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The early morning light filters through the curtains, casting soft golden streaks across the room. The air is cool and quiet, and you lie in bed, warm and cosy, surrounded by the soft embrace of slumber. The world outside is still. In this peaceful moment, you're lost to the weight of sleep, drifting in a quiet lull where time doesn't seem to matter. Your breath is steady and even, and you feel the comfort of your blanket tucked close. You know that nothing in the world could interrupt this perfect calm.
But then, something stirs the edges of your consciousness. It's a faint scent, teasing at the edges of your dreams, weaving its way through your senses. The warm, inviting, familiar scent is sweet yet savoury, and it reaches deep inside you, awakening something hidden within. It's the unmistakable scent of fresh coffee, tinged with the promise of something more. And beneath it all, there's that mouthwatering trace of something cooking. Pancakes? Bacon? The scent is delicious, rich and strong, and as it envelops you, the peace of sleep begins to fade.
Your eyelids flutter open, groggily at first, as the scent pulls you up from the depths of your dreams. The soft morning light seems brighter and more present, and you stretch slightly, your muscles waking up slowly as your mind follows suit. The room is quiet, save for the faint sounds of kitchen activity. You shift under the covers, momentarily confused, then it hits you — today is your birthday.
The thoughts settle in, and in that quiet moment, your heart stirs with warmth, a gentle joy curling inside you. But as your senses sharpen and the smell of food continues to fill the air, something feels... off. There's tension in the air, a sharp edge to the otherwise peaceful sounds, and you realise this isn't just the quiet of morning. Something is happening in the kitchen, and it is making itself known in the way the scent of breakfast lingers unpleasantly.
You push the blanket off, the cool air kissing your skin as you sit up, your hair tousled from sleep, your mind still hazy with the remnants of dreams. The sound of frantic footsteps, followed by a muffled exclamation, fills your ears just as you slide your feet to the floor. The rich, tempting scent of cooking food beckons you forward, but it's not enough to distract from the slight chaos that lingers.
Then, from the kitchen, you hear it—a burst of frustration, followed by a string of curses that can only belong to one person: Bakugo. Your boyfriend. His voice is raised, but not in anger—more in sheer panic. He's clearly trying to manage something that's not going according to plan.
You rise, still warm from sleep, and move decisively toward the kitchen. The sounds of clattering dishes and the sharp scrape of utensils against a pan grow louder the closer you get. You step into the kitchen and find him there. Bakugo is standing in front of the stove. He has lost his usual fiery confidence and is now displaying a frantic energy you've never quite seen before.
Bakugo's hair is unkempt, messy in that unique way that only he can pull off, and there's a light sheen of sweat on his brow, the result of whatever chaos he's currently embroiled in. His hands are gripping the edge of the counter, as if trying to steady himself, though it's clear he's about two seconds away from throwing his hands up in defeat.
You stand there for a moment, watching him in silence, your heart fluttering as it always does when you catch sight of him—his expression caught between irritation and helplessness. He's so engrossed in whatever he's doing, and it's impossible not to find it endearing. Even with his usual intensity, there's something undeniably vulnerable in the way he moves, as if trying to navigate a task that, for all his strength and determination, is a bit beyond him.
The clatter of a pan hitting the stovetop echoes in the room. You take a step forward. Your voice is soft but steady. "Bakugo?"
He freezes, his back still turned to you, and for a moment, the silence stretches between you both. Then, with a frustrated growl, he spins around. You see the mess, the failed attempts, the streaks of flour and batter splattered across the countertop. His face is flushed, but not with the usual anger you'd expect. No, this is something else, a blend of embarrassment and sheer determination. He's trying, and you can see it, even if it's not going as planned.
"This isn't working. Damn it!" Bakugo mutters, his hands fidgeting with the pan as if he's about to throw it across the room. His frustration is clear in his eyes and evident in the harshness of his voice as he struggles to maintain control. Despite his confidence in battle and other areas, this minor kitchen challenge has thrown him.
You smile warmly, taking a step forward, and a sense of warmth spreads through you as you watch him. The sight of Bakugo, normally so fiery and confident, so caught in the simple act of trying to make something for you, for your birthday, fills you with an unexpected tenderness. It's a raw and genuine moment, one he might not fully realise, but you certainly do. This is his way of showing you he cares, of giving you something of himself, even if it doesn't go perfectly.
You take a few steps closer, your feet light against the floor as you reach him. Your hand moves to his arm and you catch his gaze—fierce but softened by something that's all him. His brows furrow as you draw closer, and the tension in his shoulders eases just a little when he notices you standing there, offering your quiet support without a word.
"I know it's not perfect," he mutters, his voice gruff but warm, conveying his care and eagerness to make this moment right for you. He doesn't need to say it, because you can feel it in the way his shoulders relax, in the way his hand gently reaches for yours.
You firmly squeeze his hand in reassurance, your thumb brushing over his knuckles as you smile up at him. "It's perfect because you're making it for me."
Bakugo's eyes narrow slightly, as if he's trying to gauge whether you're teasing him, but when he sees the sincerity in your gaze, the edges of his mouth twitch upward, a small, almost imperceptible smile beginning to form. His frustration lifts, replaced by tenderness and familiarity. He grumbles, but there's a softness to it now, a playful edge that's hard to miss.
"Don't get all soft on me now," he mutters, but there's no heat in his words, only a quiet affection that rests between the two of you.
You laugh softly, leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. The warmth of it lingers between you both, and for a moment, everything else fades away. There is no more panic, no more frustration. Just the two of you in this quiet kitchen, the early morning light casting a soft glow around you, and the knowledge that, no matter what, he is doing this for you. It is perfect.
-
The warmth of your kiss lingers on Bakugo's cheek and the rush of activity in the kitchen fades. His shoulders relax further, the tension draining from him as he stands still, almost as if the world has stopped for the two of you. His usual sharpness softens, replaced by something tender and unfamiliar, a quiet vulnerability that you cherish. His hand, which had been fidgeting with the pan, now rests gently against the counter, his fingers curling slightly, as if finding some semblance of peace in the connection between you both.
He looks at you, and for a brief second, his eyes—usually filled with fire and intensity—are calm, like the first moment after a storm has passed. His gaze is steady, searching yours with a rare sincerity he often keeps hidden behind his explosive nature. The way he watches you, as if he's trying to convey everything without needing to speak, only deepens your affection for him. In these quiet moments, when the world outside feels far away, you realise just how much he means to you. How much he cares.
"I really wanted to make it perfect," he says quietly, his voice rough with a mixture of pride and uncertainty. There's a hint of the Bakugo you know in his words—the one who strives to be the best, who always pushes himself harder than anyone could ask. But there's also a softness in his tone, a vulnerability that you don't often hear. You treasure this side of him, the one that only shows itself when he's comfortable, when he's with you.
"I know this is perfect," you say, your voice firm and reassuring. You take a step closer, reaching out and touching the edge of the pan where he's been cooking, feeling the warmth from it still radiating. Your fingers brush against his, and for a second, neither of you moves, the simple connection grounding you both.
Bakugo lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, a breath of relief mixed with something else—something deeper. His hand shifts slightly, brushing against yours with a gentleness that feels at odds with his usual fiery demeanour. He glances over at you, his golden eyes searching yours for reassurance, and it's in that look that you understand him even more. He doesn't need things to be perfect; he just needs to know that his effort and care have been seen and appreciated.
You smile, your heart swelling with affection as you look at him. "It's perfect because you made it," you whisper, affirming his efforts. The cake might not be finished yet, and there might be a slight mess in the kitchen, but none of that matters. What matters is that he's here, putting himself into this for you. That's all that matters.
Bakugo, ever the stubborn one, grumbles something under his breath. "Don't go getting all mushy on me," he says, but there's no heat in it, no anger. There's a softness in his voice that betrays his true feelings, the way he always holds back his tenderness, only to let it slip in moments like this. He shifts slightly, his hands gripping the pan again, but this time with a lighter touch, as if everything feels a little easier now.
He glances at the stove again, his brow furrowing slightly, but without the sharp frustration that had been there earlier, you can see a new resolve settling into him. The chaos of the early morning fades as he returns to the task at hand, his movements deliberate and sure. It's clear that your quiet support has given him the strength he needed to push through the uncertainty.
As he moves around the kitchen, you step closer, standing beside him, watching as he carefully flips whatever it is he's been attempting to cook. His focus and determination, coupled with the softness in his movements, warms your heart more than any dish he might make. He doesn't need to say much to make it clear that he cares; it's in the way he's there, present, trying his best for you, even when things might not go his way.
The sound of the pan hitting the stovetop once more fills the room, but this time, it's different. There is no panic, no sense of rushing. Instead, there's a steady rhythm to his movements, a quiet confidence settling in as he works. You stay by his side, your presence grounding him and offering him the space to figure it out at his own pace. You catch his gaze now and then, and you can feel the unspoken connection between you both – a bond forged not just in grand gestures, but in the small, ordinary moments, too.
"You know," you say firmly, breaking the silence, "I don't need any of this for my birthday. Just having you here is enough."
Bakugo doesn't stop what he's doing, but you see his jaw tighten slightly, the corners of his lips twitching as if he's fighting the urge to smile. His eyes flick over to you, and you see the rare, fleeting softness in his gaze. He doesn't say anything at first, but his expression is warm and says it all. The intensity he's known for is still there, but it's tempered by something quieter, something just for you.
"Yeah, well," he mutters, "you deserve more than just me, but I'm not about to let you down on your damn birthday."
You laugh at his rough response, and you can tell he means it. It's exactly what you needed to hear—because, in his own way, Bakugo always strives to give his best. Even when it's messy, even when he's not sure of the outcome, he gives everything he has.
And that, you realise, is all that matters.
As the kitchen falls silent, the only sound being the faint sounds of cooking, you stay close to him, basking in the warmth of his presence. You know that, no matter how the morning turns out, this moment – this quiet, imperfect moment – is one you'll remember forever.
Bakugo finally steps back from the stove, satisfied with the meal he has made. The meal, imperfect as it is, is warm and shows that this was made by someone who loves you. He looks at you, his golden eyes glinting with something softer now, something deeper.
"Sit," he orders, pointing to the small table in the corner. "You're going to eat, and then we'll get to celebrating."
You smile, stepping forward to kiss his cheek once more, and this time, he doesn't pull away. He leans into it, letting his guard down just for you.
"Thank you, Bakugo," you whisper, and in his gaze, you see everything you need to know. He doesn't need to say it – he already has.
-
Bakugo stands still for a moment, his gaze fixed on you. Despite his usual fiery energy, his eyes show a softness you haven't seen before. The kitchen feels different now, warmer, as if the air between you both has thickened with something deeper, something unspoken but understood. There's a subtle change in his presence, a shift you recognise, a sign of care and of something more than the chaos of the morning.
The breakfast he's prepared, despite the slight disarray, is the perfect thing you could ever ask for. It's not about perfection or gourmet skills; it's about the effort and thoughtfulness he put into it, even when it wasn't required. It's his way of showing you that on your birthday, you're his top priority. You can see it in his eyes: the way he holds your gaze, the way he doesn't let go.
You sit at the table, still feeling the warmth of his hand on yours as he watches you take a seat. There's a brief moment of silence, but it carries more weight than any words could. The room is filled with the smell of food, but it's no longer just the food itself that fills your senses—it's him. It's the way he's standing in the kitchen, so focused on you, even in the middle of his own frustration. It's his presence beside you, and every action he takes is for your comfort and happiness.
Bakugo doesn't just sit there; he pauses for a moment, standing beside the stove with his hands resting on the counter, as if taking one final check to ensure everything is perfect. The movement is instinctual; the way he double-checks everything is as if he is ensuring the world is aligned in the way he wants it. Yet there is no urgency in his steps. He's content now, despite the earlier chaos.
"You're lucky I even bothered with this," he mutters, but there's no irritation in his voice. Instead, there's a playful edge to his voice, a sign that the tension has lifted. His lips curl upward at the corners, a small smirk forming that only deepens the affection in your chest.
You take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of whatever he's managed to make, and smile at him. "I'm lucky you did," you reply, your voice soft but firm, your words warm and genuine.
Bakugo's sigh, quiet and exasperated, speaks volumes. He moves towards the table, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from you. For a moment, you and Bakugo share a silence, existing in each other's presence. It's a comfortable silence, the kind that speaks of a deep connection, the kind that needs no explanation. The sounds of the city outside are muffled by the walls, and here, in this small kitchen, there's just the two of you, wrapped in the intimacy of the moment.
Bakugo's golden eyes flicker toward you, a question in them. "You sure it's okay?" His voice is quieter now, almost unsure, as if he's waiting for you to confirm that, despite the chaos of the morning, you're truly happy with how things turned out.
You nod, your smile unwavering. "It's perfect," you say, more confident now. "I'm happy because you made it for me."
The words hang in the air between you both, a reaffirmation of everything that has passed, of everything that's unsaid. In that moment, Bakugo lets go of his last remnants of doubt. His shoulders drop slightly, and for a brief second, he looks like he can finally breathe, as if everything is right, as if the weight of the world has lightened just a little because you're here, together.
He serves the food, his hands steady as he places the dish in front of you. Despite the mess, his actions are meticulous and gentle, conveying volumes. You watch him, the way his brows furrow in concentration, the way he takes his time with each movement as if making sure it's just right. You see a different side to him, the quiet side, the one that doesn't need to shout to be heard, the one that lets his actions speak louder than any words could.
As he finishes, he slides the plate in front of you and gives you a nod, his lips curling into that familiar, cocky smirk of his. "Better be good," he says, though there's no real threat in his words. Bakugo's way of masking his tenderness with humour, of covering up the vulnerability that he'd never fully admit to.
You look down at the food, then back up at him. Your eyes are full of affection. "It smells amazing," you say, and you mean it. The combination of his effort and the love he's put into this morning fills your heart in ways that no grand gesture could. The food itself is almost secondary; it's the thought, the care, that makes it so special.
You take a bite, savouring the flavours and the richness of the meal that's filled with his effort and affection. As you do, you notice the subtle change in his expression—his posture relaxes, his gaze softens when you give him that approving smile. Bakugo doesn't seek approval, but your gaze and smile give him peace. He doesn't need to be perfect; he just needs to be himself. With you, that's more than enough.
"I'm glad you like it," he says, his voice quieter now, but there's a gentleness in it that catches you off guard. For a moment, it's almost as if he's unsure if he did right by you, if this simple act of cooking for you was enough. But the sincerity in his eyes says otherwise. He's proud, but more than that, he's relieved to see you happy.
You lean forward, your eyes never leaving his as you reach across the table and touch his hand. The warmth of his skin under your fingers is grounding, and you feel a rush of affection for him so overwhelming that it almost makes you forget to breathe. "It's more than enough, Bakugo," you whisper, your voice full of gratitude. "It's perfect because it's from you."
And in that moment, you see it—a flicker of something soft in his eyes, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, the same smile he only shows you when no one else is around. It's fleeting, but undeniable. He doesn't say anything; he doesn't need to. The silence that follows is enough; both of you sit there, your hands intertwined, letting the world outside drift away.
It's just the two of you, this moment, and the quiet love that fills the space between.