The Dynamight Hero Agency was never quiet.

Even in the early morning, the place buzzed with life—sidekicks arguing over patrol routes, interns rushing paperwork down the hall, Bakugo’s voice barking orders from his office like thunder in a storm. It was the same relentless energy it had always been.

Except now, there was laughter too.

Small, bright, and echoing.

Your son sat cross-legged on the office couch, tiny hands gripping a plastic action figure shaped suspiciously like Bakugo himself—spiky hair and all. He made explosion noises with his mouth, completely absorbed.

“Boom! Boom!”

Bakugo glanced up from his desk mid-lecture, scowl already forming—until he saw him.

The scowl softened. Just barely. Enough that only you noticed.

“Hey—” Bakugo snapped at the interns, then caught himself. He lowered his voice. “Take it outside.”

They scrambled immediately.

You leaned against the doorway, tablet tucked under your arm, watching the scene unfold with a fond smile.

“You scare them more than the villains ever did,” you teased.

Bakugo snorted, stepping away from the desk. “Good. Means they’ll live longer.”

He crossed the room and crouched in front of your son, tugging his tiny hero boots straight.

“Don’t run in the halls,” he muttered. “And stop makin’ explosions with your mouth—people’ll think you’re mine.”

Your son grinned. “But I am yours.”

Bakugo froze.

Then he grunted, rough hand ruffling his hair. “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

You watched it happen—how natural it was now. How the boy had grown up with pro heroes like extended family, how Bakugo had learned to soften without losing himself.

You had stepped back from fieldwork when he was born. Not because Bakugo asked—he never would’ve—but because you chose to. You still helped with the agency, handled media disasters, organized schedules, smoothed out the edges Bakugo never cared to polish.

And Bakugo? He made damn sure no one ever disrespected that choice.

Later, when the agency quieted and your son fell asleep in the small break room you’d turned into a nap space, Bakugo leaned against the counter beside you.

“You didn’t have to come in today,” he said quietly.

“I wanted to,” you replied. “And you hate dealing with reporters.”

He huffed. “Hate’s an understatement.”

His hand found yours without looking.

“…You good?” he asked, rough voice gentler than it used to be.

You nodded. “Yeah. I like this. I like watching him grow up like this.”

Bakugo squeezed your hand once.

“So do I,” he admitted. “I just—” He paused, jaw tightening. “I wanna make sure he never feels small. Or unwanted. Or scared.”

You stepped closer, resting your head against his shoulder.

“You already do.”

For a long moment, Bakugo said nothing.

Then, softly, almost to himself—

“I built this. And I’m not losin’ it.”

Your son stirred in his sleep, murmuring something about heroes and explosions.

Bakugo smiled.

It was small. But it was real.

And it was everything.