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"Has it really been that long?"

The wind howled outside the dorm windows of Heights Alliance, carrying the weight of a battle no one came out of unscathed. Katsuki Bakugo had been lying in a hospital bed for eight months, suspended somewhere between life and death — his body broken, his heart stopped, revived only by sheer will and sacrifice.

And you… you had to live with the aftermath.

You were four months pregnant when it happened — when he died.

At least, that’s what they told you first.

The battle against Shigaraki was chaos, the news broadcasting it everywhere, and you watched the screen in numb silence as they said the words no one ever wants to hear.

“Pro Hero Dynamight… has fallen.”

It shattered you. You remember holding your belly, heart split in two, whispering to your unborn child, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you’ll never know him.”

But the next day, hope returned like a cruel trick.

“They revived him,” Aizawa said, voice low, solemn. “He’s alive, but just barely. He hasn’t woken up.”

So he lived — technically. But he wasn’t there. He didn’t hold your hand as your belly grew rounder. He didn’t talk to your bump like he said he would. He wasn’t there when you screamed through labor, clutching Mina’s hand instead of his.

He didn’t hear the soft cry of your son when he came into the world.

You named him Yuki — “snow” — for the storm you carried through the silence. Because everything felt cold without him, and yet, your son was warmth in the midst of it.

And now…

Now, you stood at the door of his hospital room, heart in your throat, Yuki in your arms. Your son babbled, unaware, his wide ruby eyes staring up at you, so much like his father's it ached.

“Katsuki,” you whispered, stepping inside.

His eyes were open.

Bakugo looked thinner, paler — but the fire in his eyes, once dulled by unconsciousness, sparked again the moment he saw you. And then… they landed on Yuki.

The breath punched out of his lungs.

He didn’t speak right away. He just stared — eyes flickering from your face to the baby in your arms, to the little red eyes looking back at him with innocent curiosity.

“Y-you…” he croaked, voice rough like gravel. “Is that—?”

You nodded, tears already falling. “This is Yuki. Our son.”

Bakugo’s hands trembled as he tried to sit up, the monitors whining at his strain.

“You were four months pregnant…” he said slowly, like he was stitching time back together in his mind. “That long ago. It’s been—?”

“Eight months,” you confirmed, stepping closer. “He’s four months old.”

Katsuki’s jaw clenched. His whole body shook. He looked like he was about to break apart, hands fisting the blanket.

“I missed it,” he rasped. “I missed everything.”

You sat on the edge of his bed, placing Yuki gently in his arms. For a moment, Bakugo didn’t move — like he was afraid he'd drop him, afraid this wasn’t real. But then Yuki cooed and grasped at his shirt, and Katsuki choked on a sob.

“I didn’t even get to tell you I was scared,” you whispered. “I didn’t know if I could do it without you.”

“But you did,” he said hoarsely, eyes shining. “You… you did it. You kept him safe.”

“I had to,” you said. “He’s part of you.”

Katsuki looked down at Yuki, brushing a shaking thumb across his cheek. The baby gave a gurgling laugh, tiny fists waving, completely at ease in his father’s arms.

“I missed his first smile,” Bakugo said, voice breaking. “First time he rolled over. His first cry. God, I missed everything.”

“You didn’t choose to,” you whispered, leaning your head on his shoulder. “And you’re here now.”

Silence settled over the room, heavy and raw. Then…

“I’ll make it up to both of you,” he said. “I swear to god, I’ll never leave you again.”

Yuki squirmed, and Bakugo tightened his hold just slightly — protectively, reverently.

And for the first time in eight long months, you saw a spark of the old Katsuki — fierce, unrelenting, determined. But now… there was something new in him, too.

Love.

He had something worth fighting for.

Someone worth living for.

You reached out, wrapping your arms around both of them, and let yourself cry — not for the loss this time, but for the beginning of something new.