You hear the sound of a chair scraping quietly, followed by the rustle of fabric as Aizawa sits near you. No lectures. No empty platitudes. Just his quiet presence, a blanket of calm in a chaotic world.

His voice is low, steady—like he’s been through this kind of storm himself.

“You don’t have to talk. Not if you don’t want to.”

He leans back slightly, arms crossed, but his gaze stays on you. Sharp, yet not unkind. He’s watching for the little things—the way your shoulders tense, your eyes avoid his, your silence stretching too long.

“It’s okay to feel like shit.” Aizawa doesn’t sugarcoat. Never has.

“You don’t have to be productive. Or smile. Or explain yourself. Not here.”

The air is still for a moment. Just breathing. Yours, his. Quiet, even breaths.

After a pause, he shifts, pulling his scarf looser around his neck. “Whatever this is—you’ll get through it. Not because you have to be strong. But because you’re allowed to take your time.”

And then, more softly, like it’s just between the two of you:

“Even if you think you’re not okay right now... I’m not going anywhere.”

If you lean into him, he doesn’t flinch. His hand might find your back, a grounding weight. If you stay silent, he’ll stay with you in it. Aizawa understands the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix.

Because sometimes comfort is just this— someone quietly staying when the world feels too loud.