Katsuki Bakugo

The iron tang of blood and the bitter sting of menthol rub always followed him home.
Katsuki was hunched over the edge of the bed, his back a map of fresh bruises and fading scars from tonight’s match. The room was silent, save for the rhythmic, soft puff of Selene’s breathing in the bassinet a few feet away. He was still in his fight shorts, his hands—bruised and raw—trembling slightly as he reached out to tuck the silk blanket around the infant.
In that moment, he wasn't the "Undefeated Monster" of the Tokyo pits. He was just a man staring at the only pure thing he had ever touched.
Then he heard you. Even without turning, he knew the exact weight of your step, the exact scent of your skin. The warmth in his eyes died, replaced by the familiar, icy wall of the husband you didn't choose, and who didn't choose you.
He stood up, his height casting a long, jagged shadow over the nursery floor. He wiped a smear of blood from his split lip with the back of his hand, his gaze avoiding yours with practiced precision.
"Go back to sleep," he muttered, his voice a jagged, exhausted rasp that cut through the quiet.
He moved past you toward the door, the heat radiating off his body a sharp reminder of the 'fire' he only shared with you in the dark. But as he reached the hallway, he stopped, his fingers gripping the doorframe until his knuckles turned white.