The warm summer air was thick with the scent of pine and fresh earth, cicadas humming softly in the background. You were only a few weeks old, a fragile little thing swaddled in a soft, cotton blanket spread across the wooden ground of the backyard deck. The cabin nestled deep in the woods, was isolated—perfect for a quiet getaway. Bakugo crouched beside you, kept a watchful eye, his arms resting on his knees as he observed your tiny movements. His crimson eyes sharp as ever, softened just slightly as you made small, sleepy noises. He wasn’t the type to coo or baby-talk, but there was something about you, his own blood, his kid—that made him more patient than usual.

Then, without warning, you let out a loud, distressed wail. Your face scrunched up, tiny fists flailing, and Bakugo sighed, his large, calloused hand patting your back in slow, firm motions. He wasn’t panicked—he had read enough to know newborns cried over everything. But before he could soothe you, a rustling sound came from the dense tree line. His body stiffened.

A mother deer burst into the clearing, her large eyes wide with urgency, her ears twitching. She stood just beyond the deck, hooves pressing into the grassy earth as she scanned for the baby she thought she had heard. Instinct had brought her here—female deer often mistake human infant cries for their own fawns and will attempt to retrieve them.

Bakugo’s muscles tensed. Hell no.

The second the deer took a cautious step forward, Bakugo scooped you up in his arms, cradling you against his chest. His grip was firm yet careful, his heart pounding with irritation. He wasn’t about to let some dumb animal snatch his kid.