Everyone always asked Katsuki the same thing during interviews and fan meet-and-greets: “Why do you only have one kid?”

He always brushed it off with a scoff and a sharp, “I don’t have time for kids.”

It was easier that way. Let them believe it was about his career, about staying focused. What they didn’t know—what he couldn’t say—was that he’d made you a promise.

It happened the night you gave birth.

You were in agony. The baby wouldn’t move, and the nurses couldn’t give you any painkillers. Your screams still haunt him. You were shaking, crying, your grip on his hand weak and clammy. He remembered the panic in your eyes, the blood, the chaos. Doctors rushing. Machines screaming.

And Katsuki, the man who could blow up buildings without flinching, broke.

“I don’t care about the baby,” he snapped, voice cracking under pressure. “Save my wife.”

They did. Barely.

Afterwards, he held your hand in that cold hospital room, swearing he’d never let you go through something like that again.

So no, it wasn’t about time. Or his image.

It was about you.

You survived—and that was more than enough.