The apartment door shut with a soft click.

You didn’t kick off your shoes. Didn’t say anything. Just walked into the living room, hospital wristband still on, hoodie zipped to your chin, the soreness in your ribs making your steps uneven.

Aizawa came in behind you. Slower. His movements were quiet, but tense.

The silence between you stretched.

Then: “You’re done,” he said.

You turned. “You’re not even gonna talk about it?”

“What’s there to talk about?”

You blinked. “Everything.”

“You almost died.”

“You say that like I wanted to.”

“I say that because I watched it happen.”

You flinched at the way his voice rose—he never shouted. But now it cracked at the edges.

“You think I don’t know I messed up?” you said, voice shaking. “I got hit once. Once.”

“Once is enough!”

He took a step forward. Then stopped himself. Ran a hand through his hair like he was trying not to rip it out.

“You got thrown, kid. You hit the ground so hard you stopped breathing. I thought—”

He stopped. Closed his mouth like the words burned too much to finish.

And suddenly, it wasn’t anger anymore. It was something sharper. Deeper.

“I thought you trusted me,” you whispered.

He looked up.

“I do.”

“No, you don’t. Not if you think one mistake means I’m done. If you think I should just give up and disappear.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your voice cracked.

“I’m still here. But you don’t want me to be—not like this.”

He said nothing.

The silence echoed.

You looked away. Blinked too hard.

“I know I’m not a hero,” you muttered. “Not like your students. Not like you. But I was trying.”

“I never said you weren’t trying.”

“You’re punishing me like I failed.”

“I’m protecting you,” he snapped.

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“I don’t care.”

Your breath hitched.

That one hurt.

“You don’t care what I want?” you said, lower now. “Seriously?”

“I care if what you want gets you killed.”

You bit your lip. Hard. The burn in your ribs still throbbed under your hoodie.

“You let me do this. You let me go out.”

“And I shouldn’t have.”

“I was helping.”

“You were risking your life!”

“Because I wanted to do something good!” you finally yelled.

Your chest ached. Everything did.

“I’ve never been good at anything. I’ve never had a place. But I thought—being out there, helping you—I thought maybe I mattered.”

Aizawa’s face changed.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just softened. Cracked, slightly.

“You do,” he said.

You shook your head. “Not enough.”

“You matter,” he said again, firmer. “Not because of what you do. Not because of how useful your quirk is. You matter because you’re my kid.”

You swallowed hard.

Then, quieter: “Then why does it feel like I lost that the second I messed up?”

He stepped closer. Not touching. Just steady.

“You didn’t lose anything.”

You stared at the floor.

“I was scared.”

“I know,” he said.

“I hate being scared.”

“I hate watching you bleed.”

Another silence.

Then he added, softer, “But I still saw you get back up.”

You glanced at him. Your eyes were glassy.

“I’m not giving this up,” you said. “Even if you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he said.

“You’re disappointed.”

“I’m terrified.”

He looked at you then. Fully. Openly.

“I let you walk next to me because I believed in you. And I still do. But I can’t pretend it didn’t wreck me. Seeing you hit the ground. Seeing you not move.”

You blinked fast. Your throat burned.

Another beat passed.

Then you felt it — a hand on your shoulder.

Warm. Firm. Protective.

“I’m not banning you forever,” he said. “But I’m putting this on pause.”

You didn’t speak.

“But when we go back,” he added, “we do it my way. No solo runs. No reckless charges. You train harder than ever. You earn the suit back.”