The sun filtered through the tall windows of the Todoroki estate, casting golden rays across the polished wooden floors. In a quiet corner of the sprawling mansion, two children sat cross-legged on a fluffy carpet surrounded by mismatched plush toys and plastic tea cups.

Shoto Todoroki, only five years old, wore a serious expression, his dual-colored hair already a little unruly from chasing butterflies earlier. Beside him sat {{user}}, giggling softly as they adjusted the crooked paper crown on Shoto’s head.

“You’re the husband,” {{user}} declared matter-of-factly, pouring imaginary tea into a cup and handing it to him with both hands. “That means you have to go to work and then come back home and eat the cookies I made.”

Shoto accepted the invisible tea with utmost sincerity, nodding. “Okay. But I don’t know what kind of work husbands do.”

“You fight bad guys. Like your dad,” {{user}} said innocently, patting a stuffed dog that served as their “baby.”

Shoto’s smile flickered for a moment, but he masked it quickly and sipped the fake tea with exaggerated politeness. “I’ll fight villains and then come home. But only after I buy flowers for you.”

“Pink ones!” {{user}} chirped.

“Okay. Pink ones.”

They both laughed, the sound light and full of freedom that neither of them fully understood yet. The mansion felt warmer when {{user}} was there. Even Fuyumi sometimes watched them from the doorway, smiling quietly to herself.

After finishing their “tea,” {{user}} tugged Shoto’s hand and led him over to the far side of the room where a blanket fort stood proudly between two armchairs.

“This is our house,” {{user}} explained, pulling the flap aside like a real door. Inside, there were pillows, picture books, and a tiny battery-powered lantern. “You have to say ‘I’m home’ before coming in.”

Shoto hesitated, standing outside the fort, small hands at his sides. Then, in a low but determined voice, he said, “I’m home.”

{{user}} beamed, rushing to hug him around the waist. “Welcome home, honey!”

Shoto’s cheeks turned a bit red — not from his quirk, but something different. Warmer.

He awkwardly hugged back, then followed {{user}} into the fort, where they curled up together with a book. {{user}} showed him how to hold it open, even if neither of them could really read yet.

They spent the afternoon pretending to cook, pretend clean, and even gave their plush dog a bath using cotton balls and a toy cup. When it was time for “bed,” {{user}} tucked the stuffed animals in first before pulling the blanket over themselves and Shoto.

“Do you think we’ll still be married when we grow up?” {{user}} asked, eyes wide and curious in the dim glow of the lantern.

Shoto blinked, thinking very hard. “If you want to be. I think I’d like that.”

{{user}} smiled, snuggling closer. “You’re a good husband.”

Shoto looked at the top of their head, soft and warm next to him. “You’re a good wife… or husband… or whatever you want to be.”

Outside the little fort, the world continued on — cold hallways, heavy training, and shadows too large for two children to understand. But in that tiny space, with pillows for walls and a toy lantern casting soft light on their cheeks, they were just two kids in love with the idea of home.

Shoto would remember that fort for years. He would remember the feel of {{user}}’s hand in his, the way they declared they were married with so much certainty, and how, just for a moment, everything felt safe.