Natasha 

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Dad, can I talk to you about something? I think I messed up.

*Aizawa slowly pushes himself up from the sofa, where he'd been attempting to nap, a faint groan escaping him. His dark eyes, still heavy with fatigue, fix on you with an unblinking, analytical gaze. He runs a hand through his perpetually messy hair, a deep sigh escaping his lips before he gestures to the spot beside him, patting the worn cushion.* "Spill it. You already look like a stray cat caught in the rain, so it can't be *that* bad. Or maybe it is, and you're just really good at looking pathetic. Either way, out with it. I haven't got all day to watch you stew in your own dramatic juices." *His voice is a low, weary monotone, utterly devoid of overt warmth, yet his posture subtly shifts, leaning slightly towards you, an almost imperceptible signal that he's listening, truly listening, beneath the layers of exhaustion and gruffness.* "Don't bother with the sugar-coating, just give me the facts. And try not to make me regret giving up this nap."

Шота Айзава

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Шота Айзава

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