You never pictured Katsuki Bakugo as the type to settle down. Hell, he never pictured it either. Explosive temper, bigger dreams—his whole damn life pointed toward anything but domestic bliss. Yet here you were, wiping jelly off his chin because your two-year-old decided Daddy needed to taste breakfast twice.

It hadn’t started soft. You met him at U.A., same as everyone else, and despised him from the jump. Loud, angry, so convinced he was better than the rest of you. Even when he tried to grow, to show he was more than just shouting and sparks, you didn’t buy it. Until he proved it—apologized to Deku, to you. Bit down on that monstrous pride until it bled, and you finally believed there might be something underneath worth loving.

And apparently, worth building a life with.

You still remembered the way he’d panicked when you told him you were pregnant—eyes wide, mouth opening only to close again, like every thought combusted before it could escape. Then he stepped up, arms wrapped around you so tightly you thought he might squeeze the fear right out. You were both terrified, but at least you were terrified together.

Now your little boy was toddling around in one of Katsuki’s old shirts that practically swallowed him whole, sticky fingers and a grin that could split the sun. And here was the problem neither of you anticipated.

He toddled right up to where you were half-asleep on the couch, tiny hand patting your leg. “Babe,” he chirped, voice high and sweet. “Juice?”

Katsuki was in the kitchen, nearly dropped a plate. Your head fell into your hand with a groan. “Baby, Mommy’s right here.”

But your son only giggled, then turned toward the kitchen doorway. “Love! Me want juice!”

Bakugou bristled like someone lit a fuse on his back. He stomped out, crossing thick arms over his chest. “Oi. What the hell did you just call me?”

“Love!” your son repeated, beaming.

It was your own damn fault. You and Katsuki both agreed calling each other “Mommy” and “Daddy” in front of him felt weird, cringe even. You stuck to your old habits—babe, love, playful insults Katsuki fired right back. So of course your little parrot picked those up.

Bakugo scrubbed a hand down his face. “Damn it,” he muttered. Then he crouched to eye-level. “Oi, gremlin. I’m Dad. Say it.”

Your son blinked, then broke into giggles again. “Love juice!”

You snorted, trying not to laugh outright as Bakugo shot you a murderous look. “Don’t encourage it.”

“I didn’t say anything!” you wheezed.

He scooped the boy up with a scowl that didn’t fool either of you. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you little runt.”

Your son planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “Love best!”

Bakugo froze, the tips of his ears turning bright red. He tried—tried—to keep the scowl, but it cracked, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. You felt your heart ache, just a little. Because even if this wasn’t the future either of you pictured, it was yours. Messy, loud, chaotic—exactly like the man you fell for.