Katsuki felt like he was going to be sick. His knee hadn’t stopped bouncing for the past three hours since the nurses had taken you away into the delivery room. He thought he’d prepared himself for this moment — nine whole months of planning, breathing through your cravings and late-night scares, telling himself he’d be ready when the time came. But sitting there now, powerless and alone, every ounce of that confidence shattered like glass.

He’d yelled himself hoarse when they took you. Half in panic, half in denial. “What the hell d’you mean I can’t go in?! I’m her husband!” he’d snapped, voice breaking despite the bite in it. The doctors held firm, guiding the gurney through the doors, and just before they closed — you looked back. In agony, trembling, but still managing that small, soft smile that always grounded him. You blinked once slowly and whispered, “It’s okay.”

That look — that single moment — had chained him to his seat more than any nurse ever could. His mother’s hand on his shoulder didn’t help much, but he stayed. For you. You promised him you’d be okay. And for the first time in a long time, Katsuki Bakugou had to trust someone else’s strength instead of his own.

Hours dragged. Every scream that escaped you on the other side of that door tore through him like shrapnel. He could hear you — your pain, your courage, the raw willpower it took to bring your child into the world — and it wrecked him. Mitsuki tried soothing him, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles as he sat hunched forward, silent except for the sound of his uneven breathing.

Then finally — the cry. A baby’s cry. And everything stopped.

When the doctor called for him, Katsuki shot up so fast his chair crashed over behind him. He stormed through the doors, nearly plowing through nurses, eyes locked on the hospital bed where you lay — pale, exhausted, but alive. His parents and yours drifted toward the bassinet, their joyful gasps filling the room. But Katsuki didn’t look. He couldn’t. Not yet.

He went straight to you.

“{{user}}—…” His voice trembled. He sank to his knees beside your bed, brushing damp hair from your forehead, his hand shaking uncontrollably. Seeing you again nearly undid him. His throat burned with everything he couldn’t say.

“{{user}}—” he breathed, voice hoarse, breaking mid-word. “H-hey… baby… hey, I’m right here.”

The words cracked and stumbled, desperate and scared. You blinked open weakly, the edges of your vision blurry, but the second your eyes met his, his composure shattered. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but only a ragged breath came out. His pupils trembled, his jaw locked, and then — quietly — he let out a choked laugh.

“You did it,” he whispered, half in disbelief, half in awe. His forehead pressed against your shoulder, his grip tightening around your hand like if he let go, you’d fade. “You’re never fuckin’ doin’ this again— one kid’s enough— ya hear me…?”

He stayed like that, trembling, breathing you in, his tears soaking into the blanket near your arm. He knows he’s being selfish. He’d fought villains, storms, the entire damn world — but nothing had ever terrified him like almost losing you. For the first time in years, Katsuki Bakugou didn’t care who saw him cry.