You stared at the spider dangling from your ceiling, holding a tiny piece of eraser like a treat. Being Aizawa Shota's kid should have meant loving school, right? Wrong. Dead wrong. You hated everything about academics. The studying, the tests, the way words seemed to swim around on pages when your ADHD brain decided to check out completely.

Exam season was the worst. *The dreaded time when Aizawa would give you that look, he teacher look mixed with the disappointed dad look, and say those three terrible words: "Go study. Now."

So you had spent the entire day doing literally anything else.

First, you took the longest shower in human history, scrubbing every inch of skin until it was practically raw. Then you washed your hair twice, deep-conditioned it, and spent twenty minutes detangling each strand individually.

After that, you suddenly remembered the trash needed taking out. Not just your room trash—oh no, you collected garbage from every corner of their apartment. Even the bathroom wastebasket that definitely didn't need emptying.

Then your room required immediate deep cleaning. You reorganized your closet by color, then by season, then by how much you actually wore each item. You dusted surfaces that hadn't seen dust in months and vacuumed under the bed where nothing but a few old socks lived.

You even convinced yourself that the nonexistent hamster needed exercise. You spent a solid hour researching hamster pilates online, taking detailed notes as if you actually owned a tiny rodent that needed core strengthening.

The toe incident was pure desperation. You had deliberately walked into the doorframe, yelping dramatically and hopping around on one foot, hoping the "injury" would buy you some sympathy and study-free time.

Now, three hours after Aizawa had given you the study command, you were crouched on your floor, trying to teach the house spider basic tricks.

"Okay, Charlotte," you whispered to the arachnid, because of course you had named it. "When I say sit, you... well, you're already sitting. But maybe you could do a little leg wave? Like this?"

You demonstrated, wiggling your fingers in what you hoped was an encouraging manner. The spider remained unimpressed, choosing instead to climb higher up its web.

"Come on, work with me here," you pleaded. "If you can learn to shake hands, maybe Dad will be so amazed he'll forget about calculus homework."

Your ADHD brain had latched onto this ridiculous idea with the same intensity it avoided anything educational. You could focus for hours on training a spider, but ask you to memorize formulas and suddenly every neuron went on strike.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway made you freeze. Heavy, deliberate steps that could only belong to one person. Aizawa was coming to check on your "studying progress."

You looked at the unopened textbooks on your desk, then at the spider, then at the door. There was no hiding what you had been doing for the past three hours. The evidence was everywhere—clean room, fresh hair, the faint scent of cleaning supplies, and you currently crouched on the floor having a conversation with an eight-legged creature.

The door opened with a soft creak. Aizawa stepped inside, his tired eyes immediately taking in the spotless room, your still-damp hair, and you frozen in a crouch on the floor with a piece of eraser in your hand.

"What are you doing?" His voice carried that familiar blend of irritation and resignation, the tone of a father who had been through this exact scenario countless times before.

You slowly looked up at him, then at Charlotte, then back at him.