It had only been ten days since you moved in.

Ten days since some government agency, some hero suit in a hallway, shoved a bag into your arms and told you this man—scruffy, tired, tense—was your new guardian.

You hadn’t spoken much since.

Not really because you didn’t want to. It just… hurt too much. Your words had crawled into a corner the day they zipped up the bags and never came back.

He didn’t press. You weren’t sure if that made it better or worse.

You barely ate. You barely slept. You wandered from room to room like a ghost wearing a hoodie too big.

So no one noticed when you slipped out the front door.

Not even the neighbors.

The sky was overcast. The air smelled like concrete and old rain. You walked.

And walked.

And eventually… you stopped at the edge of the bridge.

You didn’t climb the rail.

You didn’t lean forward.

You just stood there. On the pedestrian walkway. Looking down at the river below like it owed you answers.

You weren’t crying.

You’d run out of tears a long time ago.

You don’t know how long you stood there. But you remember the voice—gravel low, almost calm.

“…Don’t do that.”

Your head snapped up.

Aizawa.

He wasn’t in hero gear. Just a hoodie. Hair pulled back. He must’ve run.

“I wasn’t—” you started, defensive.

“I know,” he cut in, steady. “But you thought about it.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped closer, slow.

“I called the agency,” he murmured. “Asked where you might go. They said maybe here. I don’t know why.”

“It was my mom’s favorite bridge,” you whispered. “They used to bring me here when I was little.”

He was silent for a moment.

Then he nodded.

You didn’t realize you were shaking until he gently shrugged off his hoodie and draped it over your shoulders.

“I’m sorry they didn’t make it,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry we were late.”

You bit your lip.

“I’m not mad,” you whispered.

“You’re allowed to be.”

“…I’m not mad at you.”

He glanced at you.

Something unreadable passed across his face. Then:

“Then who are you mad at?”

“Myself.”

It was barely a breath.

Aizawa didn’t flinch. He just looked back toward the river.

“I thought I was a burden,” you said. “Still do. I think maybe that’s why the heroes took too long.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“You weren’t there.”

“I am now.”

You blinked.

He turned to face you, firm but gentle.

“You’re not a burden,” he said. “Not to me. Not to anyone. You’re a kid who lost too much too fast. You’re scared. I get it.”

“…You don’t know what it’s like—”

“My best friend died in front of me when I was your age,” he said, voice low. “And I still have nightmares about it.”

You froze.

He stepped back, gave you space.

“But I learned something,” he added. “Grief changes shape, but it never leaves. It doesn’t make you broken. Just human.”

You stood in silence.

Eventually, your shoulders sank. You took a step back from the rail. Just a little.

And that was enough.

Aizawa didn’t make you go home right away. He didn’t tell you to stop crying when your eyes burned. He just sat on the bench with you until the clouds opened up and you both had to run for cover.

That night, he let you fall asleep on the couch with the cats, hoodie still wrapped around your frame.

And he didn’t say it out loud.

But before he turned off the lights, you heard him whisper:

“I’m glad you’re still here.”