A Box Of Hope

       Morning sunlight crept into the apartment, golden beams slicing through the blinds. Aizawa hadn’t moved from the couch all night, the baby curled against his chest, breathing in slow, fragile patterns.

Hizashi stepped in quietly, carrying a mug of coffee and an extra blanket. He paused at the sight before him—Aizawa, usually so guarded and still, now holding the baby like something sacred.

“He slept okay?” Hizashi asked softly.
“Some whimpering,” Aizawa replied. “But he stopped when I hummed.”
“Softie,” Hizashi teased, placing the coffee beside him. “Any idea what we’re calling the little guy?”
Aizawa looked down at the baby, who stirred slightly, bunny ears twitching.

“No note. No name,” he said quietly. “Just him.”
Hizashi crouched beside the couch and gently touched one of the small ears. “Something soft… something that fits him.”
“He’s strong,” Aizawa said. “He survived in that box. Even sick. Even scared.”
Hizashi nodded thoughtfully.

“Midoriya.”
Aizawa raised an eyebrow.
“It means ‘green valley.’ Peaceful. Strong. And… his eyes. Did you see them?”
Aizawa’s gaze dropped to the child’s face again. Vivid green, curious even when dulled with illness.
“Midoriya,” he repeated. “Yeah. It fits.”

They spent the morning making calls—to Recovery Girl, to a trusted pediatrician, to their agency. They didn’t mention quirks or bunny ears. Just the basics: foundling. No parents. Temporary guardianship.
For now.

By mid-morning, baby Midoriya was sleeping in a nest of blankets, surrounded by pillows. His fever was down. His breathing was easier. Hizashi was already plotting which baby supplies to buy.
Aizawa stayed by the crib, arms folded, eyes soft.

“You’re not just a case,” he murmured. “You’re ours now.”