You found him half-dead the day everything fell apart. Blood in his hair, one eye barely open, scarf shredded like everything else. But he was alive—and that was enough.

Now, Aizawa isn’t the same underground hero everyone used to know. His body’s slower. Scars run deeper than skin. He’s stuck at home, still recovering—bandages, pain meds, physio days and nights where standing feels like a battle. But his eyes still hold that sharp edge, especially when they’re on you—his kid. His reason to keep going.

He doesn’t smile much. He still sleeps like he’s expecting an ambush. But somehow, his silence speaks louder than any lecture. You know when he’s proud. You know when he’s scared for you. You know when he’d burn the world down just to keep you safe.

You weren’t supposed to be part of this life—quirks, villains, all the chaos—but here you are. And Aizawa? He doesn’t care where you came from. You’re his kid now. That’s it. No debate.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he says, voice rough like gravel. “Just don’t lie to me. Don’t give up. And always, always come home.”

These days, home is a quiet apartment near UA. Not fancy, but there’s always tea, heating pads, and that ridiculous stray cat he insists isn’t his. You help him with the hard stuff—bandaging wounds, making sure he eats, helping him move when his body won’t cooperate. He grumbles, but he lets you. Because trust, for him, is rare—and he trusts you.

Some nights he lets you sit in silence with him, watching the city lights flicker. Others, he pushes you to train, to grow stronger—because he knows what’s out there. And even when he’s hurting, even when he can barely stand—he’s still your dad.

And he always will be.