Archive of Our Own

1.

The teacher smiled, and she had papers spread across the desk, drawings and worksheets full of colorful scribbles, and right in the middle of it all was a page with their kid’s name written in round letters. Kaminari stared at it for a second before she began talking, already bracing himself for whatever came next.

“Your son’s very bright,” she said, and it made him grin right away because of course he was. “He’s funny, and creative, and the other children really enjoy him.”

He leaned back in the chair, one arm hanging over the backrest, giving a little wink to Shinsou beside him. “Hear that? Our boy’s a hit.”

Shinsou didn’t look up from the sheet he was reading, but the corner of his mouth shifted just enough to show he’d heard. His hair had grown longer lately, the ends brushing against his jaw in a way that still did things to Kaminari’s brain even after all these years. Sitting there in a dark shirt with his sleeves rolled, he looked like every teacher’s favorite parent. 

Kaminari thought he looked like trouble. The best kind.

“But,” the teacher went on, clearing her throat. Kaminari felt his stomach drop just a little. “He has some trouble focusing. It’s not that he doesn’t understand the material, he does, often faster than most. It’s more that he drifts off. He gets distracted mid-task, forgets instructions halfway through, sometimes walks away before finishing.”

“Ah,” he said, drawing the sound out while glancing toward Shinsou again. “That one’s definitely on my side of the family.”

The teacher gave a polite laugh, not really sure if she should agree, and kept going. “It’s nothing alarming, but I’d recommend a consultation. Maybe talk to a child psychiatrist or therapist, just to run some tests. It helps to know if he needs a little extra support early on.”

The word psychiatrist made him sit up straighter. “You think he’s got something? I mean, he’s five.”

“Exactly. It’s early, which is good. There are a lot of ways to help him stay focused. It’s just about understanding what’s happening.”

He nodded, but he wanted to ask if it was his fault. Maybe he’d given the kid his short circuit brain, the same kind that made teachers sigh at him back in the day. But Shinsou’s hand landed on his knee under the table, just a small touch, and it was enough to stop him from overthinking too far.

“We’ll schedule something,” Shinsou said. “Thanks for letting us know.”

The teacher smiled again, softer this time, and said their son was kind, full of energy, always trying to make his classmates laugh. Kaminari laughed too, but there was something sitting under his ribs that wouldn’t leave him alone.

When they left the classroom, the hallway was full of parents and kids running around. Their son spotted them halfway down the corridor, purple eyes wide, blond hair sticking up in every direction just like Kaminari’s when he was little. “Dads!” He shouted, sprinting with all the speed in the world. Shinsou crouched just in time to catch him mid-jump, the boy’s small arms wrapping tight around his neck.

“Hey, Taro,” Shinsou said, lifting him easily. The boy’s grin could have powered half the city. Kaminari had picked the name, thinking it sounded bright and simple. Taro. He still called him Tarocchi sometimes, just to hear him giggle.

“Did you tell her I was good?” The kid asked, tilting his head upside down as Shinsou balanced him on his hip.

“Your teacher did,” Kaminari said, tickling his belly until he squealed. “Said you’re a genius. But maybe a little spacey.”

“Spacey?”

“Means you daydream too much.”

“Oh.” He looked thoughtful, then nodded. “I like dreaming.”

“Yeah,” Kaminari said, watching Shinsou set him down again, “me too.”

They stopped by the vending machines on the way out, Taro picking his usual orange juice box and Shinsou getting black coffee like always. Kaminari grabbed a soda, and leaned against the wall as his husband handed over coins for everything. The sight made something inside him warm up all over again. The way Shinsou bent down to meet their kid’s eye level, the way he said things patiently, never raising his voice, never rushing him. Even the small gesture of brushing crumbs off Taro’s shirt before standing up made Kaminari’s chest pull in strange directions.

It hit him sometimes how unfairly attractive Shinsou had become with age. The tired look worked for him, the faint lines near his eyes, the lazy scruff on his chin, the quiet way he carried himself. And then watching him with their son... Yeah, that was a whole different level of dangerous. Kaminari found himself thinking ridiculous things like maybe they should have another tiny version of them running around, laughing with that same wild joy, pulling Shinsou out of his stoic shell.

He could already imagine it. Shinsou pretending to complain while carrying a newborn at three in the morning, groaning about diapers and bottle schedules, but smiling the entire time. 

Kaminari wanted to see that again. 

He wanted to see it every day.

“Earth to Denki,” Shinsou said, waving a hand in front of his face. “You zoning out on me now?”

“Huh? No, I was just thinking how good you look today.”

Shinsou raised an eyebrow. “We’re in a school hallway.”

“Yeah, and you still look good.”

Their son giggled behind his juice box. “Dad’s being weird again.”

“Always,” Shinsou said, picking up the stack of drawings the teacher had given them. “Come on, Tarocchi. Let’s go home.”

The ride home was full of chatter. Taro explained at length about a paper rocket he’d made, and Kaminari nodded through every word, genuinely impressed even though half of it made no sense. Shinsou drove, and every now and then, Kaminari would glance sideways, unable to stop watching him. It wasn’t just attraction, though that never went away, it was this deep admiration, a kind of awe he still hadn’t grown used to. 

He didn’t know how he’d gotten this lucky.

When they got home, Taro ran off to feed the cat, and Kaminari dropped onto the couch with a sigh. Shinsou sat beside him, and asked quietly, “You worried?”

Kaminari shrugged. “A bit. I don’t want him thinking there’s something wrong with him.”

“There isn’t,” Shinsou said. “He’s five. His brain’s probably just racing faster than most. Sound familiar?”

He smiled at that, but there was still something tender pulling at him. “You’ll come with me when we take him, right?”

“Of course. We’re both his parents.”

That made him think about all the times he’d woken up in the middle of the night to find Shinsou reading stories to Taro, or fixing a broken toy, or just sitting there making sure the kid slept okay. The man who once pretended he didn’t like kids had turned into the most patient father Kaminari had ever seen.

“You know,” he said, stretching an arm along the back of the couch until his fingers brushed Shinsou’s hair, “we’re pretty good at this parenting thing.”

“We’re decent,” Shinsou replied, eyes half-closed.

“No, I mean it. He’s happy. He knows he’s loved. That’s everything, right?”

“That’s most of it.”

Taro’s laughter came from the kitchen, followed by a crash and the sound of the cat yowling. Shinsou sighed and got up, and Kaminari watched him walk away, calm even when stepping over a mess. He thought, again, that he could fall in love with him for a second time without even trying.

By the time Taro went to bed, they were both sitting on the porch with two cups of tea, watching the night settle. The air carried that cool edge of early spring, and Shinsou’s hand found his without needing words. Kaminari squeezed back.

“I keep thinking,” he said after a while, “it’d be nice if Taro had a sibling.”

Shinsou turned his head, one brow rising. “You keep thinking that, huh?”

“I’m serious. I mean, look at us. We did good once. Why not twice?”

He chuckled softly, and Kaminari could see the thought flickering in his eyes even if he didn’t answer. “You sure you’re not just caught up in nostalgia?”

“Nostalgia?” He laughed under his breath. “You mean remembering how good you looked with a baby strapped to your chest? Yeah, guilty.”

The other man snorted, “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m honest,” Kaminari said, bumping his shoulder lightly against his. “That counts for something.”

Shinsou turned to look at him properly then, and there was amusement there, sure, but underneath it sat the kind of affection that didn’t need to be said aloud because it was everywhere.

“I’ll think about it.”

That was all Kaminari needed. He smiled wide enough to make Shinsou shake his head, the faintest laugh escaping him.

“You mean it?”

“I said I’ll think about it,” Shinsou replied, but he was smiling too now, that rare small smile that Kaminari always thought was worth every sleepless night in the world.

He leaned closer, elbows brushing, the air carrying that faint trace of warmth that came when winter started to give up. The nights weren’t as cold anymore, not enough to sting his fingers, but that didn’t stop him from resting his head against his husband’s shoulder, breathing in just to feel him there.

“You know, I used to think I’d be terrible at this. At marriage, at family, all of it.”

“I remember,” Shinsou said. “You were convinced you’d burn the house down trying to make breakfast.”

“I still might,” Kaminari said, grinning. “But turns out I’m pretty good at loving you.”

That earned a quiet laugh, and then the other man reached up, brushing his fingers along blond hair in a way that was so familiar that it made his heart ache. “You are,” he said simply. “You really are.”

They stayed like that a while longer, not talking much, just breathing the same air. Eventually, Shinsou stood, stretching, and Kaminari followed him in, unable to resist reaching out to tug him closer by the wrist.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softer now, “you don’t have to think too hard about it, you know. Just picture it. Us again. Maybe a little girl this time.”

Shinsou’s expression changed in that small way Kaminari loved. “You’ve already named her, haven’t you?”

“Maybe,” he said, pretending to look innocent.

“I’ll think about it,” he promised again, barely above a whisper.

Kaminari smiled again and said, before kissing him, “That’s all I wanted.”

2.

The waiting room had white walls and quiet toys. 

Kaminari sat with one hand resting on his knee, pretending to read the posters about child development on the wall, but his eyes didn’t really move.

Taro sat on the carpet in the corner with a set of colorful blocks, focused in that deep way he sometimes got, tongue pressed between his lips while he stacked them into towers that leaned a little before collapsing. Shinsou was watching too, pretending not to smile every time their kid laughed at the mess he made.

Kaminari wanted to be calm for him. He wanted to be light and easy, the same way he always was when things got too serious, but the air in his chest felt tight. He’d been here before, not in this room, but in others just like it. Rooms with long silences and adults saying words he didn’t understand, words that made him feel wrong before he even knew what that meant. He remembered being told to sit still, to try harder, to pay attention, to stop fidgeting. He remembered the way his parents looked at him afterward, worried but distant, as if they didn’t know where he fit.

Now he sat watching his own son in that same kind of room, and all he could think was how much he hated it because he didn’t want his kid to ever feel broken for being the way he was.

Shinsou must have felt the tension in him, because his hand found Kaminari’s knee.

After a few more minutes, the door opened and the psychiatrist stepped out. A man in his forties, neat hair, kind eyes. He smiled when he saw them and said their names in a tone that didn’t feel cold or practiced. “You can come in.”

Taro got up right away, holding Shinsou’s hand while they walked into the office. Kaminari followed, forcing his body to move when all he wanted was to scoop Taro up and run far away from every label and chart in the world.

The man waited until they were settled before sitting down himself. He didn’t start with numbers or technical words. He looked at Taro, who was turning a small toy car over in his hands, and said, “You’ve been a great helper these past few weeks, haven’t you?”

Taro nodded, still focused on the toy.

“I want you to know I really enjoyed playing with you,” the man said before turning to them. “He’s a wonderful kid.”

Kaminari’s shoulders loosened a little at that. “Yeah. He’s the best.”

“He reminds me a lot of some of my own students from before I started this practice. Sharp, funny, full of energy. His mind moves fast, sometimes faster than what people expect at his age.”

That sounded good. Kaminari wanted to hold on to that. But then the man continued, voice careful but warm. “After the evaluations, we noticed a few consistent patterns in how he processes things. He has an excellent memory and great creative thinking, but he struggles with transitions and changes in routine. He also tends to focus intensely on specific interests and can get overwhelmed by too much sensory input.”

Shinsou was listening closely, and Kaminari just nodded, not trusting himself to talk yet.

The psychiatrist leaned forward slightly, still smiling. “All of that points to autism spectrum disorder, level one. That means Taro is on the spectrum, but he functions well in most settings. He just experiences the world in a different rhythm than most kids.”

He looked at his son, who was now pushing the car along the armrest, making engine noises under his breath. He looked happy, completely at ease in his own small world, and for a moment, Kaminari didn’t know whether to cry or to smile.

Shinsou spoke first. “What does that mean for him? What kind of help does he need?”

“It means he might need guidance in managing sensory overload, maybe some support in communication or focus, depending on how he grows. But it also means he sees details others miss. He’ll notice things, patterns, textures, emotions. He’ll need understanding, not fixing. With parents like you two, I think he’ll do more than fine.”

Kaminari stared at the man for a long second, trying to read his tone. There wasn’t pity in it, just the kind of certainty that came from having seen enough kids like Taro live full, bright lives. 

“Is it my fault?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.

The psychiatrist’s expression softened. “It’s nobody’s fault. It’s just the way his brain is wired, and it’s beautiful in its own way. You’ll see.”

They thanked him, made a few notes for follow-up appointments, and walked out into the afternoon light. Shinsou kept Taro’s small hand in his as they walked toward the car. Kaminari stayed quiet for a bit, hands in his pockets, thinking.

When they reached the street corner, Shinsou stopped. “Let’s get ice cream before we go home.”

Taro lit up right away, already jumping on the spot. “Yes! Mint-chocolate!”

The shop across the street was small, they each ordered a cup, and carried them out to the benches across the park.

Taro finished half his cup before asking if he could play. Shinsou nodded, watching him run toward the playground, his laughter floating back to them through the noise of the street.

Kaminari sat back, spoon resting in the empty cup, eyes fixed on their son as he climbed up the slide and waved down at them. “He doesn’t look broken to me,” he said quietly.

“He’s not,” his husband answered. “He’s perfect.”

He rubbed at his eyes and exhaled through a quiet laugh. “I just kept thinking about when I was a kid. When the teachers called me lazy or said I wasn’t trying hard enough. When my parents dragged me from one place to another trying to figure out what was wrong with me.”

“Nothing was wrong with you either,” Shinsou said, turning his head toward him.

“Maybe not. but it felt that way. I don’t want Taro to feel that. I don’t want him thinking he needs to hide who he is just to make things easier for other people.”

“He won’t,” Shinsou said. “We won’t let him.”

Kaminari nodded, still watching the playground. “He’s going to have good days and bad ones. The doc said some things might be hard for him, but you saw him in there. He’s smart, he’s curious, he’s happy. We’ll figure out the rest.”

“The doctor gave us a few ideas. Structure, consistency, sensory tools. I’ll look into them tonight.”

“Of course you will,” he said, smiling. “Always doing your research.”

Shinsou chuckled under his breath, eyes still on Taro. “Someone has to keep us organized.”

Kaminari leaned his shoulder against him again, the way he always did when the world felt too big. “He said Taro sees things differently. I love that. I think that’s exactly how it should be.”

The sun was dipping low, painting the edges of the park in gold. Taro was now crouched by the sandbox, running his fingers through it, completely absorbed. Kaminari watched him, remembering all the times he’d been told to stop spacing out, to focus, to sit still. Maybe Taro would get the same comments someday, but he’d have them by his side. 

He’d have a home where nobody asked him to change.

“He’s going to have it better than we did,” Shinsou said quietly. “That’s the point of all this.”

Kaminari nodded. “He already does. He’s got you.”

“And you,” Shinsou said.

The breeze carried a trace of sweetness from the ice cream shop. A group of kids ran past, laughter trailing behind them. Taro turned toward the sound, watched for a moment, then joined them without hesitation.

“Maybe the doctor’s right,” he said. “Maybe his brain really is wired differently, but that just means he’ll think in ways the rest of us can’t. He’ll build things nobody else could imagine.”

“I can see that.”

“And if anyone ever tries to make him feel bad for that,” Kaminari went on, “they’ll have to deal with me.”

“I’d pay to see that,” Shinsou said, half smiling.

Kaminari grinned too. “You’d bail me out though.”

“Always.”

When Taro came running back, Kaminari caught him in his arms and lifted him off the ground. The boy laughed so loud it turned heads. Shinsou stood too, brushing sand from his shirt, and for a moment everything felt whole.

They walked home together when the sky turned purple. Taro rode on Shinsou’s shoulders, humming a tune he’d made up, and Kaminari walked beside them, his hand brushing against Shinsou’s arm every few steps. 

He thought about the long road ahead, the therapies, the questions, the patience it would take, but none of it scared him.

He’d already learned what it meant to live with a mind that worked differently. He’d learned that love could make space for all of it. And as he watched his husband carry their son through the empty street, both of them framed by the last light of the evening, Kaminari knew they’d be fine.

3.

When Kaminari had said he wanted another kid, he had meant someday. Maybe next year, when Taro started first grade, when things settled, when they had figured out all the routines that came after the diagnosis. He hadn’t meant now, hadn’t meant this way, hadn’t meant a day that started with coffee and ended with sirens.

They were still adjusting to everything. Taro’s therapy sessions twice a week, the new speech games they practiced at home, the visual schedules Shinsou had hung in the kitchen with little pictures for breakfast, playtime, bedtime. It wasn’t chaos, but it was change, and Kaminari was proud of how well they’d been handling it. 

Their kid was still the same bright, curious boy he’d always been, nothing about that had shifted, even if the world around them sometimes did.

Then the call came through. Explosion in the industrial block near the river, suspected gang dispute, casualties unknown. Kaminari was already halfway out the door before the words finished, earpiece buzzing with static and orders. By the time he reached the scene, the fire was dying down and the smell of dust filled the air. He could see red lights flickering against wet pavement, could see pro-heroes moving through the wreckage, directing the last of the evacuations.

Kirishima was there, standing near the remains of a collapsed building, his uniform covered in soot, his hair darker from ash. Kaminari had seen him angry before, exhausted before, but never like this, especially not when his arms were cradling something small against his chest.

Kaminari jogged toward him, shouting his hero name, and Kirishima didn’t even turn. He was looking down at the little bundle in his arms, murmuring something Kaminari couldn’t hear until he got closer.

“She’s breathing,” Kirishima was saying, voice unsteady in a way that didn’t sound like him. “She’s fine, I think she’s fine, but they won’t take her, they’re saying she’s not hurt enough, they need the ambulances for the others, but she was right there, she...”

Kaminari reached him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, hey, what’s going on?”

Kirishima looked up. For a second, Kaminari thought he wouldn’t answer, but then he shifted his arms just enough for him to see. It was a little girl. Maybe not even two. Her face was streaked with dirt, her tiny hands clutching at Kirishima’s uniform, her eyes wide and distant. She wasn’t crying anymore, just breathing fast, and her mouth was opening and closing like she couldn’t make sense of what air was supposed to do.

“They said she was found under the stairs,” Kirishima said. “There were two adults there. They...” His throat worked, and he didn’t finish.

Kaminari didn’t need him to. He looked at the wreckage behind them, the twisted metal, the blackened concrete, and he understood.

“Let me take her,” he said quietly. “I’ll get her checked.”

Kirishima hesitated, holding the girl a little tighter, then nodded. Kaminari slipped his arms under her, feeling how light she was, how she didn’t resist but didn’t lean in either. She just stayed still, her tiny fingers gripping the fabric of his sleeve.

He walked toward the ambulances, calling for one of the paramedics. They were already busy, tending to the injured laid out on stretchers, bandaging burns, checking pulses. A woman turned to him, glanced at the child, and shook her head. “If she’s conscious and breathing, she’s stable. We’re out of transport space, but there’s a pediatric ward two blocks over. If you can get her there, they’ll check her in.”

He nodded, still holding the girl close, feeling her heart racing against his arm.

“Red,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll take her. You stay here. They’ll need reports.”

Kirishima gave a short nod, rubbing his forehead with one shaking hand. Kaminari caught his eyes for one last second before leaving, and that look said everything he couldn’t say aloud.

The hospital was crowded, but quieter than outside. Kaminari carried the little girl through the automatic doors and straight to the reception desk, explaining what had happened. The nurses moved quickly then, leading him to a small room where a doctor checked her vitals. The girl clung to his jacket, refusing to let anyone else touch her until Kaminari sat down and kept her in his lap. She didn’t speak, didn’t even make a sound, but her fingers twisted in his shirt like she was anchoring herself to it.

When the doctor confirmed she was physically unharmed, Kaminari finally exhaled. His neck hurt from how tightly she’d been holding him, but he didn’t care. He reached for his phone and called Shinsou.

“Hey,” he said when he heard the line click, his voice quieter than usual. “Something happened. A big explosion near the river. I'm okay, but there’s a kid. A baby. They think her parents didn’t make it.”

“Where are you?”

“Central Hospital. She’s okay, just scared.”

“I’ll drop Taro at Shota’s and come meet you.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

He hung up and looked down at the little girl again. Her hair was sticking to her forehead in clumps, her cheeks dirty except for the clean trails where tears had run. She blinked up at him once, then pressed her face against his chest, too tired to cry anymore.

The hours blurred together after that. Someone brought her a blanket. Someone else asked him to sign a report. A police officer came by to take his statement. The social worker arrived sometime later, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a clipboard, speaking softly as if they were all made of glass.

“Her name’s Mika,” she said, checking the papers in her hand. “That’s what the neighbors told us. We’ve contacted the Child Welfare Center. They’ll arrange a placement for tonight.”

Kaminari nodded. “Placement?”

“Yes,” she said. “There’s a temporary care home a few districts away, for emergencies. She’ll stay there until they can identify relatives or find a foster arrangement.”

He looked down at Mika, who had fallen asleep curled against him, one small hand still tangled in his shirt. The thought of handing her over to strangers made his stomach twist.

“Will they take good care of her?”

“They’ll do their best,” the woman said gently. “The staff is trained for this. She won’t be alone.”

It wasn’t enough. He knew they were trying to do what was right, but all he could think of was how small she was, how she had lost everything in a single afternoon.

Shinsou arrived not long after, his uniform still half on, hair pulled back hastily, eyes searching until they landed on Kaminari.

“She’s tiny,” Shinsou said.

“Yeah. The building collapsed. Eiji found her.”

“Any family?”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

The social worker came back then, thanking them both for staying so long. “We’ll take her to the care home soon,” she said. “We just need to finish the paperwork.”

Kaminari opened his mouth to say okay, but what came out instead surprised him. “She can stay with us tonight.”

The woman blinked. “Excuse me?”

“She doesn’t need a shelter,” he said, words rushing now. “We have a house. A kid about her age. A spare room. We can keep her for the night until you figure things out.”

The social worker studied him for a long moment. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Kaminari, but procedures are strict. Temporary placements require clearance and background checks, even for pro-heroes.”

“Then check me,” he said, too quickly. “Check whatever you need. You can even call the chief of police if you need to, he’ll vouch for us. I just don’t want her to spend her first night without her parents in some cold room.”

Shinsou placed a hand on his arm, “Denki.”

But Kaminari kept his eyes on the social worker. “Please.”

She hesitated, then looked at Shinsou, who simply nodded. “We’re licensed heroes,” he said. “You can verify our records right now. We’re already cleared for childcare. Our son’s five. We know how to handle kids. Just one night.”

The woman exhaled through her nose, weighing the options, then nodded. “All right. Let me make a few calls.”

Kaminari sat there, not moving, afraid that if he did the moment would break. Mika stirred in his arms but didn’t wake. The nurses brought paperwork, and Shinsou filled it out, reading through every line before signing.

By the time they were allowed to leave, the city outside had gone quiet again. Kaminari wrapped Mika in a small hospital blanket, holding her carefully as they walked through the parking lot. Shinsou carried a bag of the few things the hospital had gathered like a pair of socks, a bottle of juice, a stuffed toy from the lost and found.

In the car, Mika stirred once, a tiny sound escaping her, then went still again. Shinsou started driving without a word.

He hadn’t planned any of this. He’d wanted another kid, yes, but in the ordinary way, through talks and plans and maybe paperwork later down the road. Not a day that began with loss and ended with him holding a stranger’s child who had no one left.

Kaminari could tell his husband was thinking, but he didn’t say anything because he probably knew Kaminari’s head was already full enough.

Every few minutes he brushed a bit of her hair away from her face, checking if she was still breathing evenly. Her cheeks were pale now that the grime had been wiped off, her tiny mouth open as she slept.

Shinsou reached for his phone at a red light, called Aizawa, and put it on speaker. The older man picked up almost immediately.

“Everything all right?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. Denki’s fine. I’ll text you in a bit to explain, but can Taro stay with you tonight? I’ll pick him up early before you leave for UA.”

There was a pause. Kaminari could hear the faint rustle of movement on the other end, maybe the sound of Mic laughing somewhere nearby. Then Aizawa answered, his tone gentle under the usual dryness. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll drop him off myself in the morning.”

“Thanks,” Shinsou said. “Appreciate it.”

He hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket, and when they pulled into the driveway, the house looked darker than usual. 

Shinsou got out first, taking the small bag of things from the hospital, while Kaminari carried the girl inside, careful not to wake her. The air inside still smelled faintly of Taro’s crayons and the soup Shinsou had made for lunch earlier. It felt warm and alive, which almost made Kaminari’s chest ache when he thought about what the child in his arms had lost.

“I’ll cook,” Shinsou said, locking the door behind them. “You take her upstairs, give her a bath. Grab some of Taro’s smaller shirts, the ones we were planning to donate.”

Kaminari nodded, heading toward the stairs. The girl stirred slightly but didn’t cry, just pressed closer to him when he shifted his arms. Upstairs, he turned on the bathroom light, adjusted the faucet until the water ran warm, and set her down gently on the counter. She blinked, eyes unfocused at first, still half-asleep.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, keeping his voice low, the way he talked to Taro when he woke up from nightmares. “We’re gonna get you cleaned up, okay?”

She looked at him without answering, her small fingers clutching the edge of the towel he’d draped around her. He worked slowly, checking the temperature again before helping her out of the blanket and clothes, moving carefully so she wouldn’t feel startled. When he placed her in the tub, she sat still for a moment, blinking at the water, then dipped one hand into it as if testing whether she could trust it.

Kaminari knelt beside her, rolling up his sleeves. “It’s warm, right? Not too much?”

She nodded once, still quiet.

He began washing her gently, starting with her arms, then her back. The dirt came off in thin streaks, revealing bruises that weren’t deep but still made his stomach hurt. When he reached for the shampoo, she tilted her head up on her own, letting him pour a small amount into her hair. The foam turned gray as he worked through it, but when he rinsed it off, strands of brown began to shine through. That was when she opened her eyes fully.

They were startling gray, the kind of color that didn’t look real until you saw it up close. She blinked up at him with a strange focus, and her lashes clumped with water, tiny drops sliding down her cheeks.

“Where am I?” She asked, her voice small.

“You’re at my house,” Kaminari said, smiling softly. “Just for tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because you needed somewhere to sleep,” he said. “You were really brave today. You’re safe now.”

She studied his face for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether to believe him. Then she frowned, her lips trembling a little. “Can I go home later?”

The question hit him hard, even though he’d been expecting it. He didn’t want to lie to her, but there was no way to give her the truth either, not tonight, not like this. He reached out, brushing his thumb against her wet bangs.

“Not tonight,” he said softly. “But you’ll rest here. And we’ll make sure you’re okay.”

She looked down at the water, her small hands moving to gather bubbles, pushing them together until they popped. “Okay,” she whispered.

He washed the rest of her hair, rinsed it carefully, then lifted her out of the tub and wrapped her in a towel. She was so small that she fit easily against his chest. He carried her into Taro’s room, where the light from the hallway made everything look soft and golden. He found one of Taro’s old shirts, pale yellow with a faded hero logo on the front, and helped her into it. It hung almost to her knees.

“There,” he said, adjusting the hem. “Perfect fit.”

She tugged at the fabric, then gave him a small nod. He smiled and held out his arms, and she let him pick her up again.

Downstairs, the smell of food filled the kitchen. Shinsou had set the table, two plates and a small one with cut-up vegetables and rice.

“She’s awake,” he said quietly.

Shinsou turned, his expression softening at the sight of the girl in Kaminari’s arms. “Hey there.”

The little girl stiffened, shrinking against Kaminari’s shoulder. Shinsou didn’t move closer, just nodded once, his tone easy. “Are you hungry?”

She peeked at him from the corner of her eye and then at the table. The smell of the food must have reached her because her stomach gave a tiny sound, almost a complaint. Kaminari smiled and carried her to the chair, setting her down carefully. She sat with her hands in her lap, watching him fill her plate with small portions.

“It’s okay,” he said, crouching beside her. “You can eat. It’s yours.”

She picked up the spoon, hesitated for a second, then took a bite. Her eyes widened and she looked up at him with that same intensity from the bath. “It’s good,” she said, her voice a little shaky but clear.

“I'm glad you liked it,” Shinsou said from across the table, sipping from his glass.

The girl looked between them, then focused on her food again, eating slowly, one spoonful at a time. Kaminari sat beside her, pretending not to watch her too closely, though he couldn’t stop glancing over every few seconds just to make sure she was real.

When she finished, she pushed the plate forward, eyes drooping again. Shinsou stood and went to the kitchen, returning with a small glass of water. She drank half of it, then leaned back against the chair, looking tired but calmer.

Kaminari brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “You did great, kiddo.”

She blinked up at him. “You have a funny voice,” she said.

He laughed, caught off guard. “Do I?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Shinsou raised an eyebrow, hiding a smile. “She’s not wrong.”

“Traitor,” he said, but he was grinning.

The girl yawned, rubbing her eyes with both fists, and her small shoulders slumped forward. Kaminari lifted her before she could nod off at the table. She didn’t resist this time, just wrapped her arms around his neck and let her head rest there.

He carried her upstairs while Shinsou cleaned up, tucking her into Taro’s bed. She stirred once when he pulled the blanket over her, mumbling something he couldn’t catch, then went still again. He sat there for a while, watching her sleep, thinking about everything that had happened in the last few hours.

Downstairs, he could hear Shinsou moving around, closing cabinets, turning off lights. When he went back down, the other man was waiting by the doorway, arms folded loosely, eyes on him.

“She’s asleep,” Kaminari said.

Shinsou nodded. “Good.”

Kaminari sat down at the table, resting his elbows on it. The exhaustion caught up with him all at once. “I don’t even know what I’m doing,” he said.

“Yes, you do,” Shinsou said. “You’re taking care of a kid who needed someone. You’ve always known how to do that.”

He rubbed at his face, exhaling through a long breath. “What if she wakes up and cries for her parents?”

“Then we’ll be here, that’s all we can do tonight.”

Kaminari sat there for a long time, staring at the floor as if the answer to everything might be hiding in the grain of the wood. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, “If they don’t find her relatives, or if they do and they don’t want her, I don’t want her going through adoption. Not the kind that tosses her around until someone maybe decides she’s worth it.”

He looked up then, and met purple eyes. “I don’t want her ending up alone again.”

Shinsou didn’t answer right away, but it was as if he’d expected those words all along. He took a step forward and placed a hand on Kaminari’s shoulder, just resting there.

“Let’s go take a shower,” he said. “We’ll talk about it when we lay down.”

Kaminari opened his mouth like he might argue, but Shinsou’s hand squeezed his shoulder once before letting go, and that was enough to silence him. He nodded, exhaustion washing over him again, heavier now that the adrenaline was gone. 

Together they climbed the stairs, careful not to make noise near Taro’s room where Mika slept, her small shape barely visible under the blanket.

In the bathroom, Kaminari stood under the water with his eyes closed, and he felt Shinsou’s presence beside him.

“She’s just a baby,” he said after a while, barely above the sound of the water. “She doesn’t even understand what happened.”

“I know,” Shinsou said.

“She asked if she was going home.” That made his husband stop washing himself, and Kaminari leaned back against the tiles, looking at him. “I just keep thinking, what if nobody wants her? What if she ends up stuck somewhere cold and crowded, waiting for people who don’t come?”

Shinsou rinsed his hands and turned off the water. “We’ll talk when we’re in bed,” he said softly. “Not here. You’re exhausted.”

Kaminari didn’t argue. He let Shinsou hand him a towel, let himself be led through the quiet house toward their room. When they lay down, the other man reached for him immediately, pulling him close until Kaminari’s head rested against his shoulder.

“We’ll talk to the agency tomorrow,” he said finally. “See what they find out about her family. And if there isn’t anyone, we’ll figure it out from there.”

He nodded against him, eyes already slipping closed. “You’re not saying no.”

“I’m not,” Shinsou said. “I’m saying we’ll see. You meant what you said in that hospital, didn’t you? That we couldn’t just let her go.”

“Yeah.”

“Then we won’t.”

Kaminari breathed in, letting his hand find Shinsou’s chest, feeling the calm rhythm under his palm. Somewhere down the hall, Mika shifted in her sleep, the faintest sound reaching them through the walls. Shinsou’s fingers traced the back of his neck once, then stopped, his breathing matching his.

They stayed like that until the world outside slipped away.

4.

Aizawa sat at the kitchen table, black scarf resting on the back of his chair. 

Taro sat beside him with his chin barely above the edge of the table, eating cereal in half-awake movements. Every time he blinked, it looked like he might fall asleep again, spoon halfway to his mouth. Shinsou was across from Aizawa, both of them with mugs of coffee that smelled too strong for this early, and Kaminari was the only one not sitting still. He stood near the counter with his phone in hand, thumb moving fast over the screen, checking the messages again even though no new ones had appeared.

“She said she’d call in the morning,” he said, not really to anyone in particular.

“She will,” Shinsou said, not looking up from his coffee.

“I just want to know what’s happening. If they found anyone. If she’s okay.”

“She’s fine, and you did everything right yesterday. You just need to wait.”

Kaminari made a noise that wasn’t quite agreement. His knee bounced restlessly, and the phone screen kept lighting up again under his fingers.

Across the table, Taro yawned so hard it made his eyes water. “Dad, can I watch TV now?”

Normally, they wouldn’t let him. Shinsou had this whole thing about no TV before school hours, and Kaminari usually agreed, but they both looked at each other and decided in silence that this morning didn’t count.

“Yeah,” Kaminari said, leaning down to kiss the top of his son’s head. “Go ahead. Keep the volume low.”

Taro grinned, grabbed the rest of his cereal, and wandered to the living room, half dragging his blanket behind him. The cartoon music started a moment later, cheerful and loud enough to fill the quiet.

The three adults stayed in the kitchen. Aizawa took another sip of his coffee, studying both of them over the rim of the cup. “You two haven’t slept.”

“Not really,” Shinsou said. “She’s upstairs. Still asleep.”

Aizawa nodded once. “I figured.”

Shinsou leaned forward a little. “You’ve done this before with Eri. How was it for you?”

The older man looked down at his mug, thoughtful for a moment before answering. “Different situation,” he said finally. “But it took time. Paperwork, home visits, background checks. You have to be patient, and you have to mean it, because once it starts, you’re in it for good.”

Kaminari’s thumb stopped tapping against his phone. “What about the first days? Before it’s official? Before they decide if you can even keep her?”

“Those are the longest,” Aizawa said. “You want to protect them, but you don’t know if you’re allowed to yet. It’s like holding your breath for weeks.”

Shinsou nodded slowly, eyes still on Aizawa. “If there’s no family, you think it’s possible for us to take her in?”

“It’s possible,” Aizawa said. “You’re both pro-heroes with clean records, good income, a stable home. If the agency clears it and the psychologist from the welfare department signs off, there won’t be much resistance. But it takes time.”

Kaminari pressed his lips together. “What if they find someone? A relative?”

“Then it’s out of your hands,” he said, not unkindly. “But sometimes there isn’t anyone left. And if that happens, the system looks for families like yours.”

There was another pause, the cartoon voices faint in the background. Aizawa set his mug down, eyes flicking toward the living room before turning back to them. “What about Taro?”

Kaminari followed his gaze. His son was sitting cross-legged on the couch, cereal bowl on the coffee table, eyes glued to the screen. The morning light caught on his hair, and he looked so small in that moment, so unaware of how much their world might change again.

“I’ll talk to him,” Kaminari said quietly.

Shinsou looked at him for a moment but didn’t speak. He just nodded once, and then he turned back to Aizawa, continuing the practical side of the conversation, asking about adoption procedures, background checks, what kind of legal steps they’d need to take. Aizawa answered every question patiently, explaining timelines, documents, psychological evaluations, the usual red tape. 

Kaminari only half listened.

He walked into the living room and sat on the couch beside his son. The cartoon kept playing, but Taro turned to look at him right away, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

“Dad, are you okay?”

“Yeah, just wanted to talk to you for a minute.”

Taro frowned a little. “Did I do something?”

“No, not at all.” He smiled and reached out to smooth down his son’s hair. “It’s about something that happened yesterday.”

“Was it the big boom on the news?”

Kaminari hesitated. “Yeah. It was that.”

“Were you there?”

“I was.”

“Did you fight the bad guys?”

“Not this time. When I got there, it was already over. But there were a lot of people who needed help.”

Taro looked up at him, the easy smile from a moment ago fading a little. “Did people get hurt?”

“Some did,” Kaminari said carefully. “And there was a little girl there. She got lost in all the noise. We brought her here last night so she wouldn’t be alone.”

Taro blinked, thinking it through. “She’s here now?”

“Upstairs. Sleeping.”

“Oh.” He went quiet for a bit, chewing on his thumb the way he sometimes did when he was trying to make sense of something. “Is she hurt?”

“No. She’s okay. Just scared.”

“That’s good.” He paused again, looking down at his knees. “Where’s her parents?”

Kaminari’s heart stung at that. He took a small breath before answering. “They couldn’t come with her.”

“They got hurt?”

“Yeah.”

The cartoon’s laughter filled the silence again, too bright against the weight of what he’d just said. Taro’s small hands fidgeted with the edge of his blanket.

“Will she be okay?” He asked finally.

“She will,” Kaminari said, wrapping an arm around him. “Because we’ll help her.”

Taro leaned into his side. “Can I help too?”

He hugged him a little tighter, pressing a kiss to his hair. “You already do. You’re kind. She’s going to need that.”

Taro nodded, eyes still fixed on the screen even though his attention wasn’t really there anymore. “Is she gonna live here?”

Kaminari hesitated again, choosing his words carefully. “Maybe for a while. Or maybe longer. I don’t know yet. Some people are trying to find her family, but if they don’t...” He trailed off, then smiled when his son looked up at him again. “Would you be okay if she stayed with us for a bit? Maybe she could play with your toys, or draw with you.”

Taro thought about it for a long time, the way only kids could, with his face scrunched and eyes darting around as if measuring something invisible. “She can have my small cars,” he said finally. “Not the red one, though.”

Kaminari laughed quietly. “Fair enough.”

“And she can sleep with Pinky if she wants,” Taro added, more certain now.

“Your favorite bear? Auntie Ashido will be proud of you.”

“Her parents aren't here, so she’s gonna be sad, right?”

“Probably.”

“Then I’ll tell her jokes,” the little boy said, sitting up straighter. “Like the ones uncle Hanta tells. Those always make me laugh.”

“That’s a good idea.” Kaminari smiled, controlling himself not to tear up. “She’d like that.”

He grinned at him, his eyes bright again. “What’s her name?”

“Mika,” Kaminari said.

“Mika,” Taro repeated, trying the name out loud. “That’s pretty.”

“It is.”

They sat there for a while, the cartoon still playing but forgotten now. Taro leaned against him, with a long sleepy sigh.

Kaminari looked back down at his son and whispered, “You’re a good kid, you know that?”

Taro smiled through another yawn. “I know.”

“Of course you do,” he said, laughing under his breath.

Kaminari pulled his son close, wrapping both arms around him and burying his face in the top of his hair. For a long moment, he just held him there, breathing against the softness of his small shoulder, feeling that impossible love that always hit without warning. 

Nothing in the world felt safer than this.

Taro giggled, squirming a little. “Dad, you’re squishing me.”

“I’m allowed,” he said, refusing to let go. “You’re my favorite person.”

“Even more than Daddy?”

He smiled into his hair. “Different kind of favorite.”

Taro laughed again, and the sound filled the room. Then, faintly, they heard a quiet creak from the stairs. Kaminari lifted his head, and Taro turned too, eyes going wide.

At the bottom of the steps stood Mika. She was barefoot, one hand gripping the railing, hair still messy from sleep. The oversized shirt she wore brushed against her knees, and her big gray eyes blinked at the sight of them, unsure. She must have followed the sound of voices or maybe the cartoon music still buzzing from the TV.

She looked at Taro first, studying him with that cautious curiosity that only very small children had. It was clear she hadn’t expected to see another kid there. Her fingers twisted in the hem of the shirt, but she didn’t move.

Taro stared right back, his face frozen in the same wide-eyed expression.

From the kitchen came the faint scrape of a chair, and then Shinsou appeared in the doorway. He stopped there, watching the two children, and he just leaned against the frame, waiting.

Mika blinked once, tilting her head a little. Taro blinked back, but then he grinned, wide and bright, a smile that could melt anything.

“Hi,” Taro said.

Mika hesitated, her eyes flicking between him and Kaminari and then back again. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth when she said, “Hi.”

5.

Winter crept into the house without warning. 

There were shoes by every door, drawings taped to the fridge, half-finished puzzles scattered across the coffee table. What used to be quiet evenings had turned into a blur of bedtime stories and whispered reminders that monsters weren’t real. Sometimes Kaminari would stop in the hallway, hearing laughter coming from Taro's rooms, and think that maybe this was what peace sounded like.

They had redone the guest bedroom the week Mika arrived. 

Shinsou spent an entire weekend painting the walls lilac while Taro stood nearby holding a brush too big for his hand. The smell of new paint mixed with the sound of their chatter, and when they were done, Kaminari stood by the doorway and imagined a little girl sleeping under those colors. They bought a bed shaped like a carriage, a night lamp shaped like a crown, and too many stuffed bears to count. Mika had smiled when she saw it, a real smile that reached her eyes for the first time, but every night she still ended up padding quietly down the hall to curl beneath Taro’s blanket.

He never minded. He said that there was always a space waiting for her.

Taro had turned out to be the kind of brother who loved without measure. He made room for her in every part of his life. If he was building with blocks, he’d build two towers. If he was drawing, he’d leave half the paper empty so she could fill it in. When she had nightmares, he’d pat her head and tell her about the funny dreams he’d had instead until she stopped shaking. 

Sometimes Kaminari watched them through the half-open door, Mika’s tiny hand gripping Taro’s sleeve, his son whispering nonsense stories that made her laugh. It felt like they had always been meant to find each other.

Mika spoke more now, though her words still came small. She’d tug at Kaminari’s shirt when she wanted attention, or climb onto Shinsou’s lap with a book without saying a thing. She hated being alone, always seeking the sound of someone nearby. 

At first it worried them, but the therapist said it was good that she reached out, that safety would come before independence. So they let her follow them around, let her sit in the kitchen while Shinsou cooked or color at the studio while Kaminari worked on reports.

They both went to therapy on Wednesdays, in the same building but in different rooms. Taro’s therapist taught him ways to explain his thoughts when his head felt crowded, and Mika’s helped her find names for her fears.

The house changed too. Kaminari started getting up earlier to pack two snack boxes instead of one. Shinsou’s calendar filled with appointments, forms, and calls with lawyers. Every day seemed to come with a new signature or background check. The social workers knew their address by heart, and the neighbors had started waving more often, always smiling when they saw the two kids chasing each other through the yard.

No one outside the hero circle would have believed it, but Bakugo had become their emergency nanny. He’d show up at the door with his sleeves rolled and a grocery bag full of snacks, complaining that Kaminari still didn’t know how to buy decent bread. The kids adored him. Taro followed him around the kitchen, fascinated by the way he handled knives, while Mika sat on the counter handing him ingredients like it was her work. When he thought no one was looking, Bakugo would tie her hair with the same care he used to lace his gloves.

Kirishima came often too, all warmth and loud laughter, filling the house with stories about his patrols. Mina brought craft supplies that glittered for days no matter how many times they swept the floor. Sero taught them to make paper kites, and Monoma, against all odds, had become Mika’s favorite person to read with. There was always someone dropping by, always a hum of life between the walls, and it did wonders for her.

Sometimes she still asked about her parents. It usually happened at bedtime, when the room was quiet and the light from the corridor turned gold. She’d twist her blanket and whisper questions, where they were, what they had been like, if they missed her. Kaminari would sit beside her and tell her they had loved her very much. He never wanted her to forget them. He didn’t want to fill a space that wasn’t his to claim.

The day they found her parents’ social media, he and Shinsou sat together at the dining table scrolling through pictures. Ordinary ones like birthdays, picnics, a video of Mika chasing bubbles. It made them both quiet for a long time. Shinsou printed every image, choosing the clearest ones, trimming the edges neatly, and slipping them into an album with lilac covers. He placed it on her bedside table that night. When she found it in the morning, she didn’t say much, just traced her finger over each photo until she fell asleep beside it.

Their lives had rearranged themselves completely. There were fewer lazy mornings, more forms on the counter, more noise in the evenings. Yet every change felt right. Kaminari used to think he needed freedom to breathe, but now the sound of tiny feet running down the hallway was the only thing that calmed him. He caught himself humming when he folded the kids’ laundry, grinning when Shinsou teased him for labeling drawers.

Some nights, when both children were asleep, they’d sit on the porch again, the same way they used to before any of this began. The stars seemed closer somehow. Shinsou would rest his arm around him, and Kaminari would talk about how strange it was to feel complete without realizing when it happened.

He’d say he couldn’t remember what the house sounded like before Mika’s laughter filled it. 

He’d say, “I don’t think I could imagine life without her anymore,” and Shinsou would squeeze his hand, not needing to answer, because the truth of it was already everywhere around them: in the toys scattered across the grass, in the drawing taped to the porch light, in the faint echo of two children breathing together upstairs under the same blanket, safe.

Later that month, snow drifted since dawn, settling over the garden in a thin white veil and turning the rooftops to glass.

The house smelled of cinnamon and butter, and Kaminari had started baking before anyone else was awake, insisting that the morning needed to feel warm even if the world outside didn’t. Taro had helped with the dough, his hands covered in flour, and Mika had stood on a chair beside him, pressing star-shaped cutters into the soft dough with great concentration.

By nine, the living room was full of decorations. Strings of lights looped across the ceiling, the tree stood by the window heavy with ornaments, and music played from the kitchen radio. Shinsou sat at the table reading over some case files, pretending not to smile every time Kaminari passed by humming. He had never been fond of Christmas, not the noise nor the forced cheer, but he never complained about it because he knew his husband and son loved it.

The doorbell rang exactly when the clock struck ten.

“She’s here,” Kaminari said, wiping his hands on a towel.

Taro ran to open the door before anyone could stop him. The social worker stood there wrapped in a beige coat, cheeks pink from the cold, a folder clutched under her arm.

“Good morning,” she greeted with that calm smile they had grown used to. “It smells wonderful in here.”

“Cookies,” Taro said proudly. “We made them.”

“I can tell,” she said, laughing. “They smell perfect.”

Kaminari invited her inside, helped her out of her coat, and guided her to the living room where a tray of biscuits and tea waited. Mika waved from the carpet where she was arranging her dolls in a row.

“Hi.”

“Hello, sweetheart. Look at you, your hair is longer every time I see you.”

Mika touched her braid, smiling, then turned back to her dolls. The woman sat down on the sofa, resting her folder on her lap, and Shinsou poured the tea.

“It’s hard to believe it’s been so many months,” she said. “You’ve made this house feel very alive.”

Kaminari nodded, unable to hide the pride in his face. “It’s been busy, but good. She’s doing better every day. Talks more. Laughs more.”

“I can see that.” The woman glanced at Mika again, her smile softening. “She’s blooming here.”

“Do you want her to join us?”

“Actually, would it be alright if she went to play with Taro for a little while? I need to discuss something with you both.”

Mika looked up from the floor, curious. Kaminari nodded. “You can go play with him, princess.”

Taro was already setting up the train tracks in the corner, and she ran to him, their laughter filling the room as they began building the small wooden bridges.

The social worker waited until they were both absorbed before opening the folder. The paper made a faint sound that seemed to pull every bit of air toward it.

“I know you’ve been waiting for updates,” she said, meeting their eyes in turn. “There’s something I wanted to bring personally. I thought you deserved to hear it face to face.”

Shinsou’s brow lifted just enough to show he was listening. Kaminari leaned forward. “What is it?”

The woman smiled then, and turned the folder around so they could see the papers clipped inside. “It’s done,” she said. “The board approved the final review. The adoption has been granted.”

For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Kaminari stared at the papers, not quite understanding the words. “It’s done?”

“Yes. Everything went through. She’s officially your daughter.”

He blinked fast, the world blurring in and out. “You’re serious?”

“Completely,” she said. “Congratulations.”

He tried to answer, but the sound that came out wasn’t a word. It was a laugh that broke halfway, turning into tears before he could stop it. His hands covered his face, shoulders shaking as all the months of waiting, worrying, hoping, came rushing back at once.

Shinsou moved without a word, reaching across the space between them and pulling him close. Kaminari clung to him, still laughing through tears that didn’t seem to end.

“She’s ours,” he said, the words spilling out before he could think. “She’s really ours.”

When he finally looked up again, the social worker was smiling, eyes bright too. “I’ll leave these copies with you,” she said, sliding the papers onto the table. “I think they’ll look better in a frame than in a folder.”

A small sound came from the corner. Taro had turned from his game, watching with wide eyes. “Dad? Why are you crying?”

Kaminari wiped his cheeks, but that only made more tears fall. “Good tears. Really good ones.”

Taro walked over, careful not to step on the tracks, and stood beside him, frowning in that worried way he had. Kaminari opened his arms, and the boy stepped right into them. He held him close, pressing his face against his son’s hair, and for a moment couldn’t say anything at all.

Mika had followed, her small hand finding the hem of his sleeve. “Are you sad?”

He shook his head quickly. “No, no, I’m happy. So happy.”

Shinsou knelt beside them, one hand resting on Mika’s back. “Do you remember how we told you there would be papers to make it official? To make it forever?”

She nodded.

“Well,” he said, “they’re here. It’s forever now.”

Mika blinked up at him, processing the words. “I can stay?”

Kaminari pulled both her and Taro into his arms, holding them so close he could feel their hearts beating against him, the warmth of them real and solid in his hands, “Always,” he said, his chest aching in the best way it ever had. “You’re home, sweetheart.”

extra.

Cars lined the UA parking lot in a buzzing mess of families. 

Parents waved from windows, students posed for photos under banners, and teachers stood by the gates, greeting the new first-years. The building rose above them all, shining in the morning light. Kaminari parked between two vans and sat for a moment, looking at the crowd before him.

Taro sat in the backseat with his hands in his lap, uniform crisp, his blond hair a little longer than before and pulled back into a small tie at the base of his neck. His eyes, the same shade of violet as Shinsou’s, shone with excitement. Mika sat beside him clutching a tissue that had already given up trying to hold back her tears.

“Okay,” Kaminari said, breaking the silence. “We’ve arrived. Our boy’s first day at UA.”

He turned around with a grin so wide it looked like it might split his face. Taro smiled too, though his shoulders twitched with nervous energy.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he said, rubbing his palms on his knees. “It feels weird seeing it for real.”

“It’s gonna feel even weirder when you’re in there and someone asks you to spar,” Kaminari said. “Just remember, try not to fry the training robots on your first day.”

“That was one time,” Taro said, rolling his eyes.

Shinsou laughed quietly beside Kaminari, reaching over to open his door. “Come on, let’s go. Before your dad gives the entire parking lot a lecture on voltage control.”

“I don’t lecture,” Kaminari said, pretending to be offended. “I inspire.”

Mika sniffed beside Taro, clutching her tissue tighter. “I don’t want you to go.”

Taro turned toward her, eyes softening immediately. “Mika...”

“You’ll be gone all day. What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re gonna go to your school, like always,” he said. “And then you’ll come home two hours before me, which is nothing.”

She frowned, wiping her nose. “That’s long.”

“Not really,” he said, leaning over to bump her shoulder with his. “You’ll probably still be doing homework when I get back. I’ll help you with math, and we can watch that cooking show you like, remember?”

She stared at him, trying to decide whether to keep crying or believe him. “You promise?”

“Of course.” He smiled in that easy way that always made her calm down. “We’re still gonna be together every day. I’m just going to school a little farther away.”

“Two train stops,” Kaminari added. “Barely counts.”

Shinsou looked at the two of them and shook his head. “You’re both acting like he’s moving to another country.”

Mika sniffed again. “Feels like it.”

They got out of the car together, and Kaminari helped Taro adjust his bag and smooth a wrinkle on his collar.

“Let me look at you,” he said, stepping back a bit. “UA’s newest genius. How does it feel?”

The teenager smiled, “Weird, but good.”

“What are you gonna say when they ask you to introduce yourself?” Mika asked, big gray eyes looking at her brother.

“We’ve practiced this, like, a thousand times, Mika.”

“I know,” she said, smiling in that way that always meant she was about to tease him. “But I want to hear it again.”

He looked at her, cheeks already pink. “Do I really have to?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding so hard her braid bounced. “You promised to say it the way we wrote it.”

Kaminari turned his head, already grinning. “Oh, this I gotta hear.”

“Dad,” Taro said, hiding his face in his hands for a moment before giving up. “Fine, whatever.” He straightened, cleared his throat, and glanced at Mika, who was watching him with expectant eyes. “Hi, I’m Taro Hitoshi-Kaminari,” he began, trying not to sound rehearsed. “Son of Chargebolt and Mindjack. My quirk is called Neural Charge. I can send electrical impulses through surfaces and link them to other people’s nervous systems.”

He stopped there, looking at his sister. “Happy?”

Mika clasped her hands together, beaming. “Perfect! You didn’t even mess up this time.”

“I never mess up,” he said, though his face was still red.

“Yes, you do,” she said, laughing. “But not today!”

The gates of UA looked almost the same as they had all those years ago. Kaminari stood there for a second, remembering what it felt like to walk through them the first time, and now he was the one standing on the other side, watching his son take that same step, and it hit him harder than he expected.

Taro turned around and caught his expression. “Don’t start crying, Dad.”

“I’m not crying,” he said quickly, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s just windy.”

“It’s not windy,” Mika said.

Shinsou smirked. “He’s crying.”

“I’m allowed to cry,” Kaminari said, pretending to glare at both of them. “My son is going to UA. I’m legally required to be emotional.”

Taro laughed, the sound light and full. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Where do you think you get it from?”

Parents and students kept moving around them, families hugging, teachers calling names. Kaminari could feel the pull of time in every glance, how fast it had all gone, how tall Taro had grown, how much of Shinsou’s calm had found its way into his posture.

Mika was clinging to her brother’s arm again, looking up at him with watery eyes. “You'll tell me everything about your day when you go home, right?”

“Of course I will.”

She tried to hold back a smile. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he said, and then he leaned down and hugged her so tight she squeaked. “You’re gonna do great at school today, okay? You’re already way smarter than me.”

“Not true,” she said, but she looked proud anyway.

Shinsou moved closer, his hand resting on Taro’s shoulder. “You’ve worked for this,” he said. “You know what to do. Stay grounded, listen before you act, and use that brain before the current.”

Taro nodded, serious now. “I will.”

Kaminari reached over and ran a hand through his hair before the boy could duck away. “And when things get hard, remember what you’re made of. You’ve got both of us in you, and that’s a lot to carry. But you’ve always handled more than people think.”

Taro smiled faintly. “You’re getting sentimental again.”

“Yeah,” Kaminari said. “Deal with it.”

The boy looked at the gates then, the school looming tall in front of him. “I should go. They’re starting orientation.”

Shinsou nodded once. “Go on. Make a good first impression.”

Taro started walking backward, waving at them with a smile.

“Don’t trip,” Kaminari said automatically, and watched him immediately stumble over the curb. “He gets that from me,” he said then, turning to Shinsou, who just snorted.

Taro turned once more before disappearing inside, raising a hand in the air in one last wave. Mika lifted both arms to wave back, and Kaminari stood between them, his heart caught somewhere between pride and the ache of letting go.

He felt Shinsou’s arm slide around his shoulders, and Mika’s smaller hand found his, fingers curling around his knuckles. The three of them stood there, eyes on the same doorway, until the crowd began to thin.

Kaminari squeezed their hands once, and they stayed like that, together, watching the last trace of their boy vanish into the place where his future waited.