You didn’t expect to see him again.

Aizawa Shouta — the pro hero, the ghost, the father who never acted like one.

He wasn’t there when you learned to control your quirk.

Wasn’t there when the side effects nearly tore you apart.

He wasn’t there when you needed someone to stay.

You were just a kid when he left — or when the Commission took you away from him, depending on who you asked. Either way, he didn’t fight it. Not loud enough. Not hard enough.

So you stopped calling him Dad.

Stopped saying his name at all.

You built your own life. Got stronger. Sharper. Built your name on the streets and among vigilantes who knew what it was like to be used, discarded, feared.

And now?

Now he was here.

Standing across from you like he had the right.

—

“You’ve grown,” he said.

You didn’t respond.

“You cut your hair.”

“I burn it when it gets in the way.”

He didn’t react. Not to the bite in your voice. Not to the way your quirk sparked faintly across your palm.

“I’m not here to fight.”

“No?” you tilted your head. “Then what? Hero duty finally guilted you into checking on your failure of a kid?”

“You were never a failure.”

“Then why did you leave?”

Silence.

Not heavy. Just final.

Like he wasn’t going to give you an answer. Like maybe he didn’t have one that’d make it better.

“I made a mistake,” he said quietly.

“Understatement.”

“I thought it was safer for you. Being away from me.”

“Safe doesn’t mean better, Shouta.”

He flinched — just barely — when you said his name like that.

“I didn’t expect you to want me around again,” he admitted.

“Yeah, well… I didn’t think I did.” You crossed your arms, jaw clenched. “But I still hoped.”

That slipped out.

Too raw. Too soft.

And he heard it.

He took a step forward.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he said. “But I want to try. I want to know who you are now. And I want you to know me.”

You swallowed hard.

“You say that now. But the second I screw up—”

“I’m not leaving again.”

You stared at him.

Tried to read him. Tried to look past the hero mask, the tired eyes, the man who gave you life but didn’t raise you.

And you whispered, “You left first.”

“I know.”

He stepped closer, one hand out — not to touch you. Just to show he wasn’t armed. That he meant what he said.

“I’m not here to fix everything. I just want to be part of it now. If you’ll let me.”

—

You didn’t hug.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t break down in his arms like some happy reunion scene.

But you didn’t walk away.

And maybe… maybe that was enough for tonight.

Because even if you’d grown up wild, burned too bright, called a villain more times than you could count—

You were still his kid.

And he?

He was still trying to learn how to be your dad.