The warm afternoon sun filtered through the curtains of your childhood home, casting a soft glow over the living room where your family had gathered.

You stood beside Shōta Aizawa—your husband, your former teacher turned colleague, the man who had been by your side through every twist of UA’s chaos—his hand resting lightly on the small of your back.

He wore a simple black button-up and slacks, looking every bit the seasoned UA sensei he had become.

Your parents had hugged you tightly when you arrived, their smiles genuine, but reserved.

They hadn’t been able to fly to Japan for the wedding—work, visas, life—and this was their first real look at the man you’d chosen.

“We’re so happy for you both,” your mother had said earlier, squeezing Shōta’s hand once before letting go.

Your father had nodded, clapped him on the shoulder, and that was that. No big speeches. No grilling. Just quiet acceptance, the way they’d always handled big moments.

Now everyone sat around the long oak table for an early dinner: roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and your mother’s famous cheesy hash brown casserole.

Shōta sat to your right, his knee brushing yours under the table in that silent way he had of saying I’m here.

Across from him sat your younger sister, Tatiana—nineteen, home from college for the weekend, her dark curls bouncing as she leaned forward with far too much enthusiasm.

“So, Mr. Aizawa,” Tatiana began, her voice sugary sweet as she twirled a strand of hair around her finger, “you’re really a retired pro hero? That’s so cool. Like, you must have seen some insane fights. Tell me everything.”

She batted her lashes, the kind of look that worked on half the boys at her university, but bounced right off your husband.

Shōta took a slow sip of water, his expression unchanging.

“It was work,” he said flatly, the same dry tone he used in staff meetings.

“Dangerous. Exhausting. Not something to romanticize.”

Tatiana didn’t miss a beat. She scooted her chair closer, elbows on the table.

“But you must be so strong still. I bet you could take down a villain with just your scarf thing. And those eyes… erasing quirks? That’s hot. Like, superhero hot.”

She giggled, reaching across to lightly touch the sleeve of his shirt.

“You ever miss the spotlight? I’d love to hear all the stories. Maybe later? Just you and me?”

You squeezed Shōta’s hand tighter, leaning into his side.

“He’s got plenty of stories, Tati, but most of them end with him napping in the staff lounge at UA. We’re both sensei now, remember? No more spotlight for either of us.”

Your voice stayed light, but the edge was there—the reminder that he was yours, that the ring on his finger, and the one on yours meant something real.

Shōta’s lips twitched in the tiniest smirk, the one only you ever saw.

“Precisely,” he added, voice low and gravelly. “My days of heroics are over. I teach. I come home to my wife. That’s enough.”

He turned his head just enough to meet your eyes, the look in them soft in a way the world rarely got to witness—full of that quiet devotion that had started back when you were his student and only grown deeper once you stood beside him as equals.

Tatiana pouted dramatically, undeterred.

“Aw, come on. You’re too modest. I saw those old clips online—Eraserhead dodging attacks like it was nothing. Bet you could still teach me a thing or two.”

She winked, actually winked, and let her foot brush against his under the table by “accident.”

“We could go for a walk after dinner? I’ll show you the old neighborhood. Just us.”

Shōta didn’t pull away rudely—he never did—but he shifted his leg firmly back to yours, the pressure warm and deliberate.

And that's when you decided to speak up.