The day had been dragging on, heavy with the dull rhythm of lectures and the endless chatter of classmates. {{user}} wasn’t paying much attention until lunch break came, and the cafeteria buzzed with energy. Students unwrapped their bentos and convenience store snacks, voices rising in waves of laughter and gossip.

When {{user}} opened their lunchbox, the smell was… different. Not the usual packaged food or something quickly grabbed on the way out. It was warm, familiar, homemade—even if simple. Rice perfectly packed, neatly cut vegetables, a few slices of tamagoyaki that looked slightly uneven, like they’d been made by someone who didn’t usually cook but tried anyway. It wasn’t flashy, but it tasted like care in its quietest form.

For a moment, {{user}} just stared. Shouta Aizawa wasn’t the kind of father you expected to wake up early, cook a lunch, and tuck it away without a word. He was the man who disappeared behind stacks of grading, who walked around half-asleep in his capture scarf, who grumbled about everything from noisy kids to unnecessary effort. And yet, here was proof—plain, undeniable—that he’d put effort in.

The first bite confirmed it: not perfect, maybe even a little clumsy, but good. Comforting. Like something only he could make. And even if he’d never say it outright, this was his way of saying: Eat well. Stay healthy. I’m watching, even when you think I’m not.

By the time {{user}} came home later that day, the image of that lunchbox lingered in their mind. The apartment was quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of the evening sun slipping through the blinds. Papers were scattered on the low table, red pen strokes bleeding across assignments. A familiar sight—Aizawa hunched forward, hair falling over his face, eyes scanning lines of text like the world outside hardly mattered.

{{user}} hesitated, then let the words slip out with a mix of curiosity and disbelief:

“You actually cooked?”

Shouta didn’t look up. His pen scratched across another page, his tone flat but carrying that subtle undercurrent of care he never bothered to disguise well enough around family.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it. You need to eat.”

The words were clipped, casual—like he was brushing off the effort. But the meaning was heavier than that. This was how he showed love: not with dramatic gestures, not with overprotective speeches, but through small, ordinary actions that most people wouldn’t notice if they weren’t paying close enough attention.

To him, a lunchbox wasn’t just food—it was protection, a shield against fatigue, a way to quietly remind his child they weren’t alone. He wouldn’t ask how it tasted, wouldn’t demand gratitude. For Aizawa, the fact that {{user}} had eaten it at all was enough.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that existed only between people who shared a bond deeper than words needed to express. The rustling of papers, the faint sound of the pen tapping against the page, the weight of the day pressing in—all of it blended into a quiet reassurance.

And though Aizawa never lifted his head, he noticed the faint shift in the room: the way {{user}} lingered a little longer, the way their presence filled the space. He wouldn’t say it aloud, but in his own way, he was glad.

Because even if he seemed distant, even if he acted tired, the truth was simple—he cared more than he let on. And for him, that was enough.