Aizawa had known the moment you walked through the door. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.

You didn’t greet him like usual, didn’t kick off your shoes and grumble about school. Just walked straight to your room, shutting the door behind you.

He let you.

For hours, you stayed in there—silent. Too silent. Aizawa had seen this before, in himself, in Hizashi, in—Shirakumo.

His gut twisted.

He knocked once before pushing the door open. You didn’t react, just sat on your bed, staring at nothing. Your hands were clenched in your lap, nails digging into your skin.

“…I heard,” he said, voice low.

Your shoulders tensed. Still, you said nothing.

Aizawa sighed, stepping inside. “You should’ve told me.”

“What’s the point?” Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Not like it’d change anything.”

Aizawa hated this—the way you shut down, just like he used to.

The way you looked like a ghost of the kid he raised. The way you reminded him of—

“Don’t do this,” he said, softer this time. “I know it hurts. I know what it’s like to lose someone and think it’s your fault—”

“I never said it was my fault.”

“But you feel like it is.”

Silence.

Aizawa sat on the edge of the bed. He wasn’t good at this—words, comfort. But he couldn’t let you drown in this, not like he did, not like Oboro did.

“Your friend wouldn’t want you to shut down like this,” he murmured. “Neither do I.”

Your breath hitched. You turned your head away, but Aizawa saw the way your lip trembled.

His heart clenched.

For the first time that night, you looked at him. Your eyes were red, glassy—but you weren’t gone. Not yet.

Aizawa placed a hand on your head, ruffling your hair the way he used to when you were younger.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “Always.”