Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

@foodhellreviews: The cinnamon rolls are an 11/10. The customer service is a war crime.
#DeathByBakery #HeScowledWhenISaidThanks

@tattooedtruth: Worth the wait. Worth the pain. Worth the death glare.
#Bakubites #SugarAndSpite

@midwestmunchies: I think I got yelled at for breathing wrong. Best pie of my life tho. 5 stars.

@thatdinerbitch: He told me to “order like I have a brain.” Then made the best damn scone I’ve ever eaten. I’m so confused.
#Bakusins #CustomerFearvice

@emotionaledibles: He made me cry in front of my boyfriend, but the cupcakes saved our relationship.
#FlavorAggression #WorthIt

@coffeeorcourage: Asked for cream in my coffee. He said, and I quote, “It doesn’t need it. Neither do you.” I’ve never felt so alive.
#EmotionalSupportEspresso #Bakugod

Kirishima stared at the screen, half-laughing, half-horrified, as he refreshed the tab for the third time that morning.

There he was again: the culinary menace. The pastry tyrant. The guy who apparently told a customer their taste buds were “underdeveloped and pathetic” and then served them a tart that made them see God.

It was chaos. Beautiful, flaming, slow-motion chaos.

And it was perfect.

He exhaled through his nose, took a sip of his coffee and opened a new document.

Title: Five-Star Fury
Subject: Bakugo Katsuki, Owner of Death by Flavor

"Let’s see what makes you tick, tough guy."

He booked a rental car.

Chapter Text

The town wasn’t even on his GPS at first. Kirishima had to pass the same “Fresh Eggs” sign three times before he realized he’d already driven through it.

He rolled the window down. The sun was already too strong for late morning, warming your skin to the point of discomfort. Everything smelled like dry grass, dust, and… some kind of animal. Cows, maybe? Hard to say.
This was easily the smallest town he’d passed through on this trip, and honestly, he was just hoping whatever that smell was didn’t follow him into the bakery.

Good light. Quiet streets. A little haunted-looking. Yeah. This’ll do.

He found Death by Flavor at the corner of a faded main street. The building was all black brick and rusted metal trim, with a sign that looked like it’d been painted in fury and sarcasm.
“Death by Flavor” in blood-red script.
Underneath, in smaller letters:
“So good it'll kill you.”

Kirishima reads that sign on the way in and just mutters, “Well. At least he’s consistent.”

The front door had a sticker that said:
No Foodies. No Bloggers. No Bullshit.
And a handwritten note taped below that:
No substitutions. No smiling. Don’t ask.

Kirishima grinned. “Charming.”

He pushed open the door. A bell clanged like it was pissed to be disturbed.

The air hit him like a freight train. Warm. Yeasty. Spiced. Whatever was baking in the back had no business smelling that good. The interior was as intense as the sign; matte black walls, concrete floors, and a chalkboard menu scrawled in sharp, aggressive handwriting.

There were three tables. Two were empty. At the third, a woman with a laptop flinched as someone from the kitchen shouted, “Don’t touch that tray or I swear to God!”

Then he appeared, Bakugo Katsuki.

Apron dusted in flour. Arms crossed. Scowl locked and loaded.

“Order or get out,” he said flatly, eyes already narrowing at the camera bag on Kirishima’s shoulder.

Kirishima gave him a wide, disarming smile. “I’ll start with whatever smells like heaven and rage.”

Bakugo blinked. “…What?”

“Surprise me. I like danger.” He slid a few bills onto the counter. “Name’s Kirishima.”

Bakugo stared at him like he was sizing up a punch, then turned and shouted something unintelligible toward the kitchen. A few seconds later, a tray slammed down near the register with a scone the size of Kirishima’s fist and a steaming cup of something dark and aggressive smelling.

Bakugo glanced at the camera bag.

Kirishima beat him to it. “Not a foodie. Not a blogger. Just… passing through.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie.

“Don’t complain,” Bakugo snapped.

“I never do,” Kirishima said, sitting down by the window. He reached for the scone.

Bakugo didn’t respond. He just went back into the kitchen, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “Another damn hipster with a camera.”

Kirishima bit into the scone and it nearly knocked him out.

Sweet. Spiced. Just enough burn to make him question his life choices.

Yeah, he thought, licking cinnamon from his lip. This guy’s got something. He just doesn’t want anyone to see it.

He leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised, chewing slowly like he was processing a personal revelation. Behind the counter, Bakugo muttered something unintelligible and vanished into the kitchen again.

It wasn’t just good; it was dangerously good. The kind of good that came from someone who knew exactly what they were doing and didn’t give a damn whether anyone liked them for it. Kirishima didn’t reach for his camera. Didn’t take notes. Didn’t say another word.

He just smiled to himself, took another bite, and decided to come back tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the cow smell was back.

Kirishima pulled into the same dusty parking spot; camera bag slung over one shoulder. The sleepy town looked exactly the same: quiet, sun-bleached, suspiciously devoid of human life before 10 a.m.

He opened the bakery door and was immediately hit with the same impossible warmth; cinnamon, butter, something citrusy this time and the unmistakable sound of a man swearing at a kitchen appliance.

Bakugo’s head snapped up from behind the counter.

“You again,” he grunted.

Kirishima gave him his best smile. “Told you I liked danger.”

Bakugo made a sound like a growl but didn’t tell him to leave, which Kirishima counted as progress.

“What’s on the menu today?” he asked, leaning against the counter like they were friends.

Bakugo narrowed his eyes. “Same shit, different level of spite.”

A woman at the corner table, the same one from yesterday, snorted into her coffee.

“Two,” Bakugo muttered, turning toward the back.

Kirishima blinked. “Sorry?”

“You get two things. Don’t ask what they are. You’ll eat what I give you, and you’ll like it.”

Kirishima’s grin widened. “Now that’s service.”

A few minutes later, Bakugo slammed down a plate in front of him: a blueberry scone with a sugar glaze that glistened like it was armor-plated, and a square of something dark and dense that looked like it might kill a lesser man.

Kirishima dug in without hesitation. His eyes went wide after the first bite.

“Okay,” he mumbled through a mouthful. “You’re actually kind of a genius.”

Bakugo didn’t respond. Just wiped his hands on a towel and leaned against the back wall, arms crossed like he was daring Kirishima to say more.

He didn’t, not yet. He just ate. Slowly and thoughtfully. He made sure not to pull out his notebook or camera, even though the light through the window was perfect and the sugar glaze was catching it like a damn food commercial.

Instead, he glanced around the shop.

The decor was minimal; matte black walls, a few aggressively sarcastic signs, “Eat It or Beat It" over the register; "One Bite Closer to Death" above the door, and a small corkboard covered in chaotic handwritten notes from locals.

A few pictures were tacked there too: not of the food, but of people. A kid holding a cupcake like it was treasure. A woman laughing with a fork halfway to her mouth. Not posed or polished. Just true and real.

Kirishima leaned in before he could stop himself.

“You done snooping?” Bakugo asked from behind the counter.

“You take these?” Kirishima asked.

Bakugo shrugged. “They’re not a big deal.”

“They are,” Kirishima said, without looking away. “You caught something real.”

Bakugo scoffed. “They’re fucking phone pics.”

Kirishima finally turned, smiling faintly. “Still takes a good eye to see it.”

Kirishima glanced down at his camera, then back at Bakugo.

“Mind if I take a few pictures? Just… to capture the place. You know, the vibe.”

Bakugo’s eyes narrowed, the scowl deepening.

“No photos. This isn’t some damn studio.”

Kirishima held up his hands, grinning. “I’m not looking for a photoshoot. Just some shots of the food, the kitchen… nothing fancy.”

Bakugo hesitated, jaw tightening. Then, with a reluctant grunt, he nodded toward the corner.

“Fine. But don’t get in the way. And no faces.”

Kirishima nodded, slipping the camera from its bag, careful to respect the boundary.

No faces. No disruptions.

I didn’t say I wouldn’t post them online, he thought with a small, private grin. It’s not a photo shoot, but I didn’t say anything about where these shots might end up.

He framed his first shot carefully; focusing on the flour-dusted hands kneading dough, the tense line of Bakugo’s shoulders moving with practiced force, the way the morning light caught the steam rising from a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls.

Sometimes, capturing truth meant taking risks.

Chapter Text

Bakugo hadn’t even unlocked the damn door yet when the first person tried to sneak in.

By 8:10 a.m., there was a line out the door.

By 8:45, someone had asked if he “saw the feature online.”

By 9:00, he was ready to burn the whole town down.

And there, in the middle of it, all red hair and smug-ass grin, was him.

Kirishima stood by the counter like he belonged there, camera bag slung over his shoulder, sipping his cup of coffee like it wasn’t a war zone in here.

Bakugo slammed the tray onto the display case. “I don’t know how, but this is your damn fault.”

Kirishima blinked, all faux innocence. “Mine? I’m just here for a scone.”

“The hell you are. I let you take a few pictures and now it’s a fucking bakery circus.” He stabbed a finger toward the back. “You wanna stay? You help or you get the fuck out.”

Kirishima didn’t argue.

Didn’t even blink.

He just stepped around the counter like he’d done it a hundred times, rolled up his sleeves, and said, “What do I do?”

Bakugo opened his mouth to tell him to fuck off again, but then someone at the front piped up, “Excuse me? Could I just get-?”

Kirishima turned with that same easy smile. “Of course! What can I get for you?”

Bakugo watched him, suspicious. Watched how the customers relaxed around him. How he laughed, nodded, made people feel like they belonged here, like this wasn’t some hell-scorched corner of culinary judgment.

He was... good at it.

Too good.

Bakugo clicked his tongue, turned back to the kitchen, and muttered, “Fucking people person.”

Bakugo tried to ignore it. The way people smiled more. How the usual awkward, shuffling small-town energy in his bakery had been replaced with warmth, laughter, chatter.

Fucking Disgusting.

And yet, he didn't tell Kirishima to leave.

Not when he managed the register without fucking it up. Not when he somehow guessed who liked their coffee black and who was the extra-syrup type. Not even when he complimented some kid’s shoes and got a drawing handed to him on a napkin.

Bakugo caught that moment from across the room, halfway through plating another batch of little lemon tarts.

Kirishima crouched down, eye-level with the kid, listening like whatever they said mattered. His laugh echoed across the room; not loud, but real.

Bakugo looked away fast, jaw tight.

By the time the shop finally emptied out, it was almost noon.

He leaned both hands on the counter, exhaling slowly. Flour stuck to his arms. Heat clung to the back of his neck.

Kirishima walked around, wiping his hands on a towel like he belonged there.

“That was kind of wild, huh?” he said, nudging a chair back into place.

Bakugo didn’t answer. Just gave him a look.

Kirishima chuckled. “You don’t have to say thanks. I get it.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Didn’t think so.”

A beat passed. Kirishima started to turn toward the door and Bakugo surprised himself.

“You comin’ back tomorrow?”

Kirishima looked over his shoulder, a brow raised. “You asking for help?”

Bakugo clicked his tongue, grabbing a rag and pretending to clean the counter. “I’m saying if you’re gonna show up and cause a damn mess, you can at least make yourself useful again.”

Kirishima grinned. “I’ll be here at eight.”

Bakugo didn’t look up, but he didn’t stop him from leaving either.

Chapter Text

The morning rush never came.

Kirishima showed up early, half-expecting another crowd and a repeat of yesterday’s-controlled chaos. Instead, the bakery was quiet, still warm with the scent of cinnamon and coffee, but slower and softer. The few locals who wandered in took their time. No shouting. No lines. Just the low hum of ovens and the occasional clang of a tray being set down with more force than necessary.

Bakugo handed him an apron without a word.

No lecture. No threats. Just a grunt and a gesture toward the front.

It wasn’t much; wiping tables, restocking napkins, pretending not to read the chalkboard covered with passive-aggressive menu notes. But the calm gave space for something else. Something quieter. Kirishima moved through the morning like he was supposed to be there, and Bakugo didn’t kick him out.

So, he took a risk.

“You always know you wanted to open a bakery?” he asked casually, like he wasn’t studying every twitch of Bakugo’s expression.

Bakugo didn’t look up. “Tch....no.”

Then silence.

A full beat passed, stretched long and awkward in the warm stillness of the shop.

Kirishima leaned against the counter, pretending to consider the coffee machine like it held the answers. “Huh. I would’ve guessed... I dunno. Something physical. Personal trainer? Pro fighter?”

Another grunt. Less aggressive this time. More like amusement, buried deep.

“Guess I was wrong,” Kirishima said, easy and light, like it didn’t matter either way. “I get it, though. I always loved photography; thought I’d become something like a travel photographer. Ended up chasing stories with a lot more... pastries than I expected.””

He didn’t expect a response. He just let the words settle. Gave Bakugo the space.

A few seconds passed.

Then, finally, a voice from the other side of the kitchen. Not loud. Not sharp. Just... flat and honest.

“My mom’s a chef. Fancy, high-end stuff. Michelin stars and shit.”

Kirishima blinked. Didn’t move.

Bakugo kept his back turned, focused on the dough in front of him. “I wanted to do something different. Something simple and honest.”

Another pause.

“She hated that.”

Kirishima blinked. The words hung in the air like they weren’t meant to be spoken out loud. Not here. Not to him.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched Bakugo’s hands move; pressing, folding, and working the dough with the kind of quiet focus you couldn’t fake.

“She ever try your stuff?” he asked eventually.

Bakugo didn’t look up. “Once.”

The word landed like a dropped plate.

Kirishima exhaled slowly. “She must’ve loved it.”

A beat.

“She said it was fine.”

Kirishima stared at him. The man who’d made a scone so good it made him question his life choices. The man whose pastries were borderline spiritual experiences if the internet was to be believed. Fine?

He shook his head, almost laughed, not at Bakugo, but at the absurdity of it.

“She’s out of her mind,” he said.

Bakugo didn’t respond. Didn’t look up, just kept working, jaw tight.

But he didn’t leave the room. He didn’t tell Kirishima to shut up. And that, somehow, said everything. But the movement of his hands slowed just slightly, like the tension shifted from muscle to air.

Kirishima swallowed, feeling the weight of it. No wonder he’s like this. Built his whole life out of flour and fire, and the one person who should’ve been proud didn’t even try to be.

He didn’t know what that kind of dismissal would do to a person, but looking at Bakugo now; shoulders tight, chin down, completely still for just half a second, he had a guess.

And yeah, okay. He’d come here for a story. Maybe a wild quote or a viral moment.

But this?

This wasn’t just a story anymore, but it mattered more than anything he planned to put on paper.

Chapter Text

Kirishima had been showing up to the bakery every morning for nearly two weeks before he realized he hadn’t taken a single photo in days. Not because he forgot, he just didn’t want to break the rhythm.

There was something about the quiet, the heat, the way Bakugo would grunt and shove a coffee at him without asking how he liked it.

They had fallen into a routine, one Bakugo never acknowledged but never interrupted either.

Kirishima stocked napkins without being told. Learned which trays to pull when the timer went off. They bickered over music, invented a whole fake backstory for their weirdest regular, and had somehow developed a shared language of eye-rolls and eyebrow raises that said more than most people could in full paragraphs.

And somewhere between the cinnamon rolls and the burned fingertips, it stopped feeling like research and started feeling like... something else.

Like home, maybe.

He hadn’t touched his article since the first draft. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he was starting to care too much to say it.

He pulled out his camera that night, half-thinking he’d finally write the damn piece.
Instead, he found a dozen photos he didn’t remember taking: Bakugo mid-laugh (okay, half-laugh), flour on his cheek.

A light caught in the window. A kid smiling through a sugar high.
It wasn’t food photography. It was... life.

He didn’t upload any of them.

The next morning, Kirishima walks in like always. Coffee. Apron. The little domestic ritual.

They’re getting along. It’s easy now. Flirting without saying it's flirting.

So when Bakugo muttered, not even looking up from where he was kneading dough, “You ever gonna leave, or are you just haunting this place now?” it hit harder than it should have.

Kirishima’s smile falters. Just for a second. Then he recovers, but his heart fumbled a step. “What, getting tired of me already?”

Bakugo just snorted. “Tch. Just saying. For someone who said he was passing through, you’ve sure been passing through a long-ass time.”

That was all he said. That was all it took. The dough slammed against the counter. The silence afterward stretched like cooling sugar.

Kirishima didn’t flinch, but the pause before he answered was just a fraction too long.

“Guess I got stuck,” he said, light and easy. “Happens when the pastries are good.”

Bakugo didn’t laugh. Didn’t even look up. Just kept kneading the dough on the counter.

“You always hang around this long when you’re just taking pictures?”

This time, Kirishima hesitated for real.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Depends on the subject.”

Bakugo’s eyes flicked up, sharp and unreadable.

“Huh.”

Kirishima tried to smile again, but it didn’t quite reach. “You saying you want me gone?”

Bakugo’s voice stayed level, but the edge was impossible to miss. “Didn’t say that, just trying to figure out what the hell you’re really doing here.”

Kirishima didn’t answer right away. He stared at the words “Eat It or Beat It”, it was easier to look at that than to meet Bakugo’s eyes.

Finally, he exhaled.

“I’m a writer.”

Bakugo didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, hands stayed pressed into the dough, fingers clenched tighter than before.

Kirishima pressed on, gently. “I mean, I take photos, too. That’s not a lie. But I came here because I heard about this bakery with a reputation. A guy who tells customers off and still sells out before noon.”

Bakugo’s jaw tightened. His voice, when it came, was flat. “So what, this was research?”

Kirishima nodded once. “Yeah. At first.”

Silence stretched between them.

“You said you weren’t a blogger.”

“I’m not,” Kirishima said quickly, lifting his hands. “I didn’t lie. I said I was passing through. That part was true.”

Bakugo’s eyes finally found his, and they weren’t angry, they were hurt. Worse somehow.

“You lied by omission.”

“You glared at me like I kicked your cat,” Kirishima said, a weak attempt at levity. “I wasn’t exactly gonna lead with, ‘Hi, I write thinkpieces about angry bakers.’”

Bakugo didn’t flinch, but his voice went low.

“You came here to write about a freak show....what, changed your mind when I gave you a cookie?”

Kirishima swallowed. His voice softened.

“I came here for a story. But I stayed because of you.”

That hung in the air, heavy and quiet.

Bakugo said nothing.

He wiped his hands on his apron, not quite clean, and walked into the kitchen without another word, the door swinging shut behind him.

Kirishima stood there, hands still half-raised, as the silence in the bakery settled in around him like dust.

And for the first time since arriving, he didn’t feel like he belonged there.

Chapter Text

Kirishima doesn’t go back to the bakery the next day.
Not the day after, either.

Instead, he holed up in the quiet room he’d been renting above the diner two blocks down. The wallpaper is peeling. The AC wheezes. The only light comes from the single cracked window overlooking a street that barely sees traffic.

It’s perfect.

For hours, he stares at his laptop, fingers hovering above the keys, a blank document blinking like it’s daring him to be honest. Not clever. Not charming. Honest.

He scrolls through the photos first; the ones Bakugo let him take, and the ones he snapped quickly when no one was looking. Hands dusted in flour. Steam curling off a pie. The crooked smile of a little girl holding a cupcake like it’s a treasure.

But it’s the one he didn’t mean to take; the candid, raw one of Bakugo mid-sentence, sleeves pushed up, sun cutting across his cheekbone like a spotlight that sticks in his throat.

That one’s never going online. That one’s just… his.

Kirishima starts writing.

It’s not the piece he pitched. Not some spicy takedown of a “rude but brilliant” baker with a cult following and a death wish for manners.

It’s a quiet essay. About fire and flour. About grief. About the things we build when we’re not given love the way we need it, and how that doesn't mean we stop trying.

About a man who yells like it’s a defense mechanism, who bakes like he’s proving something and maybe he is.
About how easy it is to mock what you don’t understand.
How staying can mean more than showing up.

He doesn’t send it to his editor.

He prints it.

And two mornings later; clean shirt, camera in his bag, heart pounding in his chest he walks back into Death by Flavor.

Bakugo looks up from behind the counter, expression unreadable.

“I’m not here to fix anything,” Kirishima says quietly. “But I wanted you to read something. Before I even think about publishing.”

He slides the printed pages across the counter. Doesn’t say anything else.

Bakugo doesn’t reach for them right away.

But he doesn’t throw them out, either.

And that, for now, is enough.

Chapter Text

Bakugo doesn’t touch the pages all day.

He leaves them sitting on the counter like they might explode, but not where anyone else could read them. Every time he passes by, he glances at them, jaw clenched, brow tight, like they’re a dare.

He waits until the shop is closed, the lights off, the silence thick.

Then he takes them home.

His apartment is above the bakery. Clean. Functional. There’s a chair in the corner he rarely uses, but he sits there now, elbows on his knees, paper trembling just slightly in his flour-rough hands.

And he reads.

It’s not what he expected.

There are no jokes. No angles. No polished critique of his temper or some tongue-in-cheek rating system for his croissants.

It’s real...too real.

It talks about legacy. About being raised to chase perfection and choosing honesty instead. About building something small and good in a world that only seems to value the loudest, flashiest, most palatable things.

It talks about how the bakery isn’t just a place, but a person.

“He bakes like he’s trying to prove he deserves to take up space. But the proof’s already in the crust. You just have to be brave enough to taste it.”

Bakugo swallows hard.

His throat hurts.

And then, at the very end, scrawled in Kirishima’s messier handwriting; a different pen, definitely added later, is this:

Bakugo,

You were supposed to be a 1,500-word feature. I wasn’t supposed to fall for you.

But I did. Slowly. Then all at once.

I don’t know if this story ever goes public. But I wanted you to see it. I wanted you to see you.

If you ever want to see me again, I’d like that. I think there’s more here than just a headline.

– Kirisima
(xxx-xxx-xxxx)

Chapter Text

Kirishima left the story on the counter, walked out the door, and immediately considered turning around.

He didn’t.
But he wanted to.

It took him three hours and two wrong turns just to leave town.
By the time he made it to a motel two cities over, he hadn’t heard a word. Not a text. Not a call.

He stared at his phone until the screen went dark. Then he stared at the ceiling.

This was stupid.
This was so stupid.

He fell for the guy. Wrote the damn story.
Now what?

Kirishima felt his phone buzz.

He glanced down, expecting another work email or a news alert. Instead, a message popped up; no contact name, just a number.

Unknown Number:

You’re a pain in the ass, but I guess I don’t hate having you here.

His breath hitched, and an unexpected grin spread across his face; wide and genuine, the kind that reached his eyes. The familiar roughness behind the words made his heart skip.

He stared at the message for a moment, rereading it like it might disappear. Then, without hesitation, he grabbed his jacket and slung his camera bag over his shoulder.

No second thoughts. No lingering doubts.

He was going back.

Kirishima stood near the counter, camera in hand. The morning light was perfect; soft and golden, catching on the rising steam from a fresh batch of rolls and the flour-dusted edges of the counter.

Bakugo was at the workstation, sleeves pushed up, kneading dough like it had personally offended him. He hadn’t said much when Kirishima walked in; just a glance, a muttered “You’re early,” and went right back to work.

Kirishima didn’t speak, didn’t want to break the moment. He lifted the camera slowly, framing the shot.

Click.

Bakugo stiffened. His hands paused mid-press, and his eyes flicked up, more reflex than actual annoyance.

He didn’t snap. Just grumbled, without looking over:
“…Thought I told you no faces.”

Kirishima lowered the camera, grinning sheepishly.
“Sorry. It was just a good moment; the light was too good to pass up.”

Bakugo didn’t answer, but his shoulders eased slightly. He didn’t stop him.

Kirishima scrolled through the preview, then turned the screen around.
“Here. This one. It’s the best.”

Bakugo glanced, then squinted at the photo: arms folded, apron streaked with flour, face caught in a quiet moment of focus. Not smiling. Not posed. Just… present.

He frowned.
“I still look pissed.”

Kirishima laughed softly, shaking his head.
“You look like you.”
Kirishima paused for just a beat, “You don’t have to smile for it to be a good shot.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The bakery hummed with the warmth of the ovens and the scent of sugar and spice.

Bakugo didn’t argue, just went back to the dough, slower now. The kind of slow that meant he was thinking, even if the words weren’t ready. But the looseness in his jaw, the shift in his hands, spoke volumes.

Kirishima leaned against the counter, camera resting on the strap around his neck. Bakugo’s focus shifted back to the dough, but the silence between them was softer now.

After a moment, Bakugo spoke without looking up, “You hungry?”

Kirishima blinked, “Always.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes, “I’ve got something new in the back. Might let you try it.”

Kirishima’s grin returned, slower this time, “If it’s poisoned, at least I’ll die full.”

Bakugo huffed a laugh. Barely. But it was there.

The sun continued its slow crawl through the windows. Dough rose. Tension settled. And for the first time in days, neither of them felt like they had to fill the quiet.

Chapter Text

The mornings had started to feel different.

A little less loud, a little busier and much warmer. Quieter in a way that didn’t feel empty.

Kirishima stood behind the counter, rolling up his sleeves. His apron already had a dusting of flour from the first batch of scones, and his coffee sat half-forgotten beside the register. He watched Bakugo work; brow furrowed, hands steady, sleeves pushed up like always. Same routine. Same rhythm. But the tension in his shoulders had eased. The silence between them wasn’t thick anymore. It was lived in.

The article had gone live three days ago. Not the original one; the one Bakugo read in the dark, with flour still under his nails and emotion caught in his throat. That one had been too raw, too close. That one had been for him.

This version, the public one, was gentler. Still honest, still sharp in the places that mattered, but softened.

“There’s a man in a black-walled bakery who bakes like he’s fighting for his life. His food doesn’t beg for attention; it dares you to survive it. But if you do, you’ll find something else underneath; resilience, depth, and a touch of sweet caramel.”

Kirishima hadn’t told him it went up. He hadn’t needed to. The next morning, there was an extra cup of coffee waiting on the counter, black with one sugar, no questions asked.

Then yesterday, someone walked in holding the story open on their phone. Middle-aged guy, windblown and clearly not from town.

“I read this,” he said, a little awkward, “and... I don’t know. I just felt like I had to come.”

Bakugo didn’t say anything. Just gave him the best slice of lemon tart he’d ever plated.

Now, the oven clicked softly behind them, and the sky outside the windows glowed with that gold-edged blue that only came from early autumn.

Kirishima turned to Bakugo, leaning on the counter just enough to bump their elbows. “You know,” he said, a slow grin tugging at his mouth, “you never did thank me for making you famous.”

Bakugo grunted. “Not famous. Just busier.”

“Still,” Kirishima teased, “you could offer me a lifetime supply of croissants. Maybe your eternal gratitude.”

“Tch.” Bakugo didn’t look over, but he nudged him back. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw that article in the trash.”

“You read it, though,” Kirishima said softly.

Bakugo was quiet for a second too long. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice lower now. “I read it.”

Kirishima didn’t push. He didn’t need to.

He looked around the bakery; the quiet hum of it, the trays of cooling pastries, the chalkboard menu with half its notes crossed out, and smiled. Not because it was perfect. But because it was theirs.

“I wasn’t supposed to fall for you, you know,” he said casually, brushing a bit of flour from Bakugo's sleeve.

Bakugo’s hands stilled over the dough. He didn’t turn, didn’t speak. Just stood there, back to him, silent for a breath too long.

Then, quietly: “Yeah. Me neither.”

Kirishima swallowed. His heart kicked a little, gentle yet unmistakable.

“I think I could stay,” he said.

Bakugo finally looked up. Met his eyes. And in that look, soft and sharp and completely unguarded, was everything.

“You already did,” he muttered. Then added, after a pause: “So... you’re in for the long haul?”

Kirishima smiled, eyes warm, stepping in close and cupping Bakugo’s cheek.
“I hope you’ve got room for two because I’m not going anywhere.”

Then he leaned in and kissed him.

Chapter Text

(One Year Later)

The sign on the door had changed.

It now said “Closed Mondays” but still had the same crooked chalk lettering and passive-aggressive note about not asking for substitutions.

But underneath that, scrawled in a different hand; rounder, looser, slightly smug was a second line:

“Open hearts. No refunds.”

Bakugo swore he’d erase it every time he saw it.
He never did.

The bakery smelled like orange zest and something spiced, the kind of flavor Bakugo grumbled about not liking, which made it easier to guess who it was for.

The front window caught the morning light just right, turning the flour in the air to gold.

Across the room, Kirishima stood on a chair, adjusting the new photo display.

All candid shots. All his.

Some of the bakery. Some of the town.

One special shot; caught Bakugo mid-laugh, a fork in Kirishima’s hand, a smear of frosting on Bakugo's cheek. They’re both slightly out of focus but together and happy. They’d tried to take a selfie; one of those quick, “just smile and get it over with” moments.

But they were laughing, mid-motion, a little out of frame.

Off-center. Slightly blurry. But real.

The kind of photo no one plans for.

The kind that feels like a memory.

“You hung that one?” Bakugo barked, spotting it.

“It’s the best one, even though it’s not perfect” Kirishima called back without turning. “Looks like you....the you I came back for.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes. “Tch. Still annoying.”

Kirishima climbed down, grin easy, eyes soft. “And you still let me stay.”

Bakugo didn’t answer. Just looked at him a second longer than necessary. Then turned back to the dough with a muttered, “Idiot.”

But his hands were steady. His chest was light. And the bakery, their bakery, felt like exactly what it was meant to be.

Full of something good.

Small, honest and baked with love.