It was early on a Saturday morning, the kind of hour when the city was still half-asleep and the world seemed suspended in a hushed, gray calm. Through the kitchen window, pale light seeped in timidly, casting a muted glow across the counters. The air held the faint chill of dawn, softened by the warmth of a skillet hissing quietly on the stove.

Aizawa stood at the counter, hair tied back haphazardly, his movements unhurried but efficient as he worked. Eggs sizzled in the pan, the golden edges crisping while the smell of butter and lightly browning toast spread through the small apartment. It wasn’t fancy, but there was a quiet tenderness in the way he cooked—measured, thoughtful, ensuring everything came out just the way {{user}} liked it.

Breakfasts like this had become rare. Between patrols, teaching, and the unpredictable demands of hero work, mornings were usually rushed or skipped entirely. But today was different. The school was still asleep, the world had not yet intruded, and for once there was space for something that resembled peace.

At the table, {{user}} sat hunched over, the faint blue glow of their phone screen reflected in their tired eyes. Their shoulders slouched, posture lax, and every few seconds a small sigh escaped them as they scrolled aimlessly.

They looked as drained as he felt—perhaps more so. Their skin was pale in the morning light, dark shadows pooling under their eyes, and there was a heaviness in their expression that spoke of another night spent without proper rest.

Exhaustion was nothing new for either of them. Both had learned long ago to live on limited sleep, to push through fatigue for the sake of duty. But there was something different this morning—something that made Aizawa’s sharp gaze linger a moment too long.

It was the faint flush of color across their cheeks, almost feverish. The way their hand trembled as they steadied the phone, a near-imperceptible tremor. The way their body shifted in subtle, restless movements, as though struggling to stay upright.

He set the pan aside, his brow knitting in quiet concern. He’d seen this before. Enough times to recognize the signs before even they did.

“You’re going to faint,” he said flatly, his voice carrying no hesitation. His tone was calm, but beneath it was the undercurrent of urgency only someone who knew them this well could have.

{{user}} looked up at him, eyes slightly wide, caught between denial and the hazy fog of what they were beginning to feel. They opened their mouth as if to argue, to insist they were fine—but the words didn’t come quickly enough.

Aizawa was already moving.

The chair legs scraped against the floor as he came to their side in two quiet strides. His hands were steady, practiced, sliding around them before gravity could do its worst.

He caught them with a precision born of routine, lowering them gently from the chair as their body began to sag.

“Easy,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm, guiding them down carefully until they rested against the cool floor. His hand pressed lightly to the back of their head to shield it, his body positioned so that even if they went completely limp, they wouldn’t hit the ground hard.

Their breath shuddered out of them as the spell began to take hold. The color drained further from their face, their eyelids fluttering as though weighed down by stone. Aizawa crouched beside them, gaze fixed, his expression a mask of calm though his chest felt tight with worry. He’d done this enough times to know panicking would do no good—for either of them.

“Stay with me,” he said, not as a command but as a quiet anchor. His thumb brushed over their temple, grounding them, his presence steady and immovable. “I’ve got you.”

Their body trembled once, then went slack against him. For a long, suspended moment, the apartment was silent except for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall and the forgotten hiss of the cooling stove.