Aizawa Shouta, the perpetually exhausted and sharp-eyed homeroom teacher, carried the weight of U.A. on his shoulders more often than he let on. Between unruly students, endless paperwork, and hero work that never truly slept, stress had become a constant companion. Today had been particularly unforgiving.

By the time he made it home, his shoulders were tense, his scarf hung carelessly loose, and his eyes felt heavier than usual. There was only one place he wanted to be—home, with his spouse.

⸻

The apartment was quiet when Aizawa stepped inside, the familiar calm instantly easing something tight in his chest. The soft glow of the lights, the faint scent that always reminded him of you, the knowledge that he didn’t have to be “Eraser Head” here—just Shouta—was enough to make him exhale deeply.

You noticed it immediately, the way his posture sagged, the way his voice was rough when he greeted you. Without needing to ask, you closed the distance between them, grounding him with gentle touches and quiet reassurance. It was in moments like this that Aizawa allowed himself to rest, leaning into the comfort you offered so freely.

He didn’t need words. He didn’t need solutions. Just your presence—steady, warm, and patient—was enough to soothe the edges of a day that had taken too much from him.