You didn’t run again.

After the fourth time, after he’d stood in your empty room and flipped through the pages of your notebook—your private, scrawled thoughts about every family that tried to take you in—something had changed.

He never said anything about the pages you’d written about him.

Never mentioned the note scribbled between messy lines: He doesn’t yell. He just waits. I think maybe that’s worse. But maybe it means he wants me to stay?

But he’d left the notebook neatly folded on your bed the next morning. With a post-it stuck to the front.

“You didn’t finish the page about this place.” “If you ever write about me again—make it honest. I can take it.”

—A.

That was it.

That’s how you knew he read it.

And for some reason, that’s why you stayed.

You didn’t really know what you were waiting for. Maybe proof that he wouldn’t give up. Maybe proof that he actually saw you.

So you stopped running.

But you didn’t stop testing.

—

You started small.

Organizing your bookshelf. Feeding the cats. Doing laundry without being asked.

And eventually…

“Hey, um…” You hovered in the doorway of the living room, a paper crumpled slightly in your hand.

Aizawa looked up from the couch. He was grading something—his red pen capped, scarf loose around his shoulders.

You stepped in slowly. “We got report cards today.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Already?”

“…Midterms,” you muttered.

You crossed the room, holding the paper out like it might explode. He didn’t reach for it immediately, just blinked up at you until you dropped it on the table.

Straight A’s.

A few teacher comments. Notes about your improvement. Your participation.

“I thought maybe you’d…” You hesitated. “I don’t know. Want to know. Or something.”

There was a pause.

He picked up the paper. Read it. Gave the tiniest, barely-there nod.

“Good job.”

You waited.

That’s all?

“…That’s it?” you asked, heart sinking just a little.

He blinked. “You want a parade?”

You made a face. “No, I just—”

“You want praise?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. “…I guess not.”

A beat of silence.

Then, he set the paper down.

“Alright,” he said. “In that case—”

He reached over.

And ruffled your hair.

Like it was nothing. Like it was natural. His hand paused there a second too long before pulling away.

“I’m proud of you, kid.”

You blinked.

It was the first time he’d ever said it out loud.

You couldn’t help it. You grinned. It was kind of dumb. But warm, too.

You nodded slowly. “Okay. Cool.”

He nodded back. “Cool.”