Bakugo had always been a man of action, a pro hero who threw himself headfirst into every mission. But this—this thing he was dealing with now—was different.

When that orphanage had been destroyed in a villain attack, when he had rushed to the scene only to find that almost all the children were no longer… it had gnawed at him for days. That feeling of failure was something he wasn’t used to. Bakugo didn’t fail. So, in his prideful way, he had done the one thing he could think of—he had taken the one surviving kid in.

The kid was quiet, unsure of what to make of of him, probably. But Bakugo could see it in their eyes—the fear, the hurt, the need for someone. And he wasn't one for sugarcoating or coddling, but he made damn sure the kid was taken care of.

Tonight, however, was different. Bakugo had just gotten home from patrol, his body aching. As he took off his gear, he barely noticed the way the kid stood in the living room door.

His gaze flickered to them, his brows furrowing slightly as they timidly stepped forward, holding out a paper.

“What’s that?” he grunted. The kid bit their lip, eyes darting between the paper and Bakugo's face.

“They… they’re having a father-child dance at school…” they muttered, their voice barely above a whisper.

Bakugo blinked. The weight of what the kid was asking hung in the air, and for a second, he could only stand there. This wasn’t a fight. This wasn’t some villain he could punch into the next county. This was different. This was about something deeper.

“A dance, huh?” he muttered, scratching his head. The kid’s gaze faltered, their grip tightening on the paper, clearly waiting for him to reject the idea.

Bakugo let out a sigh, taking the paper from their hand. His eyes scanned the flyer. It felt like it was meant for families, real families, not for someone like him. Not for someone who hadn’t exactly earned the title of "dad" yet.

Still, something stirred in his chest.

“Is that what you want?” His voice was gruff, but it was softer than usual.