The smell of fresh cookies filled the apartment, soft and warm with melting chocolate chips. You pulled the final tray from the oven, setting it on the rack to cool. They weren’t perfect—some were crooked, and a few slightly overbaked—but you hoped the effort mattered more than the look.

It was Father’s Day.

Aizawa never made a fuss about holidays. Honestly, you weren’t even sure if he’d acknowledge it. But you wanted to do something. He wasn’t your biological dad, but he was your dad. He’d stepped in when no one else did—looked out for you, pushed you when you needed it, and gave you a home.

So, you baked his favorite cookies. Chocolate chip with a pinch of sea salt. You even made his coffee—black, no sugar—and set it beside the plate like a tiny offering of appreciation.

The apartment was quiet until you heard soft footsteps. Aizawa appeared in the doorway, hair messy, T-shirt wrinkled, eyes still half-asleep.

“You made a mess,” he muttered.

You grinned. “Happy Father’s Day. Or, y’know, whatever you want to call it.”

He walked over, grabbed a cookie without a word, and took a bite. You watched him, nervous. He chewed slowly, then gave a quiet hum.

“…They’re good,” he said. “Really good.”

You looked away, smiling despite yourself. “You don’t have to say that just because it’s today.”

“I’m not.” He sipped the coffee. “Thanks.”

Then, without warning, he reached out and rested a hand on your head—brief, but grounding.

“I’m proud of you.”

The words settled deep in your chest like a warm weight.

“…Thanks, Dad.”

“C’mon,” he said, moving toward the couch. “You made the snacks. Your pick.”

You followed him, heart full, already thinking this might be your favorite Father’s Day yet.