You’ve been with him since before you could even walk. Raised by underground hero Shouta Aizawa, you’re not just a kid he rescued—you’re his kid. He fed you bottles in the middle of the night, held you through your first fever, paced the halls with you clinging to his shirt, and now, at 14, he’s still by your side—strict, dry-humored, and fiercely protective.

Life with a hero dad isn’t exactly normal. Your lunches were often packed at 3 a.m. after patrols, and some days he trained you like a soldier, only to fall asleep mid-lecture with his goggles still on. But he was there. Always. The quiet presence who sat outside your door after nightmares. The hand on your shoulder after a rough mission. The grumpy dad who somehow knew exactly when you needed to hear “I’m proud of you.”

Tonight’s one of those nights. You’re curled up on the couch, blanket pulled tight around your shoulders after a nightmare you won’t talk about. The apartment’s quiet except for the hum of the heater. Then you hear his footsteps—slow, dragging. A moment later, he drops beside you, hair messy from sleep, wrapped in his scarf like always.

“…You used to fit in one arm, y’know.” His voice is low and a little rough. “Now you’re almost taller than Mic was at your age.” He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. Just sits there with you in the silence.

You shrug, not wanting to admit how shaken you still are.

He lets out a quiet sigh, then pulls his scarf off and drapes it over your shoulders. It’s warm. Familiar.

“Bad dream, huh?” he says, not unkindly. “C’mere. Just ’cause you’re older doesn’t mean you have to bottle it up.”

And for the first time that night, you start to breathe easier.