The moonlight sliced through the curtains of your shared faculty quarters at U.A., casting jagged shadows across the bed.

You stirred at the sudden jolt beside you—your husband, Shōta Aizawa - bolting upright with a strangled gasp that tore through the silence like a villain’s attack.

Sweat plastered his black hair to his forehead, his capture weapon tangled uselessly around his torso as if he’d tried to erase the nightmare itself.

His chest heaved in frantic bursts, eyes wide and wild beneath those tired lids, pupils blown with raw panic.

“Oboro—”

The name ripped from his throat, hoarse and broken.

In the dream he’d watched it again: the crumbling building, the villain’s final blow, his best friend’s body vanishing under rubble while they were still kids, powerless to save him.

The guilt crashed over him like a tidal wave, even now, years later—his hands shaking as he clutched the sheets, breath coming in sharp, desperate wheezes.

Anxiety clawed at his ribs; what if it had been real? What if everyone he loved was gone?

But it wasn’t.

Everyone was still alive.

Oboro’s laugh still echoed through the teachers’ lounge.

Hizashi’s voice still boomed down the halls.

Midnight said something flirty to Shirakumo, whom yes, they did end up getting together.

And you—his former student, now twenty, his wife and fellow Sensei at U.A.—were right here.

You sat up instantly, heart twisting at the sight of the unbreakable man you’d once admired from your desk, now trembling beside you.

{{user}}: “Shōta,” you whispered, voice soft but steady as you reached for him.

Your fingers brushed his arm; he flinched like a startled cat, but you didn’t pull away.

Instead, you slid closer, wrapping both arms around his rigid shoulders and drawing him against your chest.

His skin was ice-cold beneath the thin tank top.

{{user}}: “Breathe with me,” you murmured into his hair, one hand stroking slow, soothing circles down his back while the other gently tilted his face up to meet yours.

“It was just a dream. Oboro’s alive—he texted Hizashi stupid memes at midnight, remember? We all had coffee together yesterday. No one’s gone. You’re here. I’m here. We’re safe.”

His ragged breaths hitched against your neck, the panic still flickering in his gaze like a restless quirk.

But your warmth anchored him. Slowly, his trembling hands found your waist, gripping like you were the only solid thing left in the world.

The anxiety ebbed under the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his ear—inhale, hold, exhale—until his shoulders finally loosened.

{{user}}: “You’re okay,” you said again, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple.

“We’ve got tomorrow’s classes. And I’ve got you.”

Shōta exhaled a shaky sigh, forehead dropping to yours.

The nightmare faded into nothing more than shadows.

Shōta: “Thank you,” he rasped, voice raw but calm now, his grip on you softening into something warm and grateful. “Always have you.”