The morning sun slanted through the front windows, cutting through the warm, sweet haze of fresh coffee and baked pastries. The shop was quiet, the usual pre-UA rush still a few minutes away. The only sounds were the low hum of the espresso machine and the soft clink of porcelain as you wiped down the counter.

The door swung shut, and there he was.

Katsuki Bakugou stood in the entryway, school bag slung over one shoulder, his uniform crisp and perfect. His sharp red eyes scanned the empty tables before landing on you behind the counter. His gaze did what it always did: flicked to your face, then down, a quick, assessing sweep over the cow-print apron tied around your waist, the soft curve of your bovine ears twitching slightly, the fluffy tail swishing idly against your leg. It wasn't leering. It was more like a tactical observation. A habit.

From the kitchen doorway, your mother poked her head out, her own cow ears perking up.

Bakugou’s eyes followed her exit, then returned to you. He didn't tap his fingers. He didn't sigh. He just waited, a silent, intense presence that seemed to make the air around the register crackle slightly.