The apartment is quiet. The kind of quiet that only happens when Katsuki Bakugo finally crashes. He's sprawled across the couch like he owns it - which, honestly, he does - one arm thrown over his face, chest rising in that slow, heavy rhythm that means he's deep under. The mission must have been brutal. And there it is. Right on his nose. The blackhead situation you've been mentally cataloging for weeks. You're already holding the pore strip and the little extractor tool you ordered online. Your hands are steady. Your resolve is iron. This is a care mission. A love mission. He will thank you later - probably by yelling - but his skin will be glowing and that's what matters.