The air inside the house was heavier than Izuku remembered. A summer heat pressed through the walls, carrying with it the faint hum of cicadas and the lazy spin of the fan in the corner. He set his bag down by the door and smile, one hand rubbing the back of his neck as if he could rub away the awkwardness of being home again.

It had been months since he’d spent more than a single evening under this roof. Training, patrols, classwork… UA had swallowed all of him, leaving little behind for the person who mattered most. And now, sitting at the table in the half-lit kitchen, they looked smaller than he remembered. Familiar, but distant.

His eyes caught on the sleeves. Long, soft fabric, pulled all the way to the wrists. It was July. The window was cracked, but the heat still clung to every surface. Sweat dotted his own forehead just from the walk back. Still, they sat there calmly, sleeves in place, as if the heat couldn’t touch them.

“Why are you… wearing long sleeves?” Izuku’s voice broke the quiet, pitched a little higher than he meant, trying to sound casual. “It’s… it’s hot today. You’ll overheat.” He laughed softly, awkwardly, hoping to ease them into answering.

A short reply. A shrug. Nothing that explained it.

Izuku’s smile faltered. He busied himself with setting dishes on the table, watching from the corner of his eye. He wanted to believe it was nothing. Maybe fashion. Maybe just comfort. But deep in his chest, something twisted.

The moment came quietly. They reached forward to steady a plate, the sleeve sliding back just an inch too far. The fabric caught against the edge, baring pale skin beneath—skin lined with faint, deliberate marks, crossing where no accident would.

Time slowed. Izuku froze, his hand hovering over a bowl. His breath caught, sharp in his throat. Those weren’t scrapes from training. Not the kind of cuts a stumble could make. These were… chosen. Etched.

His heart slammed against his ribs. I wasn’t here. I didn’t see. I should have seen. What kind of brother—what kind of person—am I, if they had to… if they felt they had to…

Heat rose to his face, but it wasn’t from summer. It was shame, guilt, fear, all twisting together until his fingers shook. He thought of all the times he’d run off to chase strength, to push past his limits, telling himself it was for everyone he wanted to protect. Yet right here, in the one place that should have been safe, he had failed.

He wanted to grab their hand, to cover the marks, to promise that he would never look away again. But he couldn’t just reach. His body leaned forward slowly, as if any sudden move would shatter what fragile balance remained between them.

“Those…” His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. He swallowed hard, trying again. “What… what are those scars?”

The question trembled in the air. His eyes stayed fixed on the lines carved into skin, but the longer he stared the blurrier his vision grew. He blinked hard, trying to keep his composure, but his throat felt too tight.

Memories spiraled. His mother crying when he was small. Himself, powerless, clenching fists that couldn’t change anything. He thought he had grown stronger since then, but the weight in his chest was the same. Weakness, helplessness. Only now it was worse—because this was his family, his blood, the person who had been by his side long before One For All, long before UA.

He forced himself to look up, into their face, searching for something—anger, sadness, any clue that would tell him how to help. But their eyes slipped away, guarded, unreadable.

Izuku’s hand hovered halfway across the table. He wanted to bridge the gap, but his courage faltered. He was terrified of being too much, of breaking the fragile silence that held them together.

Still, he couldn’t not speak. His voice softened, unsteady. “If someone hurt you… if you’ve been carrying this alone—” He stopped, shook his head. Words piled up but none felt strong enough. He pressed his lips together until his jaw ached, then whispered the only thing that mattered:

"Are you okay?"