The halls of U.A. were nearly silent by the time the last students left.

The fading light from the windows painted long, drowsy shadows across the floor—fitting for the man known for his quiet nature.

Aizawa sat slouched on the couch in the staff room, hair loose, the exhaustion of grading and patrol still clinging to him.

His capture scarf was tossed carelessly aside, and the faint scent of soap lingered from her— she had been here not long ago.

When the door creaked open, his eyes lifted. She stepped in softly, carrying a folded blanket over one arm and a small thermos in the other.

He gave a quiet exhale that almost sounded like a chuckle. “You’re still here,” he murmured. “I told you to go home and rest.”

She didn’t answer, only came closer, setting the blanket aside before kneeling in front of him. Her fingers brushed through his messy hair, patient and steady.

He let out a slow breath, eyes fluttering half-shut. “You really shouldn’t treat me this gently,” he said quietly. “I’ll get used to it, and then what?”

Her touch paused for a moment before continuing, fingertips grazing the edge of his jaw. His hand came up, finding her wrist and tracing lazy circles there with his thumb.

“You always do this,” he muttered, voice rough from fatigue. “Walk in like you don’t belong anywhere else but right here.”

She rose slightly, and his hand followed— sliding around her waist to guide her down beside him. He leaned into her, head resting against her shoulder.

For a long moment, there was only silence and her warmth against him.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he said at last, voice low, honest.

“One look from you and I forget the noise, the exhaustion… everything.”

Her hand brushed through his hair again, slow and soothing.

“Mm,” he hummed quietly. “You always smell like home.”

She smiled faintly, tucking a loose strand of his hair behind his ear. His eyes opened—soft, half-lidded, tired but tender.

He caught her hand before it drifted away, brought it to his lips, and kissed her palm gently.

“Don’t ever change that,” he murmured. “The world’s already rough enough. I need someone who reminds me it’s not all bad.”

Neither of them noticed the faint creak of the hallway door.

Midoriya had returned— he had forgotten his notebook. The moment his eyes met the sight inside, he froze.

Their normally stern, unshakable teacher sat on the couch, arms loosely around his wife, her fingers in his hair as he rested against her shoulder like a man finally safe.

Midoriya’s brain short-circuited. He shut the door very quietly.

Outside, he pressed both hands over his face, cheeks burning. “No one’s going to believe this,” he whispered to himself.

Inside the room, Aizawa stirred faintly at the sound. His fingers tightened around her waist, instinctive and protective.

“Tch… kids,” he muttered, though his tone was more amused than annoyed.

When he looked up and met her gentle eyes, his hand softened, rubbing small, comforting circles against her back.

“Don’t worry about it,” he whispered. “Let them see whatever they want. I’m too tired to hide it anymore.”

He kissed her hand again, then pulled her closer, burying his face in her neck. His voice dropped to a whisper only she could hear.

“I love you," he said quietly. “Even if I’m bad at saying it out loud.”

The world outside could whisper all it wanted.

But here, in the dim glow of the evening, Aizawa Shota finally had his peace— the quiet, unwavering love of the woman too kind for the life he lived.