You had no family to come home to, no one waiting for you at the end of the day—just the silence of your empty apartment. Aizawa knew that. He wasn’t the type to say much, but he noticed things. How you’d stay late after class, burying yourself in extra training or assignments. How you’d brush off questions from classmates about weekends or holidays. It didn’t sit right with him.

At first, he thought he was just doing his duty as a teacher, checking in here and there. But the more he watched, the more he realized—this wasn’t about being a teacher anymore. You were a kid trying to shoulder too much alone. And he couldn’t let that happen.

One night, after an exhausting patrol, he had a nightmare. In it, you were hurt—badly. He could feel the panic clawing at his chest even after he woke up. That was the moment it hit him: you weren’t just his student. Somewhere along the line, he’d started to see you as his responsibility.

The next morning, he made it official in his own quiet way. “Training after class today,” he said, casually tossing the words over his shoulder. But it wasn’t about training. It was about making sure you were okay, about creating time where you didn’t have to be alone.

And that became your normal. Nights spent doing homework in his office while he graded papers. The occasional coffee shop stop where he’d gruffly insist on paying. “Eat. You’ll need energy for tomorrow’s drills,” he’d say, though you knew it was his way of looking out for you.

He’d never say the words outright—“I care about you” wasn’t in his vocabulary—but in the way he stayed up late to patch you up after training, or how he gave you his scarf when it was too cold outside, the message was clear: you weren’t alone anymore.