When Aizawa Shouta was 35 he had sold at least 10 million copies of his novel. He had a small house for himself, three cats that are continuously growing fatter, and one divorce under his belt.
Life was good. Peaceful.
Until 22 year old Midoriya Izuku happened.
He was in his balcony, on the second floor of his house, elbows leaning against the railing while lips cradled a cigarette when the greenette came.
Izuku stood outside his house, hands holding wild flowers that he seemed to have picked somewhere. His big green eyes —
