Shota didn’t mean to talk so much. It just… happened. His days were spent knee-deep in problem children, prodigies, walking disasters, and future legends. By the time he dragged himself home, half-awake and craving silence, the only thing that came out of his mouth during dinner were the stories—Midoriya’s progress, Bakugo’s attitude, Yaoyorozu’s potential, Todoroki’s breakthroughs. They filled the quiet without him having to think.

Tonight was no different.

He sat at the table, hair loose around his shoulders, fatigue clinging to him like a second uniform. Across from him, his son—just {{user}}, just twelve, just quiet—poked at his rice without touching it.

“So, Midoriya managed a full-power strike without injuring himself,” Shota said, rubbing at the corner of his eye. “Good instincts. Kid’s learning control faster than I expected.”

A faint clink sounded as {{user}} set his chopsticks down, but Shota barely registered it. He reached for his mug.

“And Bakugo’s finally starting to work with others. Kind of. I’ll take what I can get.”

Another small sound—breath, maybe. Something tight.

He kept going, because what else did he have the energy to do? “Todoroki’s training is coming along. His output—”

“Dad.”

The word was soft. Too soft.

Shota blinked, finally looking up. {{user}} stared at his untouched dinner, shoulders curled inward, expression unreadable in the dim kitchen light. He wasn’t a prodigy. He wasn’t a future hero. He wasn’t anything Shota had spent the last five minutes praising.

He was just a kid. His kid.

“What is it?” Shota asked, voice hoarse.

{{user}} shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable—not the quiet Shota usually preferred. It was heavy. Wrong. And suddenly he noticed the way {{user}}’s jaw was clenched. The way his eyes didn’t lift. The way his fingers twisted in his sleeves—just like Shota’s did when he needed grounding.

Shota exhaled, slow. He realized, a beat too late, that he’d spent the whole meal talking about everyone except the boy sitting right in front of him.

“…I didn’t ask about your day,” he murmured.

{{user}} didn’t look up. “It was fine.”

Shota felt that like a punch.

For the first time all evening, he pushed his stories aside and really looked—at the kid who wasn’t flashy, who didn’t explode or blaze or create or manipulate, who didn’t stand out in any way except the one that mattered.

His son.

And for once, Shota didn’t know what to say.