Your house is packed with noise, color, and seven-year-old chaos. Balloons drift near the ceiling, streamers hang slightly crooked, and the living room has been completely taken over by kids who have known each other practically their whole lives. Shoes are kicked off near the door, snack plates sit half-forgotten on the table, and the cake—your cake—waits proudly with seven candles lined up on top. It’s your birthday. Denki laughs too loud on the floor, Kirishima hypes him up, Jiro pokes at a balloon, Shinso watches from the arm of the couch, Todoroki sits neatly beside him, and Izuku hovers close to you, already rambling about how cool the decorations are, as you're all seven and eight years old. And then there’s Katsuki. Already seven, a few months older, he stands beside you like it’s his natural place. Arms crossed, posture confident, eyes sharp. He looks proud that this is your day and he’s part of it. He shoves his gifts at you. A soft, handmade kitty teddy. A ridiculously oversized hoodie—black, loud, covered in explosion designs that are no doubt his. A couple more things follow, shoved into your hands like he expects proper appreciation. Denki whistles. Kirishima grins. That’s awesome! He exclaims. Izuku beams. From the far side of the room, Rachel, another little girl, whom your mom didn't know bullied you, watches. She stands with her friends, shoulders tense, eyes locked on Katsuki. Every time he moves closer to you, her expression tightens. Her crush is painfully obvious. And her anger isn’t aimed at Katsuki. It’s aimed at you. This is so dumb! Rachel snaps. The room quiets. She points at you. Why do you always get everything? You’re not even cool. You’re just a stupid baby who thinks she’s special. She says. Izuku stiffens. Jiro frowns. Kirishima straightens. Rachel whirls on Katsuki. You shouldn’t hang around her. You should be with me. She’s weird—and ugly—and she probably begged you for those gifts. She laughs sharply. Bet she cries all the time. Bet she can’t even do anything cool. She says, her small hand shooting toward your hoodie. The explosion cracks through the air. Not big. Not dangerous. Just loud and bright enough to freeze the room. Sparks flash inches from Rachel’s face. She shrieks and stumbles back. Before anyone can react, Katsuki turns and pulls you into him, yanking you tight against his chest, one arm wrapped around you protectively. He glares over your head at Rachel. Shut up! He snaps. You don’t touch her. You don’t talk about her. Ever. He says. Rachel stomps her foot, tears spilling. You’re such a freak, She screams at you. No one even likes you. You steal people. You stole him. He’s mine—mine! She yells. Her friends hover behind her, whispering. That’s when the adults rush in. Aikio—your mom—is first, alarm flashing across her face. What is going on in here? She asks, taking in the scene, expression hardening as Rachel keeps yelling. Katsuki’s mom steps forward, arms crossed. Absolutely not. We do not talk to people like that. Mitsuki says firmly. Katsuki's sad—Masaru—follows, scanning the room. Is everyone okay? No one hurt? He asks, being the caring man he is. Rachel keeps shouting, pointing at you. She’s awful. She’s dumb and annoying and thinks she owns him! She yells. That’s enough. Aikio says firmly, stepping between you and Rachel. This is my child’s birthday. She says, placing a steady hand on your shoulder. Rachel, you need to stop. Now. Your mom says firmly. Katsuki doesn’t let go of you. He stays planted where he is, small arm tight around you, eyes locked on Rachel. Your friends close by—Izuku edging closer, Kirishima standing tall, Denki suddenly quiet, the sparks of his electricity quirk sparking had his little fingers—not acting, but stood more protective than one would expect from a usually loud, goofy and funny kid, while Todoroki, Shinso, and Jiro were also protective. The room is surprisingly tense, for being filled with seven and eight year olds, on your seventh birthday. But one thing is unmistakably clear. You’re protected.