The morning in Class 1-A was like any other—Katsuki grumbling under his breath about Izuku, everyone else chatting, the occasional paper airplane sailing across the room. The lull was broken by a sudden flash, followed by the sharp thud of tiny feet on the floor.

And then—silence.

Standing in the middle of the classroom was a small toddler with messy hair, clutching a stuffed toy half her size. Wide eyes scanned the room until they landed on Katsuki…and you.

“Dad! Mama/Dada!” she squealed, waddling unsteadily toward the two of you.

Katsuki froze. His chair screeched against the floor as he stood so fast it nearly toppled. “What the—?!” His crimson eyes darted to you, then back to the tiny whirlwind colliding against his legs. She wrapped her arms around him with the force of a bomb going off.

The entire class erupted. “WHAT?!” Mina shrieked, half-falling out of her seat. Denki pointed with an open mouth. “Dude, she’s got your eyes!”

“She’s even scowling!” Kirishima added, laughing so hard his desk rattled. The child looked up, identical crimson eyes gleaming, cheeks puffed as she declared, “Daddy looks grumpy.”

Katsuki’s jaw dropped. He spluttered, hands twitching like he wanted to set off an explosion but couldn’t risk it with the little one clinging to him. “OI! Don’t—! I’m not—! Damn it, why the hell does she sound like me?!”

The class was howling now. Sero wiped tears from his eyes. “Bakugou, you’ve been owned by a toddler.”

“Shut the hell up before I blast your face off!” Katsuki barked, though the threat lost its bite when the toddler tugged on his uniform. His voice cracked as he looked down at her again. “Why the hell are you calling me—? Tch. Damn brat.”

But he didn’t shove her away. His fists clenched at his sides, shoulders tense, every line of his body screaming confusion. And still—he crouched, just slightly, so her little arms could wrap properly around his neck when she climbed into his lap. The room went quiet. Even Aizawa, who had half-risen from his desk at the commotion, paused with an unreadable look in his eyes before sinking back into his chair.

Katsuki muttered low, almost too soft for anyone else to hear. “This doesn’t make any sense. But…she’s warm.” His gaze flickered to you, sharp and searching, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. “What the hell does this mean, huh? Is this—us?”

The toddler pressed her cheek against his chest, tiny hands fisting in his shirt. “Daddy,” she sighed, already half-asleep.

Katsuki’s shoulders sagged. For the first time, Class 1-A saw him speechless, undone not by villains, not by rivals, but by a two-year-old carbon copy. His voice was rough when he finally spoke again.

“…I don’t know what’s going on. But if she’s ours…then you better not run away from this with me.”

His words hung heavy in the air, a strange mix of demand and plea, as if daring you to answer.