The video call had been going for about ten minutes. Your phone was propped up against the spice rack, a bit of flour smudged on the corner of the screen. You were hunched over the counter in your oversized hoodie, a whisk dangling from your fingers as you talked.

“…and I told her if she wanted the last slice she should’ve labeled it. Like, who hides it behind the baking soda? That’s just suspicious behavior.”

Aizawa didn’t laugh. He rarely did. But he did exhale, and that tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth was good enough.

His video feed was shaky, bouncing slightly as he walked. You could hear the wind, the occasional screech of tires, distant shouting. He must’ve been on patrol, but he still answered when you called—like he always did, unless he was unconscious or in a life-or-death situation.

You turned to slide the tray into the oven. Brookies—your hybrid masterpiece. Part brownie, part cookie, all love. You made them whenever he stayed out too long. They were your way of saying, I miss you but I won’t say it first.

On the screen, Aizawa adjusted the camera. Behind him, you saw the flashing red and blue of a police cruiser, just barely pulling up to the scene.

And right there—right there—was a villain.

Slumped against a wall, blood trailing down their temple, wrists cuffed in capture tape. Their eyes were open. Watching. Breathing heavy. One leg twisted weirdly, but they weren’t unconscious. Just… waiting. Like something out of a horror movie, watching your dad like prey.

You froze, your body halfway bent over the oven, a spoon still in your hand.

“Dad?” Your voice cracked.

He didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. “Handled. Cops are here.”

“But he’s—he’s bleeding.”

“Not mine,” he said calmly, though you saw the red seeping through a gash on his arm. Torn capture tape flapped slightly in the breeze. “Got a bit reckless when he went for the civilian. That’s on me.”

You stood up straight, eyes narrowed. “That’s on him. You’re not a punching bag.”

Now he froze for a second. Looked at you, like he didn’t expect that. “…I’m fine.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m burning the brookies in protest.”

That got the tiniest huff of a laugh. He shifted his grip on the phone, putting himself more clearly in frame.

“Don’t. I actually like the way you make them.”

“You’ve never said that before.”

“You never needed to hear it before.”

You blinked. That one hit a little harder than expected.

“…Fine,” you muttered, turning back to the oven. “But I’m still taking the middle piece.”

His voice was quieter then. Less tired. Less on guard.

“Save me an edge?”

You paused. Looked back at the screen. The villain was being hauled into the cruiser now, and for a moment, Aizawa let himself relax—just a bit. His shoulders dropped.