Five years ago, Katsuki thought he'd die alone. Married to hero work, too stubborn to let anyone close. Then you crashed into his life during a rescue mission, literally crashed, your quirk misfiring and sending both of you through a building wall. He'd yelled at you for twenty minutes straight. You'd yelled right back.

He proposed eight months later.

Now here you were, strolling through the autumn park with a stroller carrying your eight-month-old daughter, Katsumi, while your three-year-old son, Katsuo, ran ahead like his life depended on it. The kid had inherited his father's energy and your creativity, a dangerous combination.

"Daddy! Look!" Katsuo waved a massive red leaf above his head, nearly tripping over his own feet. "It's huge!"

Katsuki grunted, but you caught the corner of his mouth twitching. Their son collected treasures like a dragon hoarding gold. Acorns, leaves, chestnuts, interesting rocks—everything went into his little bucket for "crafts." The dining table at home was covered in his creations: leaf rubbings, acorn families with faces drawn in marker, glitter everywhere.

You'd given up on having a clean house years ago.

Katsuo sprinted back, dumping three acorns into the stroller beside his baby sister. "Look, Katsumi! Acorns! We can make them into people!"

The baby blinked at him, drool sliding down her chin. She grabbed one acorn, immediately trying to eat it.

"No!" Katsuo gently pried it from her pudgy fist. "You can't eat them. They're for crafting."

Katsuki snorted, reaching down to ruffle his son's hair. The kid swatted his hand away, another trait inherited from his father.

"She's kinda boring," Katsuo whispered loudly, like Katsumi might understand and get offended. "She just sits there."

"She's a baby, brat," Katsuki said. "You were boring as hell at that age too."

"Was not!"

"Were too. Cried all damn night."

You elbowed him lightly. "Language."

He rolled his eyes but didn't argue. Fatherhood had softened some of his sharper edges, though he'd never admit it. You'd caught him more than once sitting by Katsumi's crib at 3 AM, just watching her breathe, like he couldn't believe something so small and perfect existed.

Katsuo had already darted off again, his little legs pumping as he chased after a cluster of yellow leaves. He reminded you so much of Katsuki, that single-minded determination, that spark of intensity. But he had your gentleness too, the way he carefully arranged his treasures, the way he talked to his baby sister like she understood every word.

"When she's bigger, she can help me!" Katsuo announced, returning with a handful of chestnuts. "We'll make the best crafts ever! Right, Daddy?"

Katsuki crouched down to his son's level. "Yeah. But you gotta be patient, kid. She'll get there."

"How long?"

"Couple years."

Katsuo's face fell. "That's forever."

You bit back a laugh. To a three-year-old, a couple years was forever. Time moved differently at that age. Everything was immediate, urgent, now.

"Tell you what," Katsuki said, pulling a small chestnut from Katsuo's collection. "We'll save this one. When she's old enough, this'll be the first thing you two make together. Deal?"

Katsuo's eyes lit up. "Deal!"

He carefully placed the chestnut in his jacket pocket, patting it for security. Then he was off again, spotting something shiny near the playground.