You often suffered from migraines, and Aizawa knew it all too well. He could spot the faint wince in your eyes or the way you rubbed your temples before you even said a word.

One afternoon during lunch, you quietly slipped into his office, your voice barely above a whisper as you mumbled about the pounding ache in your head. Without hesitation, Aizawa gestured to the couch.

“Lie down,” he said softly, already moving to shut the curtains and dim the lights. The room was instantly darker, quieter, gentler.

You curled up on the couch, pressing your face into the cushion as Aizawa returned to grading papers. His pen scratched softly against the page, an oddly soothing sound. Every so often, he glanced over at you, making sure you were still breathing evenly.

“Let me know if it gets worse, kid,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. Though his words were simple, the subtle warmth in his tone was unmistakable—a quiet promise that he was there.