Aizawa stood outside your door for the fourth time that night.

He didn’t knock.

He hadn’t knocked in years.

He used to say you needed space. Independence. That silence taught discipline. He used to believe the quiet was protection—that if he didn’t get too close, he wouldn’t hurt you. That you’d be better off if he stayed… controlled. Professional.

You were 14 now.

And nothing about that “space” felt like protection anymore.

⸻

You watched him from across the training grounds that afternoon.

He’d smiled at someone.

Smiled.

Patted Shoji’s shoulder. Told Yaoyorozu she’d improved her reaction time. Even gave Kaminari a half-nod of approval for a well-executed combo.

But when your turn came? Nothing.

Just a clipped “Again.”

Just a cold stare.

⸻

He found you sitting in the corner of the dorm rooftop after lights-out. Knees tucked in, hoodie sleeves too long, mouth tight.

“You’re not supposed to be up here,” he said quietly.

You didn’t even glance at him.

“You’re proud of everyone else but me.”

The words came out flat. Not loud. But sharp enough to cut.

Aizawa didn’t respond. The wind did. Quiet and cold.

You laughed bitterly. “What, nothing? You’re not even gonna deny it?”

“…It’s not like that.”

“Oh?” You looked up, eyes red. “Because it sure feels like that.”

He took a step closer, cautious. “You’ve always been—”

“Don’t pretend we’re close now.” You stood. “You can’t just show up when I finally break and act like you were ever here.”

“I was here,” he said. “I raised you.”

“No, you didn’t. You fed me. You clothed me. You trained me like a soldier. But you were never really here. You chose to stay detached. I needed a father.”

He looked like the ground had opened under him.

And still—you couldn’t stop.

“I waited. Every year. Every holiday. Every good grade. I waited for you to say something. And all I ever got was silence.”

“I thought it was safer,” he said. Quiet. Ragged. “I didn’t want you to depend on me. In case I—” He stopped himself.

“In case you left?” you snapped. “Guess what. You did anyway.”

His mouth opened.

But no sound came out.

And that’s when you cracked.

“You’re not supposed to hate me.”

The scream broke out before you realized you were shouting. “You’re not supposed to hate me. But that’s what it felt like. Every time you looked at me like I was a mistake. Like you regretted having me in your life.”

His face crumpled—finally, something. But it was too late.

Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“I forgave you. I did. I still love you. I just… don’t trust you anymore.”

He stepped forward.

Paused.

You didn’t move.

Just stood there, looking like the same kid he found all those years ago. Tired. Brave. Small.

“…Can I fix it?” he asked.

You shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

And then, softer:

“But I don’t want to hate you either.”

⸻

He didn’t say anything else.

Just walked over, slow, and took off his scarf. He draped it around your shoulders—awkward, unsure.

You flinched.

He stopped.

And that was when it hit him—that the distance he built wasn’t protecting you.

It was keeping you from him.

⸻

You heard a knock later that night.

A soft thump on your door.

When you opened it, no one was there. Just a package.

Inside?

A worn-out scarf. Identical to the one he wore every day. But smaller. Yours.

You turned it over and found a note scribbled in tired handwriting:

“You’re right. I don’t know how to be a father. But I want to try. If you’ll let me. —Shouta.”

And beneath that, smaller:

“Happy Birthday. I didn’t forget this time.”

You sat on your bed and stared at it in your lap.