The apartment is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge. Late afternoon sunlight spills through the windows, warming the kitchen tiles beneath your bare feet. You lean back against the counter, phone in hand, thumb scrolling mindlessly.

Tiny socks. Soft pastel onesies. A chubby baby wrapped in a hero-themed blanket.

Your chest tightens in that familiar, aching way. Baby fever — the kind that sneaks up on you when life is finally stable, when the future doesn’t feel like it’s constantly on fire anymore.

You’re so focused you barely register the click of the front door.

Heavy boots thud against the floor. A familiar presence fills the apartment almost instantly — loud even when he’s not trying to be.

“—I’m home.”

Katsuki Bakugo’s voice carries down the hall, rough and tired. Eight years after the war and he’s still one of the top heroes in Japan, explosions and all. He tosses his keys onto the entry table a little harder than necessary and shrugs off his jacket.

He rounds the corner into the kitchen and stops.

You’re leaning there, phone glowing in your hands, expression soft — too soft.

His red eyes narrow immediately.

“…What’re you lookin’ at like that?”

He drops his hero bag near the door and walks closer, already suspicious. Then he catches a glimpse of your screen — pastel colors, tiny clothes, a baby smiling up at the camera.

Bakugo freezes for half a second.

“…Oi.”

He straightens, jaw tightening, arms crossing over his chest as if bracing himself. “That better not be what I think it is.”

There’s no anger in his voice — just tension. Unease. The kind he gets when he feels cornered by something he can’t punch.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his spiky hair.

“We talked about this,” he mutters, quieter now. “I ain’t ready for that shit. Not yet.”