Dadzawa

The mid-day sun beat down on the sidewalk outside UA High School, but inside the "Hero’s Rest" cafe, the air conditioning was a welcome relief. You sat in a booth near the back, checking your watch. Shota was officially fifteen minutes late for his lunch break. Between the sleep deprivation of the last five weeks and the effort it took just to get out of the house with a newborn, your patience was wearing thin—but you knew his job didn't exactly follow a clock. Underneath a soft muslin blanket, your five-week-old had finally latched and settled into a peaceful rhythm. You had been careful, tucking the edges in to ensure you were completely covered, wanting nothing more than a quiet moment of nursing and a caffeine fix. "Honestly, it’s just selfish." The voice cut through the low lo-fi music playing over the speakers. A woman at the adjacent table, dressed in a stiff power suit, was staring at you with a look of pure curdled disgust. "Children that small don't belong in cafes. They're loud, they're messy, and they belong at home," she said, loud enough for the tables around you to turn and look. She huffed, waving a hand toward your chest. "And that? Right in public? It’s animalistic. There are public restrooms if you absolutely must do that, though I can't imagine why you'd choose to expose yourself in a place where people are trying to eat." You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, your grip tightening instinctively on your baby. Before you could even find the words to point out the laws—or the blatant blanket covering you—the bell above the door chimed. Shota Aizawa stepped inside. His hair was a mess from his capture scarf, and his eyes were bloodshot from a long morning of teaching, but his gaze sharpened instantly. He didn't see a "Karen" making a scene; he saw his wife—who had been through a marathon of recovery and sleepless nights—being cornered while trying to feed his child. He didn't head for the counter. He headed straight for your table, his boots thudding heavily on the floor, his expression a mask of cold, exhausted fury.

The lunchtime rush near U.A. High was always chaotic.

Steam curled from fresh coffee behind the counter, students in hero-course uniforms crowded the small café tables, and the low hum of conversation filled the air. It was one of the few places within walking distance of U.A. High School where pro heroes and civilians mixed without much thought.

You sat near the window, your five-week-old baby nestled against your chest, tiny fingers curled into your sweater. The exhaustion of new motherhood still lingered in the soft shadows beneath your eyes, but there was warmth there too — the kind that only came from holding your child close.

Across town, Shota Aizawa had meant to be early.

He’d calculated patrol timing. Factored in paperwork. Even skipped his usual post-class nap.

And yet—

A last-minute incident report. A student needing clarification. A call from faculty.

By the time he checked the clock, he was late.

Back at the café, your baby began to fuss. The small whimpers escalated into hungry cries, drawing a few glances from nearby tables. You murmured softly, rocking gently before making the decision every mother eventually does — you adjusted your seat slightly, pulled the soft blanket from the diaper bag, and carefully covered yourself and your child for privacy.

Discreet. Respectful. Natural.

The crying stopped almost instantly.

Peace.

For about thirty seconds.

A sharp huff cut through the air.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

The woman two tables over — perfectly coiffed hair, pristine handbag perched like it deserved its own seat — stared openly.

“Some of us are trying to enjoy lunch. There are places for... that.”

A few heads turned.

You kept your eyes on your baby.

The woman wasn’t finished.

“Infants don’t belong in places like this. It’s inappropriate. And now you’re— honestly! Can’t you do that somewhere private?”

The blanket hadn’t slipped. Nothing was visible. The baby was quiet.

But the woman’s voice was not.

A barista hesitated behind the counter. A pair of hero-course students exchanged awkward looks.

The café atmosphere tightened.

And right then, the bell above the door chimed.

A tall figure stepped inside, capture scarf resting loosely around his shoulders, tired eyes scanning the room with immediate assessment.

He spotted you first.

Then the tension.

Then the woman still mid-complaint.

Aizawa’s expression shifted — subtle, but unmistakable. The same look he wore when a villain underestimated a situation.

He walked over without rushing, hands in his pockets, posture casual but radiating quiet authority.

He stopped beside your table.

His gaze flicked once to the woman.

Then down to you and the baby, voice softening instantly.

“...Sorry I’m late.”

A pause.

Then, without looking away from the woman, his tone flattened.

“Is there a problem here?”

The air practically snapped with it.

The café near U.A. High School was louder than you remembered.

Or maybe everything just felt louder lately.

Five weeks ago, you had been in a hospital bed, exhausted and shaking, listening to your baby’s first cry. Five weeks ago, your entire world shifted. Since then, time had blurred into late-night feedings, whispered lullabies at 3 a.m., and the constant ache of healing muscles and tender skin.

You were still sore. Still hormonal. Still learning.

Still fragile.

Your baby lay cradled against your chest in a soft carrier, cheeks round and flushed with warmth. You hadn’t wanted to leave the house yet — not really — but Shota insisted you deserved fresh air. A normal moment. Something outside the walls of home and nursery.

He promised to meet you on his lunch break.

He was running late.

Your baby stirred.

A soft whimper.

Then another.

You immediately adjusted, heart racing like it always did — that primal surge of protectiveness. You bounced gently in your seat, whispering soft reassurances, pressing your lips to that tiny head that still smelled faintly of baby shampoo and milk.

“It’s okay... Mama’s here... I know, sweetheart...”

The crying grew louder. Hungry.

You felt eyes turn.

Your heart squeezed.

Five weeks.

You were still figuring this out. Still unsure of yourself. Still second-guessing every choice. Were you holding them right? Feeding enough? Feeding too much? Going out too soon?

With slightly shaking hands, you reached into the diaper bag and pulled out the muslin blanket. You positioned it carefully — twice checking your coverage. You angled your body toward the window. You tried to make yourself smaller.

You lifted your baby and began to breastfeed.

The crying stopped almost immediately.

Relief hit so hard it nearly made you cry.

Because you did it.

You soothed them.

You were enough.

And then—

A sharp, disapproving scoff sliced through the moment.

“Oh, that is just inappropriate.”

The words felt like a slap.

You froze.

A woman across the café stared openly, lips curled in disgust.

“Honestly, people bringing newborns out in public is bad enough. But that? Right here where everyone is trying to eat?”

Your chest tightened.

The blanket hadn’t slipped. Nothing was exposed. Your baby was fully covered, peacefully nursing.

But suddenly your face burned.

Your exhaustion turned to humiliation in seconds.

“I mean, can’t she do that somewhere private?” the woman continued loudly. “No one wants to see that.”

Your throat closed.

You weren’t trying to make a statement. You weren’t trying to be bold. You were just trying to feed your child.

Five weeks postpartum. Still healing. Still bleeding some days. Still waking up every two hours. Still wondering if you were doing anything right.

And now you felt like you’d done something wrong.

Your eyes welled despite your best effort to blink the tears back. Hormones made everything heavier. The judgment hit deeper than it should have.

You instinctively curled further around your baby, shielding them as if the words themselves might hurt.

The café door chimed.

Boots against tile.

A presence shifted the air.

Shota Aizawa stepped inside, scarf resting around his shoulders, tired eyes scanning automatically.

He saw you.

Not just where you were sitting.

But how.

The way your shoulders were hunched inward. The way your chin trembled. The way you were trying to disappear.

His gaze flicked to the woman mid-rant.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

He crossed the café in slow, deliberate steps and stopped beside you.

But he didn’t address the woman first.

He crouched in front of you.

His hand came up — gentle, steady — brushing a tear from beneath your eye.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Two syllables. Soft. Anchoring.

“You’re doing fine.”

His eyes flicked briefly to the blanket, to the tiny movement beneath it, and something inside his expression melted.

“You’re taking care of our baby.”

Only then did he stand.

His posture straightened. His expression sharpened.

“There’s nothing inappropriate about a mother feeding her child,” he said flatly, voice carrying effortlessly across the café.

A pause.

“If you’re uncomfortable,” he added without raising his voice, “you’re welcome to leave.”

No shouting. No theatrics.

Just certainty.

He reached down and rested a protective hand over yours — the one holding the blanket — thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.

“You don’t need to hide,” he murmured to you alone.

And in that moment, despite the exhaustion, despite the vulnerability, despite being five weeks into the hardest transition of your life—

You didn’t feel small.

You felt like a mother.

And you weren’t alone.

The little café down the street from U.A. High School smelled like espresso and warm bread — comforting, normal, almost peaceful.

You clung to that normalcy.

Because five weeks ago, your world had been hospital monitors and pain and fear and overwhelming love all at once.

Five weeks ago, you became a mother.

And nothing had felt steady since.

Your body still didn’t feel like yours. Your sleep came in broken fragments. You cried at commercials. You cried when the baby cried. You cried sometimes just from being so full of love it hurt.

Today was the first time you’d gone somewhere alone with the baby.

Your hands had trembled buckling the carrier. You’d double-checked the diaper bag three times. You’d almost turned around twice.

But you did it.

You were sitting at a small corner table, your newborn resting against your chest, tiny breaths warm through your shirt. Five weeks old. So small. So dependent.

Your baby stirred.

A soft whine.

You immediately leaned forward, heart clenching. That sound owned you now. Controlled you. You shifted gently, whispering reassurances.

“I know... Mama’s here... I know...”

The whine turned into hungry cries.

Your pulse spiked. You felt eyes glance over. Heat crept up your neck.

It’s okay. Babies cry. It’s normal.

Still, your body reacted like you were under attack.

You pulled the soft blanket from your bag with slightly clumsy fingers. You adjusted your position carefully, shielding yourself with your shoulder and the table. You covered completely. You checked twice.

Then you guided your baby to nurse.

The crying stopped instantly.

And your entire body sagged in relief.

That simple act — feeding your child — felt like victory. Like proof you were doing something right.

Until—

A sharp voice cut through the café.

“This is exactly why newborns shouldn’t be brought out in public.”

Your breath caught.

A woman near the counter glared openly.

“And now she’s doing that in the middle of a restaurant. Honestly.”

Your stomach dropped.

You instinctively tightened your hold, curling protectively around your baby. The blanket hadn’t moved. Nothing showed. You were completely covered.

But shame rushed in anyway.

“I don’t care if it’s ‘natural,’” the woman continued loudly. “There are private places for that. Some of us are trying to eat.”

Your throat burned.

You hadn’t slept more than three hours straight in weeks. Your body was still healing. Your emotions were raw, unfiltered, fragile.

And now you felt exposed — even though you weren’t.

You weren’t trying to make anyone uncomfortable. You were just trying to keep your baby calm. Fed. Safe.

Your lip trembled before you could stop it.

Was it too soon to go out? Were you selfish? Were you a bad mom already?

The bell above the café door chimed.

Bootsteps.

A shift in the air.

Shota Aizawa entered, slightly out of breath from walking faster than usual. He was late. He hated being late — especially today.

He scanned the room automatically.

Found you.

And immediately knew something was wrong.

Not because of the woman.

Because of you.

The way your shoulders were folded inward like you were bracing for impact. The way you were staring down, blinking too quickly. The way your hand trembled against the blanket.

He walked over without hesitation.

He didn’t look at the woman first.

He stopped beside you and placed one steady hand at the back of your chair — close enough that you could feel him.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Just that.

You looked up at him, eyes glossy.

And that was it.

Something inside him snapped — not loudly, not dramatically — but completely.

He straightened slowly and turned toward the woman.

“She’s five weeks postpartum,” he said evenly, voice calm but cutting through the café like a blade. “Our baby is five weeks old.”

The room went still.

“She’s healing. She’s exhausted. And she’s feeding her child.”

His eyes were sharp now. Unblinking.

“If that offends you, that’s your problem.”

No raised voice. No theatrics.

Just finality.

He crouched slightly beside you again, voice dropping back to softness.

“You’re doing everything right,” he murmured so only you could hear.

His hand slid over yours — grounding, steady, warm.

“You’re a good mom.”

And suddenly the café didn’t feel so heavy.

Because you were tired. You were healing. You were learning.

But you weren’t alone.

And you were exactly what your baby needed.