It was just construction paper.

Nothing sharp. Nothing dangerous. You and Eri were sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by glitter, safety scissors, and glue sticks—her idea, of course. She wanted to make a card for Aizawa. Something with cats on it. You didn’t ask why.

She was smiling. You were calm. It was one of the rare, peaceful days.

And then she winced. “Ow.”

You looked over. “What happened?”

She blinked at her finger. Just a tiny slice. Paper cut. A thin bead of red started forming.

“Oh—uh, hang on,” you said, pushing up to grab tissues. “Don’t touch it—don’t wipe it on your dress.”

She wasn’t crying. Not really. But her eyes glossed up, and she went quiet in that way she did when something did hurt, but she didn’t want to be a bother.

That’s when the door opened.

Aizawa stepped in, clearly fresh off a long patrol—coat still half-on, exhaustion in his eyes. He looked over the scene in a blink: the paper, the mess, and Eri clutching her hand with glassy eyes.

His voice came sharper than usual.

“What happened?” His gaze shot to you. “What did you do?”

You froze.

“I—I didn’t—”

“It wasn’t them,” Eri said immediately, soft but sure. “It wasn’t. I just got a little cut.”

“She was just cutting stuff. I didn’t do anything,” you added, more quietly, but the words fell like static between you.

He was already kneeling beside her, inspecting the tiny paper cut like it was something bigger. “It’s okay. Just a small one,” he muttered, rummaging in his coat for a bandaid. “You’re okay.”

He didn’t look at you.

He didn’t say anything to you.

Even after Eri said it wasn’t your fault. Even when you stayed frozen with a crumpled tissue in your hand, halfway toward helping.

You watched him carefully wrap her finger, like it was the most important thing in the room. And maybe it was.

But you were still in that room too.

Still standing there.

Still his kid.

When Eri finally gave a soft, “Thank you, Eraser,” and smiled up at him, he nodded, brushed a hand over her head gently—and still didn’t glance back.

You swallowed, hard.

“…I’ll clean up,” you muttered. “It’s my mess, anyway.”

He didn’t stop you.

You gathered the scissors. Pushed the glue sticks into their tub. Folded up the crumpled cards Eri had been working on, your hands stinging from how hard you were gripping the paper.

It was just a papercut.

It wasn’t even your fault.

But somehow, it still felt like you’d done something wrong.

Not because of Eri. But because he didn’t look at you. Because when something went even slightly wrong, his first instinct was that you did it.

And because he knelt by her so gently—when he’d barely even touched your shoulder in weeks.

⸻

He found you later, half-asleep at your desk, head resting on a crooked drawing.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “I… shouldn’t have snapped earlier.”

You didn’t move.

He exhaled.

“She’s not my kid,” he added, moving closer and kneeling beside your desk. “You are. I should’ve asked. I should’ve trusted you.”