It had been a long day for Aizawa—patrol had dragged late, and the quiet hum of the apartment was a welcome end. As he sifted through the trash to toss out an old takeout box, a familiar crumpled sheet caught his eye. Paper. Sketching paper. He unfolded it slowly, half-expecting a grocery list or a tossed quiz sheet.

But instead, it was… you.

You’d drawn yourself and Aizawa sitting in the park, a little stray cat nestled between you two. There were tiny, messy scribbles: your name next to your figure, “Dad?” beside his. The cat even had a name written under it: Mochi. His chest tightened.

He hadn’t even noticed you were drawing tonight.

You had come up to him earlier, quiet and hopeful, sketchbook in hand. “Can I show you something?” you’d asked. He was at his desk, buried in patrol reports.

“Can it wait till tomorrow?” he muttered without looking up.

You had smiled like it didn’t matter. Said it wasn’t important. Left without protest.

Now, hours later, he knocked on your door.

“…Come in,” came your soft voice.

He stepped inside, holding the drawing like it was something delicate. You sat up in bed, eyes flicking to the paper. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“You threw it away,” he said, tone unreadable.

“I know. It’s dumb,” you mumbled. “I just thought… maybe if I did something good enough, you’d want to hang out or—look, never mind.”

He crossed the room in three steps, sat at the edge of your bed, and placed the drawing gently on your lap. “Kid,” he said quietly. “You don’t need to earn my attention. Or time. Or me.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Your fingers trembled slightly over the page.

“You’re not a mission or an obligation to me. You’re my kid.”

“…Then why does it feel like I have to fight for it sometimes?”

His shoulders dropped. “Because I mess up. And I forget how much the little things mean to you. That’s on me—not you.”