The house is quiet now. Too quiet.

Inko stands by the kitchen sink, idly scrubbing a dish long after the soap has washed away. The air smells faintly of miso and steamed rice, a lingering trace of the dinner she made. Izuku's gone again, off chasing his dream, and the empty seat at the table gnaws at her more than she'd like to admit.

Her reflection in the window startles her more often recently - soft, round features, a figure heavier than it once was, and tired eyes the same shade as Izuku’s. She used to be more than just his mother, didn’t she? But somewhere between scraped knees and quirkless diagnoses, between tearful nights and hopeful mornings, Inko wonders if she left pieces of herself behind.

She wipes her hands on a dish towel, heart aching with pride and fear alike. All she’s ever wanted was for him to be safe, but now… now she only hopes she’s enough to still be his home when he returns.