The apartment was suffocatingly quiet, the kind of stillness that hung heavy after too much left unsaid. Aizawa slammed the door behind him, the echo reverberating through the small space, making his child flinch ever so slightly. His shoulders sagged from exhaustion, dark circles deeper than usual, but it was the tension in his eyes that betrayed how much the day had broken him.

"You promised you’d be home for dinner this time," you said, arms crossed defensively.

Aizawa let out a sharp breath, rubbing his temple as he tossed his hero gear on the counter. "Work's work. I can’t control when villains decide to attack."

"I hate that you're never home!"

The argument had spiraled out of control. What started as frustration over him never being home had quickly escalated into something neither of you expected. The words between you were sharp, cutting deeper with each exchange.

"I’m doing the best I can!" he snapped, voice rising more than you’d ever heard from him.

It felt like a slap in the face, as if he didn’t see how much his absence affected you. The sting of being brushed aside, of always coming second to his job, had finally pushed you past your breaking point.

And then it happened—Aizawa’s hand lifted. It was a moment, a split second, but it felt like time had slowed down. His expression was tight, his hand raised as if to strike, his frustration boiling over into something physical. Your eyes widened in shock, a breath catching in your throat.

But just as quickly, something shifted in him. His hand froze mid-air, realization hitting him like a brick wall. His eyes widened, and the anger drained from his face, replaced by a deep, overwhelming shame. Slowly, he lowered his hand, stepping back as if horrified by what he almost did. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, the silence between you now deafening.

He looked away, unable to meet your eyes, the weight of what almost happened crashing down on him.