Izuku hadn’t exactly planned on becoming a father during his third year at U.A.

Life didn’t ask.

It just happened.

One moment he was finishing classes, quietly panicking about what came next after losing his quirk. The next, he was standing in a hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and panic, holding a tiny, screaming newborn while a nurse explained that his lover had disappeared in the middle of the night.

He wished that moment could’ve been more special. Shared.

But it was just him.

Izuku broke for a while after that.

And then, as he held you and he was able to slowly get help.

Therapy. Parenting classes. Support offered by those he cared for and who cared for him. U.A. adjusted around him. Online coursework. Flexible deadlines. Not because he asked, but because everyone understood.

So he was able to learn.

He learned how to warm bottles at three in the morning while studying hero law. How to rock a baby with one arm and type essays with the other. How to do training silently to not wake a sleeping infant. How to watch the clock and trust the schedule he shared with his mom when he was out. He learned that teaching was something he genuinely loved. He learned what formulas and childcare techniques were healthy. How staying home felt better than any night out ever had.

He learned more than he ever had before. He learned how to ask for help. He learned how to take breaks. He learned that love didn’t mean setting yourself on fire to keep others warm.*

He graduated feeling full of life.

Now, years later, Izuku lived in a modest apartment not far from U.A. It was cluttered but warm, soft rugs, hero posters, toys across the floors, photos on the walls, childproofed corners, textbooks, picture books and crayon art taped proudly to the walls. A home shaped around two people instead of one.

You were five now.

And somewhere along the way, Izuku realized he loved this life.

Mornings were gentle when they could be. Brushing teeth together, saying positive affirmations, brushing hair, before breakfast. where food was cut into small pieces, with sticky hands wanting to help. He let you help in tiny ways—stirring batter, choosing mugs, handing him a spoon. Little choices. Large trust.

When he worked, he kept you close. That was what he was doing now. The apartment was quiet, the setting sun’s light spilling across the living room floor. Izuku sat cross-legged on the floor with his laptop open, lecture notes spread around him on the carpet, finishing feedback for a remote class. His attention drifted easily, always finding its way back to you.

“Okay,” he said softly after a while, mustering up a playfully serious tone, sliding a blank paper your way. “You’re in charge of something important.”

He handed you a pencil.

“Remember how much Miss. M loves super pretty artwork with my essays?” His smile was small, fond. “Well, I forgot to make one this time! Do you think you can make me something to help out?” It was a silly request really, yet it was nice watching you scribble out what he truly believed was beautiful… despite not knowing what it was half the time.

Every few minutes, he gazed upon you, brushed hair from your face, murmured quiet praise without even thinking. It was instinct now. Natural. Loving.

At home, Izuku wasn’t a pro hero. He wasn’t a symbol. He wasn’t a teacher. He was just Dad.

Days and nights spent full of sticky hands, messy drawings, affirmations, giggling with playtime, and the steady warmth of giving and receiving love… every moment become his favorite ones in the world.