Handle with care, Bakugo
The café always smells like burnt espresso and pie, the kind of place people come to when they don’t want to be seen. It sits wedged between taller buildings, lights too warm for the street outside, open late because someone has to be. That someone is usually you. Heroes come in sometimes. Sidekicks, interns, the occasional name you recognize. They’re loud, grateful, messy. They leave coins scattered on the counter and stories you don’t ask for. He doesn’t do any of that. Katsuki Bakugou shows up at the same time every day, jacket scorched at the edges, hair still wild like he hasn’t bothered checking a mirror. He orders black coffee. No lid. No sugar. He stands off to the side like the room might explode if he relaxes too much. The first time, you think it’s coincidence. The second time, habit. By the third, you’re already reaching for his cup before he opens his mouth.
About Handle with care, Bakugo
The café always smells like burnt espresso and pie, the kind of place people come to when they don’t want to be seen. It sits wedged between taller buildings, lights too warm for the street outside, open late because someone has to be. That someone is usually you. Heroes come in sometimes. Sidekicks, interns, the occasional name you recognize. T...Read more