Chapter 4: You'll Grow Into Them

Aiko ran.
The streets were already stirring. Early commuters, shopkeepers opening shutters, children with backpacks yawning beside their parents. She kept her head down, weaving between them like a shadow, the weight of the backpack bouncing against her spine. Her lungs burned, her heart thudded with every footstep. It was barely 7:30 a.m. But already too late. Too many eyes.

She ducked into alleys where she could, hugging the walls, sidestepping puddles and bins and half-forgotten crates. At one point, a delivery man glanced her way, but he turned back to his trolley without pause. Still, she didn’t slow. By the time she reached the quiet edge of the district, sweat clung to her temples and her thighs ached. She slipped through the back alley behind the forge and pressed the door shut behind her, fingers trembling against the wood.

The stillness inside made her flinch.

It wasn’t just quiet. The air itself had gone rigid, waiting.

Tetsurō’s voice came. Calm, but edged like steel left too long in the fire.

“You’re late.”

She lingered in the doorway, then stepped into view, setting the backpack down slowly, like it weighed more now than when she’d carried it.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He was seated at his workbench, not even looking up, his hands stitching something—leather, from the smell of it. A sheath, maybe.

“You’re supposed to be back before the sun fully rises.”

His voice was low. Flat. “It’s nearly eight.”

Aiko shifted her weight, the floor creaking beneath her boots.

“I lost track of time,” she offered, barely above a whisper.

“Hmm.”

It wasn’t a reprimand, exactly—more like a pause heavy with meaning. He set the leather down and looked at her fully now, his gaze unreadable beneath the silver strands of his hair.

“You’ve been spending time with that boy.”

Aiko hesitated. “…Yes.”

His eyes dropped briefly to the backpack beside her feet. “He gave you that?”

She nodded.

A breath passed through his nose, slow and measured. His hands folded together, fingers lacing tightly. When he leaned back, the stool creaked, but his eyes stayed on her.

“You know I’m not trying to control you, Aiko. That’s never been my way.”

She nodded again, but didn’t speak.

He continued. “But you need to stay hidden for a reason.”

“I didn’t tell him anything,” she said quickly.

“I know you didn’t,” he said, more gently now. “That’s not what worries me.”

She frowned. “Then what does?”

There was a long silence. He watched her—measured her.

Then he said, simply, “You’re starting to look happy.”

That stilled her.

He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t even stern. He just… sounded tired. Like someone who had learned the cost of happiness a little too well.

“I’m not saying you don’t deserve it,” he went on, quieter now. “You do. More than anyone. But happiness can make you reckless. Soft in places where you need to stay sharp.”

Aiko looked down at her feet, quiet.

Tetsurō stood slowly, wiping his hands on a rag. He walked to the sink, poured himself a glass of water, drank half. Then turned back toward her.

“You could have been seen today,” he said evenly. “Maybe not clearly. Maybe not by someone who matters. But someone, somewhere, will put it together if it keeps happening. You can’t afford that.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then, softly—“I think it’s best if you don’t go back to the beach tomorrow.”

Aiko didn’t answer. But the ache in her chest spoke for her.

Tetsurō watched her for a long moment. Then, without another word, he turned back to the bench, picked up his work, and began stitching again.

And Aiko stood in the doorway, the morning sun already too high outside, wondering how something so pure could be taken away so fast.

✧ ✧ ✧

For the next three days, Aiko stayed home.

She didn’t return to the beach. Not before sunrise. Not at all.

The sky still brightened each morning, the waves still hissed and whispered beyond the alleyway walls—but Aiko stayed behind the bolted door, her fingers idle and restless. She kept to the forge. To silence. To small tasks that didn’t ask for her heart.

Tetsurō left before dawn, his silhouette framed briefly in the doorway, a heavy canvas pack slung across one shoulder. She watched him go each morning, half-hoping he’d change his mind. That he’d look back and say she could come. But he never did. Just a grunt. A nod. Then the door closed, and his footsteps faded into the hum of waking streets.

He came back several hours later with metal—sometimes coiled wire, sometimes the shattered remains of old signs or discarded shelving, sometimes things she couldn’t identify at all. A wheel rim. A broken heater. He’d sling it over his back or pile it into an old handcart that groaned under the weight.

He said little.

On the third morning Tetsurō stepped inside, dusting off his gloves and setting down a jagged steel panel with a soft thud. The sound echoed faintly through the quiet room.

Aiko glanced up from the desk.

She’d been sketching. Her pencil hovered above a page in the pale pink notebook Izuku had given her, the edges already slightly smudged from her hands. Shapes filled the margins—bits of armor, mock-ups of support gear, a partial design for a knee guard she wasn’t sure she’d ever wear. But in the center of the page, half-finished and carefully drawn, was a boy. Curly hair. Wide eyes. A familiar backpack slung over his shoulders.

In her other hand, she absently turned a small wooden figure between her fingers—its edges smooth from years of handling, the carved shape worn down in places. She wasn’t even aware she was fidgeting with it until the grain caught on her thumb.

Tetsurō unwound his scarf with one hand. “He looks for you, you know.”

Aiko’s pencil stilled.

“His eyes scan the shore like he’s lost something precious.”

Her heart jolted, throat tightening unexpectedly.

He walked past her and tossed the scarf onto a hook near the stove. His boots scraped faintly against the workshop floor.

“He’s a good kid,” he said, voice quieter now. “Still there every morning. Working out. Stacking trash. Didn’t miss a day.”

She looked down quickly, as if the page might betray her. Her fingers slid over the sketch, slowly closing the notebook shut.

Tetsurō’s tone was almost casual when he added, “You can go back tomorrow. If you want.”

Her head snapped up. “Really?” she asked, too quickly. Then she blinked. “Why?”

He wiped his hands on a cloth, the movement slow and deliberate. “Because,” he said, “he’s not a threat.”

She frowned. “How do you know that?”

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then, with the faintest smirk tugging at the edge of his beard, he said, “He trains with All Might.”

Aiko blinked. “What? No he doesn’t. He’s always alone—well, except sometimes there’s this frail old man with him…”

Tetsurō chuckled, low and gravelly. “That’s All Might.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “What?!”

He chuckled again, the sound deeper this time, like the warmth of a fire catching properly. “I’m old enough to remember him when he first showed up on the scene—all teeth and bravado. Hasn’t changed a bit.”

“But—he’s just some skinny, kind of hunched old guy—”

“Same guy. Just… between the frames, let’s say.” He gave her a look. “You never seen the photos? From before he bulked up?”

She shook her head, still stunned.

“Well,” he said, “now you have.”

Aiko was quiet, thoughts racing. Her mind flicked back to the gaunt man’s silhouette beside Izuku, the way he always stood close but never interfered. How he had initially told her All Might asked him to clean the beach, before nervously back-tracking.

Tetsurō sat down at the bench, picking up his tools again. He picked up a half-finished hilt and began sanding the edge, the rhythmic scrape filled the air.

“You’re sharp,” he said. “But sometimes sharp things still need time to understand what they’re cutting through.”

✧ ✧ ✧

The sun was lower by the time Aiko padded into the workshop again. The air smelled of warm iron and burnt oil, faint smoke still curling from the forge. Tetsurō hadn’t eaten yet. He rarely did when he was working—when the metal spoke to him, hours slipped past unnoticed.

“Your plate’s on the table,” she said softly.

Two small plates sat beside each other on the low table behind the curtain. On each was a single onigiri—plain, dusted lightly with salt, carefully pressed into shape by her hands. No filling. No flair. Just enough to keep the hunger quiet.

“Mm.”
Tetsurō didn’t look up, but his hand moved, rotating a small knee guard beneath the overhead lamp. His fingertips smoothed along the edge, checking for burrs. Aiko stepped closer, drawn in by quiet fascination.

Laid out across the workbench were several pieces of unfinished armor. Not polished or decorative. Not like the glossy gear you’d find in stores or see in magazines. These were forged with purpose. They bore the weight of care, of function, of love in iron form. The metal was matte black, almost blue in certain light—stealth over shine. Two knee pads and a pair of elbow guards sat side by side, their curved edges shaped precisely to cradle her joints without hindering movement.

Aiko blinked—tiny stars were etched into the surface, not drawn or painted but carved directly into the steel. Beside them her name, along with his. They were faint, almost invisible unless you stood just right and let the light dance across them.

Tetsurō’s eyes flicked to her, gauging her reaction. “You’re sure you want your name on them?”

She looked up at him, conviction steady in her voice. “Yes. I’m not going to hide forever.”

Something in his expression softened, but he only nodded once before turning back to the tools.

“Muay Thai is close combat,” he said at last, still not looking up. “You’ll need to guard your joints.”

Aiko nodded. Her throat felt dry. She hadn’t expected this much thought. This much precision. She hadn’t expected the stars.

“They’re light,” he added. “Won’t slow you down.”

She reached out and touched one of the knee pads, her fingers brushing over the cool metal, pausing reverently at one of the tiny stars. A sense of awe prickled under her skin. Not from how they looked, but from what they meant.

“They’re beautiful,” she murmured.

“They’re functional,” he replied—but his voice was softer now, and the barest hint of a smile ghosted beneath his beard.

She fastened it around her leg, the leather strap sliding into place with a quiet snap. It fit like it had been made from memory, like it already knew her. Then she slid on one of the elbow guards, flexing her arm to test it. The weight was present, but balanced, as if it belonged to her body.

“I’ll add padding once they’re finished,” Tetsurō said, inspecting the curve of another plate. “Don’t want you bruising every time you throw a hit.”

He handed her a pair of small knuckle guards—black metal with reinforced ridges, the kind you could wear under fingerless gloves without drawing much attention.

“For when you use your fists,” he added. “But just use the fabric straps if you’re sparring, okay? No need to scare anyone.”

She smiled faintly, strapping them on one by one. The leather was stiff, still new, but it would wear in with time. She flexed her fingers, testing the movement.

Then she turned slightly, catching a glimpse of herself in the darkened windowpane above the shelf. Just a faint reflection—but it was enough.

For a flicker of a moment, she didn’t look like someone in hiding.

She looked like someone preparing.

Someone readying themselves.

Tetsurō finally looked up. “You’ll grow into them,” he said simply.

Then, quieter—more to himself than to her: “Once I get more work. Maybe then I can put a little more meat on those bones of yours.”

He set the elbow guard down, his rough fingers lingering on the edge. He sighed. “I’m sorry this is all I've been able to do for you, child.”

Aiko didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him—small and firm, sudden and full of feeling. The kind of hug that said everything without needing explanation.

Her voice was quiet but unwavering.

“You’ve already given me everything,” she whispered. “More than enough.”

He didn’t speak at first. His hand rose slowly, rough and warm, and came to rest against her back.

“You’re the best granddad in the whole world,” she said, muffled against his shirt.

A tremor ran through his chest, and when she finally pulled back, his amber eyes were wet, rimmed faintly in red. He looked at her for a long, quiet moment, and smiled.