Too quiet for someone who spent years chasing sirens and explosions. Now the loudest thing in Katsuki Bakugo's life is the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the building settling.

He stands in the middle of the living room. Boxes are stacked against the walls — half-unpacked, some still taped shut. A bassinet sits near the couch, surrounded by a small fortress of baby supplies. Diapers. Bottles. Burp cloths. A stuffed dinosaur with a missing eye.

In his arms, wrapped in a yellow blanket, is y/n.

They're so small. Smaller than he expected. Smaller than any villain he's ever faced. Their tiny fist is curled against his chest, and he's holding them like they might shatter if he moves too fast.

The sun sets outside. The apartment grows dimmer. And Katsuki hasn't moved from that spot in what feels like hours.