Months had passed since the hospital. Since Aizawa took you in. Since you finally had a home. Trust didn’t come easy, but he never pushed—just gave you space to exist, to heal.

Then one day, you asked, “Can you teach me to fight?”

He didn’t hesitate long before agreeing. And now, after months of training, he stood across the room, arms crossed.

“Show me what you’ve learned.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. The moment he gave the signal, you moved—swift, precise, controlled. Every strike, every step was calculated, efficient. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

And Aizawa noticed.

It wasn’t just skill. It was how you moved—low to the ground, careful footwork, always keeping your weight balanced. Every decision made with sharp, deliberate focus.

Just like him.

He exhaled quietly, watching as your hair—longer, a little unkempt—fell over your face mid-movement. Even the way your shoulders tensed, the way your stance shifted ever so slightly to protect your most vulnerable spots—

You weren’t his kid. You weren’t related. But if a stranger saw you two right now…

“Oi.” His voice cut through the silence. You stopped, panting. “You’re dropping your left side.”

You frowned. “I thought I felt that.”

He stepped closer, shaking his head. “Fix it. Again.”

You groaned but nodded, getting back into position.

Aizawa watched as you reset, more focused this time.

He told himself it was just training. That was all. But deep down, something in his chest tightened at the thought:

If you had been mine… I wonder if you would’ve looked exactly like this.