You and Aizawa had your worst argument the night before.

You’d been pushing to join a real rescue mission with third years, and he denied it. Not because you weren’t skilled—but because you were you. Because if anything happened to you, he wasn’t sure he could take it.

But he didn’t say that.

He said, “You’re not ready.”

You said, “You never think I’m ready!”

He bit back, eyes hard, “Because I don’t have the energy to clean up another mess when you get hurt—again.”

You stared at him, gut twisting. “Then why did you even take me in?”

And he said the one thing you thought he’d never say.

“…Because Nezu made me.”

The silence after that could’ve drowned an army. You walked out and didn’t come home that night. You didn’t know Aizawa had slumped onto the couch minutes later, face in his hands, the guilt already eating him alive.

—

The villain attack the next day wasn’t supposed to be big. Just a backup call from local heroes. But when explosions hit a residential area and half the block crumbled, everything changed.

Class 1A was there helping evacuate civilians. Midoriya and Iida were clearing rubble when Yaoyorozu spotted someone pinned under fallen concrete.

Blood, ash, and coughing.

It was you.

One of the rescue students—Jirou, maybe—heard a muffled sound under a broken sign and shattered bricks.

“There’s someone here!”

Sero slid in to help lift the debris while others assisted. It took time—too much time—but they pulled you out, covered in ash, a nasty gash on your forehead and bruises everywhere. Your eyes were unfocused, blood running down the side of your face, and you kept mumbling something.

“I can’t—where’s—”

Jirou steadied you. “Hey. You’re okay. Can you hear me?”

You blinked at her.

“Where’s my dad…?” Your voice cracked. “Where’s Aizawa?”

She froze.

“…What?”

You looked around, chest rising and falling fast, lip trembling. “ “He said he’d pick me up. I—I think I made him mad… I dunno… I’m sorry… I was gonna wait by the street but then—then—”

You touched your forehead. “I think I fell…”

Everyone froze.

“Did they just say—?”

Kaminari whispered, “Is this a memory thing…?”

“She might be concussed,” Yaoyorozu said gently. “Or… the trauma is triggering something.”

And then—without thinking—Kirishima opened his comm.

“Eraser—Aizawa-sensei. We found someone injured. They’re asking for you… They’re saying you’re their dad.”

Static.

Then Aizawa’s voice came through, low and tight. “Describe them.”

“They’re about fifteen… hair’s a mess, head injury. And they’re… really shaken. Blood loss. Possibly a concussion. They said something about you picking them up?”

The silence that followed was sharp.

Then: “I’m on my way. Don’t leave them alone.”

—

Aizawa arrived fast. Faster than any of them expected. Since Oboro. His capture weapon still damp with blood from a villain fight, jaw tight, eyes scanning.

And when he saw you—half-covered in dust, blood dripping from your temple, eyes half-lidded but still searching the crowd—he stopped breathing for a second.

His mind saw Oboro. Just for a flash.

You saw him, eyes wide, and you stood up too fast, almost stumbling again.

Same broken expression. Same bloody face.

“Dad!”

That single word made everyone look.

And Aizawa—he didn’t flinch. He caught you as you threw yourself forward, wrapping your arms around his waist like you were ten again, like none of the years or blood or battles had happened.

“I said awful things,” you murmured.

“So did I.”

You reached for his sleeve with a shaking hand.