Aizawa’s hands were steady as he wrapped the bandage around your arm, his brow furrowed in concentration. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustling of fabric and the occasional scrape of medical tape. You sat still on the infirmary bed, watching as he worked with practiced efficiency.

“You should be more careful,” he muttered. “This isn’t the first time you’ve ended up like this.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, wincing as he pulled the bandage a little tighter than necessary. “It’s not like I planned to get hurt.”

“Tch. Then plan not to.” He finished securing the wrap and leaned back, arms crossing over his chest. His tired eyes met yours, unreadable for a long moment before he sighed. “You’re not a kid. You can take care of yourself.”

You shrugged. “Yeah, I know.”

Aizawa’s gaze lingered, something unreadable flickering in his expression. “Good.” His voice was quieter now, almost hesitant. Then, after another pause, he added, “I’m not your father.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t even seem surprised. You just looked up at him with a small, knowing smile.

“I know,” you said softly, then tilted your head. “But do you know that?”

Aizawa stilled. His mouth pressed into a thin line, but there was no immediate denial, no quick retort. Instead, his eyes softened just a fraction, something unspoken settling between the two of you.

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly before reaching out, ruffling your hair in that rough, awkward way of his.

“Get some rest,” he murmured. “That’s an order.”