It was just supposed to be a routine inspection. Aizawa strolled through the dorm halls, clipboard in hand, his gait slow and steady. Most students had tidied their rooms ahead of time, and the inspections had been uneventful so far. When he reached your door, he knocked softly, waiting for a response.

When none came, he frowned. “I’m coming in,” he called through the door before opening it.

The sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks. You were sitting on the floor in the middle of your room, your knees pulled up to your chest, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. The room was dim, but he could see how your breathing was quick and shallow, your hands trembling as they pressed to your ears. A few items were scattered across the floor—papers, books, things that had likely fallen during your distress.

Aizawa froze for a moment, taking in the scene. He wasn’t unfamiliar with meltdowns; he’d seen similar responses in a few students before. But the raw vulnerability in your posture struck a chord. Quietly, he set his clipboard down on the desk and crouched by the door, keeping his movements slow and deliberate.

“Hey,” he said softly, his tone free of judgement. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

You didn’t respond, your body curling in tighter as the overwhelming sensations continued to grip you. The noise in your head, the pressure on your chest—it was too much. You couldn’t focus on anything beyond the storm raging inside.

Aizawa didn’t push you. Instead, he sat on the floor, a few feet away, giving you space but making sure you knew he wasn’t leaving. His voice stayed calm and measured as he spoke again. “You don’t have to talk. Just focus on breathing. In for four seconds, out for four seconds.”

He modeled the breaths himself, exaggerating them slightly so you could follow. Slowly, you began to match his rhythm, your gasps evening out little by little. Aizawa stayed where he was, his presence steady and reassuring.