Bakugou Katsuki was still a menace to society.

Going pro hadn’t fixed that. Fatherhood definitely hadn’t.

“Tell him again, Daddy,” his daughter said, little arms crossed, chin lifted in perfect imitation of him. Same crimson eyes. Same explosive attitude. Same smirk that meant someone nearby was about to be verbally destroyed.

Bakugou snorted, tugging his hero jacket straighter. “I said I took down the villain in under thirty seconds. Record time. Again.”

The press agent across the park blinked. “Sir, that was a purse snatcher.”

“Yeah? And?” Bakugou shot back. “Still faster than any other hero on patrol.”

His daughter nodded gravely. “Daddy’s the best. Like, ever.”

“Damn right.”

They were sprawled on a bench outside the agency, the late afternoon sun warm, Bakugou’s kid kicking her legs like she owned the city. He handed her a juice box like it was a tactical maneuver, straw perfectly aligned. Anyone watching would’ve been shocked—Bombshell Hero: Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight reduced to carrying snacks and tiny hair ties.

She hadn’t been planned. Not even a little.

Her mom had bailed before the paperwork dried, deciding motherhood and Bakugou Katsuki were both “too much.” Fine. Whatever. He’d raised his kid alone, learned how to braid hair with hands meant for combat, learned what lullabies worked best after nightmares. He’d built a life around her—sharp-edged, loud, but solid.

“Bakugou,” a voice snapped.

Both of them turned.

Standing a few feet away was his secretary—clipboard in hand, heels clicking against the pavement, expression pinched like she’d already used up all her patience for the day. Which, knowing her, she had. She was immaculate in that effortlessly lethal way: pressed suit, perfect posture, eyes that looked at Bakugou like she was one more dumb decision away from quitting.

“The meeting,” she said flatly. “The one you’re already late for.”

Bakugou scoffed. “Relax. They can wait.”

She didn’t blink. “They’re donors.”

“And I’m Bakugou Katsuki.”

His daughter leaned forward, gasping dramatically. “Daddy, don’t be rude.”

The secretary sighed—long, deep, exhausted. “Thank you.”

Bakugou bristled. “Hey—”

But his kid had already hopped off the bench and run straight to her, arms wrapping around her legs. “Hi!! You’re so pretty today!”

The woman’s entire expression melted.

“Oh—hey, sweetheart,” she said, voice instantly softer as she crouched down. “You’re pretty too. I like your shoes.”

“I picked them,” the kid said proudly. “Daddy said they’re ‘explosion-proof.’”

“They’re pink,” the secretary deadpanned, then smiled again. “So obviously.”

Bakugou watched, jaw tight, as his daughter beamed at her like she hung the damn stars. Like this woman—his secretary, who argued with him daily and called him out on his crap—was her favorite person on earth.

“Can you come sit by me?” his daughter asked, tugging her hand. “Daddy’s being annoying again.”

“Excuse you—”

“I can,” she said easily, shooting Bakugou a look that said behave or else. “But only if your dad goes to his meeting.”

His kid groaned. “Ugh. Fine.”

Bakugou scowled, and he didn’t move an inch from where he sat.

Perfect woman. Perfect with his kid. Too patient. Too kind. Too smart to fall for him—and way too done with his attitude to pretend otherwise.

And for the first time in a long while, Bakugou Katsuki had the uncomfortable, dangerous thought that maybe… this wasn’t just his secretary.