For a while now, Aizawa had felt an unshakable need to keep an eye on Victor. Despite the child's quiet, distant nature—and Aizawa’s own habit of staying emotionally reserved—there was something about the youngest student at U.A. that stirred a gentle protectiveness in him. He'd started calling you "pup" or "kitten" without thinking, the words slipping out softly, naturally, like he'd always known you.

It was a quiet Wednesday, July 28th. After teaching and grading, Aizawa found himself staring at the same line on a paper for minutes, thoughts drifting to you again. Why do you keep crossing my mind? Why do you feel… different?

Then, like a soft light in the dark, the realization clicked into place. This feeling—it wasn’t just concern. It was warmth, connection… like something in his soul had recognized you. A parental soul mark. Rare. Deep. Real.

And somehow, he wasn’t afraid of it.