a huff, ignoring how he does have a point.
You tear through the warm sourdough bread and pop it into your mouth after buttering it with a knife. As much as this is supposed to occupy you before your appetizer comes, it’s delicious. The tang of the bread intensifies through every chew. The salt of the butter is a perfect complement to the bread.
Bakugou seems more or less distracted—no, bothered—by something else as he talks about mundane things with you, but he obliges when you lean over the table to feed him, having torn a bite-sized piece for him.
“Something on your mind?” you question, forcing him to meet your gaze.
There’s a pause before he speaks, and it unnerves you.
Bakugou’s expression is terse, lips pulled down and eyes darkened as he stares at you from across the table. He glances at the door to the room you’re in, calculating. Your food isn’t coming for a while, so there’s no chance of civilians eavesdropping on your conversation.
“They’re letting a convict out of Tartarus,” he starts slowly.
Your thoughts stop, and the bread suddenly feels very cold in your hands.