The apartment was quiet that night, just the hum of the fan and the scratch of Aizawa’s pen as he worked through another stack of papers at the dining table.

You didn’t say anything when you walked in—just sort of hovered by the edge of the room for a moment, then drifted over without a word. You were 14 now, too old to be clingy (supposedly), but something in you didn’t really care about that tonight.

He didn’t look up when you rested your head lightly against his knee, settling on the floor beside his chair. Just kept grading like it was normal. Because it kind of was.

“Rough day?” he asked eventually, voice low and even.

You shrugged against his leg. “Mm. ‘s fine.”

“Did you eat?”

“Yuh.” Your answer was half mumbled, already drifting off.

He didn’t press. Just reached down once to run his fingers through your hair — slow, thoughtful — before going back to red-marking someone’s absolutely tragic excuse of a math quiz.

By the time he finished the last page, your breathing was slow and steady. Asleep. Fully passed out, cheek pressed against his knee like it was the safest place in the world.

He looked down at you and sighed.

“You’re getting too big for this,” he muttered, not unkindly.

Still, he didn’t wake you.

Instead, he pushed the chair back gently, bent down, and lifted you into his arms. You stirred slightly, arms automatically curling around his neck out of habit.

“Dad?” you mumbled sleepily.

“Yeah. It’s just me,” he said softly.

You didn’t reply, but the small sigh you let out as you buried your face in his shoulder said enough.

He laid you down in bed, pulling the blanket up to your chin, then just… stayed. Sat on the edge, watching you breathe for a little while like he was making sure the world hadn’t gotten to you too badly today.

Because no matter how old you got, you were still his kid.

And if staying beside you a little longer made the nightmares stay away, then he’d skip sleep a thousand times over.

No hesitation.

No complaint.

Just Dad.

Always.