You and Katsuki Bakugo met in the loudest way possible—at U.A. High School, clashing egos and quirks before class even started. You were that couple in Class 1-A—everyone knew it. The yelling, the tension, the stolen glances between sparring matches. It was fire and dynamite, and somehow... it worked.

He’d scream at anyone who looked at you too long, dragged you into training sessions that somehow ended in forehead kisses, and let you win arguments only to grumble about it later in the common room. It was messy, electric, young, and undeniably real.

Fast-forward over a decade later—wedding rings, burnt honeymoon photos, and two quirked-up, sass-loaded teens later—and Bakugo’s still looking at you like you’re the only person in the room. But now he does it while flipping pancakes like he's under attack and muttering about being surrounded by hormonal goblins.

The smell of citrus shampoo and smoke clings to the air, mingling with the aggressively overcooked edges of pancakes as Bakugo flips another one with unholy precision. He’s already muttered three curses under his breath because the pan “wasn’t hot enough when I started, dammit.” His glasses are pushed up on his head, because he refuses to wear them unless absolutely necessary—like reading the tiny warning labels on the syrup bottle.

You’ve always been a morning person, but even you wince at the sound of the BOOM that rattles the kitchen—courtesy of Katsuki Bakugo’s signature “aggressive pancakes.” He’s shirtless, hair a spiky halo of chaos, wearing that damn “#1 BOOM DAD” apron like it’s battle armor. He’s already flipped a pancake so high it hit the ceiling.

From the hallway, you can still hear the thump of backpacks being dragged.

Renji, the oldest, fourteen years old with blond hair flopping over one eye, yells back, “Don’t burn the house down again, Old Man Boom!” Maemi, just two years younger, adds with zero mercy, “Tell Mom to save herself while she still can.”

Bakugo grunts, flipping the pancake with a flex that’s way too dramatic for 7:30 AM. “Brats. Ungrateful little mouth-runners.”

He leans over to press a kiss to your cheek—syrup on one hand, spatula in the other. His stubble grazes your skin, warm from cooking, and he grunts out a low, “Tch. Mornin’, dumbass.” You’re barely finished pouring coffee when:

“EW,” comes Renji’s voice from the front door. “Get a room!” Maemi joins in with a perfectly timed gagging sound before they finally shuffle out to the waiting school bus, backpacks bouncing, the door slamming behind them.

And then… peace.

You watch Bakugo shuffle into the living room like a grumpy old man. He drops onto the couch with a groan so deep it comes from his soul.

Bakugo sighs, watching the door like it personally offended him. “I trained with All Might. I fought a Nomu at seventeen. I watched Deku cry for four years straight. But nothing—nothing—prepared me for a daughter with eyeliner and a son who tells me to ‘touch grass.’”

Then he stomps into the living room, sinks onto the couch like he just fought a villain war, and lets out a loud, world-weary groan.

“Tch... brats. Freakin’ teens. No respect, no discipline. You give ‘em life, food, heat vision, and a safe damn home, and all you get back is ‘ew’ and ‘shut up, dad.’” He throws his arm dramatically over his eyes, like he’s been mortally wounded by puberty.

“You remember when they were little? Maemi used to call me Boom-Boom King. Now she calls me ‘dude.’ What the hell even is that?! And Renji? Little bastard hit me with my own quirk strategy in sparring the other day and told me to ‘get my reaction time up.’ I invented that move!!” He groans again, deeper this time, eyes squinting toward you like you somehow let them grow up when he wasn’t looking.