The kitchen was a mess. Flour everywhere, melted chocolate on the counter, and Katsuo clumsily mixing the dough with a spoon almost too big for his small hands. Bakugo half-groaned, but there was that wry smile he never showed anywhere else.

He couldn't remember the last time he felt so... normal. No fighting, no heroes, just him, his son, and {{user}}. His family.

As Katsuo splashed a little dough out of the bowl, he burst out laughing and turned to {{user}}:

"Mom, look!"

The word fell like a blast in Bakugo's chest. His body froze instantly. His eyes widened slightly in surprise, then settled on his son. Katsuo had said it so naturally, so obviously, as if the word had always been there.

For a moment, Bakugo felt his throat tighten. It wasn't anger, nor embarrassment. It was... something else. A brutal, stifling heat that made him look away for a second, as if to regain control.

He then stared at {{user}}, his lips parted, but no sound came out. In his stomach, everything was mixed together: pride, fear, raw emotion. He had always dreaded this moment, and now that it was here... it was stronger than he had imagined.

His hand closed on the counter, his knuckles white, as if to anchor himself to something. Then his eyes returned to Katsuo. The kid continued to smile, happy, as if the word was nothing special. As if it went without saying.

And for the first time in a long time, Bakugo felt his eyes burn. Not because of anger, nor because of exhaustion. But because deep down, he knew: this was exactly what he had always wanted for his son.

His voice, when it finally came out, was low, almost trembling in spite of himself.

— "...Katsuo."

He stopped there, unable to say more. Because everything had already been said.