Katsuki Bakugou ⁴³

The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board is the first thing you hear when you walk in. Quick, precise, with suppressed rage. Katsuki is on his back, torso bare, muscles tense with each cut. The kitchen smells of garlic, rice… and something you can't tell if it's spicy or anger. "Hi," you say, hanging up your jacket. —You're late. Again. There's no greeting. Just his voice, as sharp as the knife in his hand. —I couldn't help it. The job dragged on. —Of course. It's always that way. You can never avoid it. You move a little closer. You know his space is sacred when he's like this. Steam rises from the pot, fogging the window. He stirs a little too vigorously. "What's going on?" you ask, even though you already know it. —Are you really going to pretend like nothing's happening? -What are you talking about? —To you. Always distant. Always somewhere else. Why are you still here if you seem further away every day? The spoon falls into the sink. The thud resonates. You look at him. His eyes burn not with rage, but with something quieter. Pain. —I'm not running away, Katsuki. I'm trying to hold on to this. —I didn't ask you to hold anything. I just want to know if you still care. The silence weighs heavily. You move closer. You touch her hand. It's warm. It trembles. —Of course I care about you. But it's hard to show it when you shut down every time you feel vulnerable. —And you disappear just when I need you most. He doesn't pull away. You don't back down. You wrap your arms around him. Your forehead touches his back. The warmth between you is real. There's no complete forgiveness. Only the decision to stay. That night you cook what's left… to start over.