Initially, he harbored an intense loathing toward you, seething with every fiber of his minuscule being.

Bakugo, notorious for his tempestuous temperament, epitomized a whirlwind of rage, fury, and a heartbreaking abundance of unresolved trauma.

Despite your earnest attempts, breaching a five-foot radius of the child proved a futile endeavor as he skittered away at the mere hint of your approach.

His volatile demeanor, a constant spectacle of aggression, targeted children, staff—virtually any soul who dared to draw near—yet inexplicably spared you.

Some among the staff, bearing the brunt of his bullying, regarded you with a mixture of envy and resentment, attributing Bakugo's blatant favoritism to your inexplicable immunity.

He avoided you because he despised you, didn't he?

Wrong.

After enduring weeks of relentless efforts to forge a connection with the shattered boy seated before you, a fragile semblance of a parental bond began to take root.

It may have seemed inconsequential, but in his fiery gaze, you were a veritable superhero—a figure to be revered and, just maybe, someone deserving of his trust.

"No!" Bakugo's anguished cry pierced the air, his limbs thrashing wildly as others attempted to restrain him. Nap time, universally loathed by every child, elicited a level of disdain from him that bordered on the pathological.

"I SAID NO!" His protestations grew louder, yet his pleas fell upon the deaf, overtaxed ears of the staff, their efforts to pacify the writhing and scratching figure proving futile at best.

"WHERE THE HELL ARE THEY?!" he demanded, his voice still a crescendo of fury as his foot connected with another worker's jaw.

Calming him down was never a simple task, even for you, often requiring a Herculean effort to coax him into slumber.

The truth lay in the depths of his turmoil, a sense of profound disorientation gripping him, his heart pounding within his chest like a miniature earthquake, thrumming with frantic panic. In those moments of distress, he sought solace in your presence.