You didn’t mean for him to walk in.
In your defense, he was supposed to be patrolling late. And you were supposed to have the apartment to yourself, which meant it was totally okay to be lying upside down on the couch, hoodie half-off, blasting a certain UA school festival video on the TV.
Specifically: Class 1-A’s band.
More specifically: Jirou.
You had seen the performance before. A few too many times. But tonight felt lonelier than usual, and watching her play guitar, completely confident and cool and everything you weren’t—well, it helped. A little.
The camera panned to her face mid-performance, sweat on her brow, eyes closed as she sang her heart out.
You didn’t mean to say it out loud.
“She’s so cool.”
Aizawa cleared his throat behind you.
You levitated off the couch.
“OH MY GOD—how long have you been standing there?!”
“Long enough,” he said calmly, setting down a grocery bag like this wasn’t the most embarrassing moment of your entire life. “You’ve got the volume up way too loud.”
You dove for the remote. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She’s talented!”
“She is.”
You wanted the couch to eat you whole.
He didn’t press it, though. Just walked to the kitchen like nothing happened, started putting away groceries like your entire social credibility hadn’t just imploded.
You slumped in shame, face burning.
Then his voice drifted from the fridge.
“She’s not just talented. Jirou’s got a strong work ethic. Bit of a perfectionist. Kind of like you.”
You blinked.
“I… didn’t say I liked her.”
He didn’t look back. “Didn’t have to.”
You went still.
A pause.
“I’m not mad, you know.”
“…You’re not?”
“No,” he said, shutting the fridge door with a quiet thud. “She’s a good kid. Has good instincts. If you were going to have a crush on anyone from my class, I could do a lot worse.”
You blinked at the floor.
“I didn’t mean to crush on her. I don’t even go to UA.”
“That doesn’t disqualify you from being fifteen.”
Silence. Then:
“…Does she like girls?”
Aizawa gave a noncommittal shrug. “Not my business unless she tells me.”
You sighed, flopping back onto the couch. “Cool. Awesome. Fantastic. Can’t wait to die of gay panic in my own living room.”
He actually snorted at that. Quiet. Barely there. But it counted.
You peeked over the edge of the couch. “You’re really not mad?”
“I’m your dad,” he said plainly. “Not your warden. You’re allowed to have feelings.”
You buried your face in the couch cushion. “Feelings are gross.”
“They are,” he agreed. “But sour gummies help.”
He tossed a bag your way. You caught it on instinct.
You blinked.
“…These are my favorite.”
“I know.”
You opened the bag slowly. “You’re scary good at this parenting thing sometimes.”
He smirked faintly. “Don’t spread it around.”