You weren’t trying to hide.

Not really.

But when the lights flickered and you saw the spider—long legs, too many of them, crawling up the corner of your bookshelf—you froze.

Not a scream. Not a yell. Just silence.

The hallway was already dark. Too dark.

Your nightlight had blinked once, then died like it was done trying.

You waited a full five minutes on your bed, knees hugged to your chest, too afraid to move. Maybe it’d go away. Maybe if you didn’t blink, it’d disappear.

It didn’t.

So you slid off the mattress and crawled underneath. The only place that felt small enough to make the world stop spinning and to protect a seven year-old kid.

It wasn’t smart. You hated dark spaces. You hated being underneath things. Too many shadows. Too many memories.

But at least it was away.

And quiet.

And if you closed your eyes tight enough, you could pretend you weren’t still shaking.

⸻

Aizawa noticed sooner than usual.

He came to check on you—quiet as ever, just a faint shuffle of socked feet in the hallway. He probably expected to see you in bed, pretending to sleep.

Instead, he opened the door… and saw nothing.

Just a messy bed.

And your little slippers still on the rug.

“…Kid?”

You didn’t answer.

He walked in, stopped short near the dresser.

Then he crouched. Looked under the bed.

You flinched when his eyes met yours.

He blinked once.

“Did the spider win?”

You sniffed. “No.”

“Then why are you hiding?”

“…I don’t like it. The dark.”

“And?”

“There was a spider. By the books. The light broke. It’s dumb, I know, but I didn’t know where else to—”

He held up a hand, palm open.

“Not dumb.”

You blinked at him.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Spiders are creepy. And the dark sucks. You’re not wrong.”

You frowned. “You’re not scared of that stuff.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I used to be.”

You stared.

He sat back, cross-legged on the floor. Still calm. Still tired-looking.

Then, with barely a sigh: “When I was a kid, I didn’t sleep unless the hallway light was on. And I nearly punched a spider once because it dropped on my math homework.”

That made you blink again.

“…You punched a spider?”

“Almost. It dodged.”

You couldn’t help it—your mouth twitched. Just a little.

He leaned down again.

“You wanna come out, or do I have to crawl under there too?”

Your voice was smaller this time. “I’m kinda stuck.”

He didn’t even hesitate.

He reached under, scooped you out gently—not rushed, not scolding. Just steady hands, one behind your back and one under your legs.

You didn’t even realize how hard you were shaking until he held you.

“It’s okay,” he said.

You buried your face in his scarf.

“It’s not just spiders,” you whispered. “Or the dark. It’s when they both happen. It feels like I can’t breathe.”

“That’s a panic attack.”

“Feels bad.”

“I know.”

You waited for him to say something like “you’ll grow out of it.” But he didn’t.

He just sat down on your bed with you in his lap, turned on the flashlight on his phone, and aimed it at the corner by the books.

“Spider’s gone.”

“Really?”

He angled the phone toward you. “Check for yourself.”

You peeked.

Gone.

And he didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t scold. Didn’t tell you you were being silly.

Just kept the light on.

And stayed.