The rain had started around sunset, now thudding soft against the windows in the small living room you shared with Aizawa. You were curled up on the edge of the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, staring blankly at the TV screen. It played some rerun of a pro hero documentary. You weren’t really watching.

Aizawa noticed you hadn’t said much since you got back from school. Your body language wasn’t defiant or angry like it had been when you first moved in—it was quieter now. He walked in with a towel draped around his neck, fresh out of a shower from patrol, hair still damp.

“You okay?” he asked, setting his scarf on the table.

You shrugged, pulling your knees up. “I guess.”

That wasn’t like you. Even when you’d been cold, distant, or testing his limits—you said something. So when you gave him that answer, his eyes narrowed slightly in concern.

He sat nearby. Not too close. Just within reach. Silence stretched between you two, save for the hum of the TV.

“I used to sit like this when I waited for him,” you mumbled eventually. Voice quiet. Distant. “My dad. I’d curl up on the couch and just… wait. Every time I heard keys, I thought maybe he’d actually come home. But he didn’t.”

Aizawa stilled.

You didn’t talk about your biological dad. Not since Nezu had essentially assigned you to him, when you were twelve. Your father had left years ago. Your mom, unable to care for you on her own, gave up custody. And with your quirk being unstable, you’d been moved from house to house—until Nezu intervened and decided you needed someone who understood dangerous quirks, not just someone to give you food and a bed.

Aizawa had said no at first. But when he saw how fast they were going to send you into the system again, something in him cracked. And now, three years later, you were still here.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I know I wasn’t your first choice,” he said. His voice was calm, like it always was when he was being real. “And I know I’ll never be him.”

You looked over at him, a flash of guilt flickering across your face—but he wasn’t angry.

He added, “But I’m here. And I’m not walking out on you.”

The weight of those words made your chest ache. You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at your socked feet pressed against the cushion.

“He didn’t die or anything,” you whispered. “He just didn’t come back.”

Aizawa exhaled slowly and nodded. “That’s still a kind of loss.”

You blinked fast and turned away slightly, trying to hide how your eyes stung.

“I don’t talk about it ‘cause… it’s not like anyone can fix it.”

“I’m not here to fix you,” he said. “I’m here to listen. If you want to talk. If not, I’ll sit here with you anyway.”

For the first time in a while, your shoulders lowered. Not from defeat, but from letting go—just a little. The silence between you shifted—no longer heavy, just present.

After a few minutes, you moved, slowly leaning your head against his arm. He didn’t move away.