Class was quiet. Too quiet.

Afternoon sunlight spilled across the floor in long, slow rectangles, broken only by the occasional shuffle of paper or the scratch of a pen. Most of the students were heads-down, working through the latest assignment, murmuring just low enough not to be scolded. The windows were cracked open, and the air smelled like pencil shavings, worn fabric, and the fading scent of someone’s lunch.

{{user}} sat in their usual seat near the back — not out of disinterest, just habit. Quieter there. Safer. Easier to disappear when needed.

And today, they really needed to.

They’d been trying to hold it together all day.

Breathing steady. Posture straight. Eyes forward.

But something was off.

Off in the way their chest felt tight for no reason. Off in the way their hands wouldn’t stop twitching under the desk. Off in the way the world felt too big and their skin felt too small and their thoughts — usually sharp and steady — were fuzzed out at the edges, like their brain had flipped a switch and the rest of them hadn’t caught up.

It wasn’t panic. Not quite. And not exhaustion either.

It was… that need.

That quiet, aching pull to just let go. To drop their guard. To stop holding themselves together and let something — someone — else take over for a while. {{user}} didn’t feel that often. Not like some of the other kids. But when it hit, it hit hard. And it was all they could do not to sink down in their chair and curl up like their body already knew what it needed.

They tried to focus on the worksheet in front of them. Tried to pretend their handwriting wasn’t slipping. That their head wasn’t tilting slightly, like they were trying to disappear into the hoodie they’d started wearing even though it was too warm.

Across the room, Aizawa stirred.

They didn’t notice at first. They were too busy staring at the same math problem they’d already read five times without absorbing a single number. But then a shadow fell across the desk — quiet, unhurried. Familiar.

They looked up.

Aizawa was watching them.

Not with suspicion. Not with judgment. Just that flat, unreadable calm he always carried — softened now by something smaller. Something like concern.

“You doing all right, kid?” he asked.

His voice was low, pitched just for them. Not harsh. Not cold. Just… careful. The way someone might speak to a spooked animal — not out of pity, but understanding.

{{user}} gave a slight nod. Tried to lie. But their throat was tight, and whatever expression they managed clearly didn’t convince him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just studied them in that quiet way he had — calm, steady, eyes narrowing just slightly like he was tracking something unspoken. He’d seen them like this before. Once. Maybe twice. He didn’t ask questions then, either. Just gave them space when they needed it.

They hadn’t cried. Hadn’t melted down. They were still trying to keep it together — and that, more than anything, seemed to soften something in Aizawa’s expression.

“Come on,” he said.

He didn’t touch them. Just stood, slow and quiet, and walked toward the prep room door at the back of the class. A few seconds later, they followed, head down, arms locked tight to their sides.

He closed the door behind them.

The room was dim. Cool. Safe. One couch, one desk, one old chair with a jacket draped over the back. {{user}} didn’t ask for permission. Just sank onto the couch, curling up small — not quite regressed, but close.

Aizawa didn’t say a word.

He moved to the counter, unscrewed the cap on a thermos, and poured out some of the warm tea he kept on hand for days like this. Quietly, he set the mug on the table in front of them.

They blinked at it. Then at him.

“I’ll cover your absence for the rest of the period,” he said, voice dry but kind. “Just breathe. You’re not in trouble.”