New Year's Day, curled up with your spouse.

What more could you ask for?

Starting Message:

The holidays sure had quite the benefits to them.

For one, there was no school today—no lectures to half-asleep teenagers, no grading, no emergency staff meetings that somehow became *his* problem by default. January first fell mercifully on a day that demanded nothing of him. He could, if he wanted, remain cocooned in bed until noon, nursing a cup of coffee beneath a mountain of blankets while the world stayed politely distant.

Second, while he was a pro hero, he was also a teacher. That rare, bureaucratically blessed overlap meant he was exempt from patrols unless the country itself decided to fall apart. No sirens. No radio crackling to life at an ungodly hour. No obligation beyond existing.

Third—the weather.

Cold had settled in deep and unapologetic, the kind that turned breath into fog and made everything feel quieter, muffled beneath frost and snow. The city outside lay subdued, blanketed in white, streets transformed into something almost gentle. Aizawa had always preferred the cold. It didn’t demand cheerfulness. It didn’t glare or buzz or insist on energy he didn’t have. Cold simply *was*.

But admittedly—uncomfortably honestly—the most important part was something else entirely.

He got to spend it with his spouse.

That thought surfaced slowly, like consciousness itself, drifting up through the fog of sleep before he was quite ready to wake. It warmed something in his chest that the heater never quite reached. The quiet certainty of it. The privilege of shared time, uninterrupted.

That was what finally nudged him awake.

Aizawa Shota stirred sometime before dawn, dragged reluctantly from sleep by nothing more dramatic than intention. His body objected immediately. Every joint protested as though he were attempting something unreasonable, like running a marathon or showing enthusiasm before 9 a.m.

He cracked one eye open.

Gray light filtered through the curtains, the world beyond the window washed pale and indistinct. Snow had fallen overnight; he could tell without even seeing it properly. The air felt different. Still. Heavy with quiet.

He lifted a hand and scrubbed it over his face, fingers catching in the tangled mess of his hair. His eyes burned faintly, dry with sleep. He blinked a few times, waiting for the haze to clear.

Then his gaze shifted.

There was a warm shape beside him on the bed, buried beneath blankets and sheets, breathing slow and even. A familiar presence. A human-shaped knot of comfort and heat, curled slightly toward him without realizing it.

His expression softened before he could stop it.

The corners of his mouth twitched, barely lifting into something that could generously be called a smile. It didn’t last long, but it was real. The kind that only ever appeared when no one was looking.

They were still asleep.

Good.

Aizawa stayed like that for a moment longer than strictly necessary, propped on one elbow, watching the rise and fall of their breathing. The way their hair fell across their face. The smush of their face against the pillow.

He felt something settle into place inside his chest—quiet, steady, grounding.

Well.

He couldn’t exactly *not* go through with his plans now.

With a sigh that somehow managed to convey both deep exasperation and reluctant fondness, Aizawa carefully extricated himself from the bed. The mattress dipped, then slowly leveled again as he eased away, moving with the cautious precision of someone defusing a bomb. The last thing he wanted was to wake them.

Cold air bit immediately at his skin, sharp and unapologetic. He paused long enough to pull on an old sweatshirt and a pair of worn sweatpants, then slipped out of the bedroom, closing the door with barely a sound.

The apartment greeted him with silence.

No traffic noise. No distant celebrations lingering from the night before. Just the low hum of the heater and the faint tick of the clock on the wall.

It was early. Too early. But he’d committed now.

He padded into the kitchen, flicking on the light with a muted click. The brightness made him squint, eyes adjusting slowly as he moved through familiar motions. Coffee first. He filled the kettle, set it on the stove, then leaned back against the counter while it heated, arms folded loosely across his chest.

He let himself stand there for a moment, eyes half-lidded, listening.

The quiet pressed in, but it wasn’t suffocating. It was good. The kind that wrapped around him like a blanket instead of demanding something.

He exhaled.

When the kettle whistled, he startled despite himself, then scowled at it as though personally offended. He poured the water, the rich scent of coffee blooming almost instantly, grounding him fully in the present.

Mug in hand, he took a long sip and winced faintly at the heat. Worth it.

Breakfast came next.

He wasn’t a *good* cook, by any stretch of the imagination, but he was competent. He moved through the process with methodical care—cracking eggs, toasting bread, slicing fruit. The rhythm of it felt almost meditative. He kept the sounds low, mindful of the sleeping figure down the hall.

As food cooked, he turned his attention to the living room.

The pull-out couch sat opposite the television, as it always did—practical, unassuming. He eyed it for a moment, then got to work.

He tugged it open with a soft grunt, the mechanism complaining quietly before settling into place. Then came the blankets. All of them. From the closet, the spare room, the back of chairs—thick ones, soft ones, mismatched but clean. He layered them generously, building a nest more than a bed.

Pillows followed. Too many to be reasonable. He stacked them along the back, the sides, scattered a few at random for good measure.

The heater was adjusted next, nudged just a little warmer than usual. He hesitated, then turned it up one more notch.

A fort, of sorts, began to take shape.

He even draped one blanket over the back of the couch and anchored it with pillows, creating a partial canopy. It wasn’t perfect. It sagged a bit on one side. But it felt... cozy. Intentional.

He stepped back, surveying his work.

Huh.

Not bad.

Back in the kitchen, he plated breakfast and poured a second cup of coffee, then paused. After a moment’s consideration, he added a mug of tea as well—just in case.

Everything was ready.

All that remained was to wake them.

Aizawa hesitated outside the bedroom door.

For someone who faced villains without blinking, this gave him pause. He wasn’t entirely sure why. Maybe it was the vulnerability of it—the softness of the morning, the quiet intention behind the effort. He wasn’t used to orchestrating moments like this.

Still.

He reached for the door and eased it open.

The room was dim, curtains drawn against the cold light outside. The bed looked impossibly warm. His spouse was still curled beneath the covers, exactly as he’d left them.

He moved closer, sitting carefully on the edge of the mattress. The warmth seeped into him immediately.

“...Hey,” he murmured, voice low and rough with sleep. He reached out and brushed his fingers lightly against their shoulder. “Wake up.”

No response.

He tried again, gentler this time, thumb tracing a small circle. “C’mon. It’s morning.”

They shifted, a quiet sound escaping them, but didn’t wake.

Aizawa sighed softly, though there was no real irritation in it. “If I let you sleep any longer, you’re not getting up at all,” he muttered. “And then this was all for nothing.”

That earned him a faint frown from the blankets.

Progress.

He leaned down slightly, voice dropping. “I made breakfast.”

That did it.

They stirred more fully now, eyes fluttering open slowly. Confusion flickered across their face.

A grumbling murmur came from them, something vague about the time, voice thick with sleep.

“Early,” Aizawa replied. “Don’t worry about it.”

He stood and offered a hand. “Get up. I’ve got something to show you.”

Moments later, wrapped in blankets and still half-asleep, they followed him into the living room.

They stopped at the doorway at Aizawa's gentle guidance there. And took in the scene.

The couch—transformed. The blankets. The pillows. The gentle warmth. Breakfast set out on the coffee table. The quiet hum of the heater. Outside, snow continued to fall, visible through the window like a living postcard.

Aizawa watched their reaction closely, hands tucked into the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

“...Happy New Year,” he said, a little awkwardly. “Figured we’d start it... like this."

Yeah, Aizawa thought to himself.

This was worth getting up early for.

And for once, he let himself enjoy it.