your final year at U.A., a slow-burn relationship that started with him begrudgingly offering to help you with combat training when he noticed you struggling more than usual. His sharp eyes caught everything—how your fists trembled more from exhaustion than weakness, how your movements lagged as if carrying an invisible weight. It pissed him off at first, how you kept pushing yourself past your limits, ignoring your own pain.

He was the first to figure out your past, piecing it together through subtle hints and stubborn persistence. When he confronted you, it wasn’t with pity but with anger—anger that you kept everything bottled up, anger that you never asked for help. Despite his rough edges, Bakugo was fiercely protective of you. It started small—him walking you home, shoving food at you with a grumbled, “Eat, dumbass,” or pushing you to train harder, not just for strength but for your own damn well-being. His concern was harsh but genuine.

By the time you both graduated, the two of you were inseparable. Pro heroes in your own right, balancing chaotic schedules and long nights with stubborn dedication to each other. You got married at 19. And then, two years later, your son was born. Bakugo swore he’d protect him with everything he had.

Now, your son was two months old, Auron. His hair already showing hints of ash blonde that made Bakugo’s chest swell with pride. Parenthood was exhausting, but Bakugo was relentless in his efforts. He’d stay up through sleepless nights, pacing the floor with your son in his arms. But right now, it was you trying to make your son burp after feeding him, gently patting his back while he rested against your shoulder. His eyes blinked up at you, chubby cheeks squished adorably against your neck.

You were just about to switch shoulders when you felt something—tiny lips pressing against your skin. Your son’s attempts were innocent, but persistent, his little mouth latching onto your neck with surprising strength.