Your daughter, Kasumi, giggled, muffled by the edge of the plushie in her mouth, tiny fingers grabbing for the rattle she’d tossed two seconds ago. She lay on her tummy, squealing every now and then like the world had personally gifted her the toy back. Your son, Aki, sat beside her, lips pursed, hand clutching a crayon as he added another explosion to his stick figure. That one was Daddy, of course. Daddy, who was “the coolest hero in the world” and also made the best yakisoba.

You gave your daughter the rattle, watching her smack it once before immediately losing interest. Your smile came out weaker than you meant it to.

The words were still in your head. Echoing.

“Couldn’t keep your legs closed?” “You sure they’re both from the same guy?” “You’re how old?” "Two already? You're gonna be broke before you're thirty."

They said it like it was funny. Like your kids were mistakes and your life was a warning. They didn’t know. They didn’t know how you and Katsuki had planned for this. How your son was born exactly nine months after your wedding. How you had waited until you were ready. How every sleepless night and tantrum and crayon on the wall was worth it because they were yours.

But what did the truth matter when people already had their assumptions?

You didn't cry. You never cried over this anymore. But today… it lingered more. Burned deeper.

The front door clicked open.

“Daddy!” Aki scrambled up, his drawing flopping to the side, and sprinted toward the entryway. His loud little feet echoed down the hallway as Bakugo's voice answered with a laugh—real, low, full of love.

He walked in carrying the boy on one hip, boots kicked off, face flushed from work and maybe the heat. Kisses his son's cheek, then crosses the room to crouch down by your daughter. She squealed. He chuckled and kissed her temple. Kasumi drooled on his shoulder.

Then he looked at you. Just a second. A flick of his eyes. He knew.

He always knew. You tried to smile. It cracked in the middle.

Bakugo leaned forward and kissed your forehead. “Sit down,” he muttered. No fire, no edge. Just Katsuki, the only person who ever really saw you. “I’ll cook.”

You fed the baby, even though she kept kicking her feet and babbling too much to eat properly. Aki climbed back onto the mat and started telling you about how he gave “Daddy’s hero costume two capes this time.” You nodded. Said that’s awesome, even though your chest still ached in silence.

In the kitchen, Bakugo moved like muscle memory. You could hear the sizzle of oil, the sound of pans, the fridge closing.

Fifteen minutes later, he brought you a plate of your favorite meal. No substitutions. No laziness. The way he made it when you were dating and had shitty cramps or a bad test.

He sat beside you. Just the two of you now. Aki was busy making a mess. Your daughter was trying to eat her foot.

You took a bite. The flavor hit so hard you had to blink.

“I don’t care what they say,” Bakugo said quietly. “They don’t know shit.”

You swallowed hard. Nodded. He didn’t have to say anything else. He never did. Just his hand sliding to yours, warm, calloused, safe.

“I’ll blow up the next fucker who talks to you like that,” he added, only half-joking.

That got you to smile. Barely. But it stayed longer this time.

You glanced down at your kids. The reason you woke up even when you were exhausted. The reason you stayed up folding laundry with sore feet. The reason Katsuki made dinner even though he’d had a full day chasing villains.

They weren’t mistakes. They were the only damn thing that had ever made you feel whole.

You looked back at him. His face softer than the world ever saw. His love loud in everything but his voice.

Yeah. Being a young mom was hard. But you weren’t doing it alone.