You didn’t expect anything.

It was Mother’s Day—meant for the women already chasing toddlers, packing lunches, wiping faces. Not you. Not yet. You were six months in, still learning how to sleep on your side, still crying at baby commercials, still adjusting to the weight of everything—physically and otherwise.

So no, you didn’t expect flowers. Or gifts. Or anything special. Katsuki wasn’t the sentimental type anyway. Not traditionally.

But the bed beside you was empty. You reached for him instinctively. Just cold sheets.

The scent hit you first when you padded downstairs—sweet, warm, slightly burnt. The soft hiss of a frying pan. Clumsy banging of pots. And then there he was. In the kitchen.

Shirtless, sleep-ruffled, standing in front of a mess of flour and pancakes shaped like animals. Some good. Some... vaguely animal-like. A fox with a dented head. A cat with no ears. One that may have once been a bear but had clearly lost the battle.

And beside them, a small bouquet—wildflowers, unevenly cut stems shoved into a glass jar. A single crumpled petal had already fallen onto the counter.

He glanced up when he saw you. No smirk, no words, just a subtle shift in his eyes. Like he’d been caught mid-thought. You stepped forward. Katsuki met you halfway. One hand found your waist, the other your belly. His palm rested there, warm and gentle. He didn’t say anything for a moment. He didn’t need to.

“I know you’re not officially a mom yet,” he said eventually, voice quiet, low. “But you’re already doing everything for her.”

You didn’t respond. Just let yourself lean into him.

Because that was how he loved: in action, not in speeches. In late-night pharmacy runs. In hands that never strayed far from your stomach. In muttered grumbles to your unborn daughter like she could hear him, and sometimes, you swore—she did. He kissed the top of your head. Then your bump. The silence stretched, full of everything he couldn’t—or didn’t try to—put into words.

This was the Katsuki the world didn’t see. Not the Pro Hero with the explosive temper. Not the sharp-mouthed fighter who never backed down from anything. This version of him was quieter. Steadier. Still learning how to be soft without flinching. He’d already chosen you. Chosen her. Long before she even existed.

You cupped the side of his face, thumb brushing his cheek.

“I love you,” you whispered. His eyes flicked to yours. He didn’t say it back. He didn’t need to.

The pancakes were cooling behind him. The flowers were already starting to wilt. But none of it mattered. You weren’t a mother. Yet. But in this kitchen, in his arms, with the little gremlin kicking lightly inside you—it felt like you already were.