Archive of Our Own

Kirishima didn’t mind the silence, not at first.

He was thirty, finally living in a place that didn’t smell like old ramen packets and gym socks, and his mornings were filled with things like small socks that never matched, and spoon-feeding mashed bananas to a sleepy toddler with wide black eyes and curls that always got stuck to her cheeks.

He named her Hina.

He didn’t ask much about her mother, just that she’d been young. Too young, maybe, and that she didn’t want to raise a child. The agency hadn’t said much else, and Kirishima hadn’t pushed. What mattered was that Hina was here now, sitting in a high chair that he built himself at two in the morning, chewing the rubber edge of a teething toy with a serious little frown on her face.

He loved her immediately. That part was easy.

Every time she looked at him, something inside him melted and never went back.

But after the first week, the silence started to weigh, not because she cried too little, or because the house was too quiet. It was the wrong kind of quiet, like something missing, not something peaceful.

She never turned when he called her name, she never startled when the blender roared to life or when a car alarm screamed from the street below, she didn’t babble when she played. She made noises, little hums and grunts, but they weren’t words, not even close, and definitely not like the other kids at the park.

The first time he noticed, he told himself not to panic. Every kid was different, right? Some were early walkers, some were talkers, some just liked keeping things to themselves.

But by the third week, the doubt started creeping in like water under the door.

She never turned when he clapped, not once, not even when he was right behind her.

And that morning, when he accidentally dropped a glass in the kitchen, shards skittering across the floor, his own heart jumping into his throat, she didn’t even flinch, just sat quietly with her stuffed bear, head tilted like she was trying to decide if its bow was edible.

He cleaned up the mess in silence, and when he picked her up to check for any cuts, she smiled at him like everything was perfect, like the world had never hurt her.

Kirishima kissed her temple, then he held her a little longer than usual.

And, after that, he called her doctor.

The pediatrician was kind, middle-aged, with a calming voice and a bright sticker on his coat that said Dr. Minato. Hina liked him, or at least didn’t mind him. She curled into Kirishima’s chest when they walked into the exam room and stayed there, fingers twisted in the fabric of his hoodie.

After a short examination, the doctor gave him a list with two names highlighted in yellow. “Just to be sure,” he said gently, “but I’d like you to see an audiologist.”

Kirishima nodded. He didn’t ask too many questions, just wrote everything down and thanked him three times.

He scheduled the hearing test for the same week. Didn’t sleep the night before. Hina did, though, she always did. Quiet, like always.

The audiology center was across the city, bright white walls, low chairs, soft rugs. A woman with kind eyes and long, dark hair introduced herself as Dr. Shiraishi and led them into a soundproof room. She smiled at Hina, waved at her, showed her some toys. Then she explained what would happen in the simplest way possible.

It didn’t take long.

Kirishima sat there, holding Hina on his lap, while the woman ran test after test. Some involved headphones. Some didn’t. There were tiny sensors placed gently on Hina’s head, behind her ears. Kirishima whispered little encouragements against her temple, even if she couldn’t hear them. You’re doing so good, sweetheart. I’m right here.

When it was done, Dr. Shiraishi sat down in front of him and took a breath before speaking. Her voice was soft, not pitying, just warm, like she understood that the world was about to change for him, and she wanted it to change gently.

“She has severe hearing loss,” she said. “Most likely congenital. That means she was born with it.”

Kirishima didn’t say anything, just nodded, slowly, once.

“It can be caused by genetic factors, or infections during pregnancy,” she continued carefully. “Sometimes, premature birth, or a complication during labor. I know you mentioned you don’t have much information about her biological mother.”

He shook his head. “She was left at a hospital. That’s all I know.”

Dr. Shiraishi gave him a sympathetic look. “I understand. For now, what matters is that we make a plan.”

Kirishima nodded again, firmer this time.

Because the only thing he did know was that he had a daughter. A daughter who had a hearing problem. A daughter who smiled in her sleep and liked chewing on the corners of books and sometimes leaned her head against his chest just to feel his heartbeat.

And whatever the world decided to throw at her, whatever obstacles she would face, he’d move mountains to make her life easier.

He would learn every new word, every system, every sign.

He would not let her face a world that didn’t try for her.

Kirishima threw himself into it like he always did when something mattered.

He didn’t cry, not even once.

Not when he looked up the difference between conductive and sensorineural hearing loss. Not when he watched YouTube videos at two in the morning about parents learning to sign with their babies. Not when he spent hours comparing pediatric hearing aids, then emailed three different specialists to make sure the ones he picked were the best on the market.

He just worked.

He ordered Hina’s hearing aids in soft rose gold, because he read somewhere that giving kids options that feel personal helped them feel proud of using them. He picked the color himself but told her out loud that she could choose stickers later, any ones she wanted.

She blinked up at him from the floor, chewing on a giraffe plushie.

He smiled, even though she didn’t hear it in his voice. “You’re gonna rock them, sweetheart.”

It took only two days after they arrived for her to turn when he said her name.

“Hina,” he whispered, sitting beside her on the rug. She was playing with stacking cups, hands clumsy but eager.

Her head turned, just a little.

He froze.

She looked at him.

His heart cracked wide open.

“Hi,” he said, tears burning behind his eyes, even though he didn’t let them fall. “Hi, baby.”

She smiled.

From that day on, Kirishima didn’t slow down.

He signed up for an ASL class first, then a JSL one, after a helpful message board pointed out how different the structures were. He practiced while Hina napped, practiced in the mirror, practiced every time he changed a diaper or folded laundry or stirred soup in a pan.

He whispered and signed everything.

Bath.
Milk.
Daddy.
Love.

He talked to other parents. Found forums and chat groups. Printed resources and pinned them all over the kitchen cabinets. And every night, after Hina fell asleep curled up with her giraffe and her left hand tucked under her cheek, he researched schools. Not just any schools, ones where she’d be seen, understood, treated like any other kid who wanted to learn and laugh and grow.

The world was huge, loud, and unfair, sometimes, but in their house, filled with picture books and soft rugs and sunlight in the afternoons, Hina had everything she needed.

She had him.

And Kirishima didn’t just love her.

He adored her.

He kissed her curls every morning and made up songs while changing her onesies. He held her up to the window so she could see the birds and signed bird slowly, again and again, hoping someday soon she’d sign it back.

He loved her without conditions. Not in spite of anything. Just fully. Entirely. Like it was the only thing he’d ever been meant to do.

Kirishima asked.

Not just in passing, not in a lazy way, he asked. He joined three different online groups, some local, some international. He left comments under threads, messaged other parents directly, signed into Q&A video calls on weekends when Hina was napping in his arms.

He asked:
Who helped you the most?
Who do you trust with your kids?
Who can help me give my daughter every way to speak to the world?

And every single time, without fail, the same name came back.

Katsuki Bakugo.

“Not the nicest guy, but the best teacher.”
“Hard to deal with, but even better teaching.”
“He’s certified by JFD. Used to teach in schools, now he trains parents and kids.”
“He’ll make you cry and then your kid will be fluent in a year.”

Kirishima didn’t care about the attitude. He didn’t need nice. He needed good. He needed someone who would treat this as seriously as he did.

So he reached out.

Bakugo had a clean website, no pictures, just black and white text and a contact form at the bottom. Kirishima filled it out in under five minutes, heart pounding the whole time. The site said a secretary would reply, and she did, the very next day.

Her name was Jiro, and she was extremely polite.

They exchanged emails for a few days, schedule options, first session types, location options. Bakugo preferred to hold initial meetings in-person, always. He liked seeing the kids before building any curriculum.

“Thursday,” she wrote. “3:30 PM, if that works. He has a studio in Kiyokawa. Kid-friendly. Do you want the address?”

Kirishima said yes. He confirmed the time, then stared at the reply like it was going to burst into flames.

It felt like a huge step. It was a huge step.

That Thursday, he dressed Hina in a mint green dress with tiny stars on the hem. He packed a bag with two bottles, a snack container of grapes, and her stuffed giraffe, just in case. She was still too little to really understand appointments, but he explained everything anyway.

We’re going to meet someone, he said slowly. A teacher. A very good one.

She clapped her hands. Kirishima smiled, then kissed her forehead.

He carried her down the stairs, one arm strong around her back, the diaper bag slung across his chest.

And as they stepped into the sunlight of a late spring afternoon, Kirishima didn’t know that in just a few minutes, he’d meet the man who would change everything.

The building didn’t look like much from the outside. Simple, one-story, tucked between a small grocery store and an old bakery with a fading awning. Kirishima double-checked the address three times before he pushed the stroller up the short ramp and stepped through the glass doors.

And then, he stopped.

The inside of the studio was spotless. Not cold, exactly. Just perfectly arranged. Too perfect. Like a dentist's office before opening hours, not a place where toddlers came to play or learn.

White walls. Pale hardwood floors. Not a single toy in sight until his eyes caught on a single corner, softly lit, a patch of warmth in an otherwise clinical room.

A whole wall of drawings.

There were at least thirty. Maybe more. Crayon scribbles on A4 paper, some smudged, others carefully colored inside the lines. Stick figures with spiky blond hair. Some labeled “Bakugo” or “Sensei.” A few with big hand signs drawn next to them, little fingers splayed or curled.

Beneath them, a low shelf held a lineup of soft, well-loved plush toys, and a small plastic bin full of LEGOs.

It made Kirishima smile. That corner, he could tell, was real.

He heard footsteps behind the reception desk.

The man who stepped out wasn’t what he expected.

Sure, the parents had warned him, “Not the nicest guy,” “tough but good,” “makes you work”, but no one mentioned that Katsuki Bakugo was, well.

Hot.

Not in the celebrity kind of way, not polished, but striking, like the kind of guy who would argue with a traffic cop and win. Blond hair styled back with just enough defiance, sharp jaw, narrow eyes, dress shirt tucked in like he meant business. His sleeves were rolled up just enough to show forearms dusted in faded scars. He looked like he could lift a car and also calculate taxes with perfect precision.

Kirishima had never felt more underdressed in his life.

“Eijirou Kirishima?”

Kirishima nodded quickly. “Yeah. And this is Hina.”

Bakugo looked down, and something shifted immediately. 

He knelt, not fast, and signed hello with deliberate care.

Hina blinked.

Then, after a second, her tiny hand lifted and she waved back. Her fingers didn’t follow the shape exactly, but her eyes lit up with recognition.

Kirishima almost cooed on the spot.

Bakugo didn’t smile, but he nodded, just once, with the barest softness around the edges.

“She’s smart,” he said, then signed Hina’s name slowly and clearly.

H-I-N-A.

Hina stared at his hands, then looked at him, and, carefully, pointed at herself.

“Yeah,” Bakugo said, a little quieter now. “That’s you.”

Kirishima’s heart felt like it might crack in half.

Bakugo stood, brushed his palms against his slacks, then pointed toward a simple desk tucked just beside the art wall.

He gestured. “You can sit.”

Kirishima did, holding Hina gently in his lap, one hand supporting her back as she rested against his chest.

Bakugo sat across from him, a tablet already in front of him, stylus in hand.

“You said you found out a month ago?” He asked, direct.

“Yeah. First I noticed she didn’t look when I called her name. Then, the blender, a dropped glass... She didn’t flinch. Her pediatrician referred us to an audiologist.”

Bakugo nodded once, wrote something down. “She’s wearing Phonak aids. Good choice.”

“I asked around. I wanted the best.”

At that, Bakugo glanced up.

“You sign at home?”

“Trying,” Kirishima admitted. “I’m learning. I do ASL and JSL both. We do it together when we can, but I wanted someone certified who could teach both of us.”

Bakugo nodded again. “That’s why you’re here.”

Kirishima adjusted Hina in his arms, who was playing with a teething ring.

“I don’t want her to grow up thinking she has to fight to be heard,” Kirishima said quietly. “I want her to tell me everything, in every way possible. Hearing aids are great, but I want her to have more. I want her to have language, and I don’t ever want her to feel like she’s less because she doesn’t hear the same way as everyone else.”

For a second, Bakugo didn’t say anything.

Then he nodded.

“We’ll start next week,” he said. “Twice a week. You’ll come in with her the first few sessions. Then I’ll work one-on-one with her later. She’s little, so we’ll go slow. Repetition, songs, finger games, call-and-response.” He scribbled a few notes. “I’ll give you materials. And homework.”

“I’ll do it.”

Bakugo raised a brow. “All of it?”

“Every second of it.”

That earned him the faintest twitch at the corner of Bakugo’s mouth.

Maybe not a smile, but something like it.

Bakugo wasn’t what Kirishima expected from a children’s instructor.

He was sharp-edged and brisk, moved with the kind of precision that made it hard to imagine him ever playing peek-a-boo or singing baby songs. He rarely used small talk, didn’t linger after sessions unless it was for notes or scheduling. He had a way of saying “mm” instead of “okay” that sounded like he was always a little unimpressed with everything around him.

And yet, he was brilliant.

Especially with Hina.

From the very first class, it was clear: Katsuki Bakugo paid attention.

Not just to what Hina did or didn’t do, but how she did it. How she looked at things. What she reached for. What she pulled away from. He never forced her to sit still for long, just adjusted the pace. If she started shifting, he signed while moving, getting her attention with motion instead of volume.

When she threw her toy during a fussy moment, he didn’t flinch.

He signed mad? and made the face to match. Then okay.
Mad again. Okay.

Hina blinked up at him like he was speaking moonlight, and Kirishima watched, completely stunned, as her tiny hand mimicked the gesture for okay back to him.

She was two weeks into classes when she started waving at him.

Not Kirishima. Him.

Every single time they stepped through the studio door, Hina’s whole body lit up like she’d been plugged into a sunbeam. Her chubby fingers waved frantically, her grin wide and full of toothless excitement.

She signed hi now.

And hello.

Only to Bakugo.

Kirishima couldn’t lie, he felt a tiny pinch of jealousy every time it happened.

She didn’t light up like that for him, not that exact way. Sure, she curled into his chest when she was sleepy and tugged his sleeve when she wanted a snack and clapped when he signed bird during breakfast. But Bakugo? She saw him and smiled like the world got brighter.

Maybe it was because Bakugo didn’t treat her like she was fragile. He didn’t clap dramatically or exaggerate his signs like Kirishima sometimes did when he was nervous. He treated her like a real person. like someone with a voice.

And she responded.

By the third week, she was signing small things, fast and bright and proud.

Dad.
More.
No.
Tired.
Happy.
Food.

Kirishima kept a list in his phone, but Bakugo remembered them all without needing reminders.

“She picks up patterns quick,” he said one afternoon, watching Hina sign happy after he handed her a block toy. “Knows what to connect. Smart kid.”

Kirishima nodded, arms loosely folded, leaning against the wall. “You’re really good with her.”

Bakugo didn’t look up. “She makes it easy.”

Kirishima smiled, just a little, before looking down at his own hands. “You’re not like this with me.”

Bakugo paused, then snorted. “You’re not a baby.”

“Still. Could be a little nicer.”

“No,” Bakugo said, deadpan. “That’s not part of the service.”

Kirishima laughed under his breath. Hina did, too, a small hiccup of sound and breath, signing happy with a giggle.

Bakugo turned back toward her, crouched beside her tiny form, and signed it back with a gentleness in his hands that didn’t exist anywhere else.

Happy, he said again. You’re happy.

And Hina nodded, resting her cheek on her fist, eyes half-lidded with trust.

By the third month, Bakugo said the words Kirishima had been waiting for.

“We’ll move sessions to your place,” he announced one Tuesday afternoon, after Hina successfully signed milk twice in a row without prompting. “Starting next week.”

Kirishima blinked. “Yeah?”

Bakugo nodded, crouching to help Hina re-stack a set of plastic cups. “I usually shift to home-based training after a few months. Helps them apply things in their real space. Makes retention stronger.”

Kirishima tried to keep his voice calm. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”

He didn’t say you mentioned that once, weeks ago, and I’ve been lowkey preparing ever since, but it was the truth.

The second they left the studio, he started making lists. Cleaning schedules. Grocery plans. Rearranged the living room so the lighting hit just right in the afternoons. Put a basket of her toys near the rug where they usually sat to play. Moved her flashcards to the lower shelf of the bookcase so she could grab them herself.

Then he deep-cleaned the kitchen.

Bought extra mugs. Apple juice. Grape juice. Orange juice.

And coffee.

God, so much coffee.

He didn’t even know how Bakugo took his. Did he drink it black? Iced? Espresso? Cold brew with some expensive milk that Kirishima couldn’t pronounce?

He bought all of it, just in case.

He didn’t know why it mattered so much.

It wasn’t like this was a date. It wasn’t like he was trying to impress him, but also, when was the last time he’d had a guy over that wasn’t Denki or Hanta?

He couldn’t even remember.

The day before the session, Kirishima mowed the lawn. Trimmed the bushes out front. Hina watched from the open window, clapping whenever he waved at her. She was wearing a yellow onesie and her curls bounced whenever she nodded. He swore his heart doubled in size every time he saw her.

Their house wasn’t huge, but it was theirs.

White walls, soft green roof, a garden that wasn’t perfect but looked good in the spring. Inside, there were shelves filled with picture books and hand-labeled folders for taxes and invoices, because Kirishima ran his own business from the home office, custom wooden designs, mostly. Cribs, toy boxes, shelves. All built with care. All built with Hina in mind now.

He made enough to live comfortably, not rich, but enough to give his daughter everything.

The next morning, he dressed in his best soft jeans and a clean navy button-up. Hina wore a peach dress and her hearing aids, clipped with a tiny new sticker shaped like a sun.

When Bakugo arrived, he was exactly on time.

He wore another tucked-in shirt, clean slacks, messenger bag over one shoulder.

Kirishima’s stomach did this dumb fluttering thing as he opened the door.

“Hey,” he said, trying not to sound awkward. “Come on in.”

Bakugo nodded, stepped inside, and kicked off his shoes without being asked.

He looked around once, took in the entryway, the hallway, the scent of lemon cleaner and fresh laundry.

“Smells like a hotel,” he said.

Kirishima laughed, nervous. “I wasn’t sure what you drink, so I got, uh, a lot of juice? And coffee. Milk. Sugar. Whatever you need.”

Bakugo turned, looking at him with that unreadable face of his. Then, voice flat: “You do this for every teacher?”

Kirishima flushed. “No.”

A pause.

“I drink it black,” Bakugo said, and sat down at the edge of the living room rug like he owned the place.

Hina lit up the second she saw him, her arms lifted, and her hands moved.

Hello.
Hi.
Happy.

Only for him.

Kirishima watched her run to Bakugo like he was her favorite person on the planet. She plopped down right beside him, reached for his hand, and started babbling and signing in half-formed words only he could truly understand.

And to his credit, Bakugo didn’t even blink.

He signed back, slow and clear.

Happy to see you.
Ready to play?
Learn?

Hina beamed.

And Kirishima just watched, a little jealous, but mostly grateful, because maybe Bakugo wasn’t the warmest guy, maybe he was blunt and intense and sometimes kind of annoying with his dead stare of judgment, but Hina adored him. And that alone told Kirishima everything he needed to know.

This was a good decision.

The best one.

There was something different about the way Bakugo acted now.

It wasn’t anything big. If Kirishima hadn’t been so tuned into the man’s every blink and breath, he might’ve missed it entirely. Bakugo was still professional, still signed like every motion had a purpose. He still gave him homework sheets and short corrections if Kirishima’s hands moved a little too fast or too wide.

But lately, he lingered.

Not physically, because he wasn’t the type to hover, but his eyes stayed longer. When Kirishima asked a question or struggled with a new sign, Bakugo would look at him for just a beat too long, like he was reading something behind his words.

And then there were the questions.

“So, your work,” Bakugo said one afternoon while Hina napped in the next room after a particularly playful session. “You always do it from here?”

“Yeah,” Kirishima nodded, setting two mugs on the coffee table, careful not to spill. “I’ve got a workshop in the back. Woodworking, mostly. Furniture, toys, some custom stuff. Keeps me busy.”

Bakugo hummed, leaning back on the floor cushions he always sat on. “You build it all yourself?”

“Yeah. Everything I sell.” He paused. “Except the website. That was Denki. Don’t let him touch wood.”

Bakugo snorted under his breath, eyes flicking toward him. “That's the friend you mentioned last week? Messy handwriting?”

“That’s him,” Kirishima grinned. “You’d get along. You’d fight, but you’d get along.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes but didn’t disagree.

He accepted the coffee without a word. Kirishima noticed he always held the mug with both hands, like it helped him slow down. He didn’t sip right away, just sat there, quiet, looking out the sliding door that opened onto the little garden, watching bees drift lazily through the air.

Kirishima sat across from him, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees.

“You always lived in this part of town?” Bakugo asked.

“Since I was a kid, yeah. Moved out for college, came back after. I missed the space.”

“Hm.”

Another pause. Not uncomfortable, just thoughtful.

Kirishima felt his heartbeat in his chest, louder than before. He wasn’t sure why.

Maybe it was the way Bakugo’s voice was lower today, or the way he kept making eye contact and not looking away right after. His expression didn’t change much, still serious, but his gaze felt warmer, a little curious, like he wanted to ask more but wasn’t sure if he should.

Or maybe he was imagining all of it.

He wasn’t used to reading signs in people like that.

Hina stirred in the other room. Bakugo glanced toward the hallway instinctively.

“She’s doing well,” he said, tone shifting back into teacher-mode. “Already recognizing four more signs this week. If she keeps this pace, we’ll start on simple sentences next month.”

“That fast?”

“She wants to talk,” Bakugo said simply, and his mouth twitched, almost a smile. “And she’s got someone who listens.”

Kirishima’s chest tightened.

“Thanks to you,” he said quietly.

Bakugo shook his head, staring down into his coffee. “No. You. Kids don’t learn this well if their parents don’t care. You’re the one showing up.”

Kirishima’s fingers curled where they rested on his thigh.

“Still,” he said, voice soft. “It helps that she has someone like you. She adores you, you know?”

“I know,” Bakugo said, deadpan.

Kirishima laughed, but his throat felt tight.

“And,” he added, “I think she’s got good taste.”

That got Bakugo to glance up, brows raised.

“That so?” He asked, something careful tucked beneath the words.

Kirishima didn’t back down. “Yeah. She likes people who pay attention. Who see her. Who try. That’s all anyone really wants, right?”

Bakugo looked at him, not just at him, into him, like he was holding back a thought he wasn’t quite ready to share.

And then, “Do you date?” Bakugo asked suddenly.

Kirishima blinked.

The question wasn’t blunt. It was softer than expected. Not a challenge. More like curiosity wrapped in hesitation.

“Uh. Not in a while,” Kirishima admitted. “It’s been just me and her for a bit. Hard to make time for anything else.”

Bakugo nodded, gaze flicking back to his coffee.

“I guess that’s a long way of saying no,” Kirishima added, trying to keep it light. “Why? You giving me notes on that too?”

Bakugo let out something close to a laugh, his shoulders shook for half a second before settling.

“Not my job,” he said, then looked back at him again. “Just wondering if I’ll need to teach her how to say mom, too.”

The question landed softly, but it still caught Kirishima completely off guard.

His breath stalled in his throat. Heat rushed up his neck, painting his cheeks pink before he could even try to hide it. “Oh,” he said, stumbling over the word. “I don’t think she’ll ever have a mom.”

The words came out smaller than he meant them to.

Bakugo didn’t shift, he just kept looking at him, eyes lingering on Kirishima’s face like he was reading every layer beneath the surface.

And in that silence, there was no awkwardness. 

Kirishima dropped his gaze to his mug, heart was thudding so loudly in his chest it felt like it echoed in the room.

When he looked back up, just for a second, he found Bakugo still watching him, and his blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a way he couldn’t hide. He looked down again, but he was smiling now, a little bit, just under the surface.

And for a moment, it felt like the air had shifted between them.

Like something had quietly, slowly begun.

Friday nights used to mean something different.

Back in college, they were loud and fast, half-spilled drinks and friends piled into the back of someone’s beat-up car, music blaring, laughter chasing them down empty streets. Even after graduation, there were a few years where Fridays still meant something, dinners out, a date night, someone’s arm slung around his shoulder on the train ride home.

But lately, Friday nights meant bath time. It meant wrangling a sleepy toddler into pajamas and making sure all the tiny socks had partners. It meant books with chewed corners and brushing curls out gently before bed. It meant silence, in the warm, safe kind of way.

Tonight, though, Hina was home with Mina.

She’d burst through the front door just before sunset, the scent of citrus perfume trailing behind her and a glittery clip in her hair that Hina immediately tried to eat. She kissed Kirishima’s cheek before he could protest and declared, “You look like you haven’t slept in ten years. Give me your daughter before your soul evaporates.”

And just like that, he was alone.

A list in his hoodie pocket. Wallet. Car keys. A rare stretch of time that belonged only to him.

He ran errands quietly, without rush; pharmacy, then the garden shop, where he picked up fresh thyme and two new basil starters for Hina’s planter box. The air was just turning cold, that in-between chill that meant spring hadn’t quite committed yet, and the sky was painted in soft streaks of blue and pale gold as he pulled into the grocery store lot.

Inside, the market was calm, soft music overhead, familiar shelves and the low hum of carts sliding across old tile. He liked it here. He liked the quiet of it, the normalcy.

He didn’t expect to see Bakugo.

Not here, not tonight.

He was halfway through the produce section, fingers absently testing the firmness of a pear, when he caught a flash of blond near the canned goods aisle.

It wasn’t just the hair, it was the posture. The sharpness in the way Bakugo moved, confident, controlled, like he had somewhere to be but wouldn’t rush for anyone. He was wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal forearms, a watch on one wrist, his reading glasses perched low on his nose. His shoulders looked broader out of work clothes, or maybe Kirishima had just never noticed before.

And he wasn’t alone.

There was a woman beside him, tall, pretty, with easy laughter and long red nails that curled around Bakugo’s bicep as she leaned in to say something. Her dress was too stylish for a grocery run, and her smile was bold in a way that said she was used to being noticed.

She was touching him freely. Hand on his elbow, then trailing along his arm when he reached for a shelf. She bumped his hip gently, passed him a carton of oat milk, said something that made her laugh again, and Bakugo didn’t pull away.

He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look uncomfortable either.

Kirishima froze where he stood, heart sinking before he even knew why.

There was no reason for it to hurt.

Bakugo wasn’t his. They weren’t anything. Their conversations never strayed beyond Hina, sign language, and the occasional sarcastic jab over coffee. And yet, something in his chest twisted low and hot and sudden, like a quiet betrayal he didn’t have the right to feel.

He looked too long, too closely.

The rolled sleeves. The glasses. The clean lines of him. How relaxed he looked, out of his element but still somehow exactly himself.

Kirishima told himself to leave, just turn around, grab his carrots another day, maybe text Mina and ask if they needed ice cream on the way back.

But before he could move, Bakugo looked up and saw him.

It was instant.

Eyes locking across the aisle, frozen peas between them, soft music overhead, and the air so thick Kirishima could barely breathe.

Bakugo stopped mid-motion, still holding the can of peas like he’d forgotten what it was for.

The woman noticed the pause and followed his line of sight. Her eyes landed on Kirishima, and her entire face lit up. “Oh,” she said, her voice amused, “who’s that hottie?”

Bakugo didn’t answer.

The girl’s gaze flicked between them, and she nudged his side with her hip.

“Ex-boyfriend of yours?” She teased, eyes bright with curiosity.

Kirishima’s blood rushed to his ears.

He opened his mouth, maybe to laugh, maybe to say no, but Bakugo groaned, and turned just enough for Camie to see the faint flush blooming high on his cheeks. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was there, clear as day beneath the market lighting.

“He’s my client,” Bakugo said sharply, then turned to her with a scowl. “And stop calling people hottie like that, Camie, for fuck’s sake.”

Camie didn’t flinch, she just grinned.

Kirishima stood there, still halfway between frozen peas and his pride, blinking.

He’d never seen Bakugo like this, not even close.

There was a looseness to him around her, a kind of familiarity that Kirishima had never been on the receiving end of. He spoke comfortably, without measuring every word for professionalism. It wasn’t the Bakugo from his living room floor or his careful, clipped texts about scheduling or homework assignments. This was a version of him that existed outside the walls Kirishima knew.

It was like getting hit with a sudden gust of wind you didn’t expect, cool, surprising, and oddly refreshing.

He swallowed hard.

Camie tilted her head at Bakugo, then looked right back at Kirishima with a smile so easy it made his pulse tick up.

“Are you busy tonight?” She asked, resting her wrist on the edge of the cart like she already knew the answer.

Kirishima blinked again. “I, uh...”

“You what ?” Bakugo snapped before he could finish. His fingers tightened around the can of peas like it had personally betrayed him. “Are you seriously inviting my client to go on a date with you?”

Camie rolled her eyes so hard it was practically a full-body motion. “Hello? You’re already making dinner. I’m not skipping free food. I just wanted to see if your hot client wanted to eat with us. You’re being dramatic.”

Kirishima stood there, caught between laughter and something that felt a lot like being electrocuted from the inside out.

Bakugo exhaled loudly through his nose, his knuckles were pale against the aluminum in his hand, “He’s busy.”

Kirishima blinked. “I am?”

“You’ve got a kid,” he said, like that settled it.

Which, yeah, he did. Technically. But also, “I mean,” Kirishima said, rubbing the back of his neck, “she’s with my friend tonight for a few hours.”

Camie lit up. “Perfect.”

Bakugo looked like he might combust.

“Camie...”

But she wasn’t listening, she was already pointing to his cart. “You’re making pasta too? Nice. Look at us, synced up like fate. Come on, bring your noodles, Red.”

Kirishima almost choked. “Red?”

“I’m not calling you client all night.”

Bakugo groaned loudly again.

Kirishima laughed nervously, eyes flicking to him, who looked very much like a man rethinking every choice that had led to this moment.

“I don’t want to intrude,” he said, voice soft.

“You’re not,” Camie said.

“Yes, he is,” Bakugo mumbled.

But he wasn’t looking at Camie anymore, he was looking at Kirishima, and even through the scowl and the irritated posture, the flush on his cheeks hadn’t faded.

Not even a little.

Kirishima hesitated.

His fingers tightened around the edge of his cart, the weight of the moment pressing somewhere just behind his ribs. The overhead lights flickered above him, casting pale reflections on the smooth tiles. He could hear the low hum of the freezer to his right, the distant rustle of plastic bags, a child laughing somewhere in the next aisle over. The cold brushed up against his bare forearm, unnoticed until now.

“I should probably just head home,” he said, voice quiet, not an excuse so much as a gentle offering. Something soft enough to take back, if needed.

Camie’s lips were already parting, a protest forming with that familiar spark in her eyes, but before she could get a single word out, Bakugo cut in.

“You're coming with us. Grab parmesan, though.”

The words landed with more weight than they should have, and he wasn’t looking at Camie when he said it.

He was looking at him.

No smile, just the direct, unwavering pull of Bakugo’s eyes, steady over the rim of his glasses. Like the whole aisle had gone still for a breath, and the invitation had been carved out of it. Like he’d thrown a rope between them and dared Kirishima to grab hold.

It felt like something cracked open somewhere inside his chest.

Kirishima’s heart thudded once. Hard.

Camie squealed, not even in a subtle way, but like someone had just told her she’d won a front-row ticket to see Japan’s most elusive J-pop star and gotten invited backstage too.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, grabbing Bakugo’s wrist in mock outrage. “Did that just happen ? Did you invite someone? Who are you right now?”

Bakugo shrugged her off with a grumble, muttering something about parmesan not being optional and tossing another item into his cart without meeting her eyes.

Kirishima let out an almost breathless laugh. It broke the tension in his spine, eased something tight across his shoulders. He reached toward the fridge case beside him, picked out a small wedge of aged parmesan, and dropped it into his basket like it was the easiest decision he’d made all day.

“Alright,” he said, quiet and just a little breathless. “I guess I’m in.”

He pulled out his phone on the way to checkout, fingers moving fast.

text to mina:
bakugo and his friend invited me for dinner. you okay keeping hina a little longer? she’s probably out cold already lol

The reply came fast, as expected.

mina:
omg???? yes. she’s asleep with a carrot in her hand. go. fall in love. send updates.

He smiled at the screen, thumb hovering for half a second before he tucked the phone into his back pocket and moved to join the others at the register.

They walked to the parking lot side by side, Bakugo leading with his usual brisk, efficient pace, Camie still bubbling with amusement. Kirishima trailed just behind, his cart rattling softly across the pavement, the faint scent of night jasmine hanging in the air as the sun dipped behind the buildings.

Bakugo didn’t look back to see if he was following.

But he didn’t need to.

There was something in the way his shoulders sat, not quite tense, but alert, like he knew Kirishima would come.

And he did.

He followed Bakugo’s car through quiet residential streets, low buildings lined with small balconies and pots of tired spring flowers. The sky had turned from gold to dusky blue, a few early stars blinking in through the haze. Kirishima rolled down the window a crack, just enough to feel the cool air against his skin.

Bakugo turned into a small lot tucked between two apartment buildings, brick siding and neatly trimmed hedges. A wind chime sang faintly from one of the balconies, delicate and slow. The building had personality, slightly uneven window shades, a bike leaning against the stairs, chalk drawings on the sidewalk below.

Kirishima parked a few spots down, heart ticking faster than it should.

He stepped out of his car, parmesan in hand, and followed them up two flights of stairs. The hallway was quiet, filled with the scent of someone cooking garlic in a nearby apartment and the faint buzz of a television behind closed doors. Camie hummed something as she climbed, while Bakugo unlocked his door without fanfare and pushed it open with his shoulder.

“Shoes off,” Bakugo said, his own already halfway off as he stepped inside.

Kirishima nodded, toeing off his sneakers just over the threshold. He placed the cheese gently on the nearest surface, his fingers reluctant to let go, like it had become some kind of talisman. The floor under his socks was warm, smooth, clean.

The apartment was exactly what he imagined and not at all what he expected.

Pale walls, dark wood, framed black-and-white prints, nothing cluttered, nothing unnecessary. But then, there were details; a slightly scuffed coffee table, cooking magazines on the counter, pages dog-eared, a pair of reading glasses on the arm of the couch, clearly not the pair Bakugo had on now. And on the fridge, a single drawing, crayon scribbled, bold glitter ink reading YOU SUCK! in shaky handwriting, finished off with a gold star in the top corner.

Kirishima smiled without meaning to.

It felt lived in.

He stepped further inside, not wanting to take up too much space. Camie flopped onto the couch like she did this every day, flipping on the TV and laughing at something that didn’t seem funny at all.

Bakugo was already in the kitchen, sleeves still rolled up, glasses low on his nose, pulling ingredients out of bags with the kind of precision only he could make look irritated and graceful at the same time.

Kirishima stood there for a second, unsure of where to go, what to do, how to be, and yet, somehow, he didn’t feel unwelcome.

He lingered at the edge of the kitchen, hands at his sides, uncertain whether to ask or just stay out of the way. Bakugo was already moving, setting a pot on the stove, yanking open drawers like he knew exactly where everything lived, sleeves still rolled up and glasses slipping a little lower on his nose as he scanned the countertop.

The room smelled faintly of garlic and tomato paste.

“Can I help?” Kirishima asked, voice low.

Bakugo didn’t look up. “No.”

Before Kirishima could even process the word, Camie practically leapt off the couch, clutching a throw pillow like it had personally delivered gossip to her doorstep.

“Oh my god, amazing,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Because I have so many things to talk to Red about.”

Bakugo groaned, the sound came from somewhere deep in his chest, like this wasn’t the first time he’d been caught between her chaos and his own instincts.

“You can cut the tomatoes,” he mumbled, still not meeting Kirishima’s eyes.

Kirishima smiled.

“On it,” he said, rolling up his sleeves as he stepped to the counter.

He washed his hands at the sink, then grabbed the small cutting board Bakugo pointed to with a flick of his fingers. The tomatoes were ripe, soft to the touch, and he lined them up like he was setting pieces of a puzzle.

They worked quietly for a few minutes.

The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward, just careful. Comfortable in places, still stretching in others.

Camie talked to herself in the background, about a show she was watching, someone she was dating, maybe three people she wasn’t dating anymore. Her words filled the space without needing anyone to respond, which somehow made it easier for Kirishima to focus.

He cut slowly, tiny seeds stuck to his fingers.

“I’m sorry if this feels like intruding,” he said after a while, not looking up.

Bakugo didn’t answer right away, then, in a softer voice than Kirishima expected, “It’s okay.”

He looked up, and Bakugo was at the stove, stirring the sauce, not facing him directly.

“It’s just...” He started, then paused. “I’ve never invited a client to my place before.”

“Oh,” Kirishima said, blinking.

Bakugo glanced at him. Just for a second. “That’s why I was weird about it, at the store.”

“You weren’t weird.”

“I was.”

Kirishima smiled, hands moving without thinking as he slid another tomato into thin slices. “It’s okay. I get it.”

Bakugo didn’t say anything for a few beats, but then, quietly, “I don’t mind, though. You being here.”

Kirishima’s fingers paused.

He looked up again, and this time Bakugo didn’t look away, just held his gaze for a second longer than necessary before turning back to the stove like nothing had happened.

The silence between them deepened.

They cooked like that for a while. Hands moving in rhythm, footsteps crossing paths, shoulders nearly brushing once or twice when they reached for the same bowl. The light above the stove buzzed faintly.

And then Bakugo asked, “This the first time you’ve gone out alone since you adopted her?”

Kirishima nodded. “Yeah.”

He shifted, pressing the blade down slowly into the last tomato, thinking back.

“My moms offered once,” he said. “Said they’d take Hina for a night so I could go out with some friends. I told them I’d think about it.”

“And?”

“I stayed home.” His mouth pulled into a soft smile. “We all had dinner together. I think I was just too scared to leave her. Even with them. Even for one night.”

Bakugo didn’t laugh, he just nodded.

“That makes sense,” he said, simple and true.

And Kirishima’s chest ached with something soft. He hadn’t expected this, the ease of it. The way their conversation moved like they’d done it before, like they weren’t still strangers figuring out how to fit in each other’s lives.

He finished cutting the tomatoes.

Bakugo reached over and took the bowl from him, their fingers brushing for just a second, barely anything, but Kirishima felt it all the way to his throat.

And a few minutes later, dinner was ready.

The sauce simmered thick and rich in the pot, the pasta strained and tossed with a little olive oil to keep it from sticking. Bakugo moved like someone who knew every step of his routine, turning off burners, wiping down surfaces, putting things exactly where they belonged.

Kirishima lingered in the kitchen, rinsing the last knife and setting it in the drying rack, feeling the quiet settle like a warm towel around his shoulders.

It had gone well.

Better than he thought it would.

He reached for the parmesan, peeled back the wrapping, and was just about to ask where Bakugo kept the grater when he heard it:

“ Fuck. ”

The word came sharp from the living room, not loud, but edged with frustration. Kirishima froze, dried his hands quickly and walked out, the cheese still in one hand.

The living room was empty.

Camie was gone.

The couch, once her throne of dramatics, sat bare, the TV still on a still frame from some game show neither of them had been paying attention to. A single cushion was askew. Her jacket was gone from the back of the chair.

Bakugo stood near the table, phone in hand, expression tight.

“She left.”

Kirishima blinked. “She what ?”

“She left,” Bakugo repeated, already tucking his phone away, voice flat as he started placing plates on the table. “Said she got bored. Took a cab.”

No storm of emotion. No long explanation. Just those two words, said with the kind of resignation that made Kirishima wonder if this was typical for her. And then Bakugo went right back to organizing like nothing had happened, setting down utensils, placing glasses in a neat row, moving smoothly through the silence.

Kirishima stood near the edge of the kitchen, parmesan in hand, still processing.

Camie had been, well, she would’ve filled the silence. She would’ve talked too much. She would’ve made jokes and poked fun and carried the weight of the conversation with ease.

She was a distraction.

A colorful buffer between him and the man now arranging napkins like the evening hadn’t just shifted shape completely, and now, it was just the two of them.

Kirishima’s heart knocked once, loud in his chest, because something about this, the emptiness of the room, the quiet clink of plates being set, the absence of noise where noise had been expected, made everything feel different.

More exposed, real.

His fingers curled around the wedge of cheese.

It wasn’t fear, exactly.

It was the overwhelming awareness that he was now in the space Bakugo never invited people into, at a table Bakugo never shared with clients, on a night that should’ve been casual and forgettable but suddenly wasn’t.

He watched Bakugo set the last plate down and look up.

Their eyes met, and in that still moment, Kirishima’s heart tried to speak again, a language too foreign to understand.

But Bakugo didn’t say anything like you can go if you want or this got weird, huh?

He just asked, “You gonna grate that or just stare at it all night?”

Kirishima huffed a laugh, “Yeah,” he said, stepping forward, hand shaking just a little as he reached for the grater. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

They sat across from each other at the small table, plates warm between them, the room filled with the subtle sounds of forks clinking and water glasses settling against wood. Camie’s absence still echoed a little in the silence, no jokes, no offhand commentary, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Just quiet.

Kirishima passed the grated parmesan across the table. Bakugo mumbled a thanks, then spooned a bit of sauce onto his plate with surgical precision, like messing up the ratio would offend him on a molecular level.

They ate for a few minutes without talking.

And then Kirishima looked up between bites and said, “So, why teaching? You could’ve done anything,” he added, swirling pasta with his fork. “I mean, you’re good at this. Patient, well, with kids. Passionate. But I always wondered, why sign language? Why kids?”

Bakugo sat back, his fork still in hand, “I have Moderately Severe Hearing Loss.”

Kirishima blinked, head lifting slightly. “You... Really?”

Bakugo nodded once. “Yeah. I can hear. Mostly. Depends on the day, the room, the tone, but sometimes it’s hard, and if feels like everything’s under water. Muffled.” He tapped his ear lightly, a motion that almost looked like muscle memory. “Hearing aids help. So does practice, but I’ve been signing since I was a kid.”

Kirishima didn’t speak, just listened.

“I wasn’t born with it,” he said. “It happened when I was nine.”

Kirishima set his fork down quietly.

“I was out with a few friends,” Bakugo went on. “Summer. We were throwing stones into the lake. Seeing who could hit a log the farthest out. I stepped on this slick patch of algae near the edge. Slipped. Fell backwards.” He raised his hand and tapped the back of his skull once. “Cracked it on the rocks. I don’t remember hitting the water,” Bakugo added, eyes distant now, somewhere far away. “I remember waking up. The ringing. The way voices sounded after. It didn’t go away. Everything was different.”

“And you just...” Kirishima started, then paused, searching for words. “You just adapted?”

“I had to.”

He took another bite, chewed, then continued like he couldn’t help himself.

“My mom signed a little. She was a speech therapist. She picked it back up, taught me. We found an instructor. I didn’t like how people treated me after, though, like I was breakable, or less.”

Kirishima’s chest tightened.

“So I decided I was gonna be the best,” Bakugo said simply, like it wasn’t anything extraordinary. “I was gonna speak, sign, lip-read, listen, everything. And then I figured if I could do that, I could teach other kids. Kids like me. Or not like me. Just kids who needed it.”

“That’s...” Kirishima shook his head, smiling faintly. “That’s incredible.”

“It’s practical,” Bakugo said, but his voice was softer now. “I like helping them figure it out before the world tells them they can’t.”

There was a pause, a quiet, full one, and Kirishima didn’t rush to fill it. Instead, he looked across the table at this man he thought he’d known, a little, his sharp voice, his firm lessons, the way his hands moved when he taught Hina to say happy, and realized he didn’t know him at all.

Not really.

Not yet.

But he wanted to.

More than he expected.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said.

Bakugo looked at him again. Something in his gaze lingered.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re welcome.”

They were still at the table, their plates mostly cleared, the sauce cooling in the pot behind them. Bakugo had stopped eating a while ago, but he hadn’t moved. Kirishima, fork resting against the edge of his plate, was still sitting forward, like the conversation was holding him in place.

Outside, the city was starting to dim. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked once, then stopped. The room had softened into something quiet and real, filled only with the scrape of silverware and the occasional breath.

Bakugo looked across the table at him.

“Why adoption?”

He didn’t ask it like an accusation, he asked it like he genuinely wanted to understand.

“Especially alone,” he added after a second.

Kirishima let out a slow breath and leaned back in his chair, his hand brushing over the side of his glass.

“I always wanted a family,” he said simply. “Even when I was young, I kind of knew that’s what I wanted in the long run. A little house. A kid or two. Someone to share mornings with. And then I hit thirty,” Kirishima said with a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “And I realized I might never find a husband.” He smiled, but it was softer this time. “I’ve dated. Tried. A few times. It never worked out. Nothing bad, just not right. And I got tired of waiting for the perfect scenario. The perfect partner. I still wanted a kid. I wanted to build something. Love someone.”

Bakugo’s eyes didn’t waver.

“And then,” Kirishima said, voice lower now, “a kid found me.”

The words hung there between them, full and warm.

“She was so small,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “Big eyes. Quiet. I looked at her and thought, there you are, like I’d been waiting for her since forever.”

Bakugo’s throat moved like he was trying to swallow a breath too big for his chest.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” Kirishima added, smiling again. “Still don’t, actually, but I knew I’d figure it out, because I had her, and I wasn’t scared of the rest anymore.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, then Bakugo said, so quietly he almost missed it, “She’s lucky.”

Kirishima looked up, startled, but he wasn’t looking away.

“She’s so lucky,” he said again.

For the first time that night, Kirishima couldn’t find anything to say, so he just smiled, and Bakugo looked at him like he wanted to ask more, but didn’t need to yet.

Things had changed.

So subtly that if Kirishima hadn’t been paying attention, he might’ve missed it, how one careful routine had turned into something that felt suspiciously like comfort.

The next class arrived like all the others, right on time, as always, with the same short knock at the door and the familiar sound of Bakugo kicking off his shoes at the threshold.

But this time, when Kirishima opened the door, Bakugo wasn’t empty-handed.

He was holding a small paper bag, folded neatly at the top, its corners slightly creased from being held too tightly on the drive over. The bottom of it was turning faintly translucent, oily with butter, and it smelled divine. Warm, sugary, golden, the kind of scent that belonged in a small family-owned bakery hidden between narrow city streets. Cinnamon, maybe. Or toasted vanilla. Sweet and golden and something that made Kirishima’s mouth water immediately.

Bakugo didn’t meet his eyes.

Instead, with the same stubborn clumsiness he always used when handing over compliments or kindness, he pressed the bag firmly against Kirishima’s chest.

“Thought you’d like it,” he whispered, his voice low, almost gruff. “Didn’t have anything to offer for dessert the other night. Didn’t wanna owe you one.”

And just like that, before Kirishima could so much as smile or respond, he turned and walked off, his stride quick and purposeful as he disappeared toward the living room.

But not before Kirishima saw the blush, creeping up from the collar of Bakugo’s button-up, painting the back of his neck a glowing red, reaching the tips of his ears like he’d been caught doing something far too intimate for a Tuesday afternoon.

Kirishima looked down at the bag in his hands.

Then back at the man now crouching beside Hina’s high chair, adjusting her hearing aid with gentle fingers and practiced ease, already murmuring greetings and pointing to her picture cards like nothing had happened at all.

He smiled, and felt something warm flicker behind his ribs.

After that day, it became a ritual.

Once a week at first. Then twice. Then more.

Bakugo arrived at the exact same time, like clockwork, but always with something new tucked in his hand. A folded paper bag, sometimes with a little gold sticker sealing the top, sometimes just twisted at the corners. One day it was a flaky apple tart, still warm and sticking slightly to the parchment. Another day, a single slice of matcha cake, neatly boxed with a tiny wooden fork. Melon pan. Cream puffs. Sweet bean buns so fresh they practically sighed when bitten into.

He never explained where they came from. Never offered an origin story. Just handed them over, muttered something vague, and walked off like he hadn’t spent twenty minutes choosing the softest pastry in the shop.

Kirishima started responding in his own way.

Two mugs. Black coffee, freshly brewed. Set out every time, one by the couch where Bakugo taught, and one on the kitchen counter where he always reviewed his lesson notes. Kirishima never asked if he wanted sugar or milk. He just learned. Bakugo never commented on it. But he drank every drop.

Eventually, Bakugo began to linger.

Not for long at first. Fifteen minutes. Just enough time to sit beside Kirishima at the kitchen table, split the pastry down the middle, and eat in silence that wasn’t tense but rather full of things neither of them knew how to name.

Then thirty minutes.

Washing dishes side by side. Hips brushing when they turned too fast. Bakugo mumbling about how Kirishima didn’t rinse thoroughly enough. Kirishima bumping his shoulder in return, smiling like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Then forty-five.

He started joining Hina after the lessons. Helping her match puzzle pieces, signing along with her picture books, letting her climb into his lap when she got too tired to sit on the rug. She’d learned the sign for fun now. Play. Like. She used them around him all the time.

And then, without any plan, without anyone saying a word, he stayed over an hour.

It was a normal day.

Nothing about it was different, not at first.

Hina was at the kitchen table, settled in her little booster seat, swinging her legs in rhythm with the soft music playing from the corner speaker. She was chewing on a rice cracker, crumbs sticking to the edges of her mouth, her curls bouncing a little every time she nodded at something Bakugo signed.

Kirishima stood at the counter, peeling an apple in slow, practiced spirals, the red skin curling off in one long ribbon he didn’t want to break. The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and sugar from that day’s treat, the coffee still warm in both their mugs.

Bakugo was leaning against the counter beside the sink, scrolling through his phone with one hand, the other tucked into his pocket.

Everything was calm, familiar, easy.

And then, “Dad.”

The word broke the air like sunlight.

So small, but unmistakably shaped.

Kirishima froze.

The knife in his hand stilled mid-slice, juice running down the edge of his thumb, unheeded.

Bakugo looked up from his phone immediately, blinking.

Kirishima turned slowly toward Hina, heart already hammering before he even fully understood why.

She was looking right at him.

Her tiny hand was resting on the table, her mouth curled into a soft smile. She looked proud. She looked happy.

And Kirishima felt his heart crack open wide.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His chest was too full.

The apple peel hung, forgotten, from his hand.

Then Hina turned her head.

And looked at Bakugo.

And said it again.

“Dad.”

Kirishima’s eyes snapped to Bakugo, just as his head lifted slowly from where he stood.

Their eyes met.

The silence was immediate, but not empty. It felt whole, like it was holding something neither of them had been ready to face, something way bigger than words.

Bakugo’s phone lowered in his hand.

His mouth parted slightly, breath catching, but he didn’t correct her.

Didn’t redirect.

Kirishima couldn’t speak either.

He just looked at him, eyes wide, heart in his throat, a thousand unspoken things sitting behind his ribs, trying to find their way out.

And Bakugo looked right back.

The silence between them still hadn’t broken.

They stood on either side of the kitchen, the word dad still echoing in the corners of the room, twice spoken, once for each of them, tiny and world-shattering in the same breath.

Kirishima didn’t know if he was breathing, didn’t know if his heart had slowed yet.

He looked at Bakugo like maybe there would be an answer there, or a question, or even just a sign that he hadn’t imagined the whole thing.

And then, “Poop,” Hina said brightly.

Both men blinked.

She giggled. “Poop!”

And that did it.

Kirishima burst out laughing.

It started as a soft huff, then a snort he tried to hold back, but it spilled over, full-bodied and warm and unstoppable. He doubled over, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, shoulders shaking with it.

Bakugo stared at him for a second, like he was trying to hold on to whatever heavy thing had been sitting in the air, and then, quietly, almost helplessly, he started laughing too. Low and amused, one hand braced against the kitchen counter as his shoulders shook with the quiet weight of it.

Hina beamed at them, proud and triumphant in her little booster seat like she’d just won an award. Her curls bounced with every little giggle that spilled from her mouth, her tiny fingers patting the table for attention.

“Poop,” she said again, delighted.

Neither of them even registered the smell for another minute, they were laughing too hard.

Kirishima leaned back against the wall, trying to breathe, tears in his eyes for a completely different reason now. Bakugo was wiping under his glasses with the side of his thumb, the last of his quiet chuckles trailing off as he reached for a tissue from the counter.

“Guess that’s our cue,” he said.

Kirishima nodded, still grinning as he crossed the room and started prepping for a diaper change.

Bakugo helped without needing to be asked. He handed Kirishima wipes, passed over the new diaper, held Hina’s little hand when she squirmed. They didn’t talk through it. They didn’t need to.

It was just one more quiet rhythm they had found together.

But eventually, Bakugo straightened.

Checked the time on his watch, picked up his bag from where it sat by the door.

“I’ve got another session,” he said, voice a little lower now. “East side. Starts in forty.”

Kirishima nodded, smoothing Hina’s hair down gently. “Right. Yeah. Thanks again for...”

“Yeah,” Bakugo interrupted, but not unkindly. Still a little flustered, maybe. “It was good.”

He turned to Hina, crouching beside her seat.

“Bye bye,” he said softly, waving once with practiced fingers.

Hina lit up.

She waved back, clumsy, but clear.

“Bye bye!” She echoed, her voice high and bright.

And Bakugo’s face, usually so carefully unreadable, broke open with something warm and genuine before he stood and walked to the door.

Kirishima followed him there, lingering in the hallway like maybe there was something else he was supposed to say.

Bakugo didn’t offer anything more.

Just a nod.

And then he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

The soft click echoed louder than it should have, and Kirishima stood still for exactly three seconds before the tears started falling.

He didn’t make a sound, not right away. He just leaned against the inside of the door, face tipped toward the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut as his breath came shallow and tight.

It wasn’t sadness, not even exactly joy.

Just everything.

All at once.

The sound of her voice. The weight of the word. The way Bakugo had looked at him. The way he hadn’t corrected her. The laugh they’d shared, broken wide open by the simplest, most honest word in her tiny world.

“Poop,” Kirishima whispered with a wet laugh, tears still slipping quietly down his cheeks.

He covered his face with both hands and let himself feel it.

All of it.

Bakugo’s office was brighter than usual.

Not in the physical sense, though the wide windows were cracked open and sunlight spilled in over the hardwood floors, but brighter in energy, in motion, in sound. Not loud sound, but layered. The rustle of coats being shrugged off, the hush of feet padding across the carpet, the flutter of hands signing mid-sentence, mid-laugh, mid-question. Little voices chiming in here and there. Shy ones. Confident ones. All of them familiar in some way Kirishima had never felt before.

He stood just inside the door, Hina’s small hand wrapped in his, and tried not to hover.

It was her first time here not just for a lesson, not for one-on-one practice, but for a meeting. That’s what Bakugo had called it. Just a little social session for the kids in his program, a casual monthly get-together so the children could meet others like them. Parents could talk. Kids could play. No pressure. No expectations.

Just a room full of children who, like Hina, moved through the world a little differently.

Kirishima had been nervous all morning.

He didn’t say anything out loud, didn’t want to make it about him, but his stomach had been fluttery. Hina was brave, yes. She was smart and warm and funny and so full of love, but she hadn’t spent much time around other kids yet. Not in groups. Not like this. Not since she was old enough to realize that she couldn’t always hear what they heard, that sometimes her words came slower, or that her signs were met with blank looks and not with responses.

But now she was walking slowly toward a little circle of kids near the corner of the room, letting go of his hand like she trusted the ground wouldn’t fall out from under her.

Kirishima watched her crouch beside a girl with long braids and a sparkly vest. He watched her hold up her stuffed bear, then point at it, then sign: bear. name. poyo.

The other girl giggled. Reached into her lap. Pulled out a plush rabbit with floppy ears.

bunny, she signed back. name: shoes.

Hina grinned.

And Kirishima almost choked on the warmth that climbed up his throat.

“They’re always better at this than we are,” a woman said beside him, smiling gently as she adjusted the strap on her son’s hearing aid. “The kids. They find each other.”

Kirishima laughed, a little breathless. “Yeah. I’m learning that.”

Across the room, Bakugo stood near the whiteboard, sleeves rolled, clipboard in hand. He was listening to another parent speak, nodding every few seconds, eyes sharp but kind. His expression was focused, confident, the way he always was when he was working. But every few minutes, his gaze would flick to the floor, to the children, to Hina.

Every time it did, his shoulders softened just a little.

He looked proud.

Kirishima let out a quiet breath.

A few more parents joined the loose circle forming near the snack table, making small talk over coffee and crackers. A set of twins were chasing each other around the chairs. One kid sat near the bookshelf, signing truck and blue as he flipped through a picture book.

And Hina?

Hina was glowing.

She signed fast, sometimes messy, but joyfully, trying to explain something about her birthday cake. Two other kids were nodding along, one of them clapping excitedly and mimicking her signs. A moment later, she laughed so hard she nearly fell over, then turned and looked across the room for him.

She caught his eyes.

And waved.

Not shyly. Not quietly.

A full arm wave, fingers wiggling, grin wide.

Kirishima waved back, heart stretched full in his chest.

Bakugo approached from the side, one hand resting on the edge of the table as he passed him a bottle of water.

“She’s good,” he said simply, eyes still on the kids.

“She’s better than good,” Kirishima whispered.

“She’s already got three new friends,” Bakugo added. “And probably one future business partner, judging by the way she just negotiated a cookie trade.”

Kirishima smiled. “That’s my girl.”

Bakugo didn’t look at him, just let their arms bump gently.

Then murmured, “You’re doing a great job.”

And Kirishima, heart still caught on the image of Hina surrounded by children who saw her exactly as she was, nodded, throat tight.

Because for once, he actually believed it.

Kirishima hadn’t slept. 

Not even for a minute. 

The last twenty-four hours blurred into something shapeless and raw, a haze of fever checks and cool cloths and quiet murmurs that edged dangerously close to begging.

Hina had started burning up the night before, her skin hot beneath his palms, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dull and unfocused in a way that made his heart hurt with helpless fear. She had whimpered in her sleep, pitiful sounds that echoed louder than any scream, and each time she stirred, he was there, pacing the room with her pressed to his chest, whispering to her, rocking her gently, checking her temperature with fingers that trembled so badly he had to double-check the number each time because he wasn’t sure he was reading it right.

By sunrise, it was clear that nothing he did was working.

She was too quiet.

He didn’t even think, he just wrapped her in her favorite blanket, the soft yellow one with the stars on the corner, and got them to the hospital, wearing the same hoodie from yesterday, shoes half-laced, phone on five percent battery, stomach twisting so violently he thought he might actually be sick before they even made it through the ER doors.

The hospital was cold in the way that made his teeth hurt. He filled out paperwork with hands that didn’t stop shaking, tried to listen when the nurse told him it was probably viral, that it was common, that kids bounced back fast, that they just had to wait it out, but all he could think about was how still she’d been, how warm her forehead had been against his chest.

Now he sat slumped in a hard plastic chair beside the small hospital crib, elbows braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped in front of his face like a prayer he didn’t know how to finish.

Hina was sleeping at last, her body softened by exhaustion.

He hadn’t eaten. Couldn’t. Every part of him felt stretched thin, his nerves, his spine, even his thoughts, until there was nothing left but this tight ball of fear lodged somewhere under his ribs, pressing hard every time he took a breath.

It wasn’t until he looked down at his phone that he realized the time.

He was supposed to have called earlier. His hand shook as he scrolled through his contacts, thumb hovering over the name, not even sure what he meant to say. 

He pressed call anyway.

It rang twice.

“Yeah?”

Kirishima swallowed hard, “Hey,” he rasped, voice barely there. “Sorry. I, uh. I have to cancel today. Hina’s... She’s got a fever. We’re...” His vision swam for a second and he squeezed his eyes shut. “We’re at the hospital.”

There was silence, only for a second.

Then,“Which hospital.”

Kirishima blinked, confused. “What?”

“The name,” Bakugo said again. “Which hospital. I’ll come.”

“No... No, you don’t have to...” He started, heart stuttering now, not from fear this time.

“Kirishima.”

Just his name, spoken with the kind of firm gentleness that cut through everything else.

He gave the name. Bakugo didn’t say anything else. The call ended.

Kirishima sat there for a long time after, phone still in his hand, trying to understand what had just happened, not really expecting anything, not even knowing what to hope for, until thirty minutes later, he looked up, and Bakugo was there.

No paper bag, no coffee, just him, standing in the doorway with his shoulders set like he was bracing for something, his eyes scanning the room once before finding him, and Kirishima moved without thinking.

He stood too fast, his legs unsteady from hours of sitting and from the way his body hadn’t relaxed in over a day.

And when he reached him, he just let go.

He leaned forward and dropped his forehead onto Bakugo’s shoulder, breathing him in, feeling the cotton of his shirt and the warmth beneath it, and everything just crumbled.

He didn’t mean to cry, but the tears came anyway, spilling over like something inside him had been holding too much. His hands curled into the fabric at Bakugo’s sleeve, and the relief of not being alone hit him so hard it left him breathless.

Bakugo didn’t move away.

He shifted slowly, wrapping one strong arm around Kirishima’s back and the other around his shoulders. Gently hand moved gently up and down along his spine, grounding strokes that said everything he didn’t put into words.

“I was so scared,” Kirishima whispered against his shoulder. “She was burning up. She wouldn’t talk. She barely looked at me. I didn’t know what to do.”

“You did the right thing.”

“I didn’t even pack anything,” He went on, voice catching on every other word. “No toys, no snacks, I forgot her bear. I just ran. I didn’t even think.”

“She’s here,” Bakugo said. “She’s safe.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Kirishima breathed. “I can’t.”

Bakugo’s hand paused for a moment, then kept moving, like a lullaby without sound. “I’ve got you.”

And Kirishima let out a breath that shook all the way to his fingertips.

They stood there like that for a long time, in the corner of a hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and too much fear, with the beeping machines and the humming vents and the faint, steady sound of Hina’s breathing behind them.

And Bakugo didn’t let go.

Not once.

Later, after the IV drip had finished and the nurse had said they could go home, after Hina stirred only once and pressed her warm cheek to Kirishima’s neck before falling back asleep with a tiny sigh, Bakugo took the car keys without asking.

Mina had texted, said she’d swing by the hospital to pick up Kirishima’s car later. Don’t worry about it. Just get home. Just rest.

So Bakugo drove them.

The sky had gone dusky by the time they pulled onto Kirishima’s street, the first faint glow of porch lights flickering to life down the sidewalk. Kirishima sat in the passenger seat, his hands gently wrapped around Hina’s bundled frame, his cheek resting against her forehead. She hadn’t woken once during the drive.

The house was quiet when they entered, dark except for the faint blink of a forgotten appliance clock. The kitchen still smelled like the beginning of something that had once promised dinner before fear interrupted it. There were dishes in the sink. A cutting board on the counter. Everything half-done. It felt like someone had hit pause mid-thought.

Bakugo didn’t comment.

He let Kirishima carry her in, watching as he moved through the familiar dark, not bothering with lights, walking by instinct toward the small bedroom at the back of the house.

The cradle sat by the window, soft sheets still rumpled from last night’s dreams. Kirishima laid her down slowly, brushing curls from her forehead with trembling fingers. She didn’t stir.

When he stepped out of the room, Bakugo was there in the hallway waiting.

“Go take a shower,” he said, quiet but firm. “I’ll watch her while you do.”

Kirishima stared at him, blinking like he was trying to translate the words.

“Now.”

And so he did.

He walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, not out of will but obedience. He peeled off his clothes slowly, each motion dulled by exhaustion. He stepped under the water and turned the knob until the warmth seeped into his skin, loosening the stiffness in his neck, rinsing away the panic still stuck behind his ears.

He washed. Dried. Pulled on clean clothes. Brushed his teeth.

Mechanical.

Silent.

When he emerged, the house was still dim. The kind of quiet that feels deliberate. The kind that means someone is trying not to wake a child.

He padded softly to Hina’s room. She was still sleeping, cheeks no longer flushed, her breath steady and even beneath the faint weight of her blanket.

Bakugo was beside her, crouched low, one hand resting on the side of the crib like he’d been counting the rhythm of her breath.

“She’s fine,” he said softly, standing. “Fever’s down. She’s okay.”

Kirishima nodded once, eyes burning.

“Sit,” Bakugo said, nodding toward the armchair beside the cradle. His voice didn’t leave room for disagreement.

Kirishima sank into it without a word, body folding down like a marionette with cut strings.

Bakugo looked at him once more. Then he turned and left the room.

Kirishima didn’t ask where he was going. He didn’t have the strength to speak. He just sat there, breathing in the cool air, the soft, clean smell of baby powder and lavender.

And then, a smell drifted in from the hallway, familiar in a way that made his stomach ache.

He followed it without thinking, guided more by instinct than decision.

The kitchen light was on now, the sink was empty. Dishes washed. Counter wiped down. The chaos from earlier had been erased, replaced by calm, by intention, and in the middle of it all, Bakugo stood by the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair still messy from the drive, stirring a pot with quiet focus.

“Chicken soup,” he said, not looking up at first. “Didn’t think it was a good idea to give you anything heavy. So chicken soup it is.”

Kirishima stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide and wet and full.

Bakugo turned to glance at him, and stopped when he saw his face.

They looked at each other.

One breath. 

Then another.

Kirishima crossed the kitchen in three fast steps.

He didn’t give warning, he just reached out and pressed his hand against Bakugo’s, right there, over the one holding the spoon, just to feel it. Just to be sure it was real, that he was real, that all of this was really happening.

Then he leaned in, and kissed him.

A kiss that trembled from exhaustion, from gratitude, from everything he couldn’t carry anymore on his own.

A kiss that said thank you and don’t go and please stay all at once.

Bakugo stilled for half a second, maybe less, then he let go of the spoon and kissed him back.

After that day, Bakugo didn’t really leave.

There was no discussion, no long conversation to define anything, just a quiet, mutual shift in the way time moved around them.

The classes changed, unspoken but understood.

He began arriving later, around 4 p.m., his usual efficiency softened by the slow golden hour outside. His bag slung over one shoulder. A paper bag in hand, always folded neatly at the top, always smelling sweet. Sometimes chocolatey, sometimes flaky, sometimes dusted in sugar so fine it left white smudges on his fingers when he passed it over.

And Kirishima welcomed him at the door the same way every time, with a smile that didn’t try to hide anything, a hot mug with tea instead of coffee waiting in his hands, and now, always, a kiss.

Not dramatic. Not heavy.

Just home.

A quiet press of lips. A brushing of noses. A hand on the back of Bakugo’s neck, pulling him forward like gravity. The kind of kiss that didn’t need words to carry its weight.

Sometimes, Hina would be by the couch with her picture books, or crawling into her little beanbag with a plush toy tucked under her arm, but the moment she saw them, without fail, she’d brighten.

She’d point, tiny fingers flashing with purpose, and then sign it.

KISS KISS

Her hands would flap excitedly as she leaned forward, her mouth puckering dramatically into a little mwah noise, demanding what was clearly the most important part of Bakugo’s arrival.

And Bakugo, always pretending to be grumpy about it, would sigh like he was being deeply inconvenienced, then crouch down in front of her, resting his bag on the floor, and say, “What, again?”

Hina would nod furiously.

And so he’d lean in, dramatically loud, ridiculously slow, and kiss one of her chubby cheeks with a comically exaggerated MUAH!

Hina would squeal, delighted, her whole body shaking from the force of her laughter.

Then she’d throw her arms out in a little flourish and say, “Hi!”

Bakugo would tap the tip of her nose and reply, “Hi.”

And then, clear and proud, she’d sign missed you, first to him, then say it softly too, “Missed you.”

Bakugo’s breath always caught a little at that, even if he tried to hide it.

He’d kiss her other cheek, slightly gentler this time, but still loud enough to make her giggle again, and she’d curl in on herself like it tickled all the way down to her toes.

Kirshima would stand by the kitchen, mug in his hands, watching with something in his chest he didn’t always know how to name.

And when Bakugo would stand again, brushing a crumb from his collar or adjusting the strap of his bag, Kirishima would step closer, press a kiss to his temple or cheek or mouth again, just because he could.

And then, together, they’d move through the rest of the evening.

Lessons. Snacks. Laughter.

Love, stitched softly between the quiet and the joy.

It was late.

Not too late, just past dinner, past the part of the night where most guests would’ve packed up and gone home, past the hour Bakugo usually mumbled something about traffic and slipped his shoes back on.

But tonight, he stayed.

And the windows were steamed up just a little, the lights low and warm, the house smelling like garlic and ginger and the faint sweetness of something forgotten in the oven but not burned. Kirishima leaned against the counter, one hand resting loosely on the edge, laughing around a spoon as Bakugo rolled his eyes at him for the third time in ten minutes.

“You can’t just add sugar because you think it’s funny,” Bakugo said, tugging the pan off the heat. “There are ratios. Science.”

“It was funny,” Kirishima grinned. “You were very dramatic.”

“You’re ruining this dish.”

“Then you should’ve kicked me out twenty minutes ago.”

Bakugo huffed, but it came with a smile. The kind that didn’t show up often, but when it did, it softened the lines around his mouth and made him look young. Happy. Like maybe he belonged in kitchens that smelled like this one.

Kirishima turned to check the rice cooker, humming something tuneless under his breath. From the living room, the soft clink of plastic echoed, Hina, sitting cross-legged on the floor, whispering to her dolls, moving them carefully across the rug as if their conversation was very serious and very important.

She wasn’t paying attention to them, not really.

Kirishima looked over his shoulder at Bakugo.

“You want more tea?” He asked quietly.

Bakugo glanced up from the stove, lips twitching like he wanted to say something smart but decided against it. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Kirishima poured two mugs and passed one over.

Their fingers brushed, not by accident.

They stood in the kitchen for a while, not speaking, just listening to Hina’s little hums, to the tiny patter of her dolls' feet on the floor, to the slow simmering of what was probably too much food for three people but not enough for the kind of evening this had become.

Two months.

Almost two months of this.

It was more than Kirishima had thought he’d ever have.

More than what he thought was waiting for someone like him, a single parent, tired most days, worn thin with work and worry and joy all braided into one.

And yet, here they were, in the middle of his kitchen, barefoot and flushed from the heat, cups warm in their hands. And Bakugo wasn’t rushing to leave, wasn’t checking the time, wasn’t doing anything but being here.

The oven dinged softly.

Bakugo cursed under his breath and moved to check it.

Kirishima stayed still, just watching.

From the floor, Hina called out, “Poyo wants soup!”

Bakugo leaned around the corner. “Poyo’s getting stir-fry, and he’ll like it.”

Hina giggled and kept playing, dramatically shaking her plush bear until it flopped over and pretended to faint from hunger.

Kirishima smiled so hard his eyes burned, and he didn’t say anything, not yet, because the quiet between them didn’t need words.

It was already full of everything that mattered.

Dinner was quiet in the way only the softest evenings could be.

Hina sat between them, her knees swinging rhythmically under the table, one elbow planted as she balanced a spoon full of rice toward her mouth with the kind of dramatic focus only a six-year-old could manage. She was still talking to Poyo between bites, giving him imaginary updates on the meal he was apparently being denied.

Kirishima watched her, chin resting in his hand, his cheeks warm from laughter and the heat of the kitchen. Every so often, he’d sneak a glance at Bakugo across the table, who, despite his usual grumbling about table manners and balance and not putting your feet on chairs, looked more relaxed than Kirishima had seen him in days.

Their plates were half empty. The food had turned out better than expected, even with Kirishima’s sugar sabotage. Bakugo had rolled his eyes but gone back for seconds. Hina had insisted they all rate the dinner on a scale of “yummy” to “super mega ultra yummy,” and the final result was decided unanimously.

The last light of the day slanted through the windows, painting gold across the dining table, catching on the edge of Bakugo’s mug and the curl of Hina’s hair as she started to slow.

By the time she reached the last piece of carrot on her plate, she was blinking too long between words. Her hands were sluggish when she signed done and tired, and her head wobbled just a little when she turned toward Kirishima.

“I think you’re ready for bed, sunshine,” he said softly.

She didn’t protest.

Kirishima stood, scooped her into his arms, and kissed her forehead. “Want me to carry you?”

She nodded against his shoulder, her arms wrapping around his neck.

“I’ll be right back,” he told Bakugo, voice low. “Promise I’m not just ditching dishes on you.”

Bakugo made a noise that sounded suspiciously like coward, but he was smiling.

Upstairs, Kirishima tucked Hina into bed, turned on the little night-light with the clouds, and brushed a few curls from her face. She murmured something sleep-sweet and soft, her eyes already closed, her breathing already deep.

He stood there for a moment, just watching her, then kissed her temple once and slipped back downstairs.

The kitchen was half-clean. Bakugo had already stacked plates, wiped down the table, and left the rice cooker open to cool. He didn’t hear Kirishima come in, he was drying a cup with quiet focus, his back to the door.

Kirishima leaned against the doorway, and watched him.

The way his shoulders moved, the bend of his neck, the steady care in the way he handled a dish towel.

The house was quiet now. Still.

Bakugo turned and looked at him, and Kirishima smiled once, then raised his hands.

Stay the night? He signed.

There was a pause, not long, but long enough to feel the weight of the moment settle between them.

Bakugo blinked once. His expression didn’t change much, but his breath caught just slightly, his fingers still for a beat.

Then he nodded.

Lifted his hands.

Yes.

That was all.

Kirishima was nervous.

Not just the light kind, either, not the kind you could shake off with a deep breath or a laugh. This was the tight-in-the-chest, hands-wringing-the-hem-of-his-shirt kind of nervous. The kind where his stomach had been fluttering since morning, where he kept checking the clock, then the kitchen, then the cushions on the couch, and then the mirror, just to make sure his hair wasn’t doing that thing it sometimes did when he was stressed.

He wanted the evening to be perfect. Not extravagant, not overdone, just right. Because tonight wasn’t just dinner. It was his moms. It was Bakugo’s parents. It was Hina’s first time sitting at a table with everyone who might, maybe already did, love her like she belonged.

And Kirishima needed it to go well.

Bakugo was in the kitchen with him, sleeves rolled, stirring something on the stove that smelled warm and nostalgic. He was trying to act casual, like it was any other night, but Kirishima could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he kept flexing his fingers when he thought no one was looking.

“She’s gonna be loud,” Bakugo said finally, reaching for the salt. “My mom. She doesn’t really do quiet rooms.”

Kirishima looked up from the salad he was finishing. “Loud?”

“She got used to raising her voice when I was a kid,” Bakugo said, a bit quieter now. “Back when it was harder for me to hear. She never really stopped.”

Kirishima softened. “And your dad?”

Bakugo snorted. “He’s basically a pillow.”

That made Kirishima laugh. It helped.

Bakugo glanced at him, eyes darting over his face. “You’re still freaking out.”

“I just...” Kirishima sighed, pressing his hands to the counter. “I want your parents to like me. I want my moms to like you. I want Hina to have a good night. I just... It’s a lot.”

Bakugo wiped his hands on a towel and leaned in. “They’re going to love you.”

Kirishima looked at him. “You think?”

Bakugo didn’t hesitate. “I know.”

The doorbell rang.

Kirishima inhaled like he was about to dive into deep water. Bakugo squeezed his shoulder once and walked with him to the door.

It was Mitsuki and Masaru first.

Mitsuki was exactly as described, sharp, styled, red lipstick and heels that didn’t match her cardigan but somehow worked anyway. She didn’t wait to be welcomed in. She pulled Bakugo into a hug and kissed his cheek, then turned to Kirishima and gave him the once-over.

“Huh,” she said, hands on her hips. “You’re taller than I thought you’d be.”

“Mitsuki,” Masaru said gently, stepping forward to bow politely and smile at Kirishima. “It’s very nice to meet you. Thank you for having us.”

And then, Hina waddled in from the living room, clutching her stuffed giraffe, looking up at the new people with big, curious eyes.

Mitsuki looked down.

Stopped.

And fell in love.

Kirishima could see it. Could feel it. The exact moment when her gaze softened, when something shifted behind her expression and her mouth opened just slightly.

“Well, aren’t you something,” she whispered, crouching low.

Hina blinked at her.

Then said, “Hi!”

Mitsuki’s face broke into a grin.

Masaru laughed quietly. “That’s it. We’ve lost her.”

“Hi,” Hina said again, brighter this time, pointing at Mitsuki’s earrings. “Shiny!”

Bakugo looked smug. Kirishima’s heart swelled.

His moms arrived a few minutes later, arms full of wine and homemade pickled vegetables and already asking where the kitchen was. There were hugs and handshakes, bows and laughter, and then everyone somehow found their places around the dining table like it had always been this way.

Hina stood between the two sets of grandparents, her own personal throne, and pointed to each of them with a giant grin on her face.

“Grannies!” She declared proudly, first to Kirishima's moms, then turned to Mitsuki with a determined finger. “Tsuki!”

“Yes, my love, I'm Tsuki,” Mitsuki said, laughing as she tapped her own chest.

“And me?” Masaru asked with a soft smile.

“Roo!” Hina said, banging her little hand on the table.

“That’s new.” Bakugo muttered.

“Roo!” Hina repeated, louder.

The table burst into warm laughter.

And Kirishima, watching all of it from his seat beside Bakugo, watching his daughter light up with joy as she switched between speaking and signing like it was the most natural thing in the world, watching his moms and Bakugo’s parents laugh like old friends, felt his heart stretch so wide it ached.

One of his moms leaned in to ask Mitsuki where she learned to sign so clearly.

Mitsuki shrugged. “Katsuki taught us when we asked. We weren’t about to let the kid talk circles around us.”

“We’re learning too,” his mom said, beaming. “We just finished our second class this week.”

And then Hina pointed to her soup and signed hot, then good, then took a big slurp and grinned so wide it made everyone laugh again.

Kirishima didn’t even try to hold it in.

He laughed until he had to wipe his eyes.

He leaned against Bakugo’s shoulder for a second, just to ground himself in the warmth of the moment, and in that second, in that quiet breath between spoonfuls and stories and gentle clinking of chopsticks, he thought, this is what a family looks like.

This is what love builds.

It was rare for Kirishima to wake up first.

Bakugo usually stirred before the sun had fully risen, stretching in purposeful motions, brushing his hair back with one hand while the other searched instinctively for the warmth beside him.

But not today.

Today, Kirishima opened his eyes to find Bakugo still fast asleep in his arms, his breath soft and even, cheek pressed into the pillow in a way that made his lashes fan over the flushed skin below. His lips were slightly parted, brows relaxed, there was no tension in his shoulders, no usual bite of awareness in his jaw.

And maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with last night.

Their first real date.

Not a casual dinner at home, not a quiet coffee shared after lessons, but an actual date. The kind they’d both put off for weeks, unsure how or when or if they’d ever fit it in. But Mina and Denki had offered, well, demanded, to babysit, promising to bring Hina back before midnight. She’d returned at 11:04 PM, droopy-eyed and sticky with syrup, giggling as Kirishima scooped her into his arms.

But before that, they'd had wine.

Too much wine.

Bakugo’s cheeks had been flushed and warm under the candlelight, his laugh looser than usual, his words tumbling over each other with less restraint. And Kirishima hadn’t been able to stop staring, at his mouth, at his hands, at the little crinkle near his eyes every time he smiled like that.

He looked beautiful.

Even now, with the morning light slipping through the curtains and the sheets tangled around his hips, he looked beautiful.

Kirishima leaned forward and kissed his hair once.

Then he slid carefully out of bed, moving like someone who didn’t want to disturb the gravity of something sacred. He grabbed a hoodie, padded into the hallway barefoot, and stepped into the quieter world beyond their bedroom.

Hina’s door was cracked open. He peered in.

She was already sitting up in bed, her curls a soft mess around her face, one eye still half-closed as she blinked blearily at her bear. She wasn’t wearing her hearing aids yet, she rarely did first thing in the morning.

Kirishima stepped closer, crouched beside her bed, and caught her gaze.

He smiled, warm and wide.

Then signed, Hey, princess. Pancakes?

Her face lit up like a sunrise.

She nodded fast, then rubbed her eyes, and said aloud, bright and eager, the first words of her morning, “Yes please.”

Kirishima laughed quietly, kissed her forehead, then scooped her up into his arms, her little arms curling sleepily around his neck as he carried her to the kitchen.

He made pancakes.

Too many, if he was being honest.

Fluffy stacks, golden brown, some with blueberries, some without, just in case Bakugo felt picky. He squeezed fresh orange juice. Pulled out three forks. Syrup. Whipped cream. Even a couple of strawberries he’d been saving.

He loaded it all onto a tray, balanced carefully with one arm, and took Hina’s hand with the other.

They walked slowly back toward the bedroom, the tray warm in his grip, the scent of pancakes trailing behind them like a promise.

Bakugo was still curled in the same place when they entered, the covers kicked half off him, one hand resting lazily over his chest.

And then, “ Good morning! ” Hina called out, loud and clear, voice cutting through the quiet like sunlight.

Bakugo stirred.

He blinked once.

Then turned, head lifting from the pillow.

When he saw them, Kirishima, tray in hand, Hina smiling at the foot of the bed in her little cloud-pattern pajamas, curls bouncing as she climbed up, he smiled.

So, so soft.

Kirishima’s heart stuttered in his chest.

He set the tray down on the bed, laughing quietly as Hina threw herself into Bakugo’s side, announcing her pancake preference with great authority.

They ate together, all three of them, legs tangled beneath the sheets, syrup dripping down tiny fingers, Kirishima’s foot brushing against Bakugo’s under the covers.

They passed the juice back and forth, shared strawberries off the same fork, let Hina feed them sticky bites with exaggerated care.

And in the middle of it all, between one laugh and the next, Kirishima looked at them, really looked, and realized:

This was it.

His little family.

Exactly where they belonged.

Exactly what he’d always hoped love would feel like.

/

The garden was loud in the best possible way.

It was filled with shrieks and giggles, tiny feet pounding across grass, the pop of balloons bouncing off small heads and tumbling into bushes, bubble wands waving like swords, paper crowns sliding down foreheads, and the glitter of the late afternoon sun spilling through the tall garden trees.

Kirishima stood near the porch steps, golden band glinting on his ring finger as he raised a juice box toward a group of parents and smiled.

“Please help yourselves to everything,” he said, his voice as warm as the sunlight. “Bakugo swears he made too many egg sandwiches, and I really don’t want to hear about it for the next two weeks.”

The parents laughed, one of them raising their drink in mock salute. Another reached for a fresh slice of watermelon from the tray by the door.

Behind him, the living room was filled with comfortable noise, his moms chatting with Bakugo’s parents over cake frosting and coffee, someone turning the music up just a little too much, Aiko complaining affectionately about how loud everyone was, while Mitsuki shouted over her, “That’s called a party, sweetheart.”

Somewhere near the kitchen, Denki and Bakugo were bickering over cupcakes.

“They’re not sparkly enough,” Denki insisted. “Hina asked for glitter.”

“They’re edible stars,” Bakugo growled. “She’s six, not a unicorn.”

“You’re married to a unicorn,” Denki said smugly, pointing toward Kirishima with a toothpick.

Mina and Hanta were on the grass with the kids, somehow engaged in a game that involved hopping like frogs while shouting numbers in reverse order. Neither of them seemed to know the rules, but that didn’t stop them from being the loudest and most enthusiastic players on the lawn.

And Hina, Hina was everywhere.

Running barefoot across the grass with face paint still streaked across her cheek, a little crown wobbling with every step, curls bouncing as she shrieked gleefully and tagged the closest kid, then took off again like lightning.

She was six today.

Six years old.

And she looked like joy incarnate.

Kirishima watched her with something too big to fit behind his ribs, something that bloomed in his throat every time she laughed like that, without hesitation, without fear, like someone who knew she was loved exactly as she was.

He wanted to scoop her up and hold her tight. Press kisses to her forehead. Tuck her under his chin and say, You did it. You made it. You’re here.

But she was too busy being six.

Too busy living.

He smiled, hands resting loosely on his hips, the golden ring catching the light again as someone handed him a napkin with frosting on it.

“Time to sing!” Mina called, waving a bubble wand high like it was a scepter.

The kids echoed her immediately, voices tangled with excitement and sugar.

“Cake!!”

“Happy Birthday!”

“Where's Hina?”

Hina emerged from behind the hedge, arms wide, cheeks red, breathless.

“I’M COMING!”

Kirishima walked over to the long table where the cake waited, pink frosting, glitter stars, tiny rainbow flags made of icing. A perfect mess of everything Hina loved.

Bakugo was already there, wiping something off his shirt that suspiciously looked like sparkly icing.

Their eyes met. Bakugo raised an eyebrow.

“You gonna cry when she blows out the candle?” He asked lowly.

“Don’t tempt me,” Kirishima whispered back, grinning.

Then Hina arrived, breathless, still half-laughing, and grabbed both of their hands.

“Come here! ” She said, dragging them closer. “You have to sing with me.”

Bakugo leaned in. “You’re supposed to listen to us sing, dummy.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “No! With me.”

Kirishima crouched next to her. “You want us up front?”

She nodded quickly, and then added, softer, “Some of my friends can’t hear.”

She signed it too, hands moving slowly but clearly, her eyes scanning the crowd behind them. “I want to sign the song.”

Bakugo’s face changed, like something in his chest clicked into place.

Kirishima reached forward and pressed a kiss to the top of her curls.

“Okay, birthday girl,” he whispered. “Let’s sign.”

Someone dimmed the porch lights.

Mina shouted, “ONE, TWO, THREE!”

And the chorus of Happy Birthday filled the garden.

Hina stood tall on the little stool in front of the cake, singing the words loudly, her hands moving in time with the melody. Her signs were clear, fingers sharp, face full of joy. She looked around and caught the eye of one of her friends, a small boy near the front, grinning wide, watching her hands more than her mouth.

She beamed at him.

And Kirishima, standing beside her, moved his hands right alongside hers. 

So did Bakugo.

Their daughter was signing a birthday song, not just for herself, but for the people who needed to see it.

Kirishima’s throat tightened, he kissed her curls again when the song ended.

Bakugo was watching her, the tiniest smile curling up at the edges of his mouth, proud in the way only a dad could be.

The candle flickered.

Hina closed her eyes, and blew it out in one go.

The house was quiet again.

The kind of quiet that comes only after a day filled with too much laughter, too many sugar highs, too many paper crowns discarded on rugs, and not nearly enough hours to hold all the love spilling out of every corner.

The kitchen was clean. Mostly.

A few glittery cups lingered on the counter, a stray party hat had been forgotten near the door. One of Hina’s little shoes had vanished entirely, and no one had yet solved the mystery of how jelly ended up in the laundry room.

But the guests were gone.

The candles were out.

The last balloon had floated to the ceiling and bumped the light with a soft thup every few seconds.

Upstairs, Hina was asleep.

She hadn’t even made it through the second bedtime story. Kirishima had barely reached page five before her breath evened out, the weight of the day sinking her deep into the blanket cocoon she’d built from the new throw her grannies gave her.

Now, she slept curled against her favorite bear, one hand still resting near her cheek in a loose sign for happy.

Bakugo stood by the door for a long time, just watching her.

Kirishima joined him in the hallway, arms folded loosely over his chest.

Without a word, Bakugo leaned into him, and Kirishima wrapped both arms around his back, holding him there, until the rise and fall of their breathing matched.

Later, they sat on the couch, the lamp still glowing low in the corner. The room was dim, golden around the edges, humming with the kind of silence that didn’t ask to be filled.

Kirishima’s legs were stretched out along the cushions. Bakugo sat close, their shoulders touching. One of Kirishima’s hands rested on the blanket draped over both of them. The other was held quietly in Bakugo’s.

Their fingers were laced together, golden rings touching.

The TV was off, the music had long since faded. There were no footsteps running down the hallway. No laughter from the backyard. No more bubble wands or glitter or cake.

Just the two of them.

And the quiet.

Kirishima turned his head slightly, eyes soft. “She’s amazing,” he said, voice low. “She’s just... She’s everything.”

Bakugo’s thumb brushed across his knuckles. “Yeah.”

“She signed the whole thing,” Kirishima whispered. “And smiled the whole time. That’s... That’s her heart, you know? She wanted her friends to feel included. Six years old, and she already knows how to care like that.”

Bakugo leaned his head against the back of the couch, eyes closing for a moment. “She’s gonna change the world.”

Kirishima looked at him, his heart so full it almost hurt. “She already changed mine.”

Bakugo opened his eyes.

Met his gaze.

Squeezed his hand.

He looked at him for a long moment, eyes soft in the glow of the lamp, and said quietly, “I love you.”

Kirishima didn’t trust his voice, so he brought their joined hands up and signed it back, I love you, right into the space between them.

They stayed like that for a long time, listening to the soft hum of the world outside their window, and in that silence, Kirishima felt it again.

The weight of it. 

Not the kind of love that announced itself loudly or needed to be named to be real, but the kind that filled up the whole house.

The kind that moved through small hands and messy cakes and bedtime bears.

The kind that tucked itself into shared glances across a table, into sleepy kisses on the couch, into golden rings worn soft with time.

It was the quiet kind of love.

The kind that didn’t need to shout, but it was still too loud in his heart.