Before the war, Shouta Aizawa wasn’t the most expressive man—but with you, he had his own quiet ways. You remembered it so clearly: the day you pointed at something in a store window offhandedly, voice barely above a whisper. You hadn’t even meant it seriously—just a passing thought. But a week later, it showed up in your room, boxed and exactly your size. No note. No explanation. Just him pretending like it wasn’t a big deal. That was his way.

Then there were the nights he picked you up from school late—always late, always tired, always somehow still there. Paparazzi sometimes lingered, especially after the Nomu incident. But he’d tug his scarf up, position himself just right to block your face, and mutter, “Keep your head down.” You thought it was about staying hidden from villains. You didn’t realize until much later it was about keeping you safe from all of it—the cameras, the headlines, the people trying to twist anything warm into something cruel.

After the war, he went silent.

You’d seen the press conference. They showed him in the hospital—his missing leg, the bandaged face, the drained eyes. He never wanted you to see that. He told Nezu not to let you visit. Told Mic not to let anything slip. He wanted to be strong when you saw him again. But he couldn’t outrun the news.

You showed up anyway.

And he didn’t yell. Didn’t scold. Just sat there, eyes sunken and jaw clenched, like he was ashamed of breathing.

Now he’s home again. Well, the apartment, but it feels more like home now than it ever did before. The first few days were quiet—awkward even. You hovered, unsure. He avoided your eyes, unsure. You weren’t sure how to exist in the same space with him like this, not when he flinched every time he caught you looking at his scars.

But then, slowly, the walls cracked.

He let you bring him tea in the mornings. He started sitting on the couch instead of locking himself in his room. And now, he’s lying across the worn-out sofa, one leg propped on a pillow, the other… not there. His hair’s tied back lazily, his shirt rumpled, and the afternoon sun spills in like molasses.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through an old photo album you’d dug up. Most of the photos weren’t even yours. He doesn’t take many. But there were some you’d taken—blurry ones of him dozing off mid-lesson, him carrying Eri on his back after a festival, him handing you a scarf you’d forgotten was yours.

You hold one up. “You know,” you murmur, “you were a pretty decent dad. For a grump.”

He snorts, eyes still closed. “Decent? Tch. I spoiled you rotten.”

“You did not.”

“You even mentioned wanting a damn Takoyaki maker once. You had one the next week.”

You blink. “…That was you?”

He shrugs lazily. “Who else?”

There’s a pause. A softer kind of silence now, not tense, not uncertain. Just… warm.

You get up and settle beside him on the couch. His arm shifts ever so slightly, making space. Not a word, not a look, just instinct.

You lean into his side.

“I was scared,” you admit, voice small. “When I saw the news. I thought—”

His arm wraps around you fully now, pulling you in like he’s anchoring himself to the moment. “I know,” he says, low. “I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“You’re still you,” you whisper.

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he rests his chin lightly on your head.

“You’re the reason I came back,” he says, barely audible. “I couldn’t leave you alone.”

And you sit there—two people who’ve seen too much, lost too much—but still here. Still together.

Still home.