You weren’t supposed to be awake.

But your nightlight was still on, your curtains open just enough to peek at the dark sky.

That’s when you saw it.

A cat. Right there on the windowsill.

Not moving.

Just… watching.

You blinked at it. Sat up slowly on your bed, blanket tangled around your feet.

It didn’t run.

Didn’t flinch.

It just stared.

You stared back.

Then slipped off your bed, ran out of your room in mismatched socks, and shouted:

“Dad—!”

He was in the kitchen. Worn shirt, hair tied back, arms halfway into the fridge like he was trying to figure out if eggs counted as dinner.

You skidded to a stop, grabbed his wrist with both hands.

He turned, immediately alert. “What’s wrong?”

“Cat.”

“…That’s not a problem.”

“No—it’s at my window!”

A beat.

Then his eyes softened a little.

“Show me.”

⸻

You dragged him down the hall.

Your room was soft with yellow light. Plushies lined the edge of the bed. Crayon drawings taped crookedly to the walls.

And at the window, still quiet as a statue—

The cat.

Orange and white. One ear folded. Eyes wide.

You padded over to the glass, pressing your palms against it carefully. Slowly. Like you didn’t want to scare it.

He stood behind you.

You leaned close—so close your nose nearly touched the pane—and said in the smallest voice:

“…I hope he thinks I’m nice.”

Aizawa looked at you.

Then the cat.

Then you again.

And in that second, he didn’t see the quiet, careful kid that barely spoke during breakfast. He saw something brighter. Softer.

You cared if the cat liked you.

You wanted it to stay.

And that meant—maybe—you were starting to believe you might stay too.

“…I think he already does,” Aizawa said.

You didn’t answer. Just smiled a little. Barely.

A minute passed.

Then:

“Do cats like chicken?”

He blinked. “Some.”

“Do we have chicken?”

“We might.”

“…Can we give him some?”

He sighed like it was a big ask. But it wasn’t. Not really.

“Yeah. Let’s feed your guest.”

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, you and Aizawa sat on the floor by the window, watching the cat devour shredded chicken from a small plate.

“He’s not scared of me,” you whispered.

“No,” Aizawa said. “He’s smart.”

You rested your chin on your knees. “Maybe he’ll stay.”

Aizawa looked at you again—at the soft hope in your voice, fragile but real.

“Maybe he will,” he said quietly.

And in his head, he thought—

I hope you do too.