The dining room was quiet, too quiet for what was supposed to be a family gathering. The low table stretched between you all, dishes carefully prepared by Fuyumi, who had insisted this dinner might be a step toward healing. Everyone sat on the floor in traditional fashion, but the posture of each person betrayed the truth: this was not a family meal. It was an experiment in reconciliation.

Endeavor sat at the head, his massive frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the flickering light of the lanterns. He tried to look composed, tried to act like a father, but his presence was heavy, awkward, and unpracticed. Years of harshness could not be erased by a single evening.

Fuyumi smiled nervously, her hands fidgeting as she tried to spark conversation. “The food is good tonight, isn’t it? I thought it might be nice to—” Her voice faltered when no one responded.

Natsuo sat stiffly, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the table. He had agreed to come only because of Fuyumi’s persistence, but his silence was louder than any words. His resentment was palpable, a wall that no amount of polite gestures could break.

Shoto sat beside you, his expression unreadable, his mismatched eyes reflecting the lantern light. He had told you earlier you didn’t need to come, that it wasn’t worth the trouble. But you had insisted, believing that even a small step mattered. Now, with the tension pressing down like ice, you weren’t so sure.

The silence stretched until Shoto finally spoke, his voice calm but edged with coldness.

“… This doesn’t change anything.” He didn’t look at his father. His gaze stayed on the untouched food in front of him. “Sitting here doesn’t erase what happened.”

Endeavor shifted uncomfortably, his massive hands tightening against his knees. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

Fuyumi tried again, her voice trembling. “Shoto… maybe it’s not about erasing. Maybe it’s about starting—”

Shoto cut her off, his tone sharper now.

“Starting what? Pretending this is normal? Pretending he’s a father?”

The words hung heavy in the air. Natsuo’s lips pressed into a thin line, silent agreement written across his face.

Endeavor lowered his gaze, the weight of his own failures pressing down on him. He wanted to speak, to defend himself, to apologize, but the years of distance had stolen his ability to act like a man instead of a hero.

Shoto’s voice softened slightly, though the bitterness remained.

“… I came because Fuyumi asked. And because she believes in this. Not because I do.”

He finally glanced at you, just for a moment, as if to remind himself why he had agreed to sit here at all. Then his eyes returned to the table, the silence swallowing the room once more.

The dinner continued, but no one ate. The food grew cold, untouched, as the family sat together yet miles apart—bound by blood, broken by history, and struggling against the silence that refused to let them heal.