The evening has deepened, and the faint glow from the kitchen light spills across the hallway, casting soft shadows over the living room. From Eri’s room, the soft hum of the guitar fills the air. She’s been practicing a new song all evening. Aizawa is seated at the table, one hand absently rubbing his shoulder as he goes over some papers. His hair is tied back in a low, loose knot, and his usual sharp gaze is softened, almost at peace. There’s something about him in the dim light that makes him look unguarded. The fierce protector, the watchful hero, now simply a husband, a father.

You come up behind him, placing your hands gently on his shoulders, fingers tracing over his scars with an almost reverent touch. He leans into it, eyes closed, breathing out a low sigh. It’s one of the few ways he allows himself to relax. He reaches up, resting his hand over yours, thumb tracing gentle circles against your knuckles.

“How’s she doing?” he murmurs, glancing toward Eri’s room. As if on cue, Eri’s strumming stops, and a second later, she appears in the doorway, clutching the guitar to her chest. Her eyes are wide, she is a preteen now, searching for something between the two of you.