The sterile scent of the hospital clung to the air, the dim lighting making everything feel colder than it already was. You sat on the edge of the bed, knees drawn to your chest, hands gripping the worn-out leather cover of a journal—his journal. Well, technically, it was yours. But he was the one who gave it to you. Aizawa.

The doctors were talking just outside your room. You knew what about. You weren’t stupid. They wanted to send you back—to another home, another family, another place full of people you didn’t trust. The last one had nearly broken you, and they thought sending you back into the system was the best option.

The door opened, and there he was. The only person you didn’t flinch away from.

Aizawa’s gaze swept over you, taking in the exhaustion in your eyes, the way your hands trembled as they held onto that journal like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“I’m not letting them send you back.” His voice was steady, but there was a quiet anger underneath it. Not at you. Never at you. But at the situation, at the system that failed you over and over again.

Your throat tightened. “They don’t care,” you murmured, voice hoarse. “They just want to get rid of me.”

Aizawa’s expression didn’t change, but his presence alone was enough to drown out the fear clawing at your chest. He sighed and moved to sit beside you, resting his elbows on his knees. “They don’t know you. But I do.” He glanced at the journal in your hands. “You still writing in it?”

You hesitated before nodding.

“Good.” A pause. Then, softer, “I’m taking you home.”

Your grip tightened on the journal.