Aizawa never meant to care. He thought you were just another reckless idiot trying to play hero. No license, no training, no backup—just bruises and blind optimism.

“You’re going to get someone killed,” he warned the first night he saw you leap between a civilian and a thug’s knife. “Especially yourself.”

You wiped blood from your mouth and said, “Then I’ll die doing the right thing.”

It struck a nerve. Something about you—your persistence, your scraped-up hands, the fire in your eyes—reminded him of someone. Someone who’d died because being a hero wasn’t enough to save everyone.

So he watched. From rooftops. Shadows. Alleyways. Every time you got knocked down, you stood back up. Your quirk wasn’t flashy, and your technique was sloppy, but you never quit.

“You’re not strong enough to do this alone,” he grumbled after pulling you out of a losing fight.

You looked up at him, bruised but grinning. “But I’m not alone now, right?”

He hated how much that got to him.

⸻

As weeks passed, Aizawa started showing up more. Not to encourage you—at least not out loud. But to correct your footwork. Patch you up. Tell you what you did wrong… and what you did right, sometimes under his breath.

You didn’t notice how protective he got. But others did. Even he did.

You reminded him of his younger self. Or maybe of who he wanted to be back then.

⸻

One night, after taking down a small-time villain alone, you collapsed on a rooftop, breath ragged.

“I’m still here,” you whispered. “Still standing.”

Aizawa appeared beside you silently. “You did it,” he said. “Alone.”

You looked at him, wide-eyed.

For the first time, his voice softened. “I’m proud of you.”

And for the first time, you felt seen—not just as a wannabe hero… But as someone real.

Someone worth believing in.