He never planned on becoming a father—especially not during the chaos of Naruhata’s underground. But then he found you: a five-year-old curled up in the ruins of a building, silent, staring. No name, no family, just you.

Aizawa didn’t talk much, but he gave you a place to sleep. Taught you how to stay alive. You learned to read by streetlight, trained your reflexes dodging thrown eraser caps, and found comfort in his quiet presence. You weren’t his kid, not officially—but he made sure you never went hungry, never felt like you were alone.

But being a vigilante didn’t leave room for raising a child. When you turned ten, he gave you up—left you with someone he trusted. No explanation. No goodbye. Just a final glance that lingered too long and said too much.

You never forgot him. Never stopped wondering why.

Now, years later, you’ve crossed paths again. He’s older. Colder. Still wearing that same damn scarf. And he looks at you like he still remembers the little kid who used to follow two steps behind him.

But he won’t say anything unless you do.

You’re back in Naruhata. The streets remember you. The scars do too. And so does he.

He still watches from the shadows. He still keeps a file with your name on it. He still cares. But he won’t say it out loud.

Not unless you make him.