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The first clue was the bento box.
It was a small thing, really. A green lunchbox with a sticker of All Might giving a thumbs-up, placed carefully on Midoriya’s desk before class.
But Class 1-A had never needed much to start a theory.
“You made this for Midoriya?” Uraraka asked, watching All Might hand it over.
All Might froze. “I—well! Young Midoriya has been working very hard, and a growing hero needs proper nourishment!”
Midoriya turned scarlet. “Thank you, All Might!”
Across the cafeteria, Kaminari leaned toward Kirishima. “That’s dad behavior.”
“It is not dad behavior,” Iida whispered loudly. “It is the behavior of a responsible mentor!”
“Mentor behavior is bringing a protein bar,” Jirou said. “That’s a whole bento.”
Bakugou, who had been pretending not to listen, snorted. “You extras are idiots. He’s obviously not Deku’s old man.”
Everyone looked at him.
Bakugou scowled. “What?”
The theory spread anyway.
It grew stronger when All Might showed up at the dorms with a spare scarf because Midoriya had forgotten his. It grew stronger still when he attended a parent-teacher meeting, sat beside Inko, and spent the entire time looking like he was trying very hard not to cry with pride.
Afterward, Ashido cornered Midoriya in the common room.
“So,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Is All Might your dad?”
Midoriya nearly dropped his tea. “What?! No!”
“Then why does he act like he’s your dad?” Sero asked.
“He’s my mentor!”
“Does your mentor pack you lunch?” Kaminari said.
“Apparently,” Midoriya squeaked.
From the kitchen, All Might made a suspicious choking noise.
Inko patted his back. “Are you all right, Toshinori?”
“I’m perfectly fine!” he said, voice cracking.
That only made everyone stare harder.
The next morning, Class 1-A had apparently held a vote.
“Congratulations,” Ashido announced as Midoriya walked into the classroom. “By unanimous decision, we have determined that All Might is your dad.”
“He is not!”
“Bakugou voted against it,” Jirou added.
“Because it’s stupid!”
“See?” Kaminari said. “Even your brother knows.”
“I AM NOT HIS BROTHER!”
The door slid open. All Might stepped inside, carrying a stack of papers.
The class went silent.
“Good morning, young heroes!”
“Good morning, All Might!” they chorused.
Ashido raised her hand. “All Might, are you Midoriya’s dad?”
The papers slipped from his hands.
Midoriya covered his face. “Ashido!”
All Might’s smile wobbled. “I am… not his biological father.”
“Aha!” Iida declared. “The theory is disproven!”
“But,” All Might continued, looking at Midoriya with a gentleness that made the room quiet, “if young Midoriya ever needed someone to fill that role, I would be honored.”
Midoriya lowered his hands.
All Might rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking less like the Symbol of Peace and more like a nervous man hoping he hadn’t overstepped. “Only if he wanted that, of course.”
For a moment, nobody said anything.
Then Midoriya’s eyes shone. “I… I think I’d like that.”
All Might’s face lit up so brightly that Kaminari whispered, “Oh my gosh. We were right.”
“You were not right,” Iida said, wiping at his glasses. “The original claim was factually incorrect.”
“Dad-ish,” Kirishima offered.
All Might laughed, a little watery around the edges. “I suppose I can accept ‘dad-ish.’”
Bakugou shoved past them toward his desk. “This class is unbearable.”
Midoriya smiled after him. “You’re still coming to dinner, Kacchan?”
“Shut up, nerd.”
All Might gathered his papers, still beaming.
And Class 1-A, having technically lost the argument, decided they’d won anyway.

1. The Aftermath of a Vote
The first problem was that Class 1-A took the phrase dad-ish as permission.
By lunchtime, there was a chart.
It was taped to the common-room wall, written in Ashido’s bright pink marker, and titled:
THE ALL MIGHT / MIDORIYA DAD-ISH EVIDENCE BOARD
Underneath were several categories.
PROTECTIVE BEHAVIOR

Brings Midoriya food.
Notices when Midoriya is cold.
Gets visibly upset when Midoriya gets hurt.
Uses the phrase “young Midoriya” in a voice that sounds suspiciously proud.

DOMESTIC BEHAVIOR

Attended a parent-teacher meeting.
Knows Midoriya’s favorite tea.
Has probably been inside Midoriya’s house.
Has not yet taught him how to drive, but may not be old enough to do so.

EMOTIONAL BEHAVIOR

Looks like he’s about to cry whenever Midoriya succeeds.
Midoriya looks at him like he hung the moon.
Both of them have the same “I’m fine!” expression when they are absolutely not fine.

At the bottom, Kaminari had added:
CONCLUSION: NOT BIOLOGICAL, BUT THE VIBES ARE STRONG.
Iida had drawn a large red line through the entire chart and written, in neat block letters:
THIS IS NOT A SCIENTIFICALLY VALID METHOD OF DETERMINING PARENTAGE.
Then somebody—probably Sero—had drawn a tiny mustache on Iida’s stick figure.
Midoriya stopped in the doorway and stared.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that.”
“Too late,” said Jirou from the couch. “You’ve seen it. You’re part of the investigation now.”
“I don’t want to be part of the investigation.”
“Too bad,” Kaminari said. “You’re the subject.”
“I’m not a subject! I’m a person!”
“Subjects are people,” Iida said automatically. “That is not the relevant distinction.”
“Thank you, Iida.”
“You’re welcome.”
Midoriya walked over to the chart and peeled it off the wall.
Ashido gasped. “You can’t destroy the evidence!”
“It’s not evidence,” Midoriya said, folding the paper in half. “It’s a list of things that are… normal for a mentor to do.”
“Do your other mentors bring you lunch?” Sero asked.
Midoriya opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“Exactly,” Kaminari said.
“That doesn’t prove anything!”
“It proves the chart is accurate,” Jirou said.
Midoriya folded the page again, making it smaller. “I’m throwing this away.”
He took one step toward the bin.
The door opened behind him.
All Might walked in.
Midoriya froze.
All Might looked at the folded paper in his hand. Then he looked at the students crowded around the wall.
“Is this… a class assignment?”
“No!” Midoriya said.
“Sort of,” Ashido said at the same time.
Iida stood up so fast that his chair scraped the floor. “It is an informal exercise in observational reasoning, sir.”
“All Might, they made a dad chart,” Jirou said.
“Jirou!”
All Might’s eyebrows rose. “A dad chart?”
Midoriya shoved the paper behind his back. “It’s nothing.”
All Might smiled gently. “I see.”
The class watched his face with the focus of a jury waiting for a confession.
He glanced at Midoriya. “Well, if it’s nothing, I suppose I don’t need to see it.”
Midoriya’s shoulders relaxed.
“Although,” All Might added, “I admit I’m curious.”
Midoriya’s shoulders tensed again.
“Don’t encourage them,” he pleaded.
“I would never,” All Might said.
Kaminari pointed at him. “That was a lie.”
“I would never intentionally encourage them,” All Might corrected.
“Still a lie,” Jirou said.
All Might laughed, and the sound loosened the room. Midoriya sighed and handed him the folded paper.
All Might opened it.
His eyes moved down the page. He reached the line about the matching “I’m fine” expressions and paused.
“That one is inaccurate,” he said.
“Which part?” Ashido asked. “The expression or the fact that you both do it?”
“The expression is accurate. The conclusion that we share it is… perhaps not.”
Midoriya frowned. “I don’t think I make the same face as you.”
“You do,” said the entire class.
Midoriya looked around at them. “I don’t!”
“You do it when you’re injured,” Uraraka said. “You smile too hard and tell everyone you’re fine.”
“And All Might does it when he’s tired,” Kirishima added. “He gets louder.”
All Might looked at Kirishima. “I do not get louder.”
“You just did,” Jirou pointed out.
He lowered his voice. “I do not get louder.”
Kaminari grinned. “Now you’re whispering like a guilty dad.”
Midoriya made a strangled noise.
All Might folded the chart again, carefully this time. “I think this should be returned to its authors.”
“Why?” Ashido asked.
“Because I have no intention of taking it away.”
The class erupted.
Midoriya’s face went red. “All Might!”
“What? It’s a very thorough chart.”
“You’re supposed to discourage them!”
“I’m not sure that would be effective.”
“See?” Kaminari said. “He knows us.”
All Might handed the paper back to Ashido. “Perhaps you could add a section for ‘boundaries.’”
The class quieted a little.
“Boundaries?” Ashido repeated.
“Yes. Young Midoriya’s relationship with me is his own. I don’t want him to feel that he has to agree with anyone’s assumptions—or mine.”
The words were gentle, but they settled over the room with a weight that made even Kaminari stop smiling.
Midoriya looked down at his hands.
All Might noticed. “That goes for you too, young Midoriya. You don’t have to call me anything different. You don’t have to behave any differently. I only meant that if you wanted me to be there for you in that way, I would be.”
“I know,” Midoriya said quietly.
“Good.”
“I just…” Midoriya searched for the right words. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean.”
All Might’s expression softened. “Neither do I, entirely.”
That surprised Midoriya. “You don’t?”
“I’ve never had a child.”
The room went very still.
All Might seemed to realize how the sentence sounded. He straightened and gave an awkward laugh. “That is, I have never raised one. I don’t have experience with this sort of thing.”
“You don’t have to have experience,” Uraraka said. “You just have to care.”
All Might looked at her.
Uraraka blushed. “Sorry. That sounded like something my mom would say.”
“It was a very good thing to say,” All Might replied.
Midoriya held the folded chart between his fingers. “Could we… not decide everything today?”
“Of course,” All Might said immediately.
“Maybe we can just keep things the way they are for now.”
“Then that is what we’ll do.”
Kaminari raised his hand. “Can we still call it dad-ish?”
“No,” Midoriya said.
“Please?”
“No.”
“Can we call it ‘the theory’?”
“No.”
“Can we call it—”
“No.”
“Understood,” Iida said, placing a hand on Kaminari’s shoulder. “We will respect Midoriya’s request.”
“Thank you, Iida.”
“However,” Iida continued, “the chart may remain in the common room as a historical document.”
“It may not!”
Ashido rolled up the paper and tucked it under her arm. “We’ll store it safely.”
“That’s not what I said!”
But she was already heading for the stairs.
Midoriya watched her go, then looked at All Might. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For them making it weird.”
All Might’s face grew warm with affection. “Young Midoriya, I have faced villains, disasters, and the full force of Principal Nezu’s strategic planning. A room full of curious teenagers is hardly the worst challenge I’ve encountered.”
“Hey,” Jirou said. “We’re right here.”
“I know. That is why I phrased it politely.”
Kirishima laughed. The tension faded.
All Might moved toward the door. “I should get back to the staff room. We’ll speak later, if you’d like.”
Midoriya nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
All Might left.
The door slid shut behind him.
For three seconds, the class remained silent.
Then Kaminari whispered, “He said he’d face a room full of teenagers but called us a challenge.”
“That was not the important part,” Iida said.
“It was pretty important to me.”
Midoriya sat down on the couch and covered his face with both hands.
Uraraka patted his shoulder. “You okay?”
“I think so.”
“Do you want us to stop?” she asked.
He lowered his hands. “The chart? Yes.”
“Done.”
“The teasing?”
“Also done,” Ashido called from the stairs.
“Mostly done,” Kaminari amended.
“Done,” Ashido repeated.
Midoriya smiled, small but real. “Thanks.”
He didn’t know what to call All Might.
He didn’t know what he was allowed to want.
But he knew that when All Might had said I would be honored, something inside him had gone soft and bright, like a light turning on in a room he hadn’t known was dark.
That was enough for now.

2. The First Dinner
Inko invited All Might to dinner the following Friday.
She phrased it carefully.
If you’re free, Toshinori, we’d love to have you over. No pressure. It would be nice to see you.
All Might read the message three times.
Then he read it a fourth time, just to be sure he hadn’t imagined the invitation.
He spent the next hour trying to decide what to bring.
Flowers seemed too formal. Dessert seemed like he was trying to impress her. A gift for Midoriya might make the evening feel like a special occasion, which could put pressure on the boy. A gift for both of them would be strange. He could bring nothing, but arriving empty-handed felt rude.
He finally called Gran Torino.
“I have a question.”
“Then ask it.”
“I’ve been invited to dinner at Midoriya’s home.”
A pause.
“By the boy?”
“By his mother.”
“Then bring something.”
“What should I bring?”
“Food.”
“I’m sure they already have food.”
“Then bring more.”
“That seems excessive.”
“Then don’t ask me questions you don’t want answers to.”
All Might sighed. “I was hoping for a little more guidance.”
“You want guidance? Don’t act like a hero. Act like a person. Bring something you like, say thank you, and don’t make the kid feel like he has to take care of you.”
All Might sat back.
The last part struck a little too close.
“I would never—”
“Everybody says that. Then they show up bleeding and call it a scratch.”
“That is an entirely different matter.”
“It’s the same matter. You’re asking how to be there for someone. Start by letting them be there for you too.”
All Might was quiet.
Gran Torino grunted. “You’re still there?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now go buy a pie or something. I’m hanging up.”
The call ended.
All Might bought a pie.
He also bought a small bouquet of flowers, then spent the walk back to his apartment worrying that two gifts were too many. He considered taking the flowers back. Then he decided that would be ridiculous and kept them.
On Friday, he stood outside the Midoriya apartment with a pie in one hand and the flowers in the other.
He had faced down villains with less nervousness.
The door opened before he could knock.
“Hello, Toshinori!” Inko said warmly. “Come in.”
“Thank you for inviting me.” He held out the pie. “I brought this.”
“Oh, how lovely! You didn’t have to.”
“I know. I wanted to.”
Inko accepted the pie. Her smile turned softer. “And flowers?”
“I wasn’t sure whether to bring them.”
“I’m glad you did.”
Midoriya appeared behind her, wearing a green sweater. “All Might! You’re here.”
“I am indeed, young Midoriya.”
Midoriya’s eyes flicked to the flowers. “Those are nice.”
“They’re for your mother.”
“I gathered that.”
All Might laughed. “Of course.”
The apartment smelled of curry and warm rice. It was smaller than the places All Might usually visited for work, but it felt full: books stacked along the wall, framed photographs on a shelf, a little plant by the window. A pair of slippers waited near the entrance.
Inko had set out three places at the table.
Three.
All Might tried not to look at the empty chair for too long.
Dinner began with careful conversation. Inko asked about school. Midoriya complained about a training exercise. All Might asked questions and tried not to sound like he was conducting a progress review.
“So,” Inko said, placing more curry in Midoriya’s bowl, “how is the new training schedule?”
“Good,” Midoriya said. “It’s challenging.”
“Challenging how?”
“I’m learning to use my strength without overdoing it. And I’m trying to improve my mobility.”
“Has it been causing you pain?”
“A little.”
All Might put his spoon down. “Young Midoriya—”
“I’m fine,” Midoriya said quickly.
All Might’s mouth closed.
Inko noticed. “You don’t have to say that, Izuku.”
“I know.”
“Are you injured?”
“No. Not really. I mean, nothing serious.”
“That isn’t the same as nothing,” All Might said.
Midoriya’s shoulders rose. “I know. I’m taking care of it.”
All Might looked at him, then at the table. He remembered Gran Torino’s words.
Don’t make the kid feel like he has to take care of you.
He also remembered what he’d said to Midoriya in the common room.
You don’t have to behave any differently.
So he took a breath.
“Would you like advice,” he asked, “or would you prefer that I simply listen?”
Midoriya blinked.
Inko looked at All Might with quiet approval.
“Just listen,” Midoriya said after a moment.
“Of course.”
Midoriya explained the training. He talked about the difficult parts, the things he thought he was doing wrong, and the frustration of knowing he had improved but still feeling behind. All Might listened. He did not correct him. He did not tell him to try harder. He did not turn the conversation into a lesson.
When Midoriya finished, All Might said, “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
“I’m sorry.”
Midoriya looked up.
All Might kept his voice gentle. “You don’t have to earn the right to be tired.”
Midoriya’s fingers tightened around his spoon.
Inko reached over and touched his hand. “You don’t.”
“I know,” Midoriya said, but his voice was small.
The three of them ate in silence for a few moments.
Then Inko asked All Might about his own week.
He tried to give a cheerful answer.
She waited.
He tried again.
She continued waiting.
Finally, he admitted that he had been busy, that his shoulder was bothering him, and that he had skipped lunch twice.
Midoriya frowned. “All Might.”
“I know, I know. It was irresponsible.”
“You tell me not to skip meals.”
“I do.”
“Then you shouldn’t do it either.”
All Might laughed, but there was a sting behind it. “You’re right.”
Inko served him another portion of curry.
“Mrs. Midoriya, that’s more than enough.”
“Toshinori,” she said, “you’re a growing hero.”
Midoriya choked on his rice.
All Might laughed so hard he had to set down his spoon.
“That was a good one,” he said.
“I thought so.”
The rest of dinner went more easily. Inko told stories about Midoriya as a small child. Midoriya protested that she was exaggerating. She showed All Might a picture of him in a handmade All Might costume, cape pinned crookedly to his shoulders and a cardboard symbol on his chest.
All Might went very still.
“He wore that everywhere,” Inko said. “He insisted he needed it to practice being a hero.”
“I was four,” Midoriya said, face pink.
“You were very determined.”
“I was four.”
All Might looked at the photograph. The little boy in it had huge eyes and a wide smile. He was holding his arms out as if he were about to fly.
“He looks happy,” All Might said.
“He was,” Inko replied. “He believed he could become anything.”
Midoriya stared into his bowl.
Inko’s expression softened. “He still can.”
All Might looked at Midoriya, and for one brief moment he saw the child from the photograph layered over the young man at the table: both of them earnest, both of them trying to be brave, both of them looking toward a future that seemed impossibly large.
He felt his eyes sting.
Midoriya noticed. “All Might?”
“I’m fine,” All Might said.
Inko raised an eyebrow.
He sighed. “I’m moved.”
“That’s allowed,” she said.
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re blinking very slowly,” Midoriya said.
“I have something in my eye.”
“You have something in both eyes,” Inko said.
All Might laughed, surrendering. “Perhaps I’m a little emotional.”
After dinner, Midoriya helped his mother clear the table. All Might offered to help, but Inko waved him toward the living room.
“You’re a guest.”
“I can still wash dishes.”
“You can, but you don’t have to.”
He looked at Midoriya.
Midoriya smiled. “You can relax. We’ll be fine.”
All Might sat on the couch. He placed his hands on his knees and tried to remember how to be a guest.
In the kitchen, Inko and Midoriya spoke softly. The sound of dishes clinking filled the apartment.
All Might looked at the photographs on the shelf.
There were pictures of Midoriya at different ages. A school photo. A birthday. One of him with Inko at a park. One with Bakugou and a few other children, all of them squinting into the sunlight.
There was no place in those photographs for All Might.
He had not been there. He had not watched Midoriya grow up, had not comforted him after a bad day at school, had not stood beside Inko through the years when her son’s dreams seemed impossible.
He couldn’t change that.
He could only be here now.
The thought was both comforting and painful.
Midoriya came into the living room, drying his hands on a towel. “You okay?”
“Yes. I was looking at the pictures.”
“Oh.” Midoriya sat beside him. “Mom likes having them out.”
“They’re wonderful.”
“You don’t have to feel bad that you weren’t there.”
All Might turned to him. “I wasn’t aware that I looked as though I did.”
“You look like you’re trying not to apologize.”
All Might looked down at his hands.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be. You didn’t know me then.”
“I know. But I still wish—”
Midoriya put a hand on his arm. “You’re here now.”
The words were simple.
They were also exactly what All Might needed to hear.
“Yes,” he said. “I am.”
Inko appeared at the doorway. “Would either of you like tea?”
“I would,” All Might said.
“Me too,” Midoriya replied.
She brought the tea in and sat in the armchair across from them. For a while, they talked about ordinary things: school, work, the weather, a television show Inko had been watching.
When it was time to leave, All Might stood at the door and thanked her again.
“Come back anytime,” Inko said.
“I’d like that.”
“You’re welcome here, Toshinori.”
He bowed his head. “Thank you.”
Midoriya walked him down the hall.
“Did you have a good time?” Midoriya asked.
“I did.”
“Even though they made you cry?”
“I did not cry.”
“You definitely cried.”
“I was moved.”
“Sure.”
All Might smiled. “I had a very good time.”
Midoriya’s smile became shy. “Me too.”
All Might hesitated, then asked, “Would you like to do this again sometime?”
“Dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah. I would.”
“Then I’ll look forward to it.”
Midoriya nodded. “Me too.”
All Might stepped outside.
The door closed gently between them.
He stood in the hallway for a moment, holding the quiet warmth of the evening close to his chest.

3. A New Kind of Homework
The next Monday, Aizawa assigned the class a written reflection.
“Two pages,” he said, leaning against the front desk. “Describe a moment in training when you had to rely on someone else. Explain what you learned.”
Kaminari raised his hand. “Can it be about relying on the support course?”
“It can be about anyone.”
“Can it be about my phone charger?”
“No.”
“Then I have nothing.”
“You’ll think of something.”
The class groaned.
Midoriya started writing immediately. He always did. His pencil moved quickly over the page, pausing only when he stopped to organize his thoughts.
Aizawa watched him for a moment, then looked away.
All Might had mentioned the assignment to him earlier. He had not asked what Midoriya would write. He had not asked whether it was about him. He had simply said that he hoped the students would take the reflection seriously.
Aizawa had looked at him over the rim of his coffee.
“You’re worried he’ll write about you.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You’ve been standing outside the classroom for five minutes.”
“I had a question for you.”
“You asked it already.”
All Might had left.
Aizawa had not told Midoriya that his mentor was hovering in the hallway.
He didn’t need to.
At the end of class, Aizawa collected the papers. “You’ll get these back tomorrow.”
“Are you grading them?” Sero asked.
“Yes.”
“On content or grammar?”
“Both.”
“Can we submit them anonymously?”
“No.”
“Can I submit mine verbally?”
“No.”
“Can I submit it as a song?”
“No.”
Kaminari slumped over his desk. “This is oppression.”
“It’s two pages.”
“Exactly.”
The next day, Aizawa returned the assignments.
Midoriya’s paper was on top of his desk. A neat red mark showed that he had received a high score, but there was a short note at the bottom.
Good reflection. You don’t have to carry every lesson alone.
Midoriya read it twice.
Aizawa passed by his desk. “You did the work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me. Just remember it.”
Midoriya folded the paper and put it away.
At lunch, the class gathered in the cafeteria. All Might was at the staff table, speaking with Present Mic. Midoriya had his own lunch today, packed by his mother.
Kaminari leaned across the table. “So, did you write about All Might?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“Did you write about Bakugou?”
“No.”
Bakugou, sitting nearby, looked up. “Why are you asking him about his paper?”
“Because we’re curious.”
“Be curious about something else.”
Jirou rested her chin on her hand. “Did you write about the training exercise?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
Midoriya hesitated. “The one where I had to trust someone else to cover my blind spot.”
“Who was it?”
“Uraraka.”
Uraraka smiled. “That was a good exercise.”
“It was. I kept trying to watch everything at once. I thought if I paid enough attention, I could handle every part of it myself.”
“That sounds familiar,” Todoroki said.
Midoriya looked at him.
Todoroki was eating quietly. “You do it often.”
“I do?”
“Yes.”
Kirishima nodded. “You’re always trying to keep everyone safe.”
“That’s what heroes do.”
“Heroes also let other people help them,” Uraraka said.
Midoriya looked down at his lunch.
Across the cafeteria, All Might laughed at something Present Mic said. It was a loud, easy laugh. For a moment, he looked completely at ease.
Then he coughed into his fist.
It was small. Almost nothing.
Midoriya saw it anyway.
All Might lowered his hand and continued speaking.
Midoriya’s attention stayed on him.
“You’re doing it again,” Jirou said.
“Doing what?”
“Watching him like you’re about to sprint across the cafeteria and demand he take a nap.”
“I’m not!”
“You are,” Uraraka said.
“I’m not.”
Kirishima leaned closer. “You’ve got the same face.”
Midoriya groaned. “There is no face!”
“There’s definitely a face,” Kaminari said. “It’s the ‘I’m worried but pretending I’m not’ face.”
“That’s not a face.”
“It’s a whole family of faces,” Sero said.
Midoriya looked at All Might again.
This time, All Might caught him staring. He smiled and gave a small wave.
Midoriya waved back.
Then he turned to his lunch.
He did not get up to ask if All Might was okay.
He did not try to manage him.
He let All Might finish his conversation.
It was harder than it sounded.

4. The Call
The first time Midoriya called All Might just to talk, he nearly hung up before the call connected.
His phone rang twice.
“Hello?” All Might answered.
“Hi, All Might. It’s me.”
“Hello, young Midoriya. Is everything all right?”
“Yeah. I mean, nothing’s wrong.”
“Good.”
There was a pause.
Midoriya stared at the ceiling of his dorm room. The others were downstairs, where Kaminari was trying to convince Sero that a grilled cheese sandwich could be improved with candy.
“I just wanted to ask how your shoulder is,” Midoriya said.
“My shoulder?”
“You mentioned it was bothering you after dinner.”
“Oh. It’s fine.”
Midoriya closed his eyes.
“Sorry,” All Might said. “That was an unhelpful answer.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Not seriously. I’ve been taking it easy.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Did Recovery Girl tell you to take it easy?”
“She did.”
“Are you listening to her?”
“I am.”
“Actually?”
“All right. I am trying to listen to her.”
Midoriya smiled. “That’s better.”
“And how are you?”
“Fine.”
“Actually?”
Midoriya opened his eyes. “I’m working on it.”
“Good.”
Another pause followed. It was not uncomfortable exactly, but it was new. Midoriya was used to their conversations having a purpose: training, strategy, advice, reassurance. He didn’t know what to do with a call that had no task attached.
All Might seemed to sense it.
“Would you like to tell me about your day?”
“Sure.”
Midoriya told him about class. He described the training exercise, the reflection assignment, and the way Kaminari had tried to put candy in a sandwich. All Might laughed at that.
Then All Might told him about his own day. A meeting with the school board. A stack of paperwork. A conversation with Present Mic about a radio program that had apparently gone off-script.
The story was ordinary.
That was what made it nice.
By the time they hung up, Midoriya had stopped staring at the ceiling. He sat up and looked at the dark window.
He felt lighter.
The next morning, Kaminari saw him smiling at his phone.
“Who were you talking to?”
“No one.”
“No one made you smile?”
“I wasn’t smiling.”
“You were.”
“I was reading something.”
“Was it a text from your dad?”
Midoriya nearly dropped the phone. “Kaminari!”
“Sorry. Sorry. I said I’d stop. I’m stopping.”
“You’re not stopping. You just asked if he was my dad.”
“I said I was sorry!”
“Both of you,” Iida said, appearing in the doorway, “should be mindful of Midoriya’s stated boundaries.”
Kaminari held up both hands. “I am being mindful.”
“You are not.”
“I’m trying.”
“That is not the same thing.”
Midoriya shook his head, but he was still smiling a little.
He put the phone away.

5. The Second Dinner
The second dinner happened because Midoriya asked.
He called All Might on a Saturday afternoon. He had rehearsed the sentence several times in his head before dialing.
“Would you like to come over for dinner next week?” he asked.
All Might went quiet.
“Only if you’re free,” Midoriya added quickly. “And Mom said it’s okay. She said she’d be happy to have you.”
“I would love to come,” All Might said.
“Okay. Great.”
“Thank you for inviting me.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I’m afraid I do.”
Midoriya smiled. “Then you’re welcome.”
This time, All Might brought only a small box of sweets. He had learned that bringing a pie, flowers, and a gift for the host might be too much. He had also learned that Inko liked sweets, so the box seemed appropriate.
Dinner was quieter than the first one. Not awkward—just familiar enough that they didn’t need to work so hard to fill every pause.
Inko asked All Might about his childhood.
He told them a little. Not everything. Some memories were too old and too difficult to explain over curry. But he told them about training, about his first hero costume, about the people who had helped him along the way.
Midoriya listened closely.
“Were you scared?” he asked.
“When I started?”
“Yeah.”
“Of course.”
“You were?”
All Might smiled. “Being brave doesn’t mean you’re never afraid. It means you decide that something matters more than the fear.”
Midoriya nodded slowly.
“Were you ever afraid you’d disappoint the people who believed in you?” he asked.
All Might’s smile faded.
“Yes,” he said.
“Did you?”
“Sometimes.”
“What did you do?”
“I tried again.”
“Even when you got it wrong?”
“Especially then.”
Midoriya looked down at his bowl. “I think I’m afraid of getting it wrong.”
“Everyone is,” Inko said.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“You won’t always be able to prevent that,” All Might said. “That doesn’t mean you should stop caring. It means you learn, you apologize when you need to, and you keep moving forward.”
Midoriya took that in.
Inko rested her hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to be perfect for us to be proud of you.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” All Might asked gently.
Midoriya’s mouth opened, but no answer came out.
All Might did not push him.
Inko squeezed his shoulder. “You can take your time.”
They changed the subject after that. Inko asked about All Might’s favorite food. He admitted that he had a weakness for curry. Midoriya immediately started asking what kind of curry, how spicy, and whether he preferred rice or bread.
All Might answered every question seriously.
By the time the dishes were cleared, Midoriya had made a list of curry recipes he wanted to try.
“You don’t have to cook for me,” All Might told him.
“I know. I want to.”
The words landed between them.
All Might looked at him, surprised.
Midoriya’s face turned pink. “I mean, you don’t have to come over just because I’m cooking.”
“I would come over even if there were no curry.”
“Good.”
“But I will happily eat the curry.”
“Also good.”
Inko watched them with a smile.
When All Might left that night, he carried the empty sweets box. Midoriya walked him to the door.
“Thanks for coming,” Midoriya said.
“Thank you for inviting me.”
“Do you want to come again?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. We’ll figure out a date.”
“I look forward to it.”
Midoriya hesitated.
There was something he wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure how.
All Might waited.
“I like having you around,” Midoriya said at last.
All Might’s expression softened. “I like being around you.”
Midoriya nodded, satisfied with that.
No titles. No promises. Just the truth.

6. The Mission
The incident happened during a training exercise.
It was supposed to be simple: a simulated rescue in a mock urban environment, with teams assigned to locate and evacuate injured civilians while avoiding staged hazards.
Aizawa had warned them that the exercise would be difficult.
He had not said that one of the support structures had been damaged during setup.
The first sign that something was wrong was the sound.
A sharp crack echoed through the training zone.
Midoriya looked up.
A section of the mock building’s upper floor shifted.
“Everyone out!” Aizawa shouted.
The students moved at once. Uraraka and Todoroki pulled two of the “civilians” clear. Kirishima braced a falling beam. Iida directed the rest of the class toward the exit.
Midoriya saw a support pillar buckle.
There was someone beneath it.
He moved before he thought.
“Midoriya!” Uraraka shouted.
He ducked under the beam and grabbed the trapped dummy—then realized it wasn’t a dummy.
One of the support-course students had been checking the set between exercises. They were conscious but pinned beneath a fallen panel.
“Don’t move,” Midoriya said. “I’m going to get you out.”
The student’s eyes were wide. “I can’t feel my leg.”
“You’re going to be okay. We’re getting help.”
The structure groaned above them.
Midoriya tried to lift the panel. Pain shot through his arms.
He stopped.
He could do it. He thought he could. If he used too much force, the structure might collapse. If he didn’t use enough, the student would remain trapped.
His hands shook.
“Midoriya!” Aizawa called from outside. “Report!”
“Student trapped! Lower level, east side!”
“Do not move the panel. We’re clearing the structure.”
Midoriya looked at the student. “You’re going to be okay.”
Another crack sounded overhead.
The student grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t leave me.”
“I won’t.”
He meant it.
That was the problem.
He wanted to stay. He wanted to hold the beam up himself, to keep everything from falling, to make sure no one else got hurt.
But he couldn’t do everything alone.
He remembered the reflection assignment.
You don’t have to carry every lesson alone.
He looked toward the opening. “Uraraka! I need you!”
She appeared at once. “What do you need?”
“Can you make the panel lighter without moving it?”
“I can try.”
“Don’t touch the support beam. Just the panel.”
“Got it.”
She slipped into the space beside him. Her fingers touched the panel, and it began to float.
The pressure eased.
“Now, Iida!” Midoriya called. “We need the rescue team!”
“Already on their way!”
Todoroki sent a narrow line of ice beneath the unstable section, bracing it without blocking the exit.
Kirishima moved into position at the doorway. “I can hold this side!”
“No,” Aizawa shouted. “You’re not going under the structure.”
“I can help from here!”
“Do it from there!”
Kirishima clenched his jaw but obeyed.
The support team arrived with a rescue stretcher and equipment. They worked quickly, guided by Aizawa’s instructions. Midoriya stayed beside the injured student, talking to them while Uraraka kept the panel weightless.
“Tell me your name,” he said.
“Riku.”
“Okay, Riku. I’m Midoriya. We’re going to get you out.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t say I promise. He didn’t say nothing bad will happen. He didn’t know that.
He said, “We’re here with you.”
The rescue workers freed Riku and carried him out. The structure held long enough for everyone to evacuate.
Only once they were outside did Midoriya notice the pain in his arms.
Aizawa was already at his side. “Medical room.”
“I’m fine.”
“Medical room.”
“It’s just—”
“Midoriya.”
He stopped.
Aizawa’s expression was tired but firm. “You helped. Now let someone help you.”
Midoriya looked at his arms. They were trembling.
“Okay,” he said.
The school nurse checked him over. He had strained his wrists and bruised his shoulder, but nothing was broken. The injured support student was also expected to recover.
All Might arrived before the examination was over.
He came through the door too quickly, then slowed when he saw Midoriya sitting on the bed.
“Are you hurt?”
“Just a strain.”
All Might’s hands tightened at his sides. “How serious?”
“Not serious.”
“Recovery Girl?”
“She says I need to rest.”
“Then you will rest.”
“I will.”
All Might looked like he wanted to ask ten more questions. Instead, he sat down in the chair beside the bed.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The nurse finished wrapping Midoriya’s wrist and left them alone.
All Might studied the bandage. “You did well.”
Midoriya looked at him. “I could have made it worse.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I almost moved the panel.”
“But you stopped.”
“I wanted to do it myself.”
“I know.”
Midoriya stared at his hands. “I was scared.”
“So was I.”
Midoriya looked up.
All Might’s eyes were steady, but his face had gone pale. “When I heard what happened, I was scared.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for being in danger.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.”
All Might leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m proud of you.”
Midoriya looked away. “Because I rescued the student?”
“Because you listened. Because you asked for help. Because you stayed with them without pretending you could control everything.”
“I didn’t feel very heroic.”
“Most important choices don’t feel grand in the moment.”
Midoriya’s throat tightened.
All Might reached out, then paused. “May I?”
Midoriya understood. He nodded.
All Might rested a hand gently on his shoulder.
“You’re here,” he said. “You’re safe. The student is safe. You did what you could.”
Midoriya closed his eyes.
All Might’s hand stayed on his shoulder.
For a little while, that was enough.

7. The Question
The class visited the infirmary in groups.
Aizawa had told them not to crowd Midoriya. They had interpreted this as permission to form an orderly queue.
Uraraka came first, carrying a bag of snacks. Iida brought a card signed by the class. Kirishima brought a comic book. Jirou brought headphones in case Midoriya wanted quiet. Kaminari brought a balloon and was immediately told to take it back because it was distracting.
Bakugou came last.
He stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets.
“You look stupid,” he said.
“Thanks, Kacchan.”
“You shouldn’t have gone under the beam.”
“There was someone trapped.”
“Yeah, and you were going to get yourself trapped too.”
“I know.”
Bakugou frowned, clearly thrown by the agreement.
Midoriya shifted on the bed. “I asked for help.”
“Good.”
“I didn’t try to lift the whole thing.”
“Good.”
“I listened to Aizawa.”
“Good.”
Bakugou scowled. “Stop making this weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
Midoriya smiled. “Okay.”
Bakugou stood there for another moment, then dropped something onto the bed. A small bag of spicy chips.
“You can’t eat those with your wrist wrapped up,” Midoriya said.
“Then don’t.”
“Thanks.”
“Whatever.”
Bakugou turned to leave.
“Are you coming to dinner?” Midoriya asked.
Bakugou stopped.
“Your mom invited me,” he said.
“She did?”
“She said she’s making curry.”
Midoriya glanced at All Might, who was sitting in the corner.
All Might smiled. “I’m invited as well.”
Bakugou stared at him. “Why?”
“Because Midoriya asked me.”
“Of course he did.”
“You could come too,” Midoriya said.
Bakugou’s shoulders tensed. “I know.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“I won’t.”
Bakugou left.
The room became quiet again.
All Might stood. “I should get back to the staff room.”
“You can stay,” Midoriya said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
All Might sat back down.
Midoriya picked at the edge of his blanket. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Do you ever regret it?”
All Might’s expression changed. “Regret what?”
“Taking me on as your successor.”
“No.”
“You don’t have to say that just because—”
“I don’t regret it,” All Might said. “Not for a moment.”
“But I’ve been hurt so many times.”
“That isn’t your fault.”
“I know, but—”
“Midoriya.” All Might leaned forward. “You are not a mistake I have to tolerate. You are not a burden I regret taking on. You are someone I chose to believe in, and someone I continue to believe in.”
Midoriya swallowed.
All Might continued, careful and steady. “I can wish that you had never been hurt. I can wish that the world had been kinder to you. But I will never regret knowing you.”
Midoriya’s eyes burned.
“Okay,” he whispered.
“Okay.”
“Would you… would you still want to be there for me if I wasn’t a hero?”
All Might went still.
Midoriya looked down. “I know that’s a weird question.”
“It isn’t.”
“I just wondered.”
All Might took a breath. “Yes.”
“Even if I couldn’t keep One For All?”
“Yes.”
“Even if I couldn’t become the kind of hero you wanted?”
“I don’t want you to become a particular kind of hero,” All Might said. “I want you to become yourself. And if you decided that being a hero wasn’t right for you, I would still care about you.”
Midoriya’s breath caught.
All Might’s voice softened. “You do not have to earn my affection through your usefulness.”
Midoriya wiped at his eyes. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Not always.”
“That’s all right. You can learn.”
Midoriya nodded.
The infirmary door opened. Inko stepped inside, carrying a small bag.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Mom.”
She set the bag down and looked at All Might. “Toshinori.”
“Mrs. Midoriya.”
She sat beside her son. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay.”
“Actually?”
Midoriya smiled faintly. “Tired. A little sore. A little embarrassed.”
“Why embarrassed?”
“I should have noticed the structure was unstable.”
“You’re not responsible for the setup.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Midoriya glanced at All Might.
“Apparently that’s a theme today,” he said.
Inko touched his hair. “You did your best.”
“I asked for help.”
“I heard. I’m proud of you.”
Midoriya looked at her, then at All Might.
For a moment, he felt the shape of something he had been circling for weeks. Not a label. Not a replacement. Not a change to what he already had.
Just a question.
“Mom,” he said, “would it be okay if I thought of All Might as… kind of a dad?”
Inko’s eyes widened slightly.
All Might went very still.
Midoriya continued quickly. “Not instead of you. Not instead of—well, I know he isn’t my biological father. I just mean… he’s important to me. And I think I want him to be there in that way.”
Inko reached for his hand. “You never need my permission to care about someone.”
“I know. But I wanted to ask.”
She smiled, and her eyes shone. “Then I’m glad you did.”
Midoriya turned to All Might.
All Might seemed unable to speak.
“Is that okay?” Midoriya asked.
All Might stood, then sat again, as though his legs had forgotten what to do. “It is more than okay.”
“I don’t know if I want to call you Dad.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Maybe not yet.”
“Not ever, if you prefer.”
“I might. Someday.”
“I’ll be honored whenever you’re ready.”
Midoriya nodded.
Inko squeezed his hand. “There’s room for everyone who loves you, Izuku.”
The words made something unclench inside him.
All Might reached out. Midoriya leaned forward, and they hugged carefully, avoiding the bandaged wrist.
It was brief.
It was awkward.
It was real.
When they pulled apart, All Might’s eyes were wet.
“You’re crying,” Midoriya said.
“I am moved.”
“You’re crying.”
“I’m allowed to be moved.”
Inko laughed softly. “You are.”
The infirmary door opened again. The class had apparently been waiting outside.
Aizawa stood in the doorway, looking unimpressed. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“Sorry,” Uraraka said.
“No, you aren’t.”
“No, we aren’t,” Kaminari admitted.
Aizawa looked at the group. “Five minutes. Then everyone leaves.”
The students filed in, trying not to crowd the bed.
Ashido glanced between Midoriya and All Might. “So… are we allowed to say dad-ish now?”
Midoriya looked at All Might.
All Might looked back at him.
“Maybe,” Midoriya said.
Ashido clasped both hands over her mouth.
Kaminari whispered, “The theory lives.”
Iida started to correct him, then stopped. “The original theory remains factually incorrect. However, the revised interpretation may be acceptable.”
“Thank you, Iida,” Midoriya said.
“You’re welcome.”
Bakugou, who had returned to the doorway, clicked his tongue. “You’re all making too much noise.”
“You’re still here,” Jirou said.
“I’m leaving.”
He didn’t.

8. The Chart Returns
The chart came back two weeks later.
It had been revised.
The title now read:
MIDORIYA AND ALL MIGHT: A COMPLETELY UNOFFICIAL, NON-BINDING, RESPECTFUL OBSERVATION
Underneath, in smaller writing:
Important note: Midoriya gets to decide what this relationship means.
The old categories had been removed. In their place was a list of moments.

All Might asked before giving advice.
Midoriya invited All Might to dinner.
All Might listened instead of trying to fix everything.
Midoriya asked for help during the rescue.
All Might stayed with Midoriya in the infirmary.
Midoriya asked his mother how she felt about it.
Inko said there was room for everyone who loved him.

At the bottom, Iida had written:
CONCLUSION: FAMILY IS NOT DETERMINED BY BIOLOGY ALONE. HOWEVER, THIS CHART DOES NOT ESTABLISH A LEGAL OR BIOLOGICAL RELATIONSHIP.
Jirou had added:
Thank you, Iida.
Midoriya stared at the chart.
“You made another one.”
“We made a respectful one,” Ashido said.
“You still made one.”
“Would you like us to take it down?”
Midoriya considered it.
“No,” he said finally. “It can stay.”
Ashido smiled. “Really?”
“Yeah. But no more updates.”
“Understood.”
“And no voting.”
“Understood.”
“And no asking All Might weird questions.”
“Understood,” Iida said.
Kaminari raised a hand. “What counts as weird?”
“Anything you have to ask whether it counts as weird.”
“Got it.”
Aizawa entered the common room, glanced at the chart, and sighed.
“Why is this on my wall?”
“It’s the common-room wall,” Sero said.
“It’s a school wall.”
“It’s a common school wall.”
Aizawa stared at him.
Sero lowered his eyes. “I’ll take it down.”
“Leave it,” Midoriya said.
Aizawa looked at him.
“It’s okay,” Midoriya said. “They’re trying to be supportive.”
“I can see that.”
The teacher’s expression softened by a fraction. “Then keep it respectful.”
“We will,” Ashido promised.
Aizawa left.
Kaminari watched him go. “He didn’t even threaten to erase it.”
“He did say to keep it respectful,” Iida said.
“Which we are.”
“Mostly,” Jirou added.
Midoriya walked over to the chart and adjusted one corner where the tape was peeling.
It felt strange to see his life reduced to bullet points.
It also felt strangely comforting.
The class had noticed. They had cared enough to watch. They had cared enough to ask—and, after he answered, to stop pushing.
He stood back.
“Looks good,” Kirishima said.
“It’s a chart,” Midoriya replied.
“A good chart.”
“Thanks.”
The door opened, and All Might stepped inside.
“Good evening, young heroes.”
“Good evening, All Might,” the class chorused.
His eyes went to the wall.
He stopped.
“What is this?”
“Nothing,” Midoriya said.
“It’s the chart,” Kaminari said.
“Kaminari!”
All Might walked closer and read it.
He paused at the note about Inko.
Then he looked at Midoriya. “You’re comfortable with this?”
“I am.”
“Good.”
All Might’s gaze lingered on the final conclusion. “Iida, I appreciate the legal clarification.”
Iida straightened. “I thought it was important to be precise.”
“It is.”
“Thank you, sir.”
All Might turned back to Midoriya. “Are you heading home this weekend?”
“Yeah. Mom’s making curry.”
“Would you like me to come?”
Midoriya smiled. “I was going to ask you.”
“Then I accept.”
Kaminari leaned toward Sero. “Dinner with the family.”
Midoriya pointed at him. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was just breathing.”
“Loudly?”
“Some of us have powerful lungs.”
All Might laughed. “I’m sure I can survive dinner with the family.”
Midoriya’s smile faltered, just a little.
All Might noticed. “Only if that wording is comfortable for you.”
“It is,” Midoriya said. “I think.”
“Then I’ll be there.”
“Okay.”
They stood together in the common room, surrounded by classmates, a suspicious chart, and the ordinary noise of the dorm.
It felt a little like being watched.
It also felt like being held.

9. The Name
The first time Midoriya called him Dad, it happened by accident.
All Might had come by the dorms to drop off a set of notes. Midoriya was in the common room, trying to fix the strap on his training bag while answering questions from Uraraka and Todoroki.
All Might set the notes on the table.
“Here you are, young Midoriya.”
“Thanks, Dad—”
The room stopped.
Midoriya stopped.
All Might stopped.
The strap slipped from Midoriya’s hands.
Nobody spoke.
Then Kaminari made a sound like a kettle beginning to boil.
“Do not,” Midoriya said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a noise.”
“I’m allowed to make noises.”
“Not that noise.”
Kaminari pressed his lips together.
All Might’s face had gone pink. He looked at Midoriya, careful and quiet.
“Was that all right?” he asked.
Midoriya’s cheeks burned. “I didn’t mean to say it.”
“That’s okay.”
“I mean, I wasn’t planning to. It just came out.”
“That’s okay too.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Midoriya looked down at the strap. “I can call you something else.”
“You can call me whatever feels right.”
“What if I don’t know what feels right?”
“Then you can take your time.”
Uraraka smiled at him. “Nobody’s going to make you decide.”
“Correct,” Iida said.
Kaminari made another tiny noise.
Jirou elbowed him.
“Ow.”
“Was that okay?” Midoriya asked All Might.
All Might’s eyes were bright. “It was more than okay.”
“Even if it was an accident?”
“Especially because it was honest.”
Midoriya nodded.
Then he picked up the strap and tried to fix it again.
The room slowly returned to normal. Uraraka asked him about the bag. Todoroki offered a suggestion. Kaminari was ordered to go get a screwdriver.
All Might stayed for a few minutes, then left.
The door closed.
Midoriya stared at the notes on the table.
Dad.
The word was still there, even though he hadn’t meant to say it.
It didn’t feel wrong.
That was what frightened him.
That night, he called his mother.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hello, sweetheart. How are you?”
“Good.”
“Actually?”
“Actually, good.”
“Wonderful.”
He told her what had happened.
Inko was quiet for a moment. “How did it feel?”
“Strange.”
“Good strange or bad strange?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to know right away.”
“I think I liked it.”
“That’s all right.”
“Does it bother you?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Izuku, you calling someone else Dad doesn’t erase me. It doesn’t take anything away from us.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I’m trying to.”
“I’m here. I’ll always be your mother. That doesn’t change.”
Midoriya closed his eyes. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Anytime.”
After they hung up, Midoriya sat with his phone in his hands.
The word still felt strange.
But it had a place to land now.

10. The Conversation
All Might did not ask Midoriya about the accidental “Dad.”
He waited.
A week passed.
Then another.
Midoriya called him twice. All Might visited the dorms once. They had dinner at Inko’s apartment again. Midoriya did not use the word.
All Might did not push.
The waiting was more difficult than All Might expected.
He had not realized how much hope he had placed in that one accidental syllable until he began trying not to hope for it again.
He reminded himself that Midoriya had not promised anything. He reminded himself that affection did not need a title. He reminded himself that he was already fortunate to be part of the boy’s life.
Still, the word stayed with him.
One evening, after a training session, Midoriya asked if they could talk.
They sat in the empty classroom. The setting sun painted the desks orange.
“I’ve been thinking,” Midoriya began.
“So have I.”
“About what happened.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Yeah.”
All Might folded his hands. “All right.”
Midoriya looked at the window. “I called you Dad by accident.”
“Yes.”
“I thought I’d be more embarrassed.”
“You were embarrassed.”
“I was. But I wasn’t upset.”
“I’m glad.”
“I’ve been thinking about what it means.”
All Might waited.
“I don’t want to replace my dad,” Midoriya said. “I don’t know him. I don’t want to pretend I do. And I don’t want to act like you were there when I was little, because you weren’t.”
“I understand.”
“But I also don’t want to pretend you’re only my mentor.”
All Might’s breath caught.
Midoriya continued, voice quiet but steady. “You’re my mentor. You’re my hero. You’re my friend. And I think you’re becoming family.”
All Might’s eyes filled.
“Is that okay?” Midoriya asked.
“It’s more than okay.”
“I don’t know if I’ll call you Dad all the time.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Maybe sometimes.”
“I would be honored.”
“And if I don’t, it doesn’t mean I changed my mind.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
All Might smiled. “Thank you for telling me.”
Midoriya shifted in his seat. “You said you’d be honored if I wanted you to fill that role.”
“I did.”
“Do you still mean it?”
“Every word.”
“Even knowing I might be difficult?”
All Might laughed softly. “Young Midoriya, I have never expected you to be easy.”
“That’s fair.”
“I mean it. You don’t have to earn a place beside me. You already have one.”
Midoriya’s eyes shone.
All Might reached for him, then paused.
Midoriya stood and stepped into the hug himself.
All Might wrapped his arms around him carefully.
The embrace was longer this time.
When they separated, Midoriya wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
All Might handed him a handkerchief.
“You carry one?”
“I’m a gentleman.”
“You’re a hero.”
“I can be both.”
Midoriya laughed.
They walked back to the dorms together.
At the entrance, Midoriya stopped.
“Goodnight, All Might.”
“Goodnight, young Midoriya.”
Midoriya hesitated.
“Goodnight, Toshinori.”
All Might looked at him.
The name felt different in Midoriya’s mouth. More personal. Less distant.
All Might smiled. “Goodnight, Izuku.”
Midoriya went inside.
All Might remained on the step for a moment, feeling the warmth of the name.

11. The Family Dinner
The next dinner was louder.
Bakugou came.
He claimed he was only there because Inko had invited him and because she was making curry. He brought a bag of vegetables, which he handed to Inko without comment.
She thanked him warmly.
He turned red and told her not to make a big deal out of it.
All Might arrived with a box of sweets. Inko accepted them and set them on the counter.
“Everyone’s here,” she said.
“Not everyone,” Midoriya said.
“Who’s missing?”
“Dad.”
The word came out naturally.
The room went quiet.
Midoriya froze with one hand on the table.
Bakugou looked at him.
Inko looked at him.
All Might looked at him.
Midoriya’s face turned bright red. “I mean—Toshinori. I meant—”
“You don’t have to explain,” All Might said.
“I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“You didn’t.”
Bakugou snorted. “You made it weird by panicking.”
“Thanks, Kacchan.”
“You’re welcome.”
Inko smiled and touched Midoriya’s cheek. “Dinner’s ready.”
They sat down.
The meal was warm, noisy, and full of interruptions. Bakugou complained that the curry needed more spice. Inko told him he could add it himself. Kaminari, who had been invited because he had helped carry groceries, spilled water and tried to blame the table. Todoroki asked whether curry counted as soup. Iida explained that it did not.
All Might ate two servings.
Midoriya noticed.
“You’re hungry,” he said.
“I am.”
“Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Because you skipped lunch last week.”
All Might paused.
Inko looked at him. “You skipped lunch?”
“I was busy.”
“That isn’t an excuse,” Midoriya said.
Bakugou pointed his spoon at All Might. “He’s right.”
All Might looked around the table. “I’m being reprimanded by all of you.”
“Good,” Inko said.
He laughed. “I’ll do better.”
“Actually?” Midoriya asked.
“Actually.”
“Good.”
After dinner, Bakugou helped wash the dishes. He insisted he was only doing it because he didn’t want to sit around while everyone else worked. Inko let him dry.
All Might helped put the leftovers away.
Midoriya stood beside him, passing him containers.
“This was a good idea,” Midoriya said.
“Dinner?”
“Having everyone here.”
“Yes. It was.”
“Maybe we can do it again.”
“I’d like that.”
Midoriya handed him the last container. Their fingers brushed.
“Dad,” Midoriya said, quietly this time.
All Might looked up.
Midoriya didn’t blush. He didn’t take it back.
“Yes?”
“Can you put this in the fridge?”
All Might smiled. “Of course.”
He placed the container on the shelf.
When he turned, Midoriya was still watching him.
“What?” All Might asked.
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I just wanted to say it.”
All Might’s smile turned soft. “I’m glad you did.”
From the sink, Bakugou groaned. “You two are going to make me regret coming.”
“You can leave,” Midoriya said.
“I’m eating dessert first.”
“Then you’re staying.”
“Obviously.”
Inko brought out the sweets All Might had brought.
The evening continued.

12. The Class’s Final Verdict
The next day, Class 1-A gathered in the common room.
The chart was still on the wall.
Ashido had added one final line:

Midoriya called All Might “Dad” at dinner.

Midoriya stared at it.
“I thought we agreed no more updates.”
“We did,” Ashido said. “This is the final update.”
“That’s still an update.”
“It’s a very important one.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Iida stepped forward and crossed out the line.
“Midoriya’s private moments should not be recorded without his consent.”
Ashido looked guilty. “You’re right. Sorry, Midoriya.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t. I got carried away.”
“Thanks for taking it down.”
Iida removed the paper.
Kaminari watched him. “So the chart is over?”
“Yes,” Iida said.
“The investigation is closed?”
“It was never an investigation.”
“The theory is officially retired?”
Midoriya considered it. “The theory was wrong.”
“Technically,” Jirou said.
“Very technically,” Sero added.
“But the family part is true,” Uraraka said.
Midoriya smiled. “Yeah.”
“So what do we call it?” Kaminari asked.
“Nothing,” Midoriya said.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t need a name.”
Iida nodded. “That is reasonable.”
Kaminari looked disappointed. “But we’re really good at naming things.”
“You named my relationship,” Midoriya said.
“Fair.”
The door opened.
All Might entered, carrying a bag.
“I brought snacks.”
Kaminari’s head snapped up. “For everyone?”
“All of you.”
The class cheered.
Midoriya took the bag from him. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
“Did you eat lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Actually?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
All Might smiled. “You sound like your mother.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
They sat together in the common room. The students passed snacks around. Someone started talking about the next training exercise. Someone else complained about homework.
The chart was gone.
The theory was over.
But Midoriya still sat beside All Might, shoulder brushing his arm. All Might still noticed when Midoriya went quiet. Midoriya still noticed when All Might looked tired.
Neither of them had to explain it.
They had spent weeks trying to decide what their relationship was supposed to be. In the end, they had discovered that it didn’t need to fit neatly into one word.
Mentor. Student. Hero. Successor. Friend. Family.
All of those things were true.
And sometimes, when Midoriya looked at All Might and felt the word rise naturally in his chest, he called him Dad.
Not because the class had voted.
Not because All Might had asked.
Because Midoriya wanted to.
And every time he did, All Might answered.
“Yeah, Dad?”
All Might’s smile was bright and gentle.
“I’m right here.”