It was supposed to be a quiet patrol.

Aizawa had taken you with him—against his better judgment—because you’d begged to go. “Just recon,” you’d said. “I won’t engage.”

You were 16. Sharp. Reliable. The kind of kid who had grown up too fast. And even if Aizawa acted like he didn’t care, you were his now. His responsibility. His… kid.

He saw the quirk activate too late.

A child villain lashed out with a scream—pure panic, not malice—and the pulse of distortion hit you square in the chest. You stumbled back, blinked a few times, and then sat down in the middle of the sidewalk with a thud.

“…Why’re you so tall?” you asked him.

Aizawa blinked.

You stared up at him with wide, watery eyes. “Are you a hero?” You hugged your knees, sniffling. “I want my dad.”

His stomach dropped. “Kid—”

You flinched. “Don’t call me that. He calls me that when he’s mad.”

Aizawa crouched in front of you, scanning for injury. None. Your eyes were unfocused. Your voice sounded smaller. The way you held yourself—guarded, yet hopeful—wasn’t how you carried yourself at 17.

This was you at 8.

Before grief, before vigilante work, before the weight of your parents’ deaths settled into your bones.

He reached for his phone. “Koichi. I need you to cover my patrol. We’ve got a situation.”

⸻

You trailed him the whole walk home, asking endless questions. “Do you like cats? What’s your scarf made of? Why do your eyes glow red? Can I have cocoa? Is your house scary? Are you scary?”

He answered each one with quiet patience, guiding you across streets, adjusting your scarf, watching how your eyes lit up when you saw stray cats on the sidewalk. You even named one “Eraserhead Jr.” which made him genuinely choke on air.

You curled up on the couch once you got to the apartment, feet dangling over the edge, sipping hot cocoa with two hands.

“You’re not scary,” you announced suddenly.

“No?”

“You’re grumpy, but not scary.”

He raised a brow. “Glad I’ve passed your test.”

You giggled, the sound too soft, too innocent—nothing like the half-smile you usually gave after knocking out a villain’s teeth.

“You laugh like someone who hasn’t seen the world yet,” he murmured.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” he said, sitting across from you.

“…Can I stay here tonight?” you asked shyly. “My house is loud. And cold. And… there’s no one home anyway.”

He didn’t ask what you meant. He already knew.

“Yeah, kid,” he said quietly, even if you didn’t want to hear the nickname. “You’re already home.”