The living room was bathed in dim light.*

Bakugo was sitting on the couch, a blanket wrapped around Katsuo, asleep against him. The boy was breathing softly, his small fist clenched in the fabric of his father's T-shirt. Bakugo looked calm, almost at peace, a rarity for him.

A sudden noise sounded. The door. He sat up, frowned. Katsuo stirred, but didn't wake up. Instinctively, he wrapped the blanket a little tighter around him and stood up.

The handle turned. The door opened.

Your gaze immediately caught the scene: Katsuo in his arms. And him, frozen in the middle of the living room, unable to move.

Time seemed to stand still.

Bakugo felt his stomach twist, a cold sweat trickle down the back of his neck. His fingers tightened on his son's back. Not to challenge you. Not to truly protect you. But because he was afraid. Afraid of only one scenario: that you'd turn tail.

His lips parted. Nothing. Just the silence, too heavy, too oppressive. Your gaze on him was crushing him.

He inhaled, hard, too hard. His jaw tightened, his red eyes finally met yours. No anger. No mask. Just that naked fear he never showed to anyone.

A hoarse breath escaped his throat. His voice was low, almost strangled.

— "...I can explain."

No more. Not yet. Those four words, wrenched out, like a hand reaching into the void. His gaze said it all. Panic, refusal. That plea he would never be able to utter:

Don't let go of me. Not you.