A Quiet Evening

The last rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains of the modest apartment, casting long shadows across the living room. Shouta Aizawa sat on the worn leather couch, a stack of papers balanced on his knee, his red pen scratching occasional notes. The third cup of coffee sat cold and forgotten on the side table.

From the kitchen came the clatter of pots and the low hum of a familiar tune. Hizashi Yamada—Present Mic, the Voice Hero—was cooking. Singing, actually. A song from some American rock band that Aizawa pretended not to recognize, though every lyric was etched into his memory from hundreds of late-night karaoke sessions.

"Shouta! Set the table, will you?" Hizashi called out, his voice at a normal decibel for once. Aizawa grunted in acknowledgment, but didn't move. The papers had his attention—a student's analysis of support gear that showed surprising insight. He'd have to praise the kid tomorrow.

A few minutes later, a pair of arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind, and a chin rested on his head. "Oi, earphones. I said set the table."

"You said that, yes." Aizawa didn't look up, but he leaned back slightly, just enough to feel the warmth of Hizashi's body. "It's not a command. It's a request."

"But you didn't do it." A playful whine. Hizashi's breath stirred his hair. "And I made your favorite—stir-fry with that spicy sauce you like."

That got his attention. Aizawa set the papers aside and turned his head, meeting Hizashi's bright green eyes. "You didn't have to."

"I know. But you've been working all day. And your capture weapon is a disaster. It needs washing."

"It's fine."

"It's crusted with dust and who knows what from that training exercise. I'll wash it tonight."

Aizawa sighed, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're too soft, Mic."

"And you're too stubborn." Hizashi pressed a kiss to his temple before pulling away. "Table. Now. Or I'm eating both portions."

Reluctantly, Aizawa rose and padded to the small dining table. He set out two plates, chopsticks, and glasses of water. The apartment was quiet save for the sizzle of the pan and Hizashi's continued humming. This was peace. A rare commodity in their lives.

They ate in comfortable silence. Aizawa savored the food—the perfect balance of spicy and savory that Hizashi had mastered over years of trial and error. He'd never admit it, but he loved these meals. Not just the taste, but the effort. The thoughtfulness.

"You're staring," Hizashi said, grinning.

Aizawa looked down at his plate. "I'm not."

"You totally were."

"Eat your vegetables."

"Don't change the subject. What's on your mind, Shouta?"

Putting down his chopsticks, Aizawa considered the question. What was on his mind? A thousand things—lesson plans, hero rankings, the constant hum of danger that came with their profession. But also this: sitting here, with Hizashi, watching him laugh and gesture and be so effortlessly alive.

"I was thinking," Aizawa said slowly, "that I'm glad you're here."

Hizashi's grin softened. "Aw, Shouta. You're getting sentimental on me."

"Shut up."

"No, no, it's sweet. Really." Hizashi reached across the table and took his hand, fingers intertwining. "I'm glad too. Every day."

Aizawa squeezed back. "Even when I'm grumpy?"

"Especially then. It's cute."

"I am not cute."

"You're adorable. Like a cranky cat."

"I'm going back to grading."

"No you're not. It's date night." Hizashi stood, pulling him up. "We're watching that documentary you've been wanting to see. On the evolution of quirk biology."

"You hate that stuff."

"I love anything if it means sitting next to you." Hizashi's voice dropped, sincere. "You're my favorite person, Shouta. Don't forget that."

Aizawa felt the warmth spread through his chest. He leaned in, brushing his lips against Hizashi's. "I won't."

The documentary played, but neither paid much attention. They ended up on the couch, Hizashi's head in Aizawa's lap, fingers threading through blond hair. The city lights flickered outside. Somewhere, a villain plot was brewing, or an incident was unfolding. But in this moment, they were just two people, in love, finding a quiet peace.

And that was enough.