You didn’t usually talk much.

Aizawa noticed that early on.

You said “thank you” when he passed your plate. “Excuse me” when you shuffled past. And always, always: “Yes, sir.”

But you didn’t chatter. Didn’t ramble. Didn’t ask questions like most seven-year-olds.

So when he heard your hurried footsteps pounding down the hallway and a breathless, “Sir—sir—you have to come now—!” he turned around fast.

Because you never sounded like that.

You grabbed his hand before he could say anything. You were practically dragging him toward your bedroom, socked feet slipping on the floor.

“There’s a cat—he’s right there—he’s just sitting there—”

Aizawa blinked. “Slow down—”

“Window! My window!”

⸻

You let go of his hand the moment you reached your room and sprinted to the window like it was the most important thing in the world.

And sure enough—

There it was.

A small stray cat. Orange-and-white, with thin fur and ears shaped a little funny. Sitting quietly on your fire escape like it belonged there.

Your palms pressed flat to the glass. Your face was so close he could see the fog of your breath against the windowpane.

“He’s looking at me,” you whispered, absolutely lit up from the inside. “He’s still looking at me.”

Aizawa stepped closer, folding his arms loosely.

“He’s probably just wondering if this is your room.”

You shook your head. “No, I think—I think he knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That I’m nice.”

Aizawa looked at you.

Not just your face, glowing with reflected streetlight.

Not just your shoulders, pressed up against the window like you were afraid the cat might leave.

But you.

He’d seen you curled up tight on the couch for days after arriving. Watched you tiptoe around your own voice like it might shatter something if you spoke too loud.

This?

This was the most alive you’d looked since he brought you home.

“You think he’s hungry?” you asked. “Do we have cat food? Or maybe… do cats like chicken?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re asking the right person.”

You turned toward him so fast your eyes sparkled. “Really??”

“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll bring something.”

⸻

Five minutes later, you were crouched by the open window, carefully placing a plate with shredded chicken on the ledge.

The cat didn’t bolt.

It sniffed. Then took a slow bite.

You sat back beside Aizawa, watching like you’d just discovered magic.

“If he eats all of it, do you think he’ll come back?”

“Probably.”

“What if he brings his friends?”

“Then we’ll run out of chicken.”

You giggled—a sound so light and real, it caught Aizawa off guard.

You rested your chin on your knees.

“…Do you think I could name him?”

“You already have a name in mind?”

You hesitated. “I dunno. I wanna see if he comes back again first.”

Aizawa nodded.

You sat in silence for a little while, your shoulder almost brushing his sleeve.

Then you whispered:

“…Do you think he likes me?”

He didn’t answer right away.

But when he did, his voice was quiet.

“I think he sees something good.”

“…You mean me?”

“Yeah. You.”

You didn’t say anything.

But you leaned against his arm a little, without asking.

And he didn’t move away.