Work Text:
Katsuki learned the exact price of excess long before he learned how to pretend he enjoyed paying it.
This particular one hit as a sharp, pulsing ache behind his eyes. Each heartbeat echoed like a drum struck too close to his skull. His mouth felt dry and swollen, tongue too heavy, throat scratchy with regret and expensive liquor. Light—any light—was an insult. Sound bordered on hell. Even the faintest movement made his stomach churn unpleasantly. And don't even get him started on the scent of his own cologne...something rare and outrageously priced that clung to him like a personal vendetta out for revenge.
The worst part is that he deserved it.
The night before had been loud and humid, the kind of club where the bass rattled your ribs and bodies pressed together without asking. Someone important had invited him—some model’s afterparty...maybe...or a DJ whose name trended every other week. Katsuki hadn’t bothered remembering. He’d gone because that was what people expected of him.
Katsuki Bakugou.
Is the heir to THE old-money fashion empire. Walking headline. Beautiful disaster. The boy who drank too much, danced too hard, smiled like sin, and—according to the internet—slept with anything that breathed.
Allegedly...
The truth was far duller. Far lonelier. But Katsuki had learned early that correcting people only invited more scrutiny. Let them think what they wanted. Let them love him for it or hate him for it. Either way, they watched.
And that was precisely the problem.
He adjusted the oversized black sunglasses perched on his nose as he stepped out of the car, the city air biting cold against his bare stomach. The cropped tank top he wore was vintage—original Bakugou from the late nineties, cut to sit just beneath his ribs. The low-cut jeans slung around his hips like they’d been tailored for indifference, belt loose, fly daringly low. He looked, as always, expensive and unbothered.
Inside, he was praying he wouldn’t throw up.
“Just grab the fabrics and go,” he muttered, voice rough. His mother’s text burned in his mind like a brand: Need the silk bundles from Hachisuka Textiles. You’re closest. Don’t be late.
He should have known better.
Hachisuka Textiles wasn’t some anonymous warehouse tucked away from curious eyes. It was a respected supplier nestled into a narrow street frequented by designers, stylists, and anyone desperate to brush against relevance. Somewhere between Katsuki leaving the club and stepping out of the car, his location had leaked.
By the time he reached the building, he could already see them.
Phones raised. Cameras flashing. Fans pressed against the glass doors like moths to light. Paparazzi lingered at the edges, predators with lenses instead of teeth.
His stomach dropped.
“Shit,” Katsuki hissed.
He pivoted instantly, heart thudding, and slipped around the side of the building toward the alley reserved for deliveries. His headache worsened with every step, anxiety prickling under his skin. He hated this part—the scramble, the loss of control, the way he became something hunted instead of human.
The backdoor was locked.
“Fuck,” he breathed, rapping his knuckles against it in useless frustration.
Behind him, voices rose. Excited. sharp. Someone had recognized him.
Katsuki didn’t wait.
He bolted down the alley, boots slapping against pavement, lungs burning as he rounded a corner and nearly collided with a glass storefront.
A bakery.
Warm light spilled through the windows, soft and golden instead of harsh and exposing. The sign above the door was hand-painted, the lettering curling gently at the edges. No crowds. No cameras. Just quiet.
He didn’t think.
He yanked the door open.
The bell above it rang.
Loudly.
“Oh—shit—!” Katsuki flinched at the sound, pain lancing through his skull. He stumbled forward, misjudging the space in his rush, and half-tripped over a low partition behind the display cases—a staff barrier meant to keep customers out. He vaulted it more on instinct than grace, landing awkwardly behind the counter with a sharp hiss as his knee smacked wood.
He dropped into a crouch instantly, heart racing, breath shallow, palms pressed to cool tile.
For a moment, there was only the hum of warm air and the distant muffled noise of the street outside.
Then someone cleared their throat.
Katsuki froze.
Slowly, he lifted his head.
Standing behind the display case—exactly where Katsuki had landed—was a man.
Tall. Broad-shouldered in a way that looked effortless rather than curated. Indigo colored hair pulled back loosely, strands falling around a sharp, unimpressed face. His forearms were bare, dusted with flour, tattoos winding up his skin in deliberate lines that disappeared beneath the sleeves of a black shirt pushed to the elbows. A small hoop glinted in one ear. Another at his lip.
His eyes were assessing, sweeping over Katsuki from head to toe with open judgment.
“You’re not allowed back here,” the man said flatly.
Katsuki finally registering that there were people here promptly forgot how to breathe.
Oh.
Oh, that was unfair.
The man was… hot. Annoyingly so. The kind of attractive that didn’t try and didn’t care if you noticed. Something sharp and immediate curled low in Katsuki’s stomach.
His terrible taste in men, striking again.
“I—uh,” Katsuki started, then winced as his head throbbed. He pushed himself up slightly, peeking over the display case as his sunglasses slipped down his nose. “I just needed a second.”
The man snorted.
“Right. Because breaking into bakeries is very normal behavior.”
Before Katsuki could respond, the man added, voice dry and cutting, “I might Just throw you out with the rest of the trash.”
Katsuki blinked.
Then he smiled.
It came easily—a slow, cocky curl of his lips, the kind that launched headlines without effort. He leaned back against the counter, ignoring the ache in his knee, tilting his head just enough to look over the rim of his sunglasses. He didn’t realize the way his gaze darkened, lashes dipping almost lazily.
Bedroom eyes...entirely unintentional.
“Wow,” Katsuki said lightly. “You always this welcoming, or am I special?”
The man’s jaw tightened.
Up close, Katsuki caught the flicker of irritation behind his eyes. Good. He liked that. He liked men who didn’t melt.
Before the baker could snap back, a warmer voice cut through the tension.
“Oh my goodness.”
A woman emerged from the back, wiping her hands on her apron. She took one look at Katsuki—rumpled, pale, clearly shaken—and her expression softened instantly.
“Come here, dear,” she said, already moving toward him. “You poor thing.”
Katsuki barely had time to react before she was guiding him fully upright, a gentle but firm hand at his elbow. He stiffened out of habit, then relaxed despite himself. She smelled like sugar and vanilla and something comforting he couldn’t name.
Behind her, the baker rolled his eyes.
“Oh hush, Hitoshi,” the woman said briskly as she steered Katsuki toward a small table near the window. “Be nice. Maybe go fetch him a drink.”
The man, Hitoshi, opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. His lips pressed into a thin line.
The woman turned to Katsuki with a smile. “What would you like to drink, dear?”
Katsuki glanced up at the handwritten chalkboard menu, the letters wobbling slightly thanks to his headache. He swallowed, suddenly aware of how out of place he looked—too exposed, too loud, too much.
“Peach iced tea, please, ma’am,” he said quickly, polite and soft, flashing her a small, awkward smile that felt more genuine than anything he’d worn in weeks.
Her smile widened. “Coming right up.”
As she bustled away, Katsuki sank into the chair, exhaling slowly. The curtains were drawn, the bakery sealed off from the street. The noise outside dulled to a distant murmur.
Safe.
For now.
Across the counter, Hitoshi crossed his arms, unimpressed gaze still pinned to Katsuki like a thorn.
Katsuki met it without flinching, his heart doing something stupid in his chest. And for reasons he didn’t yet understand, he found himself hoping this wouldn’t be the last time those half-lidded eyes looked at him that way.
Katsuki became aware of his body in pieces.
First the chill along his exposed stomach as a faint draft slipped beneath the cropped hem of his tank top, now that he wasn’t moving anymore. Then the way the low-cut jeans dug slightly into his hips when he shifted in the chair. Then—unfortunately—the fact that he was sitting across from a woman whose kindness radiated so openly it made him suddenly, painfully aware of how little fabric separated him from indecency.
It was ridiculous. He’d worn worse. He’d walked into galas dressed with more skin exposed, had photos taken from every possible angle, had strangers praise or dissect his body with equal enthusiasm. None of that ever bothered him.
This was different.
This kind older woman moved with the unhurried ease of someone entirely comfortable in her own space. She set the glass of peach iced tea in front of him with care, condensation beading along the sides, and Katsuki felt something in his chest twist uncomfortably.
She smiled at him like he belonged there.
Katsuki shifted, fingers tugging instinctively at the hem of his tank top, trying to pull it down another inch. It didn’t help much. The fabric slid right back up the moment he straightened. He forced himself not to slouch, chin lifting, shoulders squaring. Confidence was armor. He’d worn it his entire life.
Still, he crossed one arm loosely over his middle, casual enough to pass as relaxed, deliberate enough to hide just a bit more skin.
Across the bakery, the grumpy man noticed.
Of course he did.
Katsuki felt the weight of his gaze like a static charge—annoyed, sharp, and unsettlingly warm. From that tall glass of water, the attention didn’t make Katsuki want to hide. If anything, it sparked something reckless and defiant in him, a wordless yes, keep looking. But for the woman now pulling out the chair opposite him, all gentle smiles and maternal warmth, the exposure felt suddenly intimate in a way he hadn’t consented to.
She sat down, folding her hands together atop the table.
“I’m Aiko Shinsou,” she said, voice light but proud. “Co-owner of this place. That grumpy cat over there is my son, Hitoshi.”
She tilted her head slightly toward the counter.
Katsuki huffed out a breath, lips twitching despite himself. “Uh—yeah. Hi.” He lifted his hand in a small, awkward wave, then caught himself. Gods, he was being weird. “I’m Katsuki.”
Just Katsuki.
No last name. No weight. No expectations.
“It’s nice to meet you, Katsuki.”
Her tone was sincere, not curious in the way people usually were when they met him. No calculating pause. No searching his face for recognition.
That alone made him relax a fraction.
She glanced at his drink. “How’s the tea?”
“Good,” he said quickly. Then, realizing how clipped that sounded, added, “Really good. Thanks.”
She smiled, pleased. “We make it in-house. Less sugar than people expect.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki said, nodding. “It’s… better that way.”
There was a brief pause. Just a tad awkward, but that was all Katsuki trying his damnest to impress.
Aiko tilted her head slightly. “Did you want to sit somewhere more comfortable? You can take your time. We’re closed now.”
Katsuki glanced toward the counter reflexively.
Hitoshi was there, arms crossed, expression carved from stone. The moment their eyes met, Hitoshi looked away, jaw tightening. A second later, he turned sharply and disappeared into the back, the door swinging shut behind him with finality.
Well.
“That’s okay,” Katsuki said, turning back to Aiko. “This is fine.”
She hummed softly, accepting that. “You came in at just the right time. We were about to close anyway.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki said. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to—uh—cause a scene.”
“You didn’t,” Aiko said lightly. “The bell did most of the work.”
He winced. “It’s really loud.”
She laughed. “It’s supposed to be.”
Another small pause settled between them.
Aiko rested her chin briefly on her knuckles. “So. What had you running in like that?”
Katsuki hesitated, then shrugged. “Crowds.”
“Mm,” she said, nodding. “That’ll do it.”
No follow-up. No probing.
He appreciated that more than he expected.
Outside, a distant shout drifted faintly through the curtains. Katsuki flinched before he could stop himself, fingers tightening around his glass.
Aiko noticed. “They’ll get bored,” she said calmly. “They always do.”
He let out a breath. “Hope so.”
She studied him—not intensely, not clinically. Just enough to register. “You’re welcome to stay until it quiets down.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Really.”
She waved it off. “We like company.”
Katsuki huffed a quiet laugh. “You sure? Your son looks like he wants to throw me back outside.”
Aiko smiled, fond but firm. “Hitoshi doesn’t like surprises.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki said dryly. “I get that a lot.”
She chuckled. “He’ll survive.”
That made something loosen in Katsuki’s chest.
He shifted again, this time more comfortably, posture easing. The hyper-awareness of his clothes dulled, fading into the background as the bakery settled around him. The hum of the fridge. The faint smell of sugar and bread. The quiet safety of being somewhere that wasn’t watching him.
Aiko glanced at the clock on the wall. “You’re lucky,” she said. “We’re usually out by now.”
“I am?” Katsuki asked.
She nodded. “I was just about to lock up.”
“Oh.” He paused, then added quickly, “I can go if—”
“No, no,” she said, smiling. “You’re fine. Sit.”
So he did.
They talked about nothing important.
The weather. How business had been slower lately. How people always underestimated bakeries in the age of delivery apps. Katsuki responded awkwardly at first—short answers, careful words—but gradually he loosened, leaning back in his chair, gesturing with his hands when he spoke.
He didn’t talk about fashion. She didn’t ask.
Eventually, Aiko stood, heading toward the counter. “I should finish closing up.”
Katsuki, now realizing how late he had stayed, said. “Damn, I should head out soon too then.”
Aiko paused, then turned back, reaching into her apron pocket. “Before you do.”
She scribbled something on a small piece of paper and slid it across the table toward him.
Katsuki blinked. “What’s this?”
“My number,” she said simply. “If you ever want to check whether we’re quiet. Or if you’d like to stop by without an audience.”
He stared at it, surprised. “You sure?”
Aiko leaned in slightly, lowering her voice—not conspiratorial, just private. “I know who you are, Katsuki” she said softly. “And if you ever need some time without a crowd… feel free to come by right after closing. I’ll let you stay.”
Something warm and unfamiliar settled in Katsuki’s chest.
He nodded, careful, sincere. “Thank you.”
She patted his hand once, gentle and brief, then turned back to her work as if nothing extraordinary had been said.
Katsuki folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his pocket.
Outside, the noise had faded.
Inside, for the first time that day, Katsuki felt like he could breathe.
Katsuki told himself the second visit was a coincidence.
The third, he called habit.
By the fourth time he found himself checking the clock with a faint, impatient tension coiling low in his chest, he stopped lying to himself entirely.
The bakery sat at the edge of his evenings now, tucked into the last minutes before closing like a held breath. He always arrived late—sometimes a few minutes before the sign flipped to CLOSED, sometimes after the lights had already dimmed slightly inside. He never really announced himself ahead of time...ok that's a lie. Katsuki very much does text Aiko ahead of time before going. He didn’t dress for it, didn’t plan for it. He just… went.
And every time, without fail, Aiko lets him in.
The bell above the door had learned him by now. Its chime no longer made Katsuki flinch. Now it rang soft and familiar, swallowed by warmth and sugar-sweet air. The curtains were usually half-drawn by the time he arrived, the street outside fading into muted shapes and shadows.
“Oh! Katsuki dear,” Aiko would say, delighted rather than surprised. “You made it.”
“I can come back another time if you’re—” he’d start, polite, reflexive.
“Nonsense,” she’d reply, already turning the sign around. “Come sit. Hitoshi, put the kettle back on.”
That was always when the tension snapped tight.
Hitoshi never argued with his mother. Not outright. But Katsuki could feel the resentment roll off him in quiet, concentrated waves. The way his shoulders stiffened. The way his mouth pressed into a thin, unhappy line. The way his eyes followed Katsuki like he was a disaster waiting to happen.
The first few times, Katsuki tried not to notice.
He failed.
It was harder than he expected.
Hitoshi didn’t watch him openly—not like fans or cameras did—but the attention was sharper for it. Focused. Like Katsuki was something to be studied instead of consumed.
Tonight was no different.
Katsuki slipped in just after closing, jacket slung over one shoulder, sunglasses pushed up into his hair now that the outside world had faded to quiet. His outfit this time was something softer and looser. Still expensive, still unmistakably him, but toned down in a way he hadn’t consciously planned.
Aiko looked up from behind the counter and smiled. “There you are.”
Katsuki’s chest loosened automatically. “Hey.”
Hitoshi, who had been wiping down the counter, froze.
His eyes flicked up, sharp and disapproving, then away again just as fast.
Aiko didn’t miss it. “Hitoshi,” she said pleasantly, “could you finish up the back? I’ll take care of things out here.”
His jaw clenched. “We’re closed.”
“Yes,” she said. “And we have a guest.”
Hitoshi’s gaze snapped back to Katsuki, dark and suspicious. “Exactly.”
Katsuki opened his mouth, then closed it. He’d learned quickly that defending himself only seemed to confirm whatever assumptions Hitoshi already held. Instead, he gave a small nod. “I can go.”
Aiko waved him off without looking. “Sit.”
So he did.
He took the same table by the window every time. It had become something like an unspoken agreement between them. Aiko poured tea—something herbal she insisted he try—and slid a plate of whatever hadn’t sold that day across the table like it was the most natural thing in the world.
They talked about nothing.
And yet, Katsuki found himself lingering longer each night, fingers wrapped around his teacup long after it had gone cold, like leaving too soon might break something fragile he didn’t quite have words for yet.
Katsuki told her about this guy who kept trying to contact him for an interview at the worst times. She complained lightly about rising butter prices. He listened when she talked about regulars, about recipes she’d tweaked for years, about how Hitoshi used to burn everything when he was younger.
“He still does,” Katsuki said once, without thinking.
Aiko laughed. “Only emotionally.”
Hitoshi had been passing through at the time. He stopped dead.
“What,” he said flatly.
Katsuki met his eyes, mouth twitching. “Nothing.”
Hitoshi stared at him for a long, loaded second before walking away again, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like unbelievable.
Katsuki felt it then—that familiar sting.
He wasn’t used to caring.
People judged him all the time. They always had. It slid off him like water off a duck's back,, meaningless and distant. But something about Hitoshi’s disgust landed differently...closer to the heart. Maybe because it wasn’t loud. Maybe because it wasn’t performative. Maybe because Katsuki wanted—unreasonably, inexplicably—for him not to look at him like that.
And maybe because he was still painfully, embarrassingly attracted to him.
Fuck.
Worse than that, he was starting to want something. Approval. Understanding. Affection, maybe. Since when did he start wanting more than that?
Hitoshi didn’t have to try. He just existed, sleeves pushed up, tattoos dark against warm skin, piercings catching the light when he turned his head. His irritation only sharpened the effect, made him look dangerous in a way Katsuki’s body responded to before his brain could intervene.
He hated that.
Or rather—he hated how much he loved it.
One evening, Aiko excused herself to the back to check inventory, leaving Katsuki alone at the table with his tea. The bakery hummed softly around him, familiar now in a way that startled him if he thought about it too long.
Hitoshi lingered by the counter, pretending to organize receipts.
Katsuki could feel the weight of his stare.
He didn’t look up right away.
Finally, Hitoshi spoke. “So.”
Katsuki lifted his head, surprised that Hitoshi was initiating conversation. WIth him! hurry katsuki act casual
“So?” Katsuki echoed lightly, resting his head against his knuckles as he looked in Hitoshi’s direction.
“You always show up right before closing,” Hitoshi said, tone flat. “Or after.”
“Yeah.” katsuki picked up his cup
“And my mother lets you stay.”
Katsuki took a sip before answering. “Yeah.”
Silence stretched between them, taut and uncomfortable.
Hitoshi’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
The question wasn’t casual. It was sharp, probing.
Katsuki set his cup down carefully. “why not? I like it here.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
Hitoshi scoffed softly. “You expect me to believe that?”
Katsuki shrugged, forcing himself to stay loose, unbothered. “You don’t have to.”
Hitoshi’s jaw worked. “People like you don’t just wander into places like this.”
Something in Katsuki’s chest tightened. “People like me?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
He did.
The assumptions. The narratives. The ugly shorthand people used to make sense of him.
Katsuki leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms—not defensive, just braced. “I’m not asking you for anything.”
“Yet,” Hitoshi said immediately.
The word hit harder than it should have.
Katsuki’s smile faltered for half a second before he caught it. “You think I’m using your mom.”
“I think,” Hitoshi said slowly, “that you’re very good at making people like you.”
Katsuki laughed once, short and sharp. “You clearly missed that memo.”
Hitoshi didn’t smile. “That’s what worries me.”
Footsteps sounded from the back, and the conversation died instantly. Hitoshi turned away as Aiko reappeared, cheerfully oblivious.
“Katsuki,” she said, “did you try the lemon loaf?”
“It’s really good,” he replied easily.
“See?” she said to Hitoshi. “Excellent taste.”
Hitoshi didn’t respond.
As the days passed, the pattern solidified.
Katsuki came late. Aiko welcomed him. Hitoshi watched him, shoulders tight, eyes sharp with something that looked a lot like irritation.
Katsuki noticed it most when he said please. When he thanked Aiko. When he offered, awkwardly, to help clean up or carried pastries back untouched when she insisted he take them home.
Every small, careful gesture seemed to make Hitoshi’s expression harden, like it didn’t fit whatever story he’d already decided on.
Katsuki didn’t know what that story was.
He just knew that the more he tried not to be a problem, the more Hitoshi seemed to look at him like one.
And that, somehow, made it worse.
One night, as Katsuki stood to leave, jacket draped over his arm, Hitoshi blocked his path to the door.
Aiko had gone to wash dishes in the back.
Katsuki stopped, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Problem?”
Hitoshi looked down at him, eyes dark and searching. “What do you want?”
The question was quieter this time. More serious.
Katsuki swallowed. “Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Katsuki didn't know what to say anymore. He wasn’t used to this kind of confrontation—the quiet kind, where no one raised their voice and the disappointment still cut deep. Where he wanted, stupidly, to be understood instead of admired. He felt the sting in his chest as his heart still fluttered all due to the man in front of him. Katsuki desperately wanted Hitoshi to like him.
Hitoshi’s gaze flicked to the counter, then back. “My mom’s too trusting.”
Katsuki stiffened. “She’s kind.”
“She’s kind to everyone,” Hitoshi shot back. “And people take advantage of that.”
The implication stung.
Katsuki met his eyes, something raw slipping through despite himself. “I’m not.”
Hitoshi studied him, face unreadable. For a moment, Katsuki thought—hoped—he might say something else.
Instead, Hitoshi stepped aside.
“Just don’t,” he said quietly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t prove me right.”
Katsuki hesitated, then nodded once. “Okay.”
As he stepped out into the night, the door closing softly behind him, Katsuki pressed a hand to his chest, surprised by the ache there.
He didn’t know when it had happened.
Only that somewhere between the warmth of the bakery, Aiko’s gentle smiles, and Hitoshi’s cutting suspicion, Katsuki had started to care.
And that scared him far more than any crowd ever had.
By the time weeks blurred into something softer and less countable, Katsuki stopped pretending his visits to the Shinsou bakery were incidental.
They had become routine in the quietest, most dangerous way. Not loud, not obsessive—just there. Like breathing. Like the way his shoulders loosened the moment the bell chimed and warm air wrapped around him. Like how the ache behind his ribs eased when he saw the curtains drawn and knew, without asking, that he was allowed.
Almost daily, now.
Sometimes he arrived five minutes before closing, sometimes ten minutes after. Sometimes he texted Aiko. More often nowadays he didn’t need to. She always seemed to know when he’d show up, already turning the sign before he could offer an apology.
“Oh good, you’re here,” she’d say, as if he were expected. As if he belonged.
He learned quickly that the bakery changed moods depending on who was there. With Aiko, it was gentle and warm, full of soft conversation and patient listening. With Hajime Shinsou—the other co-owner, Aiko's husband, Hitoshi’s father—it became lighter, filled with dry humor and practical questions. Hajime had flour permanently dusting his chin and a laugh that startled Katsuki the first time he heard it, loud and sudden and utterly unguarded.
“You’ve got a good eye,” Hajime told him once, after Katsuki suggested a different glaze-to-fruit ratio on a tart they were testing. “Presentation matters.”
Katsuki had blinked. “Yeah. It does.”
No judgment. No expectation. Just interest.
They started asking his opinion more often after that. On flavor balance. On color. On whether something looked inviting or too busy. Katsuki didn’t even notice how naturally he leaned into it until he caught himself sketching plating ideas on a napkin one evening, explaining negative space like it was obvious.
No one laughed.
No one told him he was doing too much.
The bakery became his safe place without him realizing when the line had been crossed.
It was where he drank tea without cameras. Where he ate without comments. Where he existed without being consumed. The Shinsous didn’t look at him like he was temporary or transactional. They didn’t flinch at his name or his face or the way the world bent around him outside those walls.
Hitoshi remained the sole exception.
He never softened. Never warmed. If anything, his suspicion calcified.
He tolerated Katsuki’s presence because his parents did. Nothing more.
Hitoshi worked around him like Katsuki was an inconvenient fixture. Something that had appeared without permission and stubbornly refused to go away. He didn’t yell. Didn’t make scenes. He didn’t have to. His disdain lived in the quiet: the clipped responses, the way his eyes slid away, the passive comments dropped like broken glass.
“Still here?”
“You again.”
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
Katsuki absorbed it all with a practiced smile, something light and teasing that kept the sting from showing. Most days, it worked.
Today though...today was not most days.
The shoot had gone wrong from the moment Katsuki arrived.
The model hadn’t shown. Someone had messed up the call sheet. The lighting crew was behind. His mother had been sharp-edged and furious, her disappointment cutting deeper than any headline ever could. She’d looked at him—not as her son, not even as an heir—but as a solution.
“You’ll do,” she’d said, already waving stylists toward him.
Katsuki hadn’t argued. He never did.
They’d dressed him in an asymmetrical piece still mid-concept—strips of fabric draped and anchored in deliberate chaos, baring one shoulder, one thigh, slashing diagonally across his torso in a way that was unapologetically feminine. It was bold. Vulnerable. Striking.
Katsuki had looked in the mirror and smiled.
He did look hot. That part didn’t bother him. Clothes were clothes. Fabric was expression. He wore everything because everything belonged to him.
But the shoot itself had been brutal.
His mother criticized his posture. His angles. His expression. Too soft. Too sharp. Not enough hunger. Too much defiance. By the time they wrapped, Katsuki felt scraped raw from the inside out, like someone had peeled him down to something too honest and left him there.
He hadn’t changed.
He’d gone straight to the bakery.
No thought. No text.
The sky was already dark when he arrived, street quiet in that liminal way that came just after dinner hours. The bell chimed when he pushed the door open, familiar, grounding.
Except—
Aiko wasn’t there.
The lights were still on, but dimmer. The counters mostly clean. The air felt different, tighter somehow.
Hitoshi stood behind the counter.
He looked up the second the bell rang—and whatever flicker of surprise crossed his face hardened immediately into something colder.
Katsuki hesitated just inside the doorway.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “Hey.”
Hitoshi didn’t respond with a greeting.
“We’re closed,” he said instead.
The words were calm. Flat. Not raised. Not shouted.
Still, they hit Katsuki like a slap.
“I—” Katsuki started, then stopped. His brain lagged, caught between expectation and reality. “Aiko usually—”
“My mom’s not here,” Hitoshi cut in. “You need to leave.”
Katsuki froze.
It wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t flinch or recoil. He just… stopped. Body going still in a way that felt involuntary, like prey sensing danger.
“I can wait,” he said automatically. “She said it was okay if I came after—”
“I said leave.”
Cold. Precise. Unyielding.
Hitoshi’s gaze flicked over him briefly, sharp and assessing, taking in the dress—the exposed skin, the deliberate lines, the way Katsuki stood too straight like he was bracing himself.
Something dark passed through Hitoshi’s eyes.
“No,” he added, quieter. “You don’t get to just show up whenever you want.”
The words echoed too loudly in Katsuki’s head.
This place—his place—felt like it had turned its back on him.
“I’m not—” Katsuki swallowed. “I can just sit. I won’t—”
“You’ve sat enough,” Hitoshi said. “This isn’t a lounge.”
Katsuki stared at him.
He felt stupidly young in that moment. Stupidly exposed. Not because of the dress but because of what the bakery had come to mean. Because this was where he came when the world pressed too hard, and now the door was closing in his face.
“I didn’t do anything,” Katsuki said.
Hitoshi’s jaw tightened. “That’s the problem.”
Something in Katsuki cracked.
He blinked.
“Get it together.”
He had handled worse than this. He had smiled through worse than this.
Katsuki didn’t realize he was crying at first.
There was no sob, no sound. Just a sudden blur, like the world had gone out of focus. His chest tightened sharply, breath catching on nothing.
That was when something warm slid down his cheek.
His brain stalled.
No.
No—no, that wasn’t right.
He lifted a hand, swiping beneath his eye with the heel of his palm until his fingers came away damp.
There was water on them.
His breath stuttered.
Oh.
“Oh,” he whispered, barely audible.
Fuck
He was crying.
Silently. Stupidly. Without permission.
Katsuki’s breath went shallow. He didn’t make a sound. His face stayed carefully neutral even as more tears spilled, silent and traitorous, tracking down his skin like they’d been waiting for permission.
Katsuki told himself to breathe.
He reacted on instinct.
His hand came up, covering most of his face—fingers pressed hard over his eyes, thumb digging into his cheekbone as if he could physically hold himself together. His shoulders locked. His spine went rigid.
This was unacceptable.
He turned stiffly toward the door, movements jerky and precise, like he was afraid that if he moved too fluidly he’d fall apart completely. The dress shifted with him, fabric whispering softly in the quiet bakery, the asymmetrical strips brushing his legs and hip. Normally he loved how it moved, how it caught air and attention.
Right now it just made him feel too visible.
“I’m—” His voice came out wrong. Thin. He swallowed hard, clearing his throat, refusing to uncover his face. “Sorry.”
The apology was weak. Reflexive. A word he rarely used and hated when he did.
He reached the door, fingers closing around the handle. Cold metal grounded him, sharp enough to sting. Good. He needed that.
“I’ll go,” he added quietly, more to the room than to Hitoshi.
He pulled in a breath, steadying himself, preparing to open the door and step back into the night like none of this had happened—
“Stop.”
The word cut through him.
Katsuki froze completely.
Not mid-motion—fully frozen, like his body had decided independently that moving any further might shatter him. His hand stayed on the handle. His other hand still covered his face. His shoulders were tense, drawn up like armor.
Behind him, Hitoshi swore under his breath.
“…Fuck. Fine,” Hitoshi said, voice tight, frustrated. “You can stay. Or whatever.”
The words didn’t bring relief.
They made Katsuki’s chest twist harder.
Because he heard what wasn’t being said.
You’re only staying because you’re crying.
Because this is uncomfortable.
Because now I look like the asshole.
The thought burned.
Katsuki’s grip tightened on the door handle until his knuckles ached. He stayed frozen, heart hammering, tears still slipping free despite his efforts. He hated that Hitoshi could see them. Hated that he’d been reduced to this—quiet, leaking, cornered.
He wanted to stay.
God, he wanted to stay so badly it hurt.
He wanted to sit at the table by the window. Drink tea. Let the bakery hum around him until the day stopped clawing at his ribs. He wanted the safety back, the illusion that this place couldn’t reject him.
But it was only Hitoshi here.
Hitoshi, who hated him.
Hitoshi, who looked at him like a problem that refused to solve itself.
And Katsuki refused—refused—to be something Hitoshi endured out of pity.
He drew in a slow breath.
Then another.
He physically shook himself, small but deliberate—head first, then shoulders, then arms, like he was trying to reset his body. He lowered his hand from his face at last, blinking hard, jaw tight. Tears still slid down, uncooperative and humiliating, but he ignored them.
He turned.
Carefully.
Hitoshi stood behind the counter, hands braced against the edge like he needed the support. His expression was unreadable—jaw clenched, eyes dark, irritation tangled with something less defined.
Katsuki straightened fully, posture snapping back into place. He tilted his head slightly, just enough to frame his face the way he knew worked. His mouth pulled into a smile so obvious it bordered on parody—bright, practiced, painfully fake.
The kind he used for cameras.
The kind that had never meant anything.
“Thanks for the offer,” Katsuki said, voice pitching higher, lighter, deliberately chipper despite the tears still streaking his face. “But you’re right. It’s past closing time.”
Hitoshi frowned. “Katsuki—”
Katsuki didn’t let him finish.
“I should go home,” he continued smoothly, waving a hand like this was nothing, like his chest wasn’t caving in on itself. “Can’t be invading your space and all.”
He tilted his head, eyes glittering wetly, smile never faltering. “Thanks for appeasing my spontaneity, handsome.”
The word landed deliberately.
A challenge. A shield. A goodbye wrapped in flirtation because that was easier than honesty.
“Better this,” Katsuki thought dimly. “Better a joke than the truth.”
He lifted his hand in a breezy flick of a wave, turned back to the door, and pulled it open.
Cold night air rushed in, sharp and bracing.
Katsuki stepped out and forced his hips into a confident sway, shoulders back, chin high. He let the dress move with him, fabric catching the streetlight as he crossed the threshold like he owned the world instead of barely holding himself together.
The bell chimed behind him.
The door shut.
Only then—two steps down the street, out of sight of the bakery windows—did Katsuki’s smile collapse.
He exhaled shakily, dragging a hand down his face, wiping at tears with the heel of his palm, furious at himself for letting this happen. His chest ached, hollow and bruised, like something vital had been knocked loose.
Katsuki didn’t look back.
He kept walking until the bakery disappeared behind him, until the warmth bled out of the night and there was nothing left but the sound of his own breathing.
He told himself it didn’t matter.
The lie didn’t help.
Katsuki hadn’t planned to come back so soon. Two days felt too short—like cheating himself out of the time he’d promised to take after the last visit.
But the bakery had a gravitational pull he couldn’t ignore. Not the building. Not even the food.
The people.
Katsuki had told himself he’d be cautious this time. Two days had passed since the last… incident, the evening when Hitoshi had frozen him out and his pride had been scorched in silence. He’d replayed it more times than he cared to admit, and yet, the thought of returning hadn’t been easy, but he needed this. Needed the bakery, needed Aiko, and, somewhere in the deepest fold of his chest, needed to see Hitoshi again, even if it burned him.
He arrived a minute before closing, a calculated move. He’d planned it to the second, just to make sure the warm lights and the scent of baked goods would be his the instant he stepped in. The bell above the door chimed softly, announcing his presence, and immediately, the warmth of the bakery folded around him like a familiar blanket.
Aiko appeared before he’d even reached the counter, her arms open wide, a smile that could melt anything adorning her face. “Katsuki! You made it!” she said, stepping forward and pulling him into a quick hug, her hand patting the top of his head as if she were smoothing away all the chaos he carried.
The gesture caught him completely off guard. Katsuki hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it until the pressure lifted off his shoulders and he let out a genuine giggle, one that surprised even him.
“God,” he thought distantly, “I really needed this.”
Katsuki’s smile spread effortlessly across his face, eyes lighting up in a way that felt free for the first time in days.
A faint awareness prickled at the back of his mind. Hitoshi. He could feel his attention, even without looking, like pressure between his shoulder blades—uncomfortable, unavoidable. His chest fluttered, sharp and unpredictable, and he had to bite back a smirk, forcing his usual air of composed arrogance into the corners of his expression. Hitoshi’s gaze was undeniable; it followed him, judging him, lingering in ways that made Katsuki’s stomach tighten and pulse all at once.
Katsuki set down the bag he’d brought, fingers moving deftly to open it. He pulled out the carefully folded fabric, the colors and textures arranged with precision, and held it toward Aiko. “I made something for you,” he said, voice lighter than he expected, playful but shy at the same time. “I just wanted to see if you liked it… or if you’d want any changes.”
“If she hates it,” he thought, absurdly, “I might actually die.”
Aiko’s eyes widened, sparkling as she leaned in, her fingers brushing over the edges of the fabric. Her excitement was immediate, palpable. “Katsuki, this is… beautiful! Where did you get these ideas?”
He shrugged, a little bashful, as if admitting ownership of the design could make it seem too serious. “I just… thought about what would look good on you.”
Before he could even blink, Aiko’s hands gripped his wrist gently but firmly, tugging him along toward the office room at the back of the bakery. The movement was sudden enough that Katsuki stumbled slightly, cheeks warming in reflexive embarrassment.
Inside, the space was cozy, the warm light bouncing off polished surfaces, and Aiko set him down gently near a large table. Katsuki opened the bag then laid the bag on the table. Aiko leaned over to pull her dress out first. She hummed happily, lifting the fabric carefully, inspecting it with delight. Katsuki shifted, a faint nervous energy curling at the edges of his calm façade, brushing back a loose strand of hair.
And then Aiko’s eyes widened.
“Wait… what’s this?” she asked softly, tilting her head and reaching into the bag. Her fingers brushed against something else, something that wasn’t hers. She pulled it out carefully, and Katsuki’s heart stuttered in his chest as the fabric unfolded.
Katsuki’s heart skipped. He knew that design—had made it for himself when the weight of the world had felt too heavy, a mirror to the one his mother had forced him into a few days prior. An outfit that mirrored the asymmetrical, edgy lines of the one his mother had made him wear, but with the subtle personal touches that made it entirely his own. He hadn’t even thought about it, hadn’t realized it was still tucked away in the bag when he’d come over with her dress.
Katsuki froze, heat spiking through his chest as Aiko held it up between them. “Oh… Katsuki,” she breathed, her voice threaded with that uncontainable warmth she always had.
He swallowed, a little tight, cheeks warming instantly. “I… uh… yeah. I guess I forgot it was in there,” he muttered, trying to sound casual, even as his hands flexed at his sides.
Aiko’s grin widened.
“I want Haijime to see how amazing these look,” Aiko said brightly—then added, almost as an afterthought, “And Hitoshi too.”
Katsuki froze. The words hit him in ways he hadn’t expected. Hitoshi’s name, whispered like that, laced with suggestion, made his chest tighten and his cheeks burn. The implication was clear—he was supposed to wear it with her, to parade, in a sense, this unspoken bond. He tried to swallow the blush rising in his throat, but it fought back with fire.
Aiko laughed softly, a low, knowing chuckle, as she reached out and brushed his cheek. “You’re so obvious,” she said, her voice gentle, teasing. “You feel something for my son,” Aiko said gently. “You don’t hide it very well.”
Katsuki’s ears turned red, heat crawling down his neck. He stammered, searching for a defense that sounded even remotely plausible. “I—I… No! That’s… I mean… it’s not…” His words tumbled over one another, faltering, failing to create the illusion of composure he usually wore like armor.
He looked to the side, finally forcing himself to breathe, trying to reclaim some shred of dignity. The tears from the other night were long gone, replaced by a different kind of vulnerability—the kind that made his chest ache and throat tighten when faced with someone who could see right through his bravado. He took a soft, steadying breath and finally managed, in a quieter voice, almost to himself “Nothing will happen between me and Hitoshi… he clearly hates my guts.”
“And maybe that was easier,” Katsuki thought. “Hate didn’t ask for hope.”
Aiko paused in her examination of the dress, tilting her head and humming thoughtfully. “You might think that,” she said slowly, her voice softening, almost reflective.
“He asked about you,” Aiko said carefully. “More than once.”
She paused. “That may not sound like much. But for Hitoshi… it is.”
Katsuki’s eyes flicked to hers, trying to gauge her seriousness. She met his gaze steadily, patiently, a small smile tugging at her lips. He nodded, letting the weight of her words sink in. He drew in a breath, slow and deliberate, feeling some of the tension in his chest release.
A soft, determined smile curved his lips.“If you’re okay with it,” Katsuki said, voice steady despite the knot in his chest, “I’m going to try. Before the year ends.”
Aiko’s smile broadened, pleased. “Good. Start by showing him what you’ve made,” she said warmly, gesturing to what Katsuki had designed and made. “These are beautiful, Katsuki. Truly. Let him see the care you put into them.”
For the next several minutes, Katsuki worked alongside Aiko. He adjusted folds, straightened hems, and aligned seams with careful precision. Unconsciously, his hands drifted toward Aiko’s hair as he braided strands of hair behind her ear, smoothing them back gently, before he realized what he was doing.
“Oh!” he exclaimed softly, withdrawing his hands and bowing slightly. “Sorry—I didn’t ask…”
Aiko laughed lightly, a soft, airy sound that wrapped around the room like sunshine. “Don’t worry. I don’t mind, Katsuki. In fact, I’m grateful.” She looked at him with warm eyes, almost glowing in the office’s lamplight. “I can’t wait for my husband to see your work. It’s a true work of art.”
Katsuki’s chest swelled. It wasn’t just validation for his artistic side—it was trust, pure and unjudged. Something he rarely, if ever, received. The bakery, the Shinsous, had become a rare harbor in the chaos of his life. And even with Hitoshi’s shadow still present in the background, the knowledge that he had at least one person who truly understood the care he put into things—that recognition grounded him in a way that no praise from tabloids ever could.
“Thanks,” he said quietly, his voice carrying more sincerity than he realized, his hands finally stilling. He gave her a soft smile, the one that didn’t hide the faint, lingering blush.
“Of course,” Aiko said, gently patting his shoulder. “Now let’s see how you look in your outfit, shall we?”
Katsuki’s stomach turned, a combination of nerves and anticipation twisting in his gut. He moved to retrieve his own outfit, unfolding it carefully in his hands before slipping into it in the small, private space of the office. The fabric clung and fell exactly as he had imagined, capturing the tension and edge of his earlier moods, the outfit a mirror and an extension of himself. “This is who I am, he thought. If he can’t see that… then fine.”
Aiko clapped softly. “There. Perfect.” She examined him with delight, her hands running lightly over the fabric. “You look incredible. Truly.”
Katsuki felt heat spike in his chest again, self-conscious yet undeniably pleased. “Thanks… I mean. I’m glad you like it,” he mumbled, brushing at the hem nervously before glancing at the door. Hitoshi wasn’t here yet, but imagining the judgment and scrutiny he would inevitably receive made his stomach knot.
Aiko noticed his hesitation. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Hitoshi might act judgey, yes, but…” Her voice softened, thoughtful. “He’ll also notice the effort. He’ll see your heart in this, Katsuki.”
Katsuki swallowed, nodding slowly, a quiet determination settling over him. He could do this. He could show Hitoshi without words, without grand declarations, just by standing there, letting the work speak.
And with Aiko’s reassurance, he felt that flutter again—the one that made his chest warm and nervous all at once. For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a path forward.
He looked at Aiko again, his eyes soft but sharp, taking in her smile and the warmth she radiated. “If you’re ready,” he said quietly, “let’s go show them.”
Aiko nodded, satisfied. “Let’s do it. Haijime’s going to love this.” She gestured toward the front of the bakery, toward the bright lights and the quiet anticipation of Hitoshi’s reaction. Katsuki took a deep breath, adjusting the dress one last time, feeling the familiar thrill of presentation mingle with the anxiety of potential judgment.
As he followed Aiko back into the front of the bakery, Katsuki felt the familiar twist in his chest. The anticipation braided tightly with fear.
Hitoshi would notice.
Hitoshi would judge.
And maybe—just maybe—he would finally see him.
Katsuki lifted his chin, smoothed the fabric once more, and stepped forward anyway.
Katsuki stepped out of the office, chest lifted, hips swaying just enough to make the fabric ripple with each stride. Aiko followed behind him, radiant in her own dress, fingers still lightly smoothing the seams as though ensuring every line caught the light. The bakery felt unusually quiet—Hitoshi and Haijime weren’t in the main space—but muffled sounds from the kitchen hinted that they were close enough to hear.
Katsuki paused at the threshold, inhaled deeply, and then, with full dramatic flair, strutted into the bakery like it was a runway. He let the heels click against the tile with confident rhythm, each step measured, deliberate—a silent declaration of presence.
”God, I hope this lands right… please let this land right…”
“Gentlemen,” he announced, voice carrying, full of theatrical energy, “please give it up for Aiko!”
Aiko’s face lit with laughter and delight as she followed his exaggerated bow, spinning so the dress fanned around her. Katsuki felt a rush of satisfaction—pride and amusement sparkling in his eyes.
Haijime clapped warmly. “Absolutely stunning,” he said, voice resonant. “Both of you look incredible. The attention to detail, the colors—you’ve outdone yourselves.”
Katsuki allowed a proud smirk. “Thank you, sir,” he said smoothly, brushing an imaginary speck from his outfit. “I do like making an impression.”
Aiko, cheeks flushed, leaned closer to Haijime, gesturing at Katsuki’s outfit with a laugh. “He made both of these himself! The lines, the asymmetry—it’s all him. I think he’s been holding back his talent!”
Haijime’s eyes swept over to Katsuki appreciatively. “It’s remarkable. I can see why Aiko is thrilled.”
Katsuki’s chest swelled, smirk now fully genuine. He winked, letting charm peek through without undermining the respect he felt.
The three fell into easy conversation, discussing dress details, patterns, fabrics, and minor adjustments. Katsuki felt grounding satisfaction. This was personal. This was validation that applause or headlines could never match.
The air hummed with warmth, genuine affection, quiet admiration. Katsuki felt a rare freedom—alive in a way nightlife or tabloids never allowed.
From the corner of his vision, he caught faint shadows indicating Hitoshi’s presence. But he didn’t look. Not yet. Not now.
“Let me enjoy this first.” Katsuki mentally begged.
Then, a light tap on his shoulder. He spun slightly. Hitoshi stood there, silent, commanding.
“I need to talk. Privately,” Hitoshi said, voice quiet but firm, carrying the tension that always knotted Katsuki’s stomach.
Katsuki froze mid-turn, bright warmth replaced by heavy air. He opened his mouth but stopped as Aiko called from the back, “We’re going back upstairs!”
They were giving them space.
Alone, the tension became palpable. Hitoshi’s gaze locked on him, unwavering. Katsuki hugged himself, smoothing the dress across his torso. Okay… breathe. Don’t embarrass yourself again.
Their eyes met, long, charged with something unspoken but undeniable.
Then Hitoshi nodded. “It suits you,” he said simply.
Katsuki blinked, caught completely off guard. Heat surged to his cheeks, and his chest fluttered in that familiar, sharp way it always did when Hitoshi looked at him. The compliment was brief, casual but it landed like a spark. Katsuki stammered, words tangling in his throat. Before he leaned forward slightly, hands on his hips, trying to reclaim some of his usual bravado.
“You think so?” he said, voice teasing despite the flush creeping across his chest. “You don’t have to be so subtle, Hitoshi—you could’ve said it louder!”
Hitoshi’s jaw tightened slightly. Then, unexpectedly, he took a step closer. “I… apologize,” he said, calm but carrying a weight of sincerity that made Katsuki’s breath catch.
Katsuki froze, unsure how to respond, watching as Hitoshi continued, carefully measured, each word deliberate.
“I let my judgments get ahead of myself,” Hitoshi said. “I allowed what I read—tabloids, gossip, assumptions about you—to color my perception. I didn’t seek evidence. I didn’t ask questions. I let bias lead where curiosity should have. It’s… careless. And I see that now. My studies in psychology have shown me how easily we project narratives onto others without noticing it. Yet I let it happen with you anyway. I’m responsible for that.”
Katsuki’s mind swirled.
Hitoshi’s eyes met his, unwavering, honest. There was no theatrics, no pretense—just clarity and intensity.
Katsuki’s lips parted, a slow exhale escaping him. He let his slacked-jaw slip into a softer, small genuine smile. “Alright,” he said carefully, voice quieter but steady, “I forgive you. For the assumptions, for… everything.”
Hitoshi blinked, a flicker of relief—or maybe surprise—passing over his features. Katsuki noticed it, the subtle shift in his posture, the tiny relaxation around his eyes. And in that instant, something undeniable sparked between them, a magnetic pull that had nothing to do with words.
Katsuki’s chest tightened as Hitoshi stepped slightly closer, careful, deliberate. The silence between them shifted melting into a tension of curiosity, respect, and something dangerously akin to desire. Katsuki’s heart pounded, nerves alive in the heat of proximity, and he realized with a jolt how deeply Hitoshi’s gaze affected him.
“You’re still standing there in the same pose.” Hitoshi quipped dryly, breaking the tension
Katsuki rolled his eyes dramatically, letting out a humor-laced “ha ha,” then softened. “… It’s my kinda fault too, ya know just showing up when the bakery was closed. Can’t blame you for reacting.”
For a long moment, the bakery held them in suspended time. Judgments had fallen away. Critiques, assumptions, misunderstandings—all dissolved into something fragile, electric, undeniable.
Katsuki’s eyes followed Hitoshi’s every movement, the mess of Hitoshi’s hair, tracing the line of his sharp jaw, appreciating—
Hitoshi’s gaze raised an eyebrow, sharp, questioning. Heat quickly surged, prickling just under Katsuki’s skin. Katsuki knew he had to escape before blushing betrayed him.
“Oh! Well,” he said, uneven but playful, “look at the time. Gotta go! See ya tomorrow!!”
In a split second, he turned, heart hammering, outfit swirling as he practically skipped to the door. The bell chimed as he opened the door and was greeted by the cool evening air. His chest curled with hope as he laughed lightly.
Katsuki pushed open the bakery door a few minutes before closing. The familiar chime announced his arrival like a private signal between him and the small world he had grown to secretly cherish. Warm, yeasty air wrapped around him, sweet and comforting, mingling with the soft hum of appliances and the faint clatter of trays. The atmosphere had shifted over the next few days—a subtle lightness, unspoken but tangible.
Hitoshi was in the kitchen this time, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands dusted with flour as he shaped loaves for tomorrow morning's rush. His eyes narrowed at Katsuki, a mix of mock irritation and reluctant fondness playing across his features.
“Late again, socialite,” Hitoshi said dryly, though the undercurrent of warmth softened the bite.
Katsuki grinned, letting his heels click confidently against the tile. “I live for the thrill of cutting it close, Hitoshi,” he teased, leaning on the counter. “You should try it sometime—it’s exhilarating.”
Hitoshi rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath about idiots who thrived on chaos. Katsuki tilted his head, smirk widening. “Daaaamn. Did you just call me an idiot? Did you forget to drink your morning coffee?”
A faint twitch at the corner of Hitoshi’s mouth betrayed a reluctant smile. “You’re relentless,” he said, handing a shaped loaf to the oven tray. Flour dusted the counter like a soft snowfall in their little corner of the world.
Katsuki’s gaze lingered, drawn to Hitoshi’s forearms, the tattoos peeking beneath rolled sleeves, the glint of piercings catching the lamplight. His pulse fluttered—subtle, dangerous, familiar. ”Every damn time,” he thought. “Even when I swear I’m just here to decompress.”
“You know,” Katsuki said softly, leaning closer, voice conspiratorial, “I can help.”
Hitoshi let out a snort. “I highly doubt that,” he said, voice dry, and Katsuki grin. The playful banter was back in full swing, the teasing edge softened into something warm and domestic.
They fell into a comfortable rhythm, the kitchen filling with the quiet sounds of kneading, sliding trays, and Katsuki’s occasional commentary or teasing question. Sometimes he asked about technique, sometimes about Hitoshi’s day, and sometimes just to watch him work, silently, content in the companionship. And Hitoshi, for all his sarcastic remarks and dry quips, allowed it. He didn’t push Katsuki away. He didn’t dismiss him.
At one point, Katsuki perched on a stool near the prep table, eyes fixed on Hitoshi’s precise movements. “So, this is how the magic happens,” he said lightly, voice full of playful awe.
Hitoshi glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “Magic, huh? I’d call it science, precision, and a lot of luck.”
“Science, precision, luck… magic. Semantics,” Katsuki said, hand waving dismissively as he spoke.
Hitoshi shook his head, though the motion was more amused than annoyed.
Katsuki leaned back, arms stretched behind his head, grinning. “What was that?! I’m unapologetically me. You should be used to it by now.”
The banter continued effortless and teasing, but with an undercurrent of something deeper that neither of them addressed aloud. The quiet trust that had grown had formed a foundation.
Sometimes Katsuki would ask a question about technique, and Hitoshi would explain, sometimes long-windedly, letting the flour-dusted hands move in tandem with his words. Katsuki would interrupt with a jab, and Hitoshi would counter dryly, and both would end in small, shared laughter.
The hours passed quietly, the bakery emptying into the calm of evening, and still, Katsuki lingered, perched on a stool, watching, asking, teasing, laughing. Hitoshi, still focused on his work, occasionally glanced up, a small smile flickering over his features.
It was domestic. It was comfortable. It was their own little space in a noisy, crowded world.
And somewhere in the quiet companionship, the playful banter, the shared laughter and mutual teasing, Katsuki felt it a soft, undeniable warmth of connection. It wasn’t named yet. There were no words for it. But it was there.
Hitoshi was tidying the counter as Katsuki settled into his usual spot, the chair scraping softly against the floor. The soft hum of the fridge, the faint creak of the oven, the occasional clink of a tray settling into place—these sounds felt like the steady heartbeat of the bakery, a rhythm Katsuki had learned by instinct and could sink into without thinking.
“Mm, smells like cinnamon,” Katsuki murmured, inhaling deeply as he cradled his tea. His eyes followed Hitoshi’s precise movements. “You always clean like that? Meticulous as ever?”
Hitoshi didn’t look up right away. When he finally did, his eyes met Katsuki’s with a flat, unimpressed stare. “Do you even bake?”
Katsuki froze mid-sip, caught off guard with the cup hovering near his lips. “Uh… no. Why?”
Hitoshi raised an eyebrow incredulous. “Not even Christmas cookies?”
Katsuki blinked. “Christmas cookies?” He frowned slightly, genuinely puzzled. “Are those… different from regular cookies? I always thought they were just… cookies you eat on Christmas?”
Hitoshi made a noise—a mix between a scoff and a quiet growl of disbelief. “You’ve never made Christmas cookies?” The horror and disbelief in his voice startled Katsuki enough that he laughed, amused rather than offended.
“Uh… no,” Katsuki admitted, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Guess I just never got around to it?”
Before Katsuki could fully process the intensity of Hitoshi’s reaction, Hitoshi dropped the rag onto the counter and, in a fluid, almost predatory motion, grabbed Katsuki’s wrist.
“Upstairs. Now.”
Katsuki’s eyes widened, not in fear, but startled amusement. He let himself be pulled to his feet, offering only token resistance. “Wow,” he said lightly, allowing himself to be hauled along. “This is really starting to feel like a Shinsou family tradition.” He mused over how similar this felt to when Aiko had done the same to him.
Hitoshi didn’t dignify that with a response. His grip was firm but not rough, his pace brisk as he dragged Katsuki up the stairs, their footsteps echoing against the wood.
By the time they reached the apartment above the bakery, Katsuki’s curiosity had fully spiked. He had never been up here before. The living space was warm and welcoming—lamps casting a soft glow, faint scent of spices in the air. He barely had a second to take it in before Hitoshi released his wrist and headed straight for the kitchen, arms already reaching into cupboards and drawers.
“We’re making Christmas cookies,” Hitoshi stated flatly. “Right here. Right now. No arguments.”
Katsuki leaned against the counter, blinking. “Okay, but—Christmas is still pretty far away, isn’t it? Why make them now??”
Hitoshi froze mid-grab, fingers hovering over a jar of flour. Slowly, deliberately, he turned, eyes narrowing with a pointed look that made Katsuki feel both nervous and giddy. “Katsuki,” he said, voice low and patient in a way that made Katsuki nervous, “what date is it today?”
Katsuki shrugged casually, genuinely bewildered. “I don’t know… sometime in September?”
Hitoshi stared blankly at him for a moment before letting out a slow, exasperated sigh. “Take out your phone.”
Katsuki did, unlocking it lazily, then stiffened. “…Oh. Oh. Oh shit. It’s the twenty-fourth of December?! Wait, what!?! Already?!!?”
Hitoshi pressed his fingers to his forehead, exhaling sharply. “How have you not noticed the decorations?”
Katsuki flailed both arms dramatically. “You never know! Some people decorate really early! And I… I didn’t want to offend your parents! I didn't want to be that guy!”
“Unbelievable,” Hitoshi muttered, already grabbing a mixing bowl. “We’re fixing this. You’re helping. Today, you’re going to learn.”
Katsuki grinned, delighted. “Aha! You know,” he said, watching him move, “I kind of love it when you get all commanding.”
”Very sexy,” he added in his head, a warmth pooling low in his stomach. ”God. He’s dangerous when he’s like this.”
“Focus,” Hitoshi said simply, his tone flat and deadpan, though the corner of his mouth twitched subtly.
Ingredients—flour, sugar, butter, and eggs—appeared one by one, arranged with careful precision. “First,” Hitoshi said, “we cream the butter and sugar.”
His voice sent a strange, pleasant jolt through Katsuki. It was low, serious, and carried a natural cadence of command and instruction. Katsuki’s pulse did a strange little flip. That voice… he could listen to it forever.
“Yes, sir,” Katsuki whispered to himself under his breath, far too pleased with himself.
Hitoshi moved behind him to demonstrate, subtly guiding his hands on the bowl. Katsuki became acutely aware of the height difference, of Hitoshi’s solid presence close at his back, the warmth of him unmistakable.
"Okay. Breathe. Focus on the bowl. Not the proximity. Definitely not the proximity. Don’t lean back.” Katsuki’s heart stuttered as he tried to focus on the mixing bowl instead of the heat rising in his cheeks. With Hitoshi standing behind him like that, Katsuki felt so small… and safe.
“Grab the flour next,” Hitoshi said quietly, his voice low and precise, right near Katsuki’s ear.
Katsuki didn't hear him, lost in a flurry of flustered, romantic thoughts. Hitoshi repeated himself until, losing patience, he softly huffed atop Katsuki’s head. Hitoshi pressed his entire front body against Katsuki’s back to lean forward and take the flour himself.
Katsuki sucked in a breath, startled as he was gently, if forcibly, pinned forward against the counter. He felt the solid strength of Hitoshi’s muscles—or whatever was so hard—through their clothes. ”Oh no… he’s making me lean forward on the counter… it’s like I’m about to get fucked.” The warmth and subtle pressure were overwhelming. ”I am not built for this kind of domestic intimacy.”
As Hitoshi reached past, the flour bag tilted slightly, releasing a fine white cloud that puffed directly into Katsuki’s face.
Katsuki twitched his nose, but inevitably sneezed.
The explosion dusted both of them.
Hitoshi jumped back with a startled curse, brushing at his sleeves. Katsuki froze, momentarily mourning the loss of the weight and warmth behind him, but then burst out laughing, breathless and unguarded.
They stared at each other—white-dusted and wide-eyed—before Hitoshi let out a quiet chuckle that turned into shared laughter, filling the kitchen with something light and real.
The laughter that filled the kitchen was loud and uninhibited. Raw in a way Katsuki rarely allowed himself to be. Not this breathless, gasping kind of joy. He and Hitoshi stood there, both dusted white with flour, staring at each other’s ridiculous faces until another wave of giggles overtook them.
They laughed so hard they had to grab onto each other for balance, hands clutching sleeves and shoulders as they doubled over. Katsuki’s stomach ached, his chest tight with air he could barely pull in.
When he finally managed to straighten, Katsuki glanced down at himself, then at Hitoshi. He’d taken the brunt of the flour explosion—his face had been right next to the bag. A familiar, mischievous spark lit in his chest.
Grinning like a menace, he scooped a small handful of flour from the counter and tossed it straight at Hitoshi’s face.
Hitoshi spluttered, coughing as laughter broke off into surprise. He wiped at his cheek, eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh, you brat,” he said, voice low with mock threat, completely ruined by the grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re dead.”
He retaliated immediately, grabbing a handful from the mixing bowl and flinging it back.
For several chaotic seconds, they were just laughing and throwing flour at each other—childish and completely unguarded. Katsuki tried to dodge a particularly well-aimed toss, stepping back—
—and his foot slid on the flour-dusted floor.
“Shit—!”
Katsuki yelped, a high, surprised sound he immediately regretted, and instinctively grabbed onto Hitoshi’s arm for stabilization.
Hitoshi reacted instantly, his arms winding around Katsuki’s neck and back as they both plummeted to the floor.
Katsuki squeezed his eyes shut as they fell, hitting the floor with a muffled thump and an accompanying pfft of flour settling around them.
When the falling motion stopped, Katsuki opened his eyes.
He was tangled together with Hitoshi on the kitchen floor, limbs awkward, breathing hard, covered in flour.
He was nose to nose with Hitoshi.
He was NOSE TO NOSE with Hitoshi.
Hitoshi was already looking at him, the amusement in his eyes slowly softening into something heavier and utterly compelling. Hitoshi’s gaze slowly dropped, lingering unmistakably on Katsuki’s mouth.
Katsuki’s breath caught. His heart slammed against his ribs so hard it felt like Hitoshi had to feel it too.
Don’t. Don’t freak out. Don’t ruin this.
”Oh, be still my heart,” Katsuki thought, desperate and flustered. ”You’re going to give me away.”
Hitoshi’s mouth curved into a slow, knowing smirk. His voice was a low rumble. “What will it give away?”
Realization hit.
Katsuki’s eyes snapped shut as a blush, fierce and blindingly red, covered his entire face. He hadn’t just thought that. No, he’d muttered it aloud. Mortification mixed with a breathless, heady anticipation. His fingers unconsciously tensed, his grip tightening on Hitoshi’s back and waist.
A gasp escaped him when he felt the softest brush of lips against the very corner of his mouth—not quiet a kiss.
“Did you just kiss me?” was what Katsuki wanted to say. But his traitorous mouth moved first. “That’s not my lips, you dumbass,” he blurted out, voice squeaky and strangled with embarrassment.
Hitoshi’s chest shook beneath him with a low, easy chuckle. He rolled his eyes fondly.
Hitoshi chuckled, low and warm. Then he shifted just slightly. And the next thing Katsuki knew, Hitoshi’s lips found his.
This time, when Hitoshi kissed Katsuki, there was no missing it.
It was soft and slow, a gentle press of mouth to mouth, tasting faintly of sugar and… flour. It wasn't fierce or demanding, but a gentle confirmation. A settling of the tension that had been building between them for weeks. Katsuki’s eyes fluttered closed again as he melted into the kiss. His body relaxing against Hitoshi’s solid warmth as he kissed back, hands sliding pulling Hitoshi in.
They were still kissing—soft, messy, unhurried—when church bells rang out in the distance.
Midnight.
“Merry Christmas!” voices echoed faintly outside.
Katsuki froze.
Oh.
"Is now the time? We ARE kissing...fuck it" Katsuki thought out his decision.
He pulled back just enough to gasp out the words that had been sitting on his tongue for ages. A frantic, breathless rush against Hitoshi’s mouth “Ihaveacrushonyougooutwithme?”
Hitoshi pulled back a little further, giving them both space to breathe, though his hands stayed firmly planted, cradling Katsuki’s jaw and cheeks.
Katsuki felt a desperate need to stay close and his face tried to follow Hitoshi’s, but Hitoshi gently held him in place. Hitoshi was staring at him, his face dusted with flour, his eyes luminous and soft in the dim light of the kitchen.
“Say that again?” Hitoshi asked, his voice low and utterly patient.
Katsuki tried to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and completely terrified. “Go out with me?”
Hitoshi was silent for a breath, his expression unreadable for a moment before a stunning, genuine smile broke across his face.
“That’s not what you said,” Hitoshi corrected, his voice full of soft amusement. “You said: ‘I have a crush on you go out with me?’”
Katsuki let out a small, high-pitched squeak, the blush on his face deepening until it probably glowed in the darkness. He felt his fingers curl in Hitoshi’s shirt, wanting to hide.
Hitoshi’s thumb brushed softly, caressing the curve of Katsuki’s cheek. His gaze was fixed on Katsuki’s face, utterly consumed by fondness.
“You’re so cute when you’re blushing,” Hitoshi whispered. He paused, his expression turning strangely serious for a beat. “I was so wrong about my initial thoughts about you, Katsuki.” Then, the smile returned. “And Yes.”
Katsuki blinked up at him, the single word cutting through the dizzying adrenaline. “Yes?”
Hitoshi rolled his eyes, the gesture now one of pure, loving affection. “Yes,” he emphasized, leaning in again. “I will go out with you.” He sealed the sentence with a chaste, soft kiss on Katsuki’s lips.
Katsuki felt the profound joy of the agreement bloom in his chest, chasing away all the embarrassment. He was instantly lost in the returning kiss, his hands instinctively threading through Hitoshi’s messy, soft purple hair.
The kiss deepened, becoming less about confirmation and more about a joyful beginning, until Hitoshi suddenly pulled back, his eyes wide.
“The cookies!” Hitoshi exclaimed, scrambling to sit up on the flour-dusted floor. “We haven’t finished the cookies!”
Katsuki laughed breathlessly as Hitoshi, who moments ago had been kissing him senseless, was instantly back to his task-oriented self. Hitoshi quickly got to his feet, pulling Katsuki up with him.
Hitoshi was now back to teaching mode, telling Katsuki what to do, but there was a significant fundamental difference. Now, every instruction was overlaid with a clear amusement, affection, and utter fondness that was clearly written all over his features. Hitoshi’s eyes kept flicking to Katsuki’s face, catching his gaze and holding it for a second longer than necessary.
”Oh wait,” Katsuki realized, a new wave of warmth washing over him. "He’s been looking at me like that for a while now.”
Katsuki was suddenly, intoxicatingly, incredibly in love. He threaded his hand through Hitoshi’s, holding tight as Hitoshi pointed out where the vanilla extract was. The rules were different now. They were something.
Seizing the feeling, Katsuki turned and kissed Hitoshi randomly on the cheek, right as Hitoshi was pulling out a cookie sheet.
Hitoshi paused, looking at him with mock exasperation before his face broke into a gentle, amused smile. “Focus, idiot,” he whispered, before kissing Katsuki’s forehead in return and turning back to the task.
They worked together, side-by-side, cleaning up the worst of the flour mess with coordinated, comfortable movements.
When the cookies were done and had cooled just enough, Hitoshi picked up the best-looking one—a perfect, star-shaped cookie—and held it up to Katsuki’s lips. Their foreheads were almost touching, and the scent of love and sugar was intoxicating.
“Merry Christmas,” Hitoshi whispered, his eyes crinkled with soft fondness.
Katsuki’s heart swelled in his chest. “This is the best Christmas,” he whispered back, his voice thick with emotion.
Hitoshi leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Nahh, I’m gonna make sure to up it next year.”
The promise of next year, of a future, of more overjoyed Katsuki so completely that he didn’t take the bite of the cookie. Instead, he simply leaned forward and kissed Hitoshi right on the mouth.
Hitoshi dropped the cookie back onto the plate, his hands coming up to cup Katsuki’s face, deepening the kiss with an eager urgency.
“If you don’t eat the cookie in the next few seconds,” Hitoshi murmured against Katsuki’s lips, “you will regret it.”
FANART:
