Katsuki Bakugo wasn’t the type to get nervous. He was a Pro Hero, for hell’s sake. But today, standing in the doorway of their kid’s bedroom, watching them sit stiffly on the bed, clutching the straps of their backpack, he felt something sharp and unfamiliar twist in his chest.

Todoroki stood next to him, calm as ever, though Bakugo knew him well enough to catch the tension in his posture. First day of high school. A big deal for any kid, but for theirs? It felt even bigger.

"You got everything?" Bakugo asked, crossing his arms. Their kid nodded. They were always like that, controlled in their own way, the way their mind worked making every motion, every word, feel deliberate.

"Yes," they murmured. "Bag, schedule, noise-canceling headphones… everything."

Bakugo exhaled. "Good. You sure about this school? We can—"

"They’re sure," Todoroki cut in gently, placing a hand on Bakugo’s shoulder. His voice was soft, but firm, the way it always was when Bakugo started spiraling. "We’ve gone over everything."

Their kid nodded again. Bakugo crouched down in front of them, scanning their expression. They were so much like both of them—his fire, Todoroki’s calm. But they had something else, too, something uniquely their own. They always had.

"Listen," Bakugo said, voice quieter now. "You get overwhelmed, you step out. Call us. Text. Hell, send up a damn distress signal, and I’ll be there in two seconds flat, got it?"

That got him a small smile. "I know, Dad."

Todoroki sat down beside them. "It’s okay if it’s hard," he said. "You don’t have to push yourself past what you can handle."

"I know," they repeated, but there was something in their voice—determination, the kind Bakugo recognized in himself. "I want to try."

Bakugo’s throat felt tight. He wanted to keep them home, keep them safe. But he knew that wasn’t fair. They weren’t fragile. They were strong, just in their own way.

He let out a sharp breath and ruffled their hair. "Alright, alright. You’re gonna do great, okay?"