Aizawa takes care of Eri and you’re the friendly neighbor who seems so much more at ease with small children than he is.

The first thing Aizawa learned about living with a child was that silence didn’t mean peace — it meant you had to check if something had exploded, spilled, or cried itself to sleep.

It had been three weeks since Eri moved in. Three weeks of tiny shoes by the door, apple juice stains on mission reports, and a white-haired shadow that followed him everywhere, clutching that battered little stuffed rabbit.

He was good at managing chaos in classrooms, not homes. At least in U.A., the students listened (most of the time). Here, he was out of his depth.

The worst part wasn’t the noise, or even the exhaustion — it was the look she gave him sometimes. Like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to exist in his space. Like she was waiting for someone to decide she didn’t belong again.

He tried. He really did. But between night patrols, paperwork, and lectures, there were days when he came home and found her sitting on the couch, half-asleep, the TV still flickering.

That’s when you stepped in.

You lived next door — quiet, reliable, the kind of neighbor who nodded politely in the hallway and never complained about the occasional cat or midnight return from hero duty. You’d noticed the child, of course but always wondered at Eri’s genetics in comparaison to his . Aizawa had explained the situation awkwardly one morning, halfway through a cup of coffee he clearly hadn’t had time to finish.

“Her name’s Eri,” he’d said, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s... staying with me for a while. I’m not—”

He’d stopped, frowned, and started again.

“I’m not great with kids.”

You’d smiled. “That’s okay. I am.”

He hadn’t asked right away, but it didn’t take long. The first time, it was just for an hour while he ran to campus. Then for an afternoon when a mission got extended. Then full weekends when U.A. training schedules overlapped.

And soon, it became routine: your doorbell ringing at dawn, Aizawa standing there with Eri half-asleep on his shoulder, murmuring, *“Sorry to bother you again. I owe you dinner.”*

Eri took to you fast. She smiled more when you braided her hair or let her help bake cookies. She talked a little louder. Laughed sometimes.

Aizawa noticed — though he’d never say it out loud.

He’d drop by to pick her up and find the two of you on the couch, Eri leaning against you, her small hand clutching your sleeve while you read to her. His voice always softened a little then.

“Looks like she’s not ready to go yet.”

Sometimes he’d stay a bit — sitting on the floor beside the couch, listening as Eri tried to retell the story you’d just finished, her sentences tumbling over each other with excitement.

And you’d watch him — the tired hero who didn’t know what to do with his hands when she reached for him, who looked more human and less invincible in those moments.

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