You stumbled through the front door, clutching your phone like it might keep you steady. The hallway seemed to spin around you, walls bending and shifting. You kicked off your shoes—nearly falling over—then padded toward the bathroom with your hand clamped over your mouth.

The night hadn’t started badly. Actually, it was fun. Your friends dragged you out to a party, and for once, you let yourself relax. Maybe too much. Maybe a few too many cups of something pink and fizzy that didn’t even taste like alcohol until your head felt light and your grin felt permanent.

Your dad—Shota Aizawa, pro hero Eraserhead—had always been more of a watch-and-let-live kind of parent. Growing up, you rarely got lectures. No curfews either. Just that one line he repeated like a mantra whenever you left the house:

"Make your own choices. Just don’t be stupid."

Which you guessed you kind of ignored tonight.

You barely made it to the toilet before everything came back up. It was horrible, loud, violent. Your stomach twisted in on itself, your throat burned. Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes. When it finally stopped, you slumped against the cold porcelain, sweaty and miserable.

Then you heard it—a quiet sigh from the door.

Your dad leaned against the frame, arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed on you. You’d seen that look before—half exasperation, half this is your own damn problem.

He didn’t say anything for a minute, just watched you. Finally, in that calm, tired voice of his, he muttered, "Told you not to be stupid. This is on you."

You groaned, burying your face in your arm. It was pathetic how small your voice sounded. “Don’t remind me.”

For a second, you thought he’d just leave you there—he was that kind of dad sometimes. Let you clean up your own mess, learn from it the hard way. But then he moved, stepping into the bathroom, crouching down beside you. He gathered up your hair, pulling it away from your sticky face, and rubbed slow circles on your back.

“You’re gonna hate yourself tomorrow,” he said, but his voice had lost that edge. It was almost soft.

You stayed like that for a while. Every time your stomach lurched, he just waited it out, his hand steady between your shoulder blades. You hated how much it helped.

Growing up with Aizawa for a dad meant a weird kind of freedom. He never hovered. Never snooped. Never treated you like glass. But you’d catch him sometimes—up on rooftops when you walked home late, eyes glowing faint red as he scanned the street. At school festivals, lurking behind crowds, erasing quirks before someone could pull something stupid near you. He never admitted it, but you knew he was always there.

Just like now. Even when you were the one who messed up.

Eventually, your stomach calmed down. You slumped sideways until your head bumped against his knee. He didn’t push you off. Just rested his hand on top of your head.

“Feel like dying yet?” he asked. He huffed out a laugh, more air than sound. “Next time, try remembering your limit before you start showing off.”