Chapter 7: I Want To Be Your Hero

“You can’t be serious,” Aiko said, raising an eyebrow as she dumped a used plastic container into the trash bag. “All Might’s Bronze Age costume was way better than his Silver Age one.”

Izuku laughed, nudging a crumpled soda can into his own bag. “You just like it because the colors are emo.”

“Maybe.” She grinned, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as the sea breeze lifted it slightly. “If I had a hero costume, it’d be all black.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he teased. “Let me guess—black boots, black gloves, dramatic cloak billowing in the wind?”

“No cloak. But maybe, like, a hood,” she laughed, bending to grab a cracked water bottle. “So I can vanish into the shadows.”

Izuku smiled, watching her for a second longer than necessary. Then his voice softened. “Hey, um… I never did ask—what’s your quirk?”

Aiko froze for a second. Not long enough to seem suspicious, but enough that he noticed.

She looked down at the sand, fingers tightening minutely around the edge of the trash bag. “It’s… nothing special,” she said quietly. “Honestly, I wish I was quirkless.”

He blinked, clearly taken aback. “Seriously?”

She didn’t answer right away. The wind tugged at her shirt, loose against her frame. Her mouth pressed into a line, as if weighing whether to keep going. The easy rhythm of their morning had shifted—still calm, but now laced with something fragile underneath.

“My parents…” she began, then stopped. Swallowed. Tried again.

“They were killed.”

The air seemed to still around them, the distant crash of the waves suddenly louder in contrast.

Izuku didn’t move. He didn’t flinch or say something stupid. He just… listened.

She kept her eyes low. “Not in some freak accident. Not a villain attack that went wrong. They were targeted because of their quirks. Because of what they could do.”

She reached down to pick up a bottle cap—anything to keep her hands busy. “Sometimes it’s just… safer not to stand out.”

Izuku didn’t speak right away. He wondered what their quirks were, but he knew better than to ask. He bent down to pick up a crushed can, turning it over in his hand before dropping it into the bag. His brow furrowed slightly in quiet thought.

“I’m… really sorry,” he said at last, his voice low but sincere. “That’s… awful.”

Aiko gave a tiny nod but still didn’t look at him. The bag crinkled faintly in her hand as she shifted her weight.

“So it’s just you and your granddad now,” he said gently.

Another nod. “Yeah. He’s… my hero.”

There was a softness in the way she said it. A private kind of loyalty. Like even saying those words aloud was sacred.

He glanced over at her, then back at the sand. “You don’t have to tell me anything else. I just… I think it’s brave. You still show up. You keep going. Even if it hurts.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Just the faint rustle of wind and the quiet clink of scrap metal dropping into plastic bags. The kind of silence that felt less like absence and more like understanding.

“I used to think… if I had a quirk, everything would be better,” Izuku said finally. “Like it would solve everything. But… I don’t know. The more I see, the more I think quirks just make things more complicated.”

Aiko glanced at him. “It’s rare these days, being born without one… That kind of makes you special, in your own way.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just looked down at the sand with a quiet smile.

“Still,” he said eventually. “I want to be a hero.”

Her gaze softened. Then she gave a small nod.

“Heroes… they don’t just save people,” she said, almost more to herself than to him. “They remind the world it’s not as dark as it feels.”

A pause.

“Even if it is.”

She knelt to gather a few more pieces of trash tangled in seaweed.

Izuku watched her for a moment, his chest tight in that way it always got when she said something quietly profound—like her words had edges you couldn’t see until they cut you. He crouched beside her, the sun warm on his back.

"What were they like?" he asked, almost a whisper.

Aiko was quiet for a long moment, eyes drifting out toward the waves. When she spoke, her voice was soft—like she was still deciding whether to say anything at all.

“My mom… she was beautiful. Stunning. She worked at the local hospital. Everyone loved her. I think she just liked knowing she made a difference. Even when she was exhausted, she never complained."

She reached out and smoothed a patch of uneven sand with her palm, slow and absent, like it grounded her.

“She made the best mochi. And on special occasions, she’d make this weird slimy green Thai dessert with coconut milk—everyone went crazy for it.”

Izuku nodded slowly, as if the image of her mother was forming clearly in his mind. He swallowed hard but didn’t speak. There was something so real, so vivid in the way she spoke.

A faint smile ghosted across her lips, brief and fragile.

“My dad…” Her voice softened further. “He was more complicated.”

She hesitated, then shifted her weight, tucking one leg beneath her as if that might make it easier to go on.

“He traveled a lot. I never really understood what his job was—just that it was important. Serious. He always said he was doing something to help keep people safe, but… he didn’t talk about it much.”

She looked down, brows drawing together faintly. “He had this… presence, you know? Like he walked into a room and everyone sort of sat up straighter. But he was gentle with me. Always.”

Izuku’s fingers curled slightly in the sand. His chest ached, not just from what she’d said, but from the quiet strength it took for her to say it. There was grief, for her and everything she’d lost. Admiration. That familiar, helpless ache he always carried when good people suffered and he couldn’t do anything to fix it.

She hesitated, then added softly, “Whenever I fell asleep after a long drive, he'd carry me from the car to the house. Even when I was way too big for that.”

Her eyes flicked toward him for just a second—and then away, as if the glance had slipped out by mistake.

Izuku’s heart twisted.

“They were… kind,” she said, quieter now. “Brave. The kind of parents who made you feel like everything would be okay. The kind that always kept you safe.”

Izuku didn’t speak. Couldn’t, really. His throat had gone dry. His eyes burned in that telltale way they always did when something hit too close. He looked down, brushing at the nonexistent sand on his palms like it might help.

“They sound…” He cleared his throat, voice catching slightly. “They sound like amazing people.”

She gave a small nod, her gaze still fixed on the horizon. “They were…”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was respectful. Reverent.

He sat there for a few more seconds, heart pounding, a hundred words caught in his throat and none of them feeling like enough. Part of him wanted to reach out but all he could do was sit with the weight of it.

“I’m really glad you told me,” he said at last, voice low and steady, but softer than before. “Thank you for trusting me.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Not because he wasn’t listening, but because if he met her eyes, he knew he’d break. His throat was tight, his chest aching, and the burn behind his eyes was getting harder to blink away.

She hadn’t cried. Not once.

She’d spoken about death and loss and the kind of love that leaves a hole behind—and somehow, she’d done it without shaking. Without tears.

He didn’t understand how she carried it all so quietly. How she kept showing up, standing steady in a world that had taken so much from her.

It hit him, sharp and sudden—she was strong. Not the loud kind. Not the kind that punches through walls. Not like Kacchan. But the kind that endures. That breaks in private and still shows up in public. That chooses to keep going when everything says stop.

That kind of strength… hurt to witness.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat like that—shoulders tight, a slight tremble in his hands. But when he finally looked up, Aiko was watching him. There was a pause, and then she asked softly, “What about you? Your family… are they supportive?”

He stilled for just a second. There was something in the way she asked—gentle, deliberate, like she was trying to shift the weight off herself without making it obvious. Like she was offering him an exit from her own pain. It made something twist in his chest.

His mouth curved into a small, almost-wistful smile—not because he felt better, but because even in her quiet grief, she was thinking of him.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “My mom’s always been really kind. She worries a lot… and when I was younger, she didn’t really know what to say when the doctor told us I was quirkless.”

His fingers absently traced a small circle in the sand.

“I think… she just didn’t want me to get hurt. I’d talk about being a hero, and she’d smile, but I could tell it scared her. Like she wanted to believe in me, but it was hard. It was impossible back then.”

He glanced at Aiko. “But now…”

He looked down at his hands, then back up, his voice quieter.

“She believes in me. She’s scared, but she supports it.”

Aiko nodded softly. She didn’t say anything—just reached down and picked up a crumpled water bottle half-buried in the sand. She didn’t ask about his dad. Just nodded gently, like she noticed but wasn’t going to press.

Instead, she glanced sideways. “You have any brothers or sisters?”

Izuku shook his head. “Nah. Just me.”

He looked over at her. “What about you?”

She shook her head too, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Nope. Just me.”

They worked in silence a little while longer, the bags slowly filling, until Aiko glanced at the horizon. The sun was climbing higher, brushing gold across the water. Her expression shifted, faintly regretful.

“I should go,” she said quietly, brushing the sand from her hands.

Izuku nodded, even though part of him wanted her to stay. “Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The quiet stretched, soft but heavy, before she gave him the faintest smile, then turned toward the street.

He watched her go, the ache in his chest refusing to ease.

✧ ✧ ✧

Later that evening, Izuku sat on his bed. The room was quiet, save for the occasional creak from the hallway. But his thoughts were loud.

He wiped at his eyes again, frustrated that the tears hadn’t stopped yet. He wasn’t even sure when they’d started—sometime after he’d gotten home from school, after replaying her words in his head too many times.

He’d never felt like this before. Not just sad for someone, but hurt for them. Like her grief had reached straight into his heart and made space for itself there.

She was strong. So unbelievably strong.

His chest tightened all over again. It almost felt unfair—how someone could hold so much pain and still manage to smile. Still offer kindness. Still show up.

He grabbed his notebook and pen, and started to draw.

He started with the boots—mid-calf, sturdy. The kind that could take a hit and still look cool. Socks that went over her knees, like the ones she wore on their date—but black. A short skirt, tactical but light. A fitted long-sleeved top with a high collar and thumbholes that nearly swallowed her tiny hands. A hood, low and shadowed... for a girl who didn’t want to be seen.

He paused, pen hovering just above the page.

What was her quirk?

She’d never said. And even though he’d asked, she brushed it off like it didn’t matter.

Nothing special—that’s how she’d put it.

It was probably something small… something like being able to change the colour of objects, or detect when food’s about to burn.

Maybe she was embarrassed.

He added knee and elbow pads—practical, durable. Something she’d need if she fought like the hero she admired: Red Justice. The Muay Thai stance came to mind—fast footwork, sharp knees. Yeah, she’d need the gear.

He stared at it for a long moment.

“All black,” he murmured, lips tugging into a small smile. “Kinda emo…”

His throat tightened again. His vision blurred. The next tear hit the page before he could catch it.

“I want to be your hero, Aiko.” He whispered.

Another tear followed. Then another. But this time, he didn’t try to stop them.

He let them fall.

He let them say everything he couldn’t.