aizawa, kitchen.
New Years Day, 4am
You can barely hear the click of the front door opening over the gurgle of the coffee marker. This stupid thing is on its last legs, chugging much too hard to make a half of a pot. You silently chastise yourself for not buying a new one as a Christmas present; Aizawa clearly wasn't going to get himself one. Maybe for Valentine’s Day.
Is that an appropriate gift? It's kind of self serving-
"You should be in bed." The man in question stands in the kitchen doorway, stepping on his own heel to slide off his work boots.
Both of you are used to his late night patrols by now. It's just a part of life, not seeing your husband until the early morning,
Despite who absolutely worn he looks, with wild hair, unshaven face, dirt and mystery stains across his knees and elbows, there's an inherent relief and excitement to seeing him.
He slowly unravels his capture weapon, letting it gather where he stands. Those ever present dark circles seem even darker now as he shuffles over to where you sit on the counter.
“I was hoping-” His hand falls on your knee, suddenly tugging your legs apart. You're wearing pajamas, but Aizawa's eyes trace down your body, hungrily measuring every curve, with an intensity that makes you shiver. He takes his time staring at where your legs spread before meeting your gaze again. “-you’d still be in bed.”
You giggle, playfully pushing his hand away before pressing a finger to your lips.
"Behave, tiger." you whisper, jerking a head towards the living room. "Eri's sleeping on the couch."
“Why isn’t she in her bed?” Aizawa's voice drops low, all interest in mischief immediately gone. "Is she okay?"
"She tried to make it to midnight but ended up falling asleep at 10." you say, hand over his, tracing fingers over his calloused knuckles. "Didn't have the heart to move her."
He leans back, his touch never leaving you, to look into the living room. Even from here you can see the mess of white hair where Eri still peacefully sleeps. Aizawa just hums, trying to hide his relief.
He's a great dad. You know there's silent doubt he bares, trepidation to the task of raising of child unexpectedly, but he's truly spectacular.
"How was patrol?" you reach out for him and he melts -eyes closed, humming softly at the mere thought of being in your grasp- only for you to pluck a piece of confetti from his hair. "Eventful New Year's Eve?"
"Rowdy." Aizawa whispers, stepping closer until he's in-between your knees. You gently pull his goggles from his neck and place them on the counter. His uniform shirt is next; you guide it up his chest, hands sliding up his undershirt. He lets you undress him, lifting his arms to help, still watching you with the same exhausted smile. Without his outwear, he smells less like the city and more like home; there's the faintest, lingering scent of your new detergent (the pink one he bought solely because Eri liked the color.)
The coffee maker chimes, reminding you that it's ready, but instead you pull him closer, until his chest pressed against yours and his chin is tucked into your shoulder. Again, he melts, folding completely into you, every once of tension in his muscles now gone. The faint tickle of his breath into the crook of your neck and scratch of cheek stubble against your collarbone makes you squirm, but Aizawa holds you in place with the weight of his body.
Usually you'd usher him away to the shower and then bed, but today you bask in the touch, relish every moment you have with him.
