You’d only moved in last week.

The paperwork was fresh, the boxes barely unpacked. Your room still smelled like tape and old cardboard. The bed wasn’t yours yet, not really—it felt borrowed. Like everything else in Aizawa’s quiet, too-clean apartment.

You hadn’t called him anything yet. Not “Mr. Aizawa.” Not “Dad.” Not even “sir.” Just silence and sideways glances.

He didn’t push.

He watched you the way someone watches a storm cloud—patiently, quietly, like he knew it would pass but wasn’t going to bet on the weather.

You didn’t trust him.

Not yet.

You didn’t trust anyone.

⸻

It was supposed to be a quiet patrol.

That’s what the HPSC said.

“Low-risk district. Minimal villain activity. Just visibility.”

So Aizawa didn’t expect much. He kept the scarf loose around his neck, boots silent on the sidewalk, shadows folding behind him like he belonged to them.

Until he heard it.

A scream.

High. Shrill. Young.

He moved before he thought.

Turned a corner—fast—and found a kid standing alone in an alley, yelling so hard their voice cracked:

“Please! Somebody! She’s gone—my cat’s gone! She ran into that building!”

Aizawa’s boots hit the pavement in three sharp steps. His hand twitched for the scarf. He followed your finger—pointed toward a cracked-open warehouse door.

“You stay here,” he said, already heading forward.

You blinked. Just once.

Then crossed your arms.

“…Took you long enough.”

He froze. “What?”

“I’ve been yelling for seven minutes,” you said flatly. “Seven.”

You squinted at him like you were grading his response time.

“I counted.”

He stared at you.

And then it clicked.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “You—”

“It was a test,” you said, like you were reading off a report card. “To see how long it takes a hero to answer a kid in trouble.”

“…You always test heroes like this?”

“Only the ones who actually show up.”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t argue.

Just lowered himself into a crouch, resting his elbows on his knees. Quiet. Grounded.

“Where’s your cat?”

You looked away. Your voice dropped.

“There isn’t one.”

Pause.

“But if I had one,” you said, “she wouldn’t run away.”

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, fingers curled into your sleeves.

“My parents died,” you muttered. “Villains. Heroes showed up late.”

You said it like a fact. Like it didn’t hurt anymore. But your eyes were glassy.

“They said they tried,” you whispered. “But if they were faster…”

You swallowed the rest.

Aizawa didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t make promises. Didn’t offer hope he couldn’t guarantee.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead.

You blinked.

No one had ever said it like that before. Simple. No strings.

You didn’t know why it hit so hard.

“…You’re not mad I lied?”

“No,” he said. “You had a point.”

Your head tilted. Studying him. Like you couldn’t quite believe he was real.

“…If I ever had a real emergency,” you asked, voice barely there, “would you come?”

He didn’t blink.

“Yes.”

That was it.

No hesitation. No dramatic hero pose.

Just yes.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

⸻

When you got home that night—back to the apartment you were still trying not to call home—you didn’t say anything right away.

Aizawa didn’t either.

But he made tea. Let you sit on the couch with the cats. Let you exist.