The apartment was unusually still.
Outside, birds chirped half-heartedly, light poured soft and gold through cracked blinds, and Eri's giggles echoed faintly from the living room as she rearranged her mountain of unicorn plushies with absolute authority.
Aizawa sat alone at his desk.
His elbow was propped lazily on the edge, fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose as a stack of adoption forms sat in front of him—legal paper that didn't weigh much, but felt heavier than all the combat gear he'd ever worn.
He signed papers every day.
Expulsions. Reviews. Approvals. Permission slips for work-study programs that sent quirked teenagers into danger zones with hopes stitched into their uniforms.
But this?
This wasn't paperwork.
This was permanence.
He'd raised Class 1-A through crisis after crisis. Watched his students evolve through grief and grit. People like Emi and Present Mic insisted he had the patience of a saint and the instincts of a father.
But becoming an actual father?
No combat manual covered this.
The pen felt foreign in his fingers.
His brows furrowed. His heart—quietly, stubbornly—raced.
Why now?
He had already fought for Eri's protection. Already sat beside her in hospitals and trained her gently through quirk rehabilitation. He cooked her soba when nightmares came and watched her learn to dance with tiny steps and glowing cheeks.
She was already in his life.
Already in his heart.
But making it official?
Calling it family?
There was a part of him that whispered: _Can I be enough?_
Another part whispered back: _You already are._
From the living room came a joyful shout:
"Look! Hoshi-chan's riding a rainbow now!"
Aizawa blinked. A small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.
He glanced back down at the papers.
And as the sun touched his hand—
He picked up the pen.
(The Next Day)
The weekend sunlight filtered lazily into the Class-A common room, casting golden streaks across cushions and catching dust in polite suspension. It was Saturday. No alarms. No drills. Just laughter and sleepy chatter.
The door slid open.
Aizawa walked in.
And beside him—holding his hand like she was carrying half the morning sun—
Eri.
She wore a frilly pink dress, her cheeks rosy, her little backpack shaped like a unicorn named Hoshi-chan, and the moment she stepped in?
The room went nova.
"ERI-CHAN!!" Mina squealed, leaping up mid-snack.
Iida straightened with ceremonial glee. "Welcome! It is an honor to receive you again, young lady!"
Even Todoroki smiled—just barely, but enough to melt winter.
Momo already had cookies halfway prepped. Sero waved. Kirishima gave an exaggerated bow. Jiro lit up instantly.
Only one person didn't react.
Aleasha.
She blinked from the corner of the Class-A couch, book halfway forgotten in her lap. Her eyes flicked to Eri, then to the mob forming around her—and the question hit fast.
Who's… that adorable little sparkle?
The couch was comfy. Too comfy. She had no excuse for being here again—except maybe the same blonde she'd practically tackled twice last week.
Denki didn't move.
He stayed tucked into a quiet chair in the corner, his cereal untouched. No voltage crackles. No high-voltage grin. Just a boy behind a wall.
Eyes off him?
Good.
He let the mask drop.
Just for a breath.
His face softened—then crumpled, just slightly. A frown settled. His fingers twitched inside his hoodie. One deep inhale. One moment of fragility.
Then—
Aizawa looked over.
Their eyes met.
Denki froze.
And just like that—mask up again.
Smirk. Shoulders squared. Performance mode. All practiced.
But Aizawa? He saw it.
Saw the breath collapse in his chest. The exhaustion. The way Denki wanted to be okay for everyone—but still hadn't figured out how.
Because Denki didn't see Aizawa as just a teacher.
He saw him as stability. As something paternal. Safe.
And Aizawa?
He'd never say it out loud.
But Denki was already his son in silence.
A child he watched fall apart in slow sparks—and he wasn't going to let this pass.
So as the others flooded Eri in sweetness, Aizawa stepped toward the corner—toward the voltage boy swallowing lightning to survive.
Denki glanced up with a too-fast smile.
Aizawa knelt beside him.
Quiet. Calm.
"Are you sleeping?" he asked softly.
Denki blinked.
Shook his head.
"Eating?"
Denki shrugged, eyes damp but playful. "Only accidentally fried my milk once this week. Progress?"
Aizawa exhaled.
Then gently placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Stay with me after lunch."
Denki nodded—mask still on. But something moved underneath.
And across the room, Aleasha watched—confused, curious, caught in quiet realization.
She saw the way Aizawa looked at him.
Like he'd been carrying him through thunderstorms for years.
And suddenly?
Aleasha knew Denki had more gravity in him than lightning.
Aleasha hadn't turned a page in ten minutes.
The book lay open on her lap, but her eyes had locked onto Denki the moment his smile folded. She saw it drop. She saw the quiet wash back over him like thunderclouds reclaiming a sunny sky. He didn't shatter. He didn't collapse.
But he shifted.
And when Aizawa approached him so gently, with the kind of care that didn't need volume, Aleasha's mind spun.
Why did he look at Denki like that?
Why did Denki soften only for him?
She knew her little brother was hurting. But she didn't know how deep it went, how much silence he'd learned to weaponize against himself. And the worst part?
He wasn't letting anyone in.
Not even her.
The worry clung to her lungs.
Then—
The cushion beside her dipped.
She didn't even glance over at first. Still half-lost in thought.
But then a voice—soft, low, entirely unrecognizable—spoke beside her.
"...What're you reading?"
Aleasha snapped out of her fog.
Bakugo.
Katsuki Bakugo. Sat beside her like he'd been there for an hour. Not grumbling. Not growling. Not broadcasting his presence like a controlled explosion.
Just—sat.
Quiet. Still.
The words hadn't been barked.
They'd been placed.
And somehow, the room didn't notice.
Not Mina, caught up in playing with Eri's hair ribbons.
Not Torū, whispering into Sero's ear about some invisible scoop.
No one reacted.
Because Bakugo had spoken in a voice calibrated only for Aleasha.
It landed softer than any air puff she'd ever breathed.
She blinked. "Oh… uh—just hero psych theory. Voltage response chapters."
She held it up, awkwardly, fingers trembling slightly.
Bakugo nodded, gaze flicking over the title. "Denki reads that one too. You trying to understand him?"
Aleasha stilled.
He knew.
Not everything. But enough.
"I guess I'm just… trying to catch up," she said softly.
Bakugo leaned back, arms crossed—not defensively, just resting. "That kid's got more layers than half this school combined. You'd be smart to start now."
Aleasha looked at him, unsure what stunned her more: the softness in his voice or the fact that Katsuki Bakugo had just casually acknowledged her brother with actual empathy.
And maybe even… care.
She couldn't reply.
She didn't need to.
Because for the first time, she realized something very few ever did:
When Bakugo speaks quietly?
It's not because he's tired.
It's because what he's saying matters.