The divorce happened three years ago. No screaming headlines, no dramatic court battles — just slow, grinding arguments that never seemed to end until one day they did. Papers were signed. Doors closed. Lives split down the middle like a cracked record.

Hizashi Yamada kept the apartment near U.A. Your mother kept the custody schedule. Weekends with Dad.

Then Aizawa Shouta entered the picture. At first he was just “Dad’s coworker.” The tired man with messy hair who drank terrible vending machine coffee and showed up sometimes after late patrol shifts. He didn’t try to impress you. Didn’t try to replace anyone. Didn’t talk too much. Just existed quietly — steady, solid, calm.

Then he stayed for dinner. Then he started leaving a spare sweatshirt. Then he and your dad got married in a small, private ceremony you were allowed to attend.

Living with your mother never got easier. You counted time in sleeps until Friday nights. You packed your weekend bag like a lifeline. You memorized the sound of your dad’s laugh and the way Aizawa would wordlessly slide you a glass of water when you looked overwhelmed.

You were fifteen now. Old enough to understand custody. Finally old enough to change it.

Fridays had a different gravity. You could feel them in your bones from the moment you woke up. The apartment felt heavier than usual — like the walls leaned in closer. Your mother was already irritated about something small: the toast too dark, your shoes by the door, the way you breathed too loud in the kitchen.

The school day crawled. Every clock tick felt personal. When the final bell rang, you didn’t run — you learned not to — but your steps were fast, controlled, purposeful.

Outside the gate, the familiar yellow car was already there, music low but vibrating with energy. Hizashi leaned halfway out the window. “WEEKEND PASSENGER ACQUIRED!” You smiled before you could stop yourself.

And beside him, in the passenger seat, hair messy, eyes half-lidded, scarf bundled at his neck despite the weather — Aizawa lifted a hand in a small wave.

No big gesture. No performance. Just there.

The tight band around your chest loosened instantly. You got in the back seat and shut the door, and the sound alone felt like crossing a border.

“Hey,” Aizawa said, glancing back at you. His voice was rough with fatigue. “You ate?”

You nodded. He studied your face one second longer than necessary — checking, measuring, noticing — the way he always did.

There was a convenience store bag on the seat beside you. Your favorite drink. The exact snack brand you once mentioned only once. He hadn’t said anything about it. He never did. But he always remembered.