You squeezed Aizawa’s hand so tight your knuckles ached. The cold gel on your stomach didn’t even register. Not when your entire world had already flipped upside down.

Six months. Twenty-six weeks. That’s what the doctor said. You were six months pregnant.

And you hadn’t known.

Looking back, maybe you should have. But your periods had always been a joke. Light, irregular, sometimes skipping entire months. And the nausea? You chalked it up to exhaustion. You were exhausted, teaching a bunch of overpowered, emotionally unstable first-years wasn’t exactly a spa retreat.

You were supposed to be out with Midnight and a few of the other teachers for a girls’ night. Someone had brought along pregnancy roulette. Some cheap dollar store tests for laughs. Everyone had gone, giggling and tipsy, until your test came back with two faint lines. You’d laughed too, insisted it was a faulty one, even retested in the school bathroom later. Except it wasn’t faulty.

Now here you were. Lying on a paper-crinkled bed with your husband, Aizawa, stoic and silent beside you, his hand engulfing yours. The screen next to you flickered. And there—clear as day—was a tiny, very real baby.

Your baby.

You couldn’t even breathe. Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. This wasn’t some theory anymore; it wasn’t a joke. It was a heartbeat on the monitor, the faint rhythmic whoosh filling the room.

Aizawa’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. It was so gentle, so careful, like he was afraid you’d break. Maybe he was.

You turned your head just enough to look at him. His hair was down, slightly tangled, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. His expression, somewhere between stunned and fiercely protective, told you everything.

You’d married him two years ago after a long, awkward courtship that was more dry sarcasm than romance. Aizawa wasn’t the flowers-and-chocolates type. His version of wooing you was bringing extra coffee to staff meetings and patching up your sprains after chaotic combat drills. But somehow, it worked. You fell for him hard.

This? A kid? It wasn’t that you’d never talked about it. It just… always felt far off. A distant possibility you’d maybe consider someday.

“Heartbeat’s strong,” the doctor said, breaking the silence. “Baby looks healthy. You’ve done remarkably well without prenatal care.”

You let out a strangled laugh. “That’s terrifying.”

Aizawa squeezed your hand, just a little. His thumb paused, then started moving again. He still hadn’t said a word.

When the doctor finally left you alone, you slumped back against the pillow. Your mind spun. Hero work. U.A. The constant threat of villains. And now a baby.

“You’re being very quiet,” you muttered, trying for a tease but it came out small. Scared.

Aizawa exhaled through his nose, eyes on your stomach—like he was still trying to process that there was actually something there. Then he shifted closer, rested his forehead against yours.

“I’m trying not to panic,” he admitted. His voice was low, rough. “But… I’m also trying to be grateful we found out now. Before something happened.”

You expected him to scold you. Say you should’ve known, should’ve checked, should’ve taken better care. But he didn’t. He just watched the screen like he was memorizing every detail.

You pressed your face into his shoulder. He pulled you into him fully then, careful of the gel still drying on your skin. His arms wrapped around you like a shield.

For the first time since that stupid pink line, you felt like you could breathe again. Because whatever else happened—whatever new chaos your life was about to become—you had him.

And Aizawa, stubborn, logical, quietly devoted Aizawa, wasn’t going anywhere.