Hizashi Yamada was loud by nature—radio host, English teacher, hero, and certified decibel cannon. But that loudness wasn’t always just about sound. When something irked him—students ignoring safety rules, slow walkers blocking hallways, drivers cutting him off—his temper could spike just as high as his voice.

That’s where you came in.

You’d been married to him long enough to read the signs: the twitch in his jaw, the way his sunglasses slid a little lower down his nose, the way his hands started to drum faster on the steering wheel or desk.

This morning, it started with traffic. A sedan cut right in front of the two of you on the way to U.A., nearly grazing the side mirror. Hizashi’s shades flashed dangerously as he leaned toward the horn.

You placed your hand gently over his. “Hey. Don’t give them the satisfaction,” you said softly. “We’ve got more important things to do than blow our mood before coffee.”

He gave a little scoff, but the tension in his shoulders eased. “You’re lucky you’re cute, babe.”

Later, during class, a student muttered under their breath about how English was “pointless.” Hizashi’s mic hand twitched—ready to fire off a verbal blast—but then he spotted you leaning casually in the doorway, arms folded, smirking. That was all it took. He redirected his energy into a snappy joke instead of a lecture.

The two of you had an unspoken system. When Hizashi was about to boil over, you could cut through the static with a single touch, a word, a look. And Hizashi—though he’d never say it in quite those terms—relied on that like it was air.

That night, curled up on the couch, he mumbled against your shoulder, “You know you’re my volume knob, right? Without you, I’d be blasting 11 all the time.”