Chapter Text
The heat coming off the training field shimmered like a mirage. Class 1-A, now 3-A, moved through their drills under the late-morning sun, explosions crackling in the distance, laughter scattered between commands.
For the first time in what felt like years, the chaos wasn’t war—it was just... school.
Izuku crouched at the starting line of field Gamma's obstacle course, green sparks flickering faintly around his boots. The field stretched ahead in a maze of shifting panels, mock debris, and automated drones ready to fire stun bolts if he slowed down.
Third-year hero training. The kind of session that separated students from pros.
He tightened his gloves, checking his breathing. One For All hummed under his skin—no longer the roaring storm it once was. After the war, after the vestiges had said their final goodbyes, Izuku thought the quirk would fade completely, but it hadn’t. It was quieter now, steadier—less like roaring fire, more like a steady current. Smaller, but alive. His.
“All right, Midoriya!” Snipe called from the control booth above the course. “You’re up! Time to see if those fancy reflexes still work under pressure. Timer starts on my mark—three, two, one… go!”
Izuku exploded forward. Energy sparked around his legs as he blurred through the first gate, vaulting over a collapsed beam and tucking into a roll. A stun drone fired—he twisted midair, a quick burst of air from his glove knocking it off course.
“Good dodge!” Snipe’s voice rang through the speakers. “Keep your pace steady—don’t burn out too early!”
Izuku gritted his teeth, adjusting power just beneath his maximum. The hum of One For All buzzed through him—not overwhelming like before, but sharp enough to feel alive. He landed, sprinted again, then slid under a rising panel, coming up with a controlled burst that shattered a holographic target dead-center. By the time he reached the finish line, the timer blinked red—one second faster than his last run.
“Nice work, Midoriya!” Snipe called. “Form looked solid-just remember to pace yourself.”
“Y-yes, sir!” Izuku replied, panting slightly but smiling
He didn’t mind the critique. Thinking, adjusting, analyzing—it was who he was. And here, surrounded by the noise of training and laughter and familiar voices, it almost felt like being a hero again meant living, not just fighting.
“Oi, nerd!”
Izuku turned just in time for Bakugō to drop from the observation platform, boots hitting the dirt hard enough to puff dust into the air. His gauntlets gleamed, fresh from maintenance, and that familiar sharp grin already there.
“You done hoggin’ the track, or you plan on takin’ a victory lap for that average-ass time?” Bakugō barked, cracking his neck.
Izuku blinked, still catching his breath. “Y-you were watching?”
Bakugō scoffed. “What, you think I’m gonna let my old rival get lazy? You’re still slow outta turns, Deku.”
“That was my best run this week!” Izuku protested, smiling despite himself.
“Yeah, and my warm-up would still blow it outta the water.” Bakugō stretched his arms, small pops echoing. “Now move. Time to remind everyone who’s still number one.”
“You mean me?” Izuku asked, feigning innocence.
Bakugō froze mid-stretch. Slowly, deliberately, he turned, eyes narrowing. “You gettin’ cocky, huh?”
“I might be,” Izuku said, grinning wide.
For a moment, silence—then Bakugō’s grin matched his, fierce and alive. “Good. About damn time.” He stomped past him to the starting line, explosions flickering lightly in his palms like an unspoken challenge.
Izuku chuckled, hands on his hips. “Don’t blow up the course again, okay?”
Bakugō barked a laugh. “No promises!””
Izuku shook his head, watching him take position. It was loud, ridiculous, and entirely normal—and for the first time in a while, that felt like peace.
Then the intercom crackled to life, sharp and sudden. “Midoriya Izuku, please report to Principal Nezu’s office.”
Bakugō glanced over, one eyebrow raised. “What’d you screw up this time, nerd?”
Izuku blinked, caught off guard. “N-nothing! I think.”
Snipe tipped his hat from the observation booth. “You heard the boss, Midoriya. Better get movin’ before he sends Aizawa to fetch ya.”
The peace that had settled over him only seconds ago was gone, replaced by the uneasy flutter of questions he couldn’t quite name.
---
The hallways of U.A. smelled faintly of chalk, disinfectant, and steel polish. The building had been rebuilt, repaired, and reinforced so many times that it almost felt whole again.
Almost.
Izuku adjusted the cuffs of his gloves as he walked, trying not to overthink what the summons could mean. Nezu never called him in without a reason—and the last few times had involved incidents: leftover trouble from the war, damage reports, or his own lingering health checks. But something about the principal’s voice over the intercom had been different this time—calm, but too careful.
He raised his hand to knock, but before he could touch the door, a familiar voice called from the other side.
“Come in.” The door opened with a soft creak.
Principal Nezu sat behind his desk, paws folded neatly, sharp eyes glinting with polite curiosity.
Aizawa leaned against the far wall, scarf loose around his shoulders. His single eye followed Izuku’s every movement as he entered—quiet, steady, and unreadable.
He wasn’t Izuku’s homeroom teacher anymore, but that didn’t matter. After everything they’d been through, the connection between them ran deeper than that. They weren’t just student and teacher anymore. They were survivors, and Izuku could feel the concern radiating off him like static.
That uneasy weight doubled in his chest—until his eyes drifted toward the window. The light there caught on a familiar silhouette, tall and steady, shoulders squared against the sun.
All Might.
Izuku’s breath caught. Even after everything, the sight of him still did that.
All Might—no, Toshinori-sensei—stood by the window, sunlight tracing the edges of his frame. He looked smaller now, thinner after months of recovery and treatments, the toll of his fight with All For One etched into every movement. His once-bright hair was streaked through with silver, but to Izuku, he didn't seem weaker—only wiser.
He’d spent most of the past year in and out of hospitals, flying overseas for specialists, doing everything possible to prolong his life just a little longer. And somehow, despite all of it, he was still here. Still standing.
“Toshinori-sensei?” Izuku said softly, blinking as his throat tightened. “What are you—?”
All Might turned, that familiar, gentle smile curving his lips. The light caught on the lines of his face, and for a heartbeat Izuku didn’t see the Symbol of Peace or even the world’s greatest hero.
He saw a man who had become his father.
The man who had believed in him when no one else had. The one who’d given him everything—and somehow still kept showing up, no matter how much it cost him.
“Good morning, my boy,” Toshinori said warmly. His voice was softer than it used to be, but no less strong. “It’s been a while.”
Izuku’s stomach tightened as all three of them watched him. “Is… something wrong?”
Nezu gestured toward the chair across from his desk, his small paws folded neatly on the table’s edge. “That depends on your definition of ‘wrong,’ young Midoriya. Please—sit down.”
Izuku obeyed, lowering himself into the chair with the kind of unease that came from years of being on both sides of Nezu’s tone. The air felt heavy, quiet. All Might had turned slightly away, arms crossed loosely, his expression soft but serious. Aizawa stood near the far wall, posture deceptively relaxed, though Izuku could tell he was studying him closely.
Nezu tilted his head. “Tell me, Midoriya—have you had any… unexpected visitors recently?”
Izuku frowned. “Visitors? No, not really. I mean, besides patrol debriefs and, uh, Mei dropping by with gadgets sometimes.” He tried a nervous laugh, but it landed flat. “Why? Did something happen?”
Aizawa’s voice came next—low, steady, with that same measured calm he used before delivering difficult news. “Something, yes. Someone showed up at the main gate before dawn. She asked to speak with you.”
“She?” Izuku repeated, blinking.
Nezu nodded. “That’s correct. She knew you were still enrolled here, which, I should mention, is information not publicly available. That alone piqued our interest.”
All Might stepped forward, folding his hands behind his back. “Young Midoriya, before we tell you who it was, we need to understand something.”
Izuku straightened unconsciously. “Yes, sir?”
“When you were active in the field during the war,” All Might continued, “you encountered a number of former League members outside of official engagements. In your reports, there were several occasions where you made contact without backup.” His tone wasn’t scolding, just quietly analytical. “Is that correct?”
Izuku nodded slowly. “I… yeah. There were times. Some of them just—found me. I wasn’t looking for them, but—”
Aizawa interjected smoothly. “You didn’t report every meeting, did you?”
Izuku hesitated, the truth hovering just long enough to be seen. “Not all of them, no.”
Aizawa exhaled through his nose, not in disappointment, but in something more like acceptance. “That tracks.”
Nezu’s expression softened. “You see, Midoriya, that admission helps us understand why she came here today. It makes her story… much more believable.”
Izuku blinked, the word she ringing louder with each heartbeat. “Her story?”
Nezu exchanged a quick glance with All Might before continuing. “Yes. She claims to have met with you several times after your initial encounter during the forest incident two years ago.”
Izuku froze. His breath hitched just enough for the older heroes to notice.
Aizawa’s brow lifted slightly. “Judging by that look, I’m guessing she’s telling the truth.”
Izuku swallowed hard. “I—who are you talking about?”
Nezu folded his paws again, tone still measured but now carrying a faint note of gravity. “Himiko Toga.”
The name hit like a physical blow.
For a moment, the only sound in the office was the low hum of Nezu’s computer and the faint ticking of a wall clock. Izuku stared, the edges of the room blurring around him. “She’s—alive?”
Nezu nodded once. “Quite. She arrived this morning. No weapons, no disguise, no resistance. She specifically requested to see you.”
All Might’s voice was gentle, but weighted. “She said she left the League before its collapse. That she’s been in hiding since the end of the war.”
Aizawa’s gaze flicked toward him again. “And she claims the reason she left was because of something you said to her.”
Izuku’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Because of me?”
All Might nodded. “That’s what she says, my boy.”
Izuku leaned back in the chair, hands gripping his knees. His thoughts were a storm of old memories—the forest, the first time she’d said his name like it meant something sharp and real. The other times she’d appeared—out of nowhere, always watching, always curious. He’d told himself those encounters didn’t matter, that she was just another lost soul passing through his path. But now, hearing her name spoken aloud again, the truth clawed its way to the surface.
“She’s here?” he asked quietly.
Nezu’s voice gentled. “Yes. And she’s not here as a prisoner, at least not yet. She’s asked for sanctuary. But there’s more, Midoriya.” He hesitated for just a beat, long enough for Izuku to feel the weight settle in his chest.
“She isn’t alone.”
---
The walk down the corridor felt unreal.
Izuku had been through the teachers’ dorms plenty of times before—usually to visit Eri or drop off reports for Aizawa—but it had never felt like this. The place was quiet and homey in a way few corners of U.A. managed to be. The air carried a faint scent of tea and cedar polish, the kind that clung to the walls no matter how many times they cleaned. He could almost picture Eri down the hall in Recovery Girl’s old quarters, drawing something with Crayons or humming while she worked.
Normally, that thought would’ve calmed him.
Today it didn’t.
Each step felt too loud. His pulse wouldn’t settle. Aizawa led the way with his usual calm, scarf draped loosely around his neck, his pace steady but not rushed. All Might followed close behind, silent except for the soft rhythm of his shoes. Between the two of them, Izuku felt caught between the past and the present—the man who had taught him what it meant to fight, and the man who’d taught him how to keep going. And somewhere ahead of them was the person who had taught him something else entirely.
Himiko’s alive.
Even thinking it felt strange, like saying the name of a dream out loud. He’d mourned her, in his own quiet way. She’d just vanished after the war, swallowed by the chaos. There had never been a body—only rumors, conflicting reports, and one of Hawks’ old briefings that had implied she’d gone down with the last League remnants. He’d believed it. He’d tried not to. But a small, irrational part of him had never really stopped hoping. And now, somehow, that hope was walking distance away.
“Still with us, Midoriya?” Aizawa’s voice cut through his thoughts.
“Yes, sir,” Izuku said quickly, though his voice was thinner than he’d meant.
All Might smiled faintly beside him, eyes soft. “It’s all right to be nervous, my boy. I imagine this isn’t how you pictured your morning.”
Izuku gave a shaky laugh. “No… I don’t think anything could’ve prepared me for this.”
“That’s usually how the important things happen,” All Might said.
They turned a corner. The lighting softened—warmer here, sunlight spilling through tall windows and throwing long, easy shadows on the floor. Normally, it felt peaceful, almost comforting. Today, it only made Izuku’s chest tighten.
His mind raced with what-ifs. What if it’s not her? What if she doesn’t remember me? What if she regrets everything? What if she—
Aizawa stopped in front of a white door at the end of the hall. The small panel beside it blinked green. He swiped his keycard through the reader, waited for the soft click of the lock, and turned slightly toward Izuku.
“You don’t have to say anything right away,” he said quietly. “Just… listen first. She’s been through a lot.”
Izuku nodded, trying to steady his breathing. “Okay.”
All Might’s hand came down gently on his shoulder. “Whatever happens, you’re not alone in this.”
Izuku smiled faintly. “I know.”
The door slid open.
Warm light spilled through the crack—soft, golden, almost homey. The first thing he noticed was how normal the room looked: a couch, a small table with tea cups still steaming, sunlight painting slow-moving lines across the floorboards. The window was open just enough to let in a breeze from the training forest beyond. It didn’t feel like a holding cell. It felt like a place meant for healing.
And then he saw her.
Sitting on the couch, head tilted slightly toward the light. Hair shorter now, neater, her skin no longer pale and hollow but flushed with life. She looked… better. Healthier than she’d ever been when he knew her.
And somehow, even from across the room, he knew.
Himiko Toga.
The breath he’d been holding finally left him in a rush. She’s alive. She’s really alive. His pulse roared in his ears, but this time it wasn’t fear. It was relief. For the first time in a year, hope didn’t feel foolish. It felt real.
Her head turned at the sound of the door. For a moment, neither of them moved. Her golden hair caught the sunlight as she looked up—and her breath hitched like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. The cup of tea on the table trembled just slightly where her fingers had brushed it.
“Izuku…” she whispered.
It wasn’t the playful, sing-song tone he remembered from the forest or those stolen rooftop meetings. There was no teasing lilt, no smirk hiding behind the word. Just his name—soft, fragile, and uncertain, like she was afraid it might break if she said it too loud.
He froze in the doorway. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t even breathe. Then he took one slow step forward. “You’re… you’re alive.”
Her lips lifted in the smallest smile. “Trying to be.”
The sound of her voice—steady but quiet, cautious but real—hit him harder than any explosion ever had. He’d imagined this moment a hundred times, in dreams he’d never admit to, and yet nothing could have prepared him for seeing her sitting there in the sunlight, alive and warm and real.
She looked better, but not perfect—there were faint shadows under her eyes, scars half-hidden by her collar—but she was healthy. The wildness that used to dance behind her eyes had gentled into something steadier. The chaos was still there, just… quieter. Human.
He exhaled slowly, trying to find words that didn’t sound like disbelief. “Nezu said you came here. That you left the League.”
“I did.” Her voice was low but certain. She toyed with the hem of her sleeve, not quite meeting his gaze. “After that night—the last time I saw you—I couldn’t go back. Everything felt… wrong. I didn’t want to hurt people anymore. I didn’t want to keep watching everyone I cared about die. You said there was another way, remember?”
“I remember.”
He did. He remembered the ruined skyline, the smell of smoke, the way she’d stood in the ashes and asked him if he really believed villains could change. He’d said yes. Not because he was sure—but because she’d asked.
“I didn’t believe you then,” she said, a small, shaky laugh breaking through the tension. “Honestly, sometimes I still don’t. I kept running, hiding, pretending I didn’t exist. But then…”
She hesitated, looking down, one hand drifting unconsciously to her side. “I found out I wasn’t alone anymore. And suddenly surviving started to matter.”
Izuku blinked, the meaning not fully connecting. “Not alone?” he repeated, confused.
Her fingers tightened on her sleeve. She looked up, and for the first time since he walked in, he saw something like fear in her eyes—not of him, but of what he was about to see. Toga hesitated, eyes darting toward the far end of the couch. “There’s… something I need to show you,” she murmured.
Izuku followed her gaze, finally noticing the small carrier tucked beside the couch—half-hidden by the throw blanket draped over it. He hadn’t even seen it when he walked in. His mind had been too loud, his focus locked entirely on her.
Now, the quiet took on a new weight.
The carrier shifted. A faint, muffled sound rose from beneath the blanket—small and soft, like the sound of a sigh caught in a dream.
Izuku’s heart stuttered. “Himiko… what—?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she moved slowly, carefully kneeling beside the carrier. Her hands trembled as she pulled the blanket back, revealing a tiny bundle swaddled in pale fabric.
A baby.
Toga’s breath hitched as she slid one hand beneath the child’s head, cradling her close with a tenderness Izuku had never seen from her before. When she spoke, her voice cracked on the first word. “I—uh… she…” She looked up at him, eyes wide and uncertain, as if the next sentence might shatter the fragile air between them. “I was going to tell you differently, but… I didn’t know how.” Her lips twitched into a nervous, almost sheepish smile. “Her name’s—uh—her name’s Izumiko. I… I put our names together. I thought it sounded nice. Maybe too obvious. I don’t know. I didn’t have anyone to ask if it was weird.”
She was rambling—hands tightening on the blanket, eyes flicking between the baby and Izuku as if searching for an anchor. “I just—I didn’t know what else to do. I wanted her to have something from you, even if you never—” Her voice caught. “Even if you never knew.”
Izuku’s throat went dry. He took one hesitant step closer. “She’s… yours?”
Toga’s shoulders tensed, a small, uneven breath escaping. “Ours.”
The word trembled out of her like a secret finally let loose.
Izuku stopped halfway across the room. His eyes darted from her trembling hands to the tiny face nestled against her chest—soft blond hair kissed faintly with green at the roots, cheeks warm with life, eyelids fluttering in sleep. And then the child shifted, blinking drowsily, and a pair of bright, unmistakably green eyes looked up at him.
Izuku’s breath left him.
Toga swallowed hard, tears shining but refusing to fall. “She was born three months ago. Right before the rains started. I didn’t know if I’d live long enough to bring her here. I didn’t know if you’d even want to see her. I just… didn’t want her to grow up thinking she didn’t have a father.”
Izuku stepped closer until he was only a few feet away. He couldn’t seem to move any slower, afraid the sound of his heartbeat might scare the baby—or make the moment vanish.
“She’s…” His voice broke, soft and disbelieving. “She’s ours?”
Toga nodded once, barely breathing. “Yeah,” she whispered. “She’s ours.”
The silence that followed was gentle and full and more alive than anything he’d felt in a year. Himiko shifted the baby gently in her arms, then looked up at Izuku. “You… you can hold her, if you want,” she said softly.
He stared for a second, almost afraid to move. “I—can I?”
Her smile was small but real. “She’s been waiting to meet you.”
That was all it took.
Himiko stood, moving slowly, carefully, and reached out to take his hand. Her fingers brushed his—warm, steady despite the slight tremor in her touch—and she guided him toward the couch. For a moment, it felt like time had folded in on itself, like the chaos of everything between them had gone quiet.
“Sit,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”
Izuku obeyed, lowering himself onto the couch, his heart hammering in his chest. Himiko leaned forward and placed the baby into his waiting arms. The weight was lighter than he expected—barely there—and yet it anchored him completely.
Warmth bled through the soft blanket into his palms, through his chest, through everything.
The baby stirred, blinking up at him, one tiny hand stretching toward the faint green flicker still pulsing under his uniform where One For All lived on. Her fingers brushed the spot, as if she recognized it somehow, and she made a small, breathy coo.
Izuku froze, every muscle shaking with the effort not to cry.
“She’s beautiful,” he whispered.
Himiko smiled through damp eyes. “She’s everything good I didn’t think I could ever have.”
A soft sound came from the doorway—a quiet sniff, followed by a deep, rumbling chuckle. All Might stood there with Aizawa beside him, both of them watching silently. For a moment, no one said anything. Then All Might spoke, his voice warm, touched with pride. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that smile, my boy.”
Izuku looked up, blinking through tears he hadn’t realized were falling. “She’s mine, All Might.”
All Might nodded once, eyes shining faintly. “Then that’s all that matters.”
Aizawa folded his arms, expression unreadable. “You two have made a mess of things,” he said flatly. “Complicated ones never come with a manual.”
Himiko flinched slightly at the words, but he continued before she could look away.
“But…” he exhaled through his nose, the sharpness easing just a fraction, “you came here instead of running. You’re trying to do right by the kid. That counts for something.”
Himiko’s gaze lifted hesitantly. “You’re… not angry?”
Aizawa’s one visible eye narrowed, but not unkindly. “Angry? Maybe a little. You caused enough chaos to keep us busy for a year. But I’ve seen worse people walk through that door with less reason to change.” He uncrossed his arms, tucking his hands into his pockets. “You made the right choice coming here. Don’t waste it.”
For a moment, the room went still again. Then Himiko blinked hard, her lips parting in quiet disbelief. “Thank you.”
Aizawa shrugged, looking away toward the window. “Don’t thank me. Just make it worth it.”
All Might smiled, stepping closer. “And as for you, young Midoriya—” he paused, his voice softening into something almost paternal, “—don’t lose sight of the joy in front of you. The world can wait a little while longer.”
Izuku looked down at the tiny girl in his arms, her soft breaths tickling the fabric of his uniform. The edges of the world felt blurry and far away—only this small moment mattered. He glanced up at Himiko, her expression fragile but full of light. “You came here,” he said quietly. “That’s enough for me to start with.”
Her shoulders relaxed, tension melting from her frame. “Then maybe I can finally stop running.”
He smiled gently. “You don’t have to anymore.”
The baby stirred again, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his, her small hand gripping at the green fabric over his heart. The room went still, filled with a quiet warmth that felt almost sacred. The kind of peace that wasn’t loud or triumphant—just earned.