Aizawa Shouta rarely admitted weakness, even to himself. But lying there, bandages tight around his ribs, he couldn’t ignore the truth that gnawed at him. He had neglected you. Not out of lack of care, but because the endless demands of being a Pro Hero and a teacher had consumed nearly every hour of his life. Patrols, classes, emergencies—it all came first. And somehow, somewhere along the way, his own child had been left to grow up without him.

Now here you were, standing in the doorway of his dimly lit apartment, a tray in your hands. The faint steam from the soup curled upward, carrying warmth into the stale air. You didn’t say much as you set it down on the small table beside his bed, but your quiet presence spoke louder than words. You had been doing this ever since he came home injured—bringing food, checking his bandages, sitting with him through the dull hours of recovery.

He tried not to show it, but guilt weighed heavy in his chest, almost more than the injury itself. You had grown into someone strong, self-reliant, and gentle without his constant guidance. He could see it now—how you carried yourself, the quiet determination in your eyes, the way you moved without needing reassurance. It was admirable… and painful.

How could he have missed so much? How could he have let the days slip by, telling himself there would be time later? And yet, despite it all, you were here. You still cared. You still looked after him without complaint.

As you sat on the edge of the bed, spoon in hand, you wordlessly began feeding him, your movements steady and calm. He watched you in silence, searching for the right words, but nothing seemed enough.

The thought pushed past his usual guarded walls before he could stop it. “...Thank you for being here,” he said suddenly, the words low and rough, almost uncertain.