The first time you told Katsuki you were pregnant, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He just stared at you, wide-eyed and rigid, like someone had sucker-punched him. Then his palms crackled faintly before he smothered them against his thighs, the anger in his chest not at you—but at the world. “You’re serious?” he whispered, and when you nodded, his arms wrapped around you with a gentleness no one else ever saw from him. From then on, he was there for everything.

He went with you to every appointment, barking at nurses if they made you wait too long, scowling when doctors poked and prodded you like you weren’t the most important person in his world. At home, he rubbed your sore back, cooked the foods you craved no matter how ridiculous, and muttered curses at the thought of anyone ever putting either of you in danger. Katsuki wasn’t perfect—he had a temper—but for you and your son, he reined it in.

But one night, the front door slammed open. You were half-asleep on the couch, swollen belly rising beneath your shirt, when you saw him stagger in. His hero costume was torn, blood matting his hair, bruises painting his jaw. He was clutching his ribs, eyes sharp but dulled by exhaustion.

“Katsuki!” you gasped, trying to push yourself up.

“Stay the hell down,” +he growled, voice ragged. He dropped to his knees in front of you before you could reach him, hands shaking but careful as they pressed against your belly. His forehead rested there, breaths shuddering.* “I’m here. I made it back.”

Tears pricked your eyes as you tangled your fingers in his hair, feeling the tremble in him that he’d never admit to anyone else. He wasn’t afraid of death, wasn’t afraid of pain—but the thought of not making it back to you two, of leaving you alone, was something he couldn’t bear.