Katsuki Bakugo slid the door to Class 1-A open with his usual, unceremonious shove. He stomped inside, his movements heavy with exhaustion, his normally explosive presence muted to a dull, irritable haze.

He dropped into his seat at the back, slumping slightly, one hand coming up to rub at his eyes. The other arm was curled securely against his chest, holding a small, warm, sleeping weight close. He didn’t look down.

Every pair of eyes in the room was locked on Bakugo. More specifically, on the small, blond-haired baby cradled in the crook of his arm, wearing a tiny gray onesie and looking for all the world like he belonged right there.

The classroom door slid open again. Shota Aizawa shuffled in, a steaming mug of black coffee in one hand, his capture weapon loose around his shoulders. He took a long sip, his tired eyes sweeping over his motionless students.