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The light in the bedroom had gone pale before Bakugo opened his eyes.
He surfaced slow, the way he did on mornings when the world stayed quiet — no alarm, no mission, nothing pressing on his chest yet. The room held a hush that felt different from ordinary early-morning silence, thicker, softer, as if the air itself had been wrapped in cotton. Behind him Kirishima's arm lay heavy across his waist, warm and slack, his breath slow and even against the back of Bakugo's neck. Pale glow leaked around the edges of the curtains, luminous, a brightness that seemed to come from everywhere at once.
Bakugo lay still a moment, reading the quiet the way he read everything — the rhythm of Kirishima's breathing, the weight of the blankets, the small creaks of the house settling. Then he glanced over at the small window above their dresser.
Snow.
It came down thick and unhurried, fat flakes drifting past the window in a slow spiral, and the yard below had already turned white — the fence posts wearing caps of it, the trampoline a soft hump, the whole world muffled and new. A single flake caught the light, tumbling end over end until it vanished against the glass, and something in Bakugo's chest did that slow, complicated turn it did so often these days, the one that had nothing to do with his heart and everything to do with the small boy sleeping down the hall.
Haruto had never seen snow. He'd been too small last winter — or maybe he'd seen it and didn't remember, Bakugo couldn't pin it down, and the uncertainty twisted in him, the way time kept slipping past like water through his fingers. Four years old. Four winters. And this one, he would remember.
Kirishima stirred behind him, the arm around his waist tightening, pulling Bakugo back against the solid warmth of his chest. "You're thinking too loud," he mumbled, mouth pressed to Bakugo's shoulder. "What time is it?"
"Snowing," Bakugo said.
Kirishima went still for a beat. Then he pushed himself up on one elbow, peering over Bakugo's shoulder at the window, and the slow smile that spread across his face cracked something open in Bakugo's chest — the same way it always did, the same way it had the day he'd married this ridiculous, warm-hearted man and signed up for a lifetime of being softened by him.
"Oh," Kirishima breathed. "Oh, baby. Haruto's gonna lose his mind."
The footsteps came before Bakugo could answer.
Small and careful, padding down the hallway — bare feet placing themselves with too much deliberation, the way Haruto walked when he was still half-asleep and negotiating with the world. Bakugo's body knew the sound the way it knew the beat of his own pulse. He was already turning when the door swung inward, inch by silent inch.
Haruto stood in the doorway, a small shape in his sleep-shirt, hair a wild dark tangle, one fist rubbing at his eye. Monkey hung from his other hand, dangling by one arm, the worn fur of his ears catching the pale light. He blinked at them, slow, then held Monkey up, solemn and matter-of-fact.
"Monkey see," Haruto said. "Monkey."
Kirishima laughed, soft and warm, the sound rolling through the quiet room. "Monkey saw it, huh? Come here, sweet boy. Papa's got you."
Haruto went to him without hesitation, arms lifting, letting himself be gathered up and swung onto the bed, settling between them like something precious placed exactly where it belonged. He burrowed into Bakugo's chest immediately, small face pressing into the hollow of his collarbone, one hand fisting in Bakugo's shirt, the other still holding Monkey up.
"Daddy." Haruto's voice came muffled against Bakugo's chest. "Daddy look."
"Look at what?" Bakugo's hand came up, palm flat against the small warm span of Haruto's back, thumb finding its familiar place between his shoulder blades.
"Look," Haruto said, and pointed with Monkey's whole body, the stuffed monkey's little arm swinging. "White."
Bakugo shifted them, turning toward the window, and Haruto's breath caught — a small, sharp inhale felt more than heard, the little body against him going rigid with wonder.
"Snow," Bakugo said, low and rough. "That's snow, sweet boy."
Haruto didn't answer. He stared, taking it in — the slow tumble of flakes, the white hush of the yard, the world rearranged overnight into something soft and strange. His hand came up, fingers opening and closing in the air, a small fluttering motion, his whole body beginning to bounce against Bakugo's chest in a rhythm Bakugo knew by heart.
"Snow," Haruto repeated, tasting the word. "Snow, snow, snow."
"Wanna see it up close?" Kirishima propped himself up, his voice warm with the kind of excitement that matched Haruto's bounce. "We could go outside. Put on your boots. Let you touch it."
Haruto's bouncing stopped. He went very still, considering — weighing it, turning it over. The flicker of hesitation crossed his small face, the furrow between his brows, and the familiar carefulness settled over the room, the way it always did before something new.
"Cold," Haruto said, matter-of-fact. "Snow cold."
"Yeah," Bakugo said. "It's cold. That's part of it." He kept his voice even, unhurried, letting the information land without pressure. "We can watch from the window first. See how it feels from in here."
Haruto considered this. Then he nodded, once, decisive, the way he did when he'd made up his mind. "Watch first…boots."
"Then boots," Kirishima agreed, and reached across to smooth Haruto's wild hair, a gesture Haruto leaned into like a cat finding warmth.
They watched from the window for a long time, the three of them tangled together under the blanket — Kirishima's chest against Bakugo's back, Haruto a small warm weight between them, Monkey propped against Bakugo's sternum where he could see too. Haruto narrated what he saw in his soft, broken way — "flake go down, down, down," "tree white," "Monkey see?" — and Bakugo answered each observation in the same low, patient voice, noting the way his son's hands moved against the glass, the way his breath fogged it, the way he pressed his nose to the cold pane and laughed at the shock of it.
Finally Haruto pushed back, wiggling. "Boots," he announced. "Boots."
The bundling took forever, the way everything with a four-year-old took forever, and Bakugo found himself oddly grateful for it — for the ritual of it, the familiar shapes of the routine. Snowsuit laid out on the floor in order. Thick woolen socks, which Haruto examined with suspicion before allowing them on his feet. The boots themselves, which he insisted on putting on the wrong feet first, then laughed at himself, a bright peal of sound that made Kirishima's eyes crinkle.
"Almost there, sweet boy," Kirishima said, kneeling in front of Haruto, zipping the snowsuit up to his chin. "One more arm. There you go."
Haruto's hands went to the hood, tugging at it, his face screwing up in the particular way that meant a sensory problem was brewing. "Bad," he said, pulling at the fleece lining.
"Let's fix it," Bakugo said, and knelt, careful, his hands gentle as he turned the hood inside out, smoothing the seam, showing Haruto where it sat against his neck. "Better?"
Haruto tested it, turning his head side to side, feeling it settle. Then he nodded, satisfied. "Good."
The mittens were the last hurdle. Haruto held out his hands, let Kirishima slip them on, then immediately pulled one off to look at his fingers, then put it back on, then looked up at Bakugo with the grave consideration of a man who had just made an important discovery. "Hands warm," he said. "Hands warm in snow hands."
"That's the point," Bakugo said, but there was no bite in it, and Haruto knew it, because he grinned up at him, bright and sudden, and Bakugo's chest did that thing again.
The door opened onto a world gone quiet.
Snow swallowed sound — Bakugo had always known that, had learned it in the mountains on training exercises, the way the world went soft and muffled, the way footsteps stopped cracking and started creaking. But seeing it through his son's eyes was different. Haruto stopped on the top step, one hand gripping Bakugo's leg, and stared.
The yard was a white sheet, unmarked. The fence wore its caps of snow. The trampoline humped white. The air smelled cold and clean, that sharpness that made the inside of your nose tingle, and the only sound was the faint whisper of flakes falling.
"Snow," Haruto breathed, hushed, the way he got when something was almost too big for him.
"Go on," Kirishima said softly, from behind them. "You can touch it. It won't bite."
Haruto didn't move for a long moment. Then he stepped down, one careful foot at a time, his small boots leaving fresh prints in the white — and he stopped, looked down at the marks his feet had made, and looked up, and flapped his hands, a quick bright flutter of pure joy.
"Daddy look," Haruto said. "Holes."
"Yeah." Bakugo's voice came out rough. "That's your footprints. You're making footprints."
Haruto crouched, slow, and put one mitten out, and pressed it into the snow. The impression came up clean and perfect, the little ridges of the mitten's weave stamped into the white, and Haruto made a sound — a small, delighted hum — and pressed the other hand, and then both, leaning in until his whole weight rested on his palms, leaving two neat prints side by side.
"Monkey too," he said, and looked up at Bakugo with that grave, matter-of-fact expression. "Monkey see."
Bakugo knelt in the snow, the cold soaking through the knees of his pants, and held Monkey out. Haruto took him carefully, turned him so his button eyes faced the white expanse, and pressed Monkey's little paw into the snow beside his own prints.
"There," Haruto said, satisfied. "Monkey make hole too. Monkey snow."
Kirishima's hand landed warm on Bakugo's shoulder, and Bakugo looked up at him — at the soft, watery look in those red eyes, the way his husband's face had gone open and unguarded in a way it only ever did at home. Kirishima didn't say anything. He didn't need to. He just squeezed Bakugo's shoulder, and Bakugo pressed his cheek against the back of Kirishima's hand for a moment, and then they both looked back at their son.
Haruto was standing in the middle of the yard now, head tilted back, mouth open, catching snowflakes on his tongue. His mittens lay forgotten in the snow, his hands bare and outstretched, and he was spinning — slow, unsteady circles, arms out, his whole small body a study in joy. The flakes landed in his dark hair, on his cheeks, on the upturned tip of his nose, and he laughed, bright and full, the sound cutting through the muffled white like a bell.
"Eat," he called, spinning to face them. "Daddy! Papa! Snow!"
"Yeah?" Kirishima called back, already moving toward him, crouching to catch a flake on his own tongue. "What's it taste like?"
Haruto considered the question with tremendous gravity, a snowflake melting on his lip. "Cold," he said finally, matter-of-fact. "Taste cold."
Kirishima laughed, warm and huge in the quiet yard, and scooped Haruto up, spinning him once, twice, snow flying up around their boots. Haruto shrieked with delight, arms flung wide, and Bakugo stood at the edge of the yard, snow dusting his shoulders, and looked at his family.
The tight, full ache was back in his chest — the one that lived there now, the one that caught him at the strangest moments. He'd never been good at imagining the future, never trusted the world to hold still long enough for one. But here it was anyway: his husband's laughter bright and unguarded, his son's small body held aloft, joy made visible, a yard transformed overnight into something soft and new.
Haruto caught his eye over Kirishima's shoulder, snow in his lashes, cheeks flushed pink, and held up Monkey.
"Monkey cold," he reported, solemn. "Monkey want inside."
Bakugo snorted. "Monkey's a drama queen."
"Monkey," Haruto said, with all the dignity a four-year-old could muster. "Monkey is cold."
"Then let's get Monkey inside," Kirishima said, settling Haruto on his hip, already turning toward the house. "Hot chocolate for everyone. Monkey gets a cup too, right?"
"Monkey cup," Haruto agreed, and rested his head on Kirishima's shoulder, and his eyes drifted closed, the way they always did when his body was happy and his mind was quiet.
Bakugo followed them up the steps. The snow fell around them, soft and unhurried, and the house was warm and waiting, and for exactly as long as it needed to, the world held still.