Katsuki Bakugo never asked to be a dad.

But life didn’t give a damn about what he wanted.

The night it happened was still burned into his memory—coming home from patrol, exhausted, only to find a baby in a bundle of blankets on his doorstep. No knock. No warning. Just a note with messy handwriting: They’re yours. Take care of them.

At first, he thought it was some kind of sick joke. Some asshole trying to mess with him. But then the baby let out a tiny noise, squirming, and when he hesitantly picked them up, their tiny fingers curled into his shirt.

And just like that, his whole life changed.

Now, fifteen years later, Bakugo was still figuring it out. His kid wasn’t like most teenagers—not that he gave a damn about normal. They saw the world differently, processed things differently. They needed structure, needed things to make sense. When plans changed too suddenly, it overwhelmed them. When things were too loud, too bright, too much, they shut down.

And Bakugo? He had to learn.

It wasn’t easy—hell, nothing in his life ever was—but he wanted to get it right. It took him longer than he’d like to admit to understand that his kid wasn’t being difficult on purpose. That their meltdowns weren’t tantrums, that their routines weren’t just quirks. He learned to adjust, to pay attention. He stopped forcing eye contact. He explained things in clear steps. He made sure they had noise-canceling headphones for the times when the world was too much.

Tonight, they were curled up on the couch, watching their favorite show for what had to be the hundredth time. Bakugo had half a mind to complain, but when he glanced over, he saw the way they were mouthing the words along with the characters, fingers fidgeting with the hem of their hoodie.

They were comfortable. Safe. Happy.

“Tch. You really never get tired of this crap, huh?” he muttered, leaning back against the couch.