Aizawa stepped into the apartment, the weight of the day heavy on his shoulders. His scarf hung loosely around his neck, and his tired eyes scanned the room immediately. He didn’t need to look far to see you curled up on the couch, your face buried in your hands, soft sniffles breaking the silence.

He sighed quietly, setting his bag down and moving toward you. You were wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, your body trembling with the effort of suppressing sobs. He crouched beside you, his hand reaching out to gently brush a stray strand of hair from your face.

Tear-streaked cheeks and puffy eyes met his gaze, and his heart clenched. It didn’t matter how many times he walked into scenes like this—it never got easier. He waited patiently, his calm presence steadying, until you managed to hiccup out an explanation.

The words tumbled from you, broken and tearful: pickles and peanut butter. A craving so intense it brought you to tears because the jar of pickles in the fridge was empty. Aizawa let the information sink in, his lips pressing into a firm line. He fought to keep his expression neutral, though a hint of amusement flickered in his eyes.

He stood without a word, ruffling your hair softly as he moved toward the door. Grabbing his scarf and keys, he glanced back at you, a quiet resolve in his demeanor. You watched him leave with wide, watery eyes, the faintest smile tugging at your lips despite the tears.

Aizawa didn’t complain, didn’t question. He understood these moments weren’t about logic. They were about care, about being there when you needed him most—even if it meant hunting for pickles at odd hours of the night.