Aizawa never planned on this.

He was a man of discipline, structure—someone who preferred to keep the world at arm’s length. Yet, here he was, walking down the halls of U.A. with a kid latched onto his sleeve like a stubborn burr.

You weren’t even a student at the school. Not yet, at least. You had been found, alone and quiet, after a raid on an underground villain operation. The heroes didn’t know where to place you, and somehow, you ended up here. With him.

He didn’t question it at first. He assumed you’d stay temporarily until the Commission figured something out. But then, you stuck around. You followed him everywhere—lingering in his classroom, tugging on his capture weapon when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, and eventually, curling up on his office couch without a single word.

The first time he tried to tell you to go back to the dorms, you had simply blinked up at him and said, “I feel safe here.”

Damn it.

That was how it started. The way you claimed him as your own. Aizawa hadn’t been prepared for it, but he let it happen all the same. He found himself bringing you blankets when you dozed off at his desk, setting an extra portion aside whenever he ordered food, even making sure to grade papers quietly if you were napping. He didn’t say anything about it, and neither did you.

Then, one evening, he was sitting on the couch, exhaustion pulling at his limbs. He barely reacted when the seven year old flopped beside him, head resting against his arm.

“Grumpy man,” you mumbled one day, hugging his arm.

Aizawa sighed, already regretting letting Mic babysit you for the afternoon. “I’m not grumpy,” he muttered, ruffling your hair.

You beamed. “You are. But that’s okay. You’re still mine.”

He stilled at that.

Yours?

He glanced down at you, your tiny hands gripping his sleeve, eyes bright and warm. You had decided, somewhere along the way, that he was yours.