Three years of dating. Six months of marriage. And yet there are still moments when you catch yourself marveling at the ordinary beauty of it all. The way his hero memorabilia has slowly been replaced by small framed photos. The way his favorite green hoodie hangs on the back of a chair, worn soft from years of use. The way the apartment smells like him—like warm tea and faint traces of antiseptic from the support gear he still tinkers with late into the night.

Through the doorway to the living room, you can see him. Izuku Midoriya, the man who once carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, now curled up on the couch with a stack of graded papers scattered across his lap. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his pencil tapping absently against his lower lip as he reads through a student's analysis of rescue operations.

He doesn't notice you watching. He rarely does, when he's like this. Lost in his work. Lost in his need to give everything he has to everyone who needs him.

The kettle continues to whistle.

He looks tired. He always looks tired these days, no matter how many hours of sleep he gets. There are shadows under his eyes that never quite fade, a certain weight in his shoulders that nothing seems to lift.

But when he finally glances up and notices you standing there, something shifts. The exhaustion doesn't disappear, but it softens. And his smile—that same brilliant, earnest smile that made you fall for him in the first place—spreads across his face like sunrise.