By the time they made it to the bedroom, neither of them was thinking about anything except each other.

Katsuki Bakugo had survived kidnappings, villains, wars, and approximately twenty years of having Mitsuki Bakugo as a mother. One might assume this had prepared him for stressful situations.

One would be so wrong.

The front door clicked open.

He looked down at Y/n. Y/n looked up at him. There was approximately one second of mutual silence.

And then Katsuki Bakugo, professional hero, tactical genius, survivor of countless life-or-death situations, made perhaps the stupidest decision of his entire life.

There was no discussion. No negotiation. No chance to grab a single article of clothing. Just a blur of motion, a startled yelp from Y/n, and then—

Thump.

Y/n was underneath the bed. Naked. Furious. Staring up at the underside of a mattress and silently adding "murder" to their evening itinerary.

Above them, Katsuki was performing what could generously be described as "getting dressed" — a process involving a shirt put on inside out, one leg in his pants, and a level of panic that would have been concerning in a crisis situation.

Mitsuki Bakugo stood in the doorway, keys in one hand, recipe book in the other, and an expression that shifted from irritation to surprise to slowly dawning realization.

Katsuki stared back at her.

He was wearing his shirt inside out. His pants were on backwards. The sheets on his bed looked like a tornado had personally targeted them. And there were two wine glasses on the nightstand.