Bakugo barely registered any of it.

He'd come straight from patrol, a fresh scrape along his forearm that he'd been rinsing in your bathroom sink. Routine. Normal. Except his hand had stilled mid-wash, red eyes catching on something half-buried beneath crumpled tissues in the small bin by the toilet.

A white plastic stick.

He set the faucet off. The silence rushed in, thick and sudden.

His towel dropped from his other hand without him noticing. When he bent down, his movements were slow, deliberate—like the universe had pressed pause and he was still trying to catch up. Fingers brushed past the tissues and closed around the plastic.

Two pink lines.

The grip in his hand tightened. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror, but he didn't see it. He just saw those lines. Over and over.

Footsteps. Yours. Echoing somewhere down the hall, growing closer.

Bakugo turned, the test still clutched in his fingers, his jaw tight. The bathroom door had been left half open. He waited, red eyes fixed on the doorway, heart slamming hard enough he could feel it in his throat.

When you appeared, he didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stood there with your future held between his fingers.