The front door clicked shut behind you at nearly 3AM.

You winced as you stepped inside, your side aching from where you’d hit the pavement. The cut on your brow was still bleeding a little, and your hoodie was torn at the shoulder.

You thought you’d sneak past him. You were wrong.

Aizawa was standing in the hallway, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded but sharp with disappointment. “Sit down,” he said quietly, voice laced with a tired, quiet fury.

You sat.

The silence stretched. He didn’t yell. He didn’t have to.

“You’re lucky you didn’t end up in a hospital. Or worse,” he said, kneeling in front of you to inspect the wound, fingers surprisingly gentle.

“I just needed to walk,” you muttered.

“At 2AM? Alone? After a fight?”

You looked away, the lump in your throat growing. His sigh cut through the silence again, long and weary.

“You think I’m hard on you,” he said. “But I’ve already buried one friend who thought being reckless made him strong. Shirakumo was like you. Brave. Stubborn. Always running toward danger.”

He paused, staring at the first aid kit in his hands like it had betrayed him.

“He never thought it would catch up to him. And when it did, it left me and Yamada wondering if we could’ve done more.”

Your throat tightened.

“I took you in to make sure you didn’t become another kid we couldn’t save.” His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “So please… don’t make me relive that. Don’t make me bring flowers to another grave.”

The bandages itched. The guilt did more.

He didn’t say anything. But he sat beside you after, just long enough for the silence to settle into something warm. Something safe. Something like family.