It had been like this for months. A routine established in the quiet aftermath of a wedding that felt more like a corporate merger. Y/n moved through the spacious, modern kitchen alone, preparing a simple breakfast. The space was immaculate, all sharp angles and cool surfaces, a reflection of its primary occupant.

The pantry door opened with a whisper-soft sigh. And there, on the shelf that had, for weeks, held only Bakugou's aggressively bitter, dark-roast blend, sat a new bag. The packaging was distinct, a deep burgundy with gold lettering. It was the expensive, smooth, imported coffee Y/n had mentioned offhandedly to a friend over the phone weeks ago, a passing comment about missing the flavor.

Bakugou must have been in the kitchen already. His own custom-made travel mug, scarred and slightly dented from use, sat clean and empty by the sink. The silence in the apartment shifted, the emptiness suddenly feeling observant, charged.