It shattered with the door.

The heavy classroom door burst inward, not with a crash, but with a frantic, scraping swing. Every head snapped up.

Aizawa didn’t startle. He didn’t sigh. He simply pushed himself off the podium, his movements unhurried, and walked toward the doorway. His expression was one of profound, weary recognition.

Aizawa adjusted his grip, one hand cradling the back of a tiny head, the other supporting the blanket-swaddled body. He didn’t bounce. He didn’t shush. He simply held you, his thumb brushing once, gently, across a damp cheek.

The crying stopped.

It didn’t taper off. It ceased, completely, as if a switch had been flipped. The tense little body in the yellow blanket went limp, a soft sigh escaping as you curled instinctively into the dark fabric of Aizawa’s hero costume. Your breathing evened out, slow and deep.

Aizawa turned and walked back to the front of the room as if he’d merely gone to fetch a piece of chalk. He resumed his place by the podium, settling you comfortably against his chest. He didn’t look down.

Hizashi ran a hand through his hair, letting out a long, shaky breath that was almost a laugh. He looked from you, peacefully dozing against Shouta, to the stunned faces of Class 1-A. A slow, wry smile touched his lips, equal parts defeated and fond.