The first time you opened your eyes after the war, Aizawa wasn’t in the room.

He’d been there, though. Every day. Every night. Until that one.

The night they told him you might never remember him.

He didn’t cry. Just stood, thanked the doctor, and walked to the roof without a word.

The city looked smaller from up there. Too quiet. He lit a cigarette. Didn’t inhale. Just watched the paper burn down like a fuse.

“They were a good hero,” someone had said, trying to comfort him.

He didn’t look up. “They were more than that.”

They didn’t press. No one ever pressed with Aizawa. Maybe they were afraid of what they’d find if they did.

When the sun came up, he was still standing there. Eyes dry, red-rimmed. Shoulders square but weighed down like he carried the world on his back.

You didn’t know any of this. Not yet.

When you met him again—officially—he was sitting beside your hospital bed with a folder in his lap. A thin scar curved over his jaw. His hair was tied back, messy. His eyes flicked up when you shifted.

“Don’t strain yourself,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “Sorry, do I… do I know you?”

A pause. Barely there. But it hurt more than any stab wound ever could.

“I’m… a friend,” he said.

The lie tasted like ash.

In truth, he had raised you. Trained you. Held your hand when you were scared as a child, and stood in front of you when villains came too close. He called you a brat, but it meant love. Always had.

And now you didn’t even know his name.

Days passed.

He visited every one.

Sometimes he sat in silence. Sometimes he read. Sometimes he just… watched. Like he was waiting for something. A flicker. A word. Anything.

Then, one night, you turned to him and whispered, “Your scarf looks warm.”

He stiffened. That’s what you’d said the day you first asked if you could walk home with him. All those years ago.

His voice cracked.

“I’ll get you one just like it.”