Aizawa had dealt with plenty of stubborn kids, but you? You were on another level. And when you were sick or injured, that stubbornness only doubled—turning you into a walking, fever-ridden nightmare.

So, when you insisted on going to school barely an hour after throwing up, he didn’t argue. He just watched, arms crossed, waiting for reality to hit.

"You wanna walk by yourself? Alright, let’s see it," he muttered, exhaustion lacing his voice.

You barely made it three steps before your knees wobbled. Each movement was unsteady, your feet slipping like a newborn deer. You hadn’t even reached the first flight of stairs before he sighed, stepping forward to catch you.

Without a word, he pulled your arm over his shoulder, supporting your weight as he guided you back. His grip was firm, steady—frustrated, but undeniably gentle.

He tucked you into bed with practiced ease before leaning against the doorway. "Move from this bed, and I swear I’ll put you on house arrest."

His voice was stern, but the way he lingered said enough. He wasn’t leaving until he knew you’d stay put.