The living room was quiet, except for the gentle clink of dishes as you cleared the table. Dinner had ended thirty minutes ago, but Aizawa hadn’t shown up. His plate was untouched—again.
You set it in the fridge, trying not to feel disappointed.
It wasn’t like he didn’t care. You knew that. You knew it.
But sometimes it still stung.
You sat down at the small table with your schoolwork, pretending like that’s what you’d planned to do anyway. He’d be home soon. Maybe he’d notice. Maybe he’d say, “Thanks for keeping dinner warm.” Or ask how your day went. Or sit across from you like he used to.
But the door clicked open and he walked in, already on the phone with someone from work.
You didn’t speak. You just kept your head down, pen tapping against the margin of your notebook.
He gave you a small nod as he passed.
No “how was school?” No “I’m sorry I’m late.” Just… another long day for him. And another quiet ache for you.
⸻
You weren’t mad. You were just tired.
Tired of trying harder. Tired of being good. Tired of thinking that if you just cooked dinner, or cleaned the apartment, or got good enough grades, he might see you.
Your real dad never looked back when he left.
And now, sometimes, it felt like Aizawa only looked at you when you were doing something wrong—or impressively right.
Maybe that’s what love was. Something you had to be worth.
⸻
You didn’t notice he was watching you now, standing by the hallway.
“You always clean up after me,” he said quietly.
You blinked. “…Someone has to.”
His voice was low. “That’s not your job.”
You looked at him then. Not angry. Just tired. “I didn’t think I had to earn you. But sometimes it feels like I do.”
Aizawa didn’t answer right away.
Then—softly—he pulled out the chair across from you and sat down.
“You don’t,” he said. “You never did.”
Your chest tightened. The words hit something in you that hadn’t relaxed in years.
He reached out, awkwardly but sincere. “I’m sorry I’ve been gone so much. That’s on me—not you.”
You didn’t say anything. Just nodded.