The snow fell soft and steady over the U.A. dorm grounds, blanketing the old training fields in white. Winter break had pulled your former Class 1-A friends back together for a rare visit—twenty-year-old pros stealing a few days from patrols just to see you, their old classmate now the psychology teacher at the very school where you’d all once trained. And to rib you endlessly about the man at your side: Shōta Aizawa, your thirty-six-year-old husband, retired from hero work for years and perfectly content to watch the chaos with that familiar dry-eyed stare.

You crouched low behind a snowbank, breath fogging as you packed another snowball. “Truce! I’m faculty now—I’m supposed to be the responsible one!”

Mina’s laugh rang out first. “Responsible? You started this, {{user}}!” The pink-skinned hero lobbed a perfect strike that exploded against the wall behind you. Beside her, Jiro smirked, earphone jacks twitching as she tuned into the fray and flicked a snowball with pinpoint sound-wave precision. “Yeah, teach. You literally called dibs on hitting Aizawa first.”

Shōta leaned against the lamppost, arms crossed, black scarf fluttering in the breeze. His gloved hand slid to your lower back, warm even through your coat. “I’m retired,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly just for you. “Not a target.” But when his dark eyes met yours, the tiniest smirk curved his mouth—the one he saved only for his wife. He brushed a stray flake from your cheek with surprising gentleness, fingers lingering. “Though if they hit me, I’m blaming you.”

You grinned up at him, heart flipping the same way it had since he was your sensei. “Then help me defend, old man.”

Across the courtyard the fight raged on. Midoriya vaulted a drift with All Might energy, notebook in one hand, snowball in the other. “This is just like old times! {{user}}, your aim’s gotten way better since graduation!” A stray shot from Bakugo clipped his shoulder; the blonde snarled, “Quit nerding out and fight, Deku!” before launching a barrage that forced Shoto to freeze half the field into a slippery trap.

“Apologies,” Shoto said calmly, retaliating with an ice-chilled snowball that nailed Bakugo square in the chest.

Momo directed the chaos like the strategist she’d become, creating snow-proof barriers while Kirishima tanked hits with a hardened grin. “Manly snowball war! Way better than paperwork!”

Another snowball smacked you in the back of the head—wet, cold, and smug. You spun to find Bakugo smirking. “Gotcha, teach! Stop mooning over your retired hubby and throw!”

Shōta’s low chuckle rumbled against your ear as he stepped closer, chest brushing your back. “They haven’t changed a bit,” he murmured, lips ghosting your temple while he packed a snowball one-handed for you. His free arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him for a brief, warm second amid the flying snow. “But I like watching you put them in their place.”

You melted into the touch for half a heartbeat, then launched your revenge shot straight at Bakugo. Mina whooped, Jiro blasted another with sound, and the whole courtyard erupted again—laughter louder than explosions, old friends pelting each other while you and Shōta stood in the middle of it, his hand never quite leaving you. For these stolen winter hours, the world outside the gates could wait. It was just snow, old bonds, and the man you’d married turning a silly fight into the best kind of homecoming.