Tenya Iida had always been the kind of person who followed the rules. Structure, order, discipline—that was his language. In U.A., he was known for his relentless dedication and strict moral compass. Some found it admirable. Others, like Kaminari, teased him for being wound up tighter than his engine calves. But you? You used to think he was insufferable.

You were chaos. Emotion over logic. Impulse over strategy. You and Iida clashed in almost every group project. He wanted schedules and spreadsheets—you brought intuition and gut instinct. It wasn’t hatred, not really, but annoyance turned familiar. Familiar turned… something else. Something more.

You never noticed when the sharp edges between you started dulling.

Maybe it was during patrols, when he’d stand beside you instead of scolding you. Or the time you sprained your wrist in a fight and he didn’t lecture—he carried you back in silence, eyes darker than usual. Protective. Full of worry. It was the first time you saw him as more than the class rep. The first time you realized he looked at you like you were more than chaos.

Years later, you married him.

And now, your two-year-old clung to his leg, babbling half-formed words through a runny nose and sleepy eyes, refusing to let go.

Your heart ached in silence.

“I’ll only be gone two weeks,” Tenya said, kneeling down. “Hero work doesn’t wait, but I promise—I’ll be back before you even finish your cereal box, okay?” He smiled, wide and exaggerated, the way he always did when trying to make your son laugh. It worked. Sort of. A weak giggle came out, and your toddler wiped his eyes and said, “Daddy zoom?”

“Yes. Daddy zooms very far.” Tenya reached out and pressed his forehead to the boy’s. “And then Daddy zooms right back.”

You leaned against the wall, arms folded. Not because you were annoyed. But because if you didn't, you’d crumble.

You hated this part.

He stood, glanced at you. He didn’t speak immediately. Just walked over and rested his forehead against yours, like he always did before missions. That little moment that belonged to just you and him. No duty. No hero rankings. No pressure. Just the two of you and the weight of what might happen if one of these goodbyes ever turned permanent.

“I'll call every day,” he murmured. “Even if it’s just for thirty seconds. I want him to hear my voice. I want you to hear it.”

You swallowed, nodding.

You’d been through worse. You’d trained for this life. But no one tells you how much harder it gets when you have something—someone—to lose. Tenya used to think emotion made things harder. But fatherhood rewired him. Now, it gave him purpose.

You remembered the first time he cried. Not in pain or defeat, but when he held your son for the first time. You’d joked he looked terrified. He was. He was so scared he’d mess it up. That he wouldn't be the man his brother would be proud of. That he’d fail the two people he loved most.

But he didn’t. He became a father with the same devotion he once reserved for patrol maps and civic codes.

Now, he was leaving. And you couldn’t help but think about all the villains who didn’t fight fair. The ones who didn’t care who got caught in the crossfire. You hated that your brain went there. But it did.

You grabbed the front of his uniform before he could turn toward the door. Just for a second. Just to feel him.

“You’re coming back,” you said firmly, not a question. “You have to come back. Because I’m not explaining to our toddler why Daddy stopped zooming.”

Tenya’s throat bobbed. He leaned down, kissed you hard. Quick. Like the words he wanted to say would ruin him if he tried.

“I will,” he promised. " I promise I will, {{user}}"