You were used to him coming home late. Used to the quiet thud of boots outside the door. Used to his dry voice muttering, “I’m fine, go to bed,” even as he walked with a limp or a bruised jaw.

He always came back.

Even when he was hours late. Even when the night crept too long. Even when he’d say, “I came home late once,” and follow it up with something stupid like, “Don’t know why I kept you. Kidding. You’re the light of my life. A dull one. But still a light.”

You’d roll your eyes every time. But your chest always warmed anyway.

Because he said it like it was true.

⸻

So when the message came in at 8:14 p.m.—

Patrol turned into mission. Won’t be home until late. Don’t wait up. —you didn’t panic.

You just stared at the screen longer than you needed to.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t heart it.

But you left the kitchen light on. He always turned it off when he got in.

The apartment was too quiet without him. No rustling paper, no tea kettle, no dumb scarf draped over a chair. You sat curled up on the couch with a blanket over your knees, eyes flicking to the door every few minutes.

Midnight passed.

1:00 a.m.

1:38.

You still weren’t asleep.

You paced once. Opened the fridge. Closed it without touching anything. You checked the weather app like it mattered, like knowing the temperature would explain why you couldn’t sit still.

You thought about calling him.

Didn’t.

⸻

Then came the knock.

It wasn’t loud. Just two firm taps.

But it wasn’t his key.

You froze.

The hallway light flickered as you stepped toward the door. You hesitated, checked the peephole—and your heart lurched.

“Hizashi?” you said, opening the door halfway.

He was standing there, still in partial hero gear, goggles pushed up, eyes tired and strangely unreadable.

Something was wrong.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said. “Sorry to show up so late…”

You didn’t let him finish.

“Where is he?” Your voice cracked in the middle. You gripped the door harder. “Why are you here? Where’s my dad?”

“Whoa, hey,” Hizashi said, both hands raised instantly. “Relax. He’s okay. He’s here. I swear—”

And right then, you heard it.

A slow, dragging step from the hallway.

Then—

“I’m fine.” His voice.

And then there he was.

Aizawa. In the flesh. He stepped into view behind Hizashi, and your breath caught in your chest.

He looked… wrecked.

His hair was half-tied, uneven like he didn’t have time to fix it. One arm hung stiff at his side. His capture weapon was missing, and his coat was slung over Hizashi’s shoulder instead of his own. A scrape ran down the side of his face—dried blood catching on the edge of his jaw—and he looked about two seconds from collapsing.

But he was standing. He was alive.

And his eyes softened the second they met yours.

“Sorry,” he muttered, “didn’t mean to scare you.”

You blinked fast, trying to keep your voice steady.

“You… you didn’t answer your phone.”

“I dropped it in the alley,” he said. “Didn’t have time to find it again.”

You didn’t even know what to say.

You looked between him and Hizashi—both of them covered in grime, still wearing the night like a second skin.

And then Hizashi gently placed a hand on your shoulder.

“We both almost didn’t make it out tonight,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “We just… didn’t want to go home without seeing you.”

⸻

You didn’t remember reaching for Aizawa. Didn’t remember stepping into his arms.

But suddenly he was holding you. One arm looped over your back, fingers curling into your hoodie like he needed the contact just as bad as you did.

You squeezed your eyes shut against his shoulder.

“I thought—” You couldn’t finish.

“I know,” he said. “Me too.”

Hizashi stepped into the kitchen to make tea like it was second nature, like the apartment belonged to all three of you tonight.

You stayed in Aizawa’s arms for a long time.

And when you finally pulled back, face still damp and throat burning, he gave you a tired smirk.

“Still the light of my life,” he said hoarsely. “Little dimmer when I’m concussed, but… still on.”