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constanttea · 18 days ago

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⛧° ༺ Heroic Pursuits ༻⋆°⛧

One-shot

✰ ✰ ✰

Aizawa X Reader, 2822 words

⛧°⋆༺ On patrol, you find yourself in a tight situation and call for help. ༻⋆°⛧

You feel the telltale sign of your quirk overuse sparking up, running scenarios through your mind on dealing with the villain on your hands. A splitting migraine is boiling inside your skull, heightened after the villain managed to land a couple scary contact points of his quirk on you.

As the villain dodges another blow from you, a hard object makes impact with your skull, tumbling you to the ground with a groan. Another party joins.

Fuck.

You switch on your communications as you pull yourself up, trying to reorient yourself to the situation. At least civilians aren't a concern where you are, but this isn't good.

"Shit. Is anyone nearby?" Dead air meets you as you take another hit. They've noticed you're slowing down. This is not going well. There are a few desperate options before you that might bring the situation to an end, but you likely won't be conscious after it. There’s also no telling if it'll actually stop them.

Happy Friday, huh?

In response to the rising dread within you, your comms crackles to life, a low rumbling voice making its way into your thoughts: "Where are you?"

"I'm at the corner of Ironhook and Blight Avenue. In the dead zone," A ghost town of an area that had been abandoned and remained uninhabited after a villain attack. It had become a dangerous spot that people avoided more and more as it called to shady individuals.

"I'm five minutes out."

Five minutes. You could keep this up for five more minutes.

A mumbled "Thank you," escapes as you narrowly dodge the impending attack of one of your assailants, scrambling out of the way.

Shadows dance at the edges of your vision. As you try to divert an attack from one assailant–baiting them to accidentally assault the other–a shiver crawls its way up your back.

This really would be a shitty way to go. What would they say when they found your body? A horrible thought, but the world seems to be closing in around you.

A branch of pain shoots out through your arm as you block an attack last minute, a gasp of pain escaping you. "Still alive over there?"

"I'm holding together," you respond, swallowing a thick lump as you notice the approach of a third figure, "for now." Just your luck that all these types would converge on you. This was supposed to be a rescue; it ended up being a trap.You weren't anything particularly spectacular, so you wondered who this was really meant for.

The voice responds. Its bearer speaks in a bit of a gravelly almost nonchalant, unbothered tone, "That's good." However, the voice doesn't stop there, and a mote of familiarity springs up in your tired mind as the voice states your hero name rather casually. You don't even know who is coming to your aide, but they know you.

"Still there?" The voice is really shockingly familiar, but you just don't have the brain power right now to unravel why, rolling out of the way of one attack and just barely getting out of the way of a spat projectile. The saliva pools on the ground, crackling and burning away at the area it lands on.

"Yeah," you say, eyes locked on the acidic saliva a touch longer than it should. "You know me?"

The voice grunts in response, and it occurs to you this person is one of few words; this might be the only thing they have to offer. "Guess you don't remember yet."

Then it hits you. The dry delivery. The absolutely bothered unbothered tone. You did an undercover op with him once: Eraserhead. A low-profile hero that is serious and capable. You worked well together. You hadn’t recognized the voice through the haze of pain and exhaustion, but now it’s undeniable.

You manage to drop one of your attackers with a burst of your quirk. One last push. Vision flickering, the world warps and shifts around you, but then, he's there.

Dark clothes. Steady movements. Calm in the chaos. Your knees hit the ground as he drops the second assailant effortlessly.

You fight the heaviness of your eyelids, but they refuse to open.

He calls out your name, your body rolling around like a bag of marbles. Your name! It had to be him, the way he said your name sparked to life the memory inside you.

"Dammit." Your name leaves his lips again, and his voice is one you can't believe you couldn't identify before.

You lie heavy in his hands, exhausted and sore, hot and heavy and NOT in a good way. You hear him talking, but his voice fades in and out as your consciousness floats up, up, and away.

When you wake, you are in a nurses office of some kind, but it's not a typical hospital room. For one, there is a very tiny old woman fussing over you. You haven't seen Recovery Girl since your school days, yet she hasn't changed a bit. "You need rest, dear. Lots of it, and maybe assistance. Do you have anyone who can give you a hand?"

No.

And why would you? This is your whole life, you haven't had time to create much of anything beyond it. "Aizawa brought you here, let me go speak with him for a moment."

"RG, wait!" She shoots you a glare as you sit up, your whole body complaining with the effort, and you sink back down into the bed.

There's a knock on the door, and you clear your throat as a response. The door cracks, and you see his fingers on the edge of it before he pokes his head in. Those eyes of his look the same as the day you met. It's comforting to know he's always like this. You make eye contact and give him a quick nod. He slips in the room, rolling his sleeves up and leaning against the wall across from you.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like crap," you say.

Something that could be interpreted as a smile flashes over his face for a second. "You look like it."

You worry your bottom lip sharply between your teeth, and he continues speaking. "Recovery Girl says you need someone to keep an eye on you. Your quirk overuse is no joke."

You bite into your lip. "Need is a strong word I think."

He sighs, "No one?" You shake your head in response, staring at the wall behind him. This is mildly embarrassing. "I suppose we could drop you at the hospital."

You groan. "No." The word leaves your mouth sharp against someone who saved your ass earlier, yet...the idea of lying in a stiff hospital bed with terrible lighting sounds like hell. "I want to go home. I'll recover the same wherever I go. I'd rather be at my place."

He sighs yet again. "Recovery Girl was very insistent--"

You really don't have anyone to call. You don't get out that much. Perhaps you've been taking the job too seriously, but with the league's increased activity, hero society seems to be crumbling all around you. Who has time for all that?

He adjusts his stance, almost uncomfortably awkward. A silence heavier than your eyelids passes between you. "Can't you just...watch me?" you find yourself asking him.

His eyes widen, and it's the first time you've seen such an exaggerated expression cross his visage. He's usually very one-faced, and it's a bit of resting bitch face at that. "If you're okay with that. Yeah."

He nods, more to himself than you, then steps out of the room. He returns within the minute, gathering your gear that Recovery Girl had shucked from you earlier.

You sit up as he offers an arm to you. You lean against him, electricity on your tongue, wit dying behind your closed lips. He helps you out the door without much more to say.

"Same place?" he asks.

Same place. It wouldn't be his first time there, but it would be his first time inside. He had dropped you off before after you worked together, stopping at the door.

You always thought he was kind of ruggedly attractive, but he was a bit like you and not the type for having time to build relationships. You had fawned over the idea of you together in your head once or twice. It had only ever been a waking dream.

You chalk up the butterflies that he makes you feel to the nature of you going undercover as a couple. It was a very short-lived thing too. You guys made quick work of the mission and had been an excellent team. Your quirks were simply the best for the scenario, and you both weren't super public figures for heroes. Nothing more. A coincidence to work with him together after never interacting in your school days. He had somehow remembered you where you hadn't remembered him. All the more proof to you that you weren't built for human connection.

"Keys?" he asks you bluntly. You motion toward your utility belt he is hefting, reaching forward and fumbling in one of the pockets for it. It is awkward, you should have just taken the utility belt from him, and now the strange closeness between you is making your chest ache. You two can never happen. You are too similar.

You open the door, his hand finding the small of your back as you step in, a reminder of why he is here.

You have a stranger inside your home, and a very attractive one at that. Not quite a stranger you suppose, but he might as well be.

An ice cold self awareness trickles over your being, rising with feelings of shame and mild agony. "I'm sorry," you begin softly, "you don't take much time off, and here you are..."

“Doctor’s orders,” he says plainly, fetching you a glass of water like he’s lived here.

He returns with the water, leading you gently to the couch with a soft yet firm hand.

"Why didn't you call for help earlier?" He asks as he considers you with those sharp eyes of his. It is much like being under a magnifying glass, warmth flushing beneath your skin.

"Heat of the moment, I guess."

He takes the empty glass from you, your throat still parched. "Why did you come?"

He raises an eyebrow. As if to say of course he'd come to your rescue. Your hero, huh? That, however, is not what you intended. "I mean here. Not out there."

He leaves again to refill your glass, leaving you in the heaviest silence you have experienced since being awkward and pubescent in your school days.

As he returns another glass to you, your fingers make contact for a moment, and the lightning that bursts where they touch is something you can't ignore as you once would have. You are faced with your very real attraction to him, and you accept it begrudgingly, the same way you asked for help. He senses the change in the air, yet he doesn't move or respond. Neither of you do.

It occurs to you that nothing ever happens because you never risk anything. You keep to yourself. He's the same, and this could be the way you interact forever. Your heart sputters as you realize you very much don't want that. Despite your sense of rationality, you are brave enough to ask another question. "Is it because it's me?"

"Yeah."

And that's the end of your burst of confidence because what next? "You need rest," he murmurs, watching you sink further into the couch, "You should be in bed."

You roll into its depths, like a cat settling down. "What if I wanna stay here? It's easier for you to watch me here, isn't it?" A giggle of all things escapes you. Oh god, you're turning loopy with exhaustion. You will certainly be embarrassed about this later.

He sighs, wandering your home and returning with a pile of your blankets and a stuffed animal from your bed. More and more to be embarrassed by. You settle beneath the blankets, clutching your plush to your chest beneath them.

He settles into the armchair in your living room as if it's the most natural thing in the world, pulling out his phone and scanning through it for a moment. He looks back up at you, "You're supposed to be resting. Sleep."

You examine him through the eyes of someone too tired and worn to be your normal rational. He meets your gaze with a flat expression before raising an eyebrow.

A man who acts like his word is law must certainly be a demanding presence in the class room. You never remembered a demanding anything about him in your school days, nothing that left an impact. He is a good hero, better than you at least. Coming to your rescue, and from the things you’ve heard and seen, he is also a pretty good teacher.

You're staring, but he is too. You push a blanket off you, and it slumps to the floor. "You should rest too." He had school today and patrol it would seem. A very busy Friday. Plus, there's the whole life saving matter.

He settles back down into the chair, reclining it and pulling the blanket over him, but his eyes are still focused on you. How are you supposed to sleep with him staring at you like this?

Apparently, it comes easier to you than you expect it to. Despite your self consciousness, it has been a long day. The exhaustion catches up to you harder than the complaints you have.

You wake up to him on his phone again, looking as if he has not rested at all. He looks the same amount of tired as usual, but still.

He is typing with quick fingers, stopping and lifting his eyes to yours. "You're awake. Feeling okay? Hungry?"

He is taking this whole looking after you thing very seriously. You pout, pulling the blanket over your head.

Can we talk? Can you actually talk and deal with the rising heat in the room or the static of his gaze upon you?

Why are you here? Why do you stay? Why are you doing all this?

This goes beyond the role of hero, and you both know it. You feel it, but you don't even know if you have the embers within you to build a fire.

The blanket is pulled off from your face, sliding down you. He stands there looking down at you. You didn't even hear his approach partially due to you being trapped in your thoughts.

He peers down at you, and you could swear his eyebags are darker and heavier than before you passed out. Surely worse than earlier. You squint. "You didn't sleep?"

"Didn't want to," he shrugs, standing over you awkwardly, watching you. Examining.

"Seems a bit irrational to me. You need rest too."

He sets the blanket down as you shift to attempt to invite him closer, maybe you might even ask him to sit with you if you can muster the courage to find a closer proximity to someone.

He pauses, adjusting your blanket. He lays it back over you, tucking it in, and then suddenly becoming self-aware. His hands fall away from you. You miss the almost contact of them. His fingers seemed warm.

"I kept thinking you might wake up disoriented or in pain."

You crack a half smile, "I didn't think you would take your assignment this seriously."

"You're too important not to," he says, eyes flickering away from you for a moment, in search of a distraction before settling back on you. It's startling to get such an open response from him. Snarky comments and wit evade you because is he trying to say what you think he's trying to say?

You pat the empty space on the couch next to you. "Come sit," you say. "Check if I'm still alive. Whatever you need to do."

He hesitates, then moves to sit beside you, close enough that your knees touch. You share the blanket without thinking.

His arm brushes yours, and your heart is louder than it should be. You wonder if he can hear it.

You tilt your head against his shoulder.

He lets you.

He finds his voice where you could not. What is there to say? I think I maybe like you–which sounds juvenile–and also I'm terrified of losing the chance of connecting with you. I simply cannot bring myself to do anything. "I don't like the idea of losing you out there."

Your fingers find his slow and creeping, but they fit together with an ease that surprises you.

There's not really much room for error now. Squeezing his fingers for a moment, you think that there might just be enough fire in you after all.

⛧°⋆༺ Until Next Time ༻⋆°⛧

#bnha #mha #aizawa x reader #eraserhead #eraserhead x reader #mha one shot #bnha one shot

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constanttea · 21 days ago

Text

. ♡ NOTHING NOW

Shota Aizawa x fem!reader

Notes: I decided to try using a different word for the reader instead of y/n. But idk. Wc: 10.1k. Not proofread. Friends to lovers. Slight slow burn. First kiss between these two. Mainly fluff. Also a oneshot.

Synopsis: Reader who gets a permanent injury, and Aizawa who seems like he can't take enough care of you afterwards.

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

You remembered nothing. The only image lingering in your mind was a blurred flash of you fighting off a few enemy grunts — and then, a void. The next sound that filled the air was your own scream, raw and involuntary, as you collapsed onto the battlefield clutching your lower back.

The chaos around you was unrelenting. There were simply too many villains, and not enough allies free to break formation and assist you. The rescue team hadn't been deployed yet — the mission was still active, still too dangerous. You knew that. And yet, as you dragged yourself across the torn ground, you couldn’t stop the sharp, burning breaths escaping your lungs, growing shorter and more frantic with every movement. Pain pulsed through your spine — more than a bullet wound. Something about it felt... deeper. Wrong.

You gritted your teeth, trying to apply pressure to the injury, but your strength was fading fast. Blood slipped between your fingers. Your arms trembled. Your muscles betrayed you. Your thoughts became cloudy, scattered — like fog rolling in from all sides. You could no longer tell how far you'd crawled before your body slumped against a wall, limp and breathless. Your eyelids fluttered, fighting the creeping pull of unconsciousness that clawed at your mind.

Your vision blurred, colors melting into shadows. The last thing you saw was a figure — tall, dark, and shapeless — moving toward you. A silhouette. Maybe an ally... maybe not. You couldn't tell anymore. You couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You were just... so tired.

And then, nothing.

---

The world returned in fragments.

Your eyes peeled open slowly, reluctant to accept the light. Your vision was grainy, flickering. It took several blinks before you could begin making out the shapes around you.

You felt heavy — weighed down from the inside. Your thoughts were dull, like someone had wrapped your mind in cotton. But you remembered. You'd been hit. You were injured. That much was certain.

What wasn’t certain… was where you were.

This wasn't a hospital. No sterile scent. No beeping machines. No blinding lights. Was the battle still going on? Had you failed? Had you... died?

You turned your head with effort.

Then you saw him.

Aizawa.

Your heart thudded — weakly, but undeniably — as your lips parted.

“Eraserhead…” you croaked, your voice hoarse, splintered from pain and dehydration. You reached a trembling hand toward him. Your upper body stirred with a flicker of regained strength — but the lower half of your body was another story entirely. Numb. Throbbing. Absent, almost.

Aizawa turned at the sound of your voice, his tired eyes landing on you in an instant. Relief flooded his expression, but it didn’t erase the exhaustion and anxiety etched into his features.

“You’re okay,” he said softly, kneeling beside you. His voice was rough — strained — the way only someone who hadn’t stopped moving in hours would sound.

They had won. The villains had been defeated. But the location was isolated — far from the nearest city, even farther from a proper hospital. Hero reinforcements and medical teams were still en route, delayed by terrain and distance.

It had been two hours since victory.

And two long, torturous hours since you had slipped into that fragile, flickering state between consciousness and the dark.

“Am I really?” you whispered, voice fragile as glass. Your gaze dropped to your legs — legs that wouldn’t move. Legs you couldn’t feel.

Your breath hitched. “Aizawa… I can’t feel my legs.”

You turned to look at him, and if he hadn’t been worried before, he was now. His eyes widened, sharp with alarm, and the tension in his shoulders stiffened like coiled wire.

“What?” he breathed, his voice barely louder than yours, but laced with dread. His expression shifted from concern to disbelief, then to quiet horror as he knelt beside you again.

You stared back at him, unable to speak. There was no answer you could give, no explanation that would ease the weight crashing down on both of you. Your thoughts raced, spiraling into the worst-case scenarios. When you couldn’t feel your legs… it never meant something good.

“I’ll be right back. Stay here,” he said urgently, already rising to his feet.

You rolled your eyes faintly, though your heart thudded with fear. “Where else would I go?” you muttered, voice dry, half-broken — not from sarcasm, but from grief that hadn’t fully set in yet.

Your gaze drifted back to your lower half — dirt-caked fabric, blood-soaked boots, and skin you could no longer feel. They looked like they belonged to someone else. Detached, lifeless. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The bullet hit your back… then why did this feel so final?

You were terrified. So was he. So were the heroes who had found you collapsed in that dark corner of the battlefield.

The blood loss alone was staggering.

No one expected you to wake up — let alone survive.

Aizawa had been the one to find you. He’d turned a corner in search of stragglers and froze in place. The sight stopped him cold: a slumped figure against the wall, a pool of blood reflecting the faint battlefield lights. Your head lolled to the side, skin pale and lips parted — motionless.

He was at your side in seconds, panic clawing at his chest.

But instincts took over.

He buried the fear, locked it away, and did what he always did — what he had to do. You didn’t need panic. You needed Eraserhead.

There were no medics nearby. No stretchers. No operating tables. But there were heroes — veterans of battle, hardened by injury — who knew how to react when lives were on the line. They did what they could: staunch the bleeding, apply pressure, keep you stable.

But they weren’t doctors.

They could slow the damage… not reverse it.

And now, you were awake — breathing, alert — but something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

Something they couldn’t fix with gauze and grit.

He returned quickly — faster than you expected — and for once, he came bearing good news. Recovery Girl and her medical team were with the incoming reinforcements. They’d be there within the next thirty minutes.

“That’s… good,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. Your eyelids fluttered closed, heavy with exhaustion. You sounded so small. So distant.

Aizawa stood beside you, silent. He didn’t know what to say — didn’t know if there was anything to say. Everything had unfolded at breakneck speed, like a dam that broke all at once. And part of him… part of him blamed himself. For not being there. For not having your back the moment it counted. For not reaching you in time when you needed help the most.

When you’d still been unconscious, they tried to locate the bullet. The wound was clean — too clean. The entry point in your back was visible, but the bullet itself was nowhere to be found. It had lodged itself too deep. There was nothing they could do but stop the bleeding and pray it hadn’t damaged something vital. Maybe… maybe it was better they hadn’t pulled it out. Maybe.

“You're going to be okay, Nonnie,” he said at last. And he made it sound like he believed it. Like he had to believe it — for your sake, if not for his own.

But you didn’t respond. You didn’t nod. You didn’t even look at him.

Because you didn’t believe it.

And he could see that plainly in your face.

Your eyes were fixed on your legs — lifeless, unmoving, caked with blood and battlefield grime. You just stared, unblinking. Your silence was deafening. You never went silent in the face of stress. But this... this was different. Your expression was flat, unreadable, carved from stone. He could tell you were still processing, still grasping for meaning in the middle of all this uncertainty.

He hesitated. Should he say something? Offer comfort? Or would silence speak louder now? His leg bounced nervously — a rare crack in his normally composed presence.

“You don’t actually believe that,” you said suddenly, your voice flat. “I can’t feel my legs, Aizawa.”

The words sat between you like a weight. Your gaze never left your legs. Your voice didn’t tremble. But that stillness — that eerie calm — was worse than if you’d screamed.

This wasn’t the version of you he knew. You were warmth. You were willpower, stubbornness, and fire — never still, never silent. But now… you looked like a shadow of yourself. And the sight of you like this twisted something deep inside him.

“Nonnie, I wasn’t there for you. I—”

“Stop it,” you interrupted, your tone sharp, eyes flicking toward him with sudden intensity. “Don’t talk like that. Don’t blame yourself. I agreed to this mission knowing exactly what could happen. We all did. It’s not your fault.”

You brushed hair from your face, then winced — a sharp breath escaping your lips — as you tried to push yourself upright. Your arms trembled from the effort.

“Nonnie, stop. You’re too weak.” He reached out, his hand firm on your shoulder, urging you back down onto the makeshift bedding.

But then you glared at him — a piercing, deadly look. Not one of anger at him, not truly. He understood that. You weren’t mad at him — you were mad at everything. The pain. The fear. The helplessness. The glare was just the only weapon you had left in that moment.

He saw it in your eyes — the war inside you. Anger for allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Sorrow for what you might never get back. The cold uncertainty of what waited in the next hour.

You wanted to scream. To cry. To lash out. But the moment you moved, dizziness came crashing down like a wave. So instead, you just glared. That was all you could offer.

Without a word, Aizawa slipped an arm beneath your shoulders, lifting you with practiced care. You didn’t fight him — not this time. Just exhaled sharply, pain flashing through you as your back screamed in protest. It was getting worse. Every shift sent fresh stabs of agony down your spine. You bit your lip and tried not to let it show.

Your eyes met his — for a long, quiet moment. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were heavy with something close to guilt. You broke the gaze first, turning back toward your legs.

You felt hollow.

So hollow.

The weight of reality was beginning to settle in your bones, and you didn’t know what to do with it. Your mind was numb, the fear too vast to grasp fully. You didn’t want to cry, not anymore. You just wanted to sleep. Or rewind time. Undo it all. Just one second earlier — before the shot rang out.

But that wasn’t how it worked. As Aizawa always told you: Be rational.

So you tried.

Tried to imagine what it meant to accept this. To accept what the medics might say when they arrived.

What if they couldn’t fix this?

What if… this was it?

You breathed out slowly, pressing your lips together.

Thirty minutes.

Just thirty more minutes.

And everything might change.

Or… nothing would.

“Eraser—Nonnika! They’re here!” a voice called from the doorway — breathless and urgent. Aizawa’s head snapped toward the sound, his heart lurching in relief. Finally.

He stood instantly as the man stepped inside, and before Aizawa could ask, the voice shouted again: “She’s over here!”

From the hall came the echo of rushing footsteps and the unmistakable screech of wheels. A stretcher, flanked by three paramedics, came into view. Their faces were lined with urgency, bags slung over their shoulders, gloves already snapped on.

You didn’t react.

You sat still, hunched forward slightly, eyes cast low like shadows beneath your lashes. You didn’t flinch, didn’t speak, didn’t look at the medics. Your breath trembled in and out of your chest, shallow and uneven. But Aizawa noticed what no one else did — that when you finally did lift your eyes, they found him.

Only him.

You didn’t speak, but the way you looked at him — glossy-eyed and tight-lipped — was a quiet, aching plea. You were trying to tell him something in that gaze. Fear, maybe. Or resignation. Or just don’t leave me.

He stepped closer without hesitation.

The paramedics approached cautiously and began examining you, their movements brisk but delicate. As they pulled back the torn fabric from your lower back, their expressions shifted. Concern crept across each face in silence — an unspoken alarm.

You squinted at them, confused. “What’s wrong?” you asked faintly.

But before they could answer, Aizawa snapped.

“What are you just standing there for?” His voice was sharp, cracked with frustration.

One of the paramedics finally spoke. “There’s severe bruising along your lower back. It’s spreading. That suggests the bullet may have pierced your spinal column. We need to move you carefully — the injury’s likely caused internal trauma. We’re running out of time, but speed could make it worse.”

The words struck like thunder.

You didn’t speak. Aizawa’s jaw tightened. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear — not what anyone wanted to hear — but it was reality, grim and cold.

The medics worked with quiet efficiency, carefully lifting your limp body and easing you onto the stretcher. Each movement made you wince, your fists tightening weakly by your sides. Aizawa walked alongside them as they moved, his footsteps heavy with dread.

The ride to the makeshift transport was short, but it felt endless.

Inside the cramped vehicle, they rolled you gently onto your stomach. One medic tore open your shirt with clinical ease, exposing the brutal bruising along your spine — a horrific bloom of dark purple, red, and angry blackness.

Aizawa sat near your head, close enough to hear your strained breathing. You didn’t speak. Neither did the medics. They barely looked at you. They were too focused, too detached.

So he leaned in, trying to offer something — comfort, maybe. Connection.

“We’re almost there,” he murmured, placing a hand on your upper arm, where your chin now rested. “You’re going to be okay.”

You turned your head just enough to glance at him — not with words, just weary eyes — and then let your cheek fall gently against his hand. It startled him. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d touched you outside of battle, if ever. But there was something grounding about it. Something human.

He rubbed his thumb slowly across your arm, hesitating. You were resting your face against his knuckles — rough, scarred from years of combat. He debated turning his palm up to make it more comfortable, but you looked content. Almost at peace, in a tragic, exhausted way.

Your breathing started to even out. His own tension, too, began to release — just a little.

Then you whimpered.

It was small, but it tore into him. A sharp, soft cry. You buried your face in the crook of your elbow, hiding from them all, your shoulders quivering as more whimpers escaped, one after another.

“What are you doing?” Aizawa growled, his patience shredded by helplessness as he looked toward the paramedics.

One of them replied without looking up. “We’re trying to extract the bullet — but we don’t have anesthetics or pain suppressants. If we wait, the bruising could reach the bone. We don’t have the luxury of stopping.”

Aizawa’s stomach turned. All this… from one bullet.

He looked down at you again — your face hidden beneath a curtain of messy hair, arms shielding your expression. But he knew. He knew. You wanted to cry, wanted to scream, but your body was shutting down, surrendering.

He brushed a hand gently over your head, fingers threading slowly through strands of your tangled hair.

“Almost there,” he whispered, voice raw. “You’re gonna be okay.”

But even he wasn’t sure anymore.

You didn’t respond. Didn’t lift your head.

Instead, your breathing slowed again, and your body slackened. Your hands slipped from where they’d been clutching your sleeves. Your hair fell across your face like a veil.

And without even realizing it, you passed out — the weight of pain, exhaustion, and fear finally dragging you under.

Aizawa stared at you for a long moment, watching the rise and fall of your back, the spreading bruise, the stillness of your legs.

He sat there, hand still on your arm, and whispered again — more to himself this time than to you:

“Just hold on, Nonnie.”

...

The doctor’s words still echoed in your head, even though you had heard them hours ago.

You were awake when he told you. Awake, but not truly present — as if your body had returned to you, but your spirit hadn’t caught up yet.

They had removed the bullet while you were unconscious. The surgery was successful… in the most technical sense. But success didn’t mean salvation.

You could feel the muscles in both thighs now — a strange comfort. Your right leg responded normally. You could feel the bed beneath it, the tension in your quads when you flexed. But the left… beneath the thigh, there was nothing. No warmth. No weight. No signal from your brain to your toes. Just a silent void where sensation used to live.

“The bruising is deep. It’ll take time to fade,” the doctor had said, his voice gentle, clinical. “But the nerve damage to your spine is permanent. You’ll never fully regain function in your left leg. A prosthetic isn’t viable due to the position of the injury. You’ll need crutches for now. Rehab, too. Light activity. I advise you to avoid combat for the foreseeable future… possibly forever.”

Forever.

You sat there in silence, fists clenching the thin fabric of your hospital gown, trying not to shake. Your heart didn’t beat with panic anymore. You didn’t have the energy for fear, or anger, or grief. Just a hollow space in your chest where those things used to live.

Your identity was tied to your body — every muscle sharpened through years of training, every skill fine-tuned to perfection. You weren’t just a fighter. You were the fighter. A combat specialist. Precision. Speed. Grace. Fluid violence, honed like art.

And now… what were you?

The door creaked open.

“Nonnie…” came a voice. Gentle. Worried.

Aizawa.

He stood there in the doorway, eyes weary, shoulders stiff with exhaustion and something heavier — something close to guilt. His usual blank composure was gone, replaced by open concern that clung to his features like sweat. He looked tired in a way that wasn’t physical.

He’d been at the hospital for hours, refusing treatment for his own wounds until Recovery Girl all but forced him to sit down. Hizashi had noticed it too — the uncharacteristic way Aizawa hovered, pacing, waiting. He hadn’t been this tense in years. And even if Aizawa refused to say it aloud, everyone could see it.

You were different to him.

“Hi,” you croaked, voice raw, cracking like dry paper. You were perched on the edge of the bed, one leg swinging stiffly over the side while you’d had to lift the other with both hands. You hadn’t even tried to walk yet — not really. The first attempt ended in a short scream, a burst of pain, and a cruel reminder.

Aizawa stepped forward quickly, gently urging you back onto the bed. “Sit. Please.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine.”

He knelt in front of you, leveling his gaze with yours. “Stop lying,” he said softly. “The doctor already told me. I know about your leg.”

You flinched — barely — but your eyes didn’t meet his. They remained fixed on the floor, on your hands, on anywhere that wasn’t your legs.

“I don’t know how to feel,” you admitted in a whisper. “I don’t think I’ll ever work again. I can’t fight the way I used to… maybe not at all.”

Your voice broke around the words like they hurt to form.

“I spent years building myself into this weapon. This person. Every kid here knows me as their teacher because of that. Because I could protect them. I could fight beside them. I can’t even run anymore. Can’t even stand on my own without pain.”

You stopped, fingers curling tightly in your lap.

“I lost everything.”

Aizawa didn’t interrupt. Not right away. He watched you — watched the way your mouth trembled, the shine in your eyes as you fought tears you refused to let fall. You tried so hard to keep your face still, but he could see the cracks. Your motionless stare. Your silence.

You weren’t angry.

You were unraveling.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady.

“You’re right.”

You blinked, slowly lifting your eyes to his face, startled. You hadn’t expected that.

He nodded, gently.

“You’re right. It won’t be the same. You may not fight like before. And no one can promise it’ll ever feel fair. But that doesn’t mean you’ve lost who you are.”

He leaned forward, resting a hand on your knee. His touch was warm. Grounding.

“You’re still you. And you still have a place here. Your worth isn’t bound to your legs or your combat. You’re not disposable. No one’s going to forget you. Not me. Not the students. Not this school.”

His tone softened even more.

“You’re still needed.”

There was something in the way he said we — a deliberate emphasis that lingered in the air. It hit you harder than you expected.

You tried to look away, but couldn’t.

“Who needs me now?” you whispered. “I’m defeated.”

He shook his head. “No. You’re wounded. But you’re not broken. You think those kids only looked up to you because of your fighting? They admired you because you were fearless. Because you stood with them. You believed in them.”

He looked at you then — really looked at you — eyes holding steady even as yours glistened.

“They still need you. I still need you.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Just a shaky breath. The tears threatened again — no longer from despair, but something quieter. Something closer to being seen.

You didn’t know what to feel. Anger? Relief? Pain? Maybe all of it at once.

Maybe that was okay.

You glanced down at his hand on your knee. Still there. Still steady.

“Wrong knee,” you mumbled, a slight smile playing at your lips when he quickly switched his hand to your right knee.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

You didn’t know what to say.

What to think. What to feel.

Your thoughts churned with conflict, raw and tangled. Were you supposed to be angry at him for softening the truth? For offering you hope when all you could see was loss? Or should you cling to his words, even if they pressed against wounds that hadn’t even begun to close.

“I... I don’t know, Aizawa,” you whispered, barely audible. Your voice cracked, shaky and defeated.

You folded forward, burying your face into your hands like a child trying to disappear. To hide.

You didn’t want to be seen like this — not by him, not by anyone. Not now. Maybe not ever.

You felt weak. Helpless.

No matter what comforting words he said, how gently he looked at you, you knew the truth: you weren’t the person you had been. Not anymore. You needed both legs to be who you were — to move the way you did, to fight the way you’d trained your whole life to fight. Without that, how could you protect anyone? How could you be of any use?

A broken protector was no protector at all.

You were a liability now. A walking vulnerability — or worse, a standing reminder of what you used to be. And as much as Aizawa tried to make this feel smaller than it was, like he so often did to steady his students, it couldn’t work here. Not for you.

But what you couldn’t see — blinded by the weight of your grief — was that he meant every word.

He wasn’t trying to downplay your pain.

He was trying to hold it with you.

He knew how strong you truly were — not because of how fast you could move or how precisely you could strike, but because of the fire inside you. The one still flickering, however faint. Your life wasn’t over. Not to him. And he refused to let you believe otherwise.

“Things are going to be okay,” he said gently, his voice low but certain. “You’re not alone. And no one — no one — is going to abandon you just because things are different now. Okay?”

You didn’t respond.

So, he leaned forward.

His fingers reached under your chin, cool and calloused, coaxing your face up. And when you finally let him lift your gaze, he wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb — so softly it almost didn’t register at first. A moment of quiet, sincere tenderness.

You swallowed hard, your breath hitching in your throat.

“…Okay,” you mumbled, the word barely formed. Fragile. Cracked. But it was something.

Maybe his presence was what you needed, even if you didn’t know how to ask for it.

You couldn’t bring yourself to believe him — not fully — but you felt his words settle into the space between the ache and the silence, and for now, that was enough.

You held his gaze in a long, wordless pause.

You were too tired to speak. Too drained to move. So you simply stared at him, eyes glassy and red-rimmed, hoping — begging — that he could somehow read your mind, understand the whirlwind of emotion that words couldn’t reach.

And he did.

He didn’t say anything.

But he felt it all.

What he didn’t want to admit — not out loud, not even to himself — was how terrified he’d been. Still was. The mere idea that you could’ve died out there... it shook him in a way that battles and bloodshed never had. He’d seen death. Faced it. Lost comrades. Buried friends.

But the thought of losing you? Of walking into that room and finding you gone?

That fear haunted him.

You didn’t know it, but he’d replayed the moment they found you over and over in his head. Your body slumped in a pool of blood. Your eyes closed. Barely breathing.

He could barely breathe now just thinking about it.

He couldn’t bear the idea of a world without you in it.

He wouldn’t survive that.

He wouldn’t forgive himself for that.

So he sat beside you now — and he wasn’t going anywhere. Not this time. Not again. If you tried to push him away, he’d hold on tighter. Because you needed someone to fight for you now.

And he would.

Because as much as you needed him… he needed you, too.

More than you would ever realize.

You wrapped your cold hand around his neck, sending shivers down his spine at the contact, but he relaxed when you pulled him close and let your head lean forward — resting your forehead against his shoulder.

No words.

Just this moment. It was all you needed right now — him as well.

Your eyes lifted slowly, heavy with exhaustion and fragile resolve. For a moment, you just stared at him — into him — as though trying to draw strength from the stillness in his gaze. His expression didn’t waver, quiet and patient, waiting for whatever you needed to say.

Then, barely above a whisper, your lips parted:

“...Take me home?”

The question lingered between you, raw and soft, not quite a plea, not quite a command — but a quiet surrender.

Aizawa nodded without a word.

The students had left hours ago. You hadn’t seen them — you'd still been unconscious. But they had school, after all, and as much as they wanted to stay, the staff insisted they return to their dorms to rest. Still, you'd sensed their presence earlier, through the warmth in the room, the faint scent of fresh flowers someone had left at your bedside, and the gentle clutter of folded notes left on the nightstand.

Now, the hospital hallways had fallen still. It was just you and Aizawa.

Discharge had come faster than you anticipated. Too fast, maybe. But you didn’t argue. You couldn’t lie in that sterile bed for another second, surrounded by wires and white walls that felt like a prison.

Aizawa drove you in silence.

The car hummed quietly as it moved down the mostly empty streets of Musutafu. The late hour cast the city in soft shadows, headlights cutting through the dark like thin blades of light. You sat in the passenger seat, posture stiff, eyes unfocused as you stared out the window.

Streetlamps flickered past like ghostly sentinels.

Your hospital clothes had been exchanged for a pair of soft sweatpants and an oversized U.A. hoodie that hung off your shoulders, clearly provided by someone from the dorms. Probably Hizashi. Your hair was messy, your body aching with every bump in the road. But you said nothing. Just watched the world pass you by — familiar but now distant, changed.

Aizawa glanced at you now and then from the corner of his eye, careful not to intrude. He could feel you retreating inward, and he gave you that space. If you needed to speak, he’d be ready. But for now, he simply let you be.

When you finally pulled into the U.A. campus, the silence remained unbroken.

He parked outside the dormitory wing — the one where the teachers had their own rooms, a floor above the students. Before he could even reach for the door handle, you were already moving.

He opened his door quickly, circling to your side just as you swung yours open. But the moment your feet touched the ground, you winced — a harsh, guttural sound slipping from your lips as you clutched the edge of the car for balance. One leg bore the weight. The other, limp and sluggish, dragged with each painful step forward.

“Nonnie—wait—” Aizawa rushed to the backseat and pulled out your crutches, their metal clinking faintly in the still night air.

But you were already trying to hobble forward, gritting your teeth, determined — or maybe just stubborn.

He caught up to you quickly and blocked your path gently, offering the crutches out to you without a word. You stared at them, then at him, a frustrated breath escaping your lungs as you snatched them from his hands.

“…Thanks,” you muttered, but it didn’t sound like gratitude. More like defeat.

He didn’t comment on it.

The entrance to the dormitory was quiet — warm lights glowing through the tall windows, illuminating the tiled floors and wood-paneled walls inside. The students were all asleep by now. The common room, usually loud with chatter and scattered homework and laughter, was still. Empty mugs from earlier hot chocolate gatherings rested on a tray near the sink. A blanket was draped across the couch. The usual life of the dorms had settled into calm.

The elevator was out of order.

A flickering red light on the panel blinked in stubborn refusal, casting a dull glow on the metallic doors. Aizawa pressed the button once more, as if hoping it was just a delay — but it stayed frozen. The gentle hum of the building, the quiet tick of nighttime silence, and your soft breathing were the only sounds between you.

You stared down at the tiled floor for a long moment, your expression unreadable. Your knuckles tightened around the crutch handles. The idea of climbing stairs — like this — made you feel humiliated. Powerless. Like a shell of who you used to be.

Aizawa turned his head toward you. “Come on,” he said quietly. “I’ll carry you.”

Your eyes snapped up.

“What? No—No, I can do it,” you insisted quickly, the edge in your voice sharp but brittle.

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t need to.

Instead, he simply stepped forward and took the crutches from beneath your arms, setting them gently aside by the kitchen counter. You caught yourself on the countertop, wincing as your weight shifted awkwardly to your good leg. He stood still beside you, waiting — not pushing, but not backing down either. His silence spoke louder than anything else. He wasn’t asking for permission. He was waiting for you to stop pretending you didn’t need help.

You gave no reply — but you didn’t stop him.

And that was enough.

With the softest motion, he bent down and slipped his arms beneath you — one behind your knees, the other around your back. You tensed immediately, your breath hitching through clenched teeth as pain flared beneath your skin like lightning. He moved slowly, steadily, his grip firm but gentle.

“Switch,” he murmured, adjusting your weight as he lowered you onto one of the stools at the counter.

Before you could question it, his hands slid beneath both your thighs, lifting you again — this time deliberately avoiding your back altogether. You remained upright, rigid in posture, your arms lightly around his neck for balance. Your eyes, however, were fixed on his face.

He didn’t meet your gaze. His focus was ahead — locked on the staircase. His jaw was set, brows slightly furrowed in concentration. You didn’t want to distract him, but there was something oddly comforting in his silence. His presence grounded you in a way nothing else had since you woke up in that hospital bed.

You rested your head gently against his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt soft beneath your cheek. Your nose brushed the side of his neck, the heat of his skin radiating against your face. You could feel the rhythmic thrum of his pulse just below his jaw, steady and strong, and it anchored you. You didn’t realize how tightly you had been holding onto him until your hands slowly found their way to his hair — fingers brushing gently against the strands near the nape of his neck.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift. Just kept walking.

The climb was slow but careful. Each step up the stairs was a minor strain, but he never once faltered. His breathing remained calm and even. You wanted to say something, anything — to fill the air with words so it wouldn’t feel so intimate. But instead, you let the silence hold you together, tucked beneath the quiet hum of the dormitory’s nighttime stillness.

By the time you reached the top of the staircase and neared his dorm room, you lifted your head slightly. Your expression was soft but puzzled, your eyes searching his.

“Really?” you whispered.

He finally glanced at you, his eyes unreadable but steady.

He nodded once.

“Unless—”

“No!” you interrupted, the word shooting out of your mouth before you could stop it. “I... I might need you.”

The vulnerability in your voice hung in the air for a moment, as if it surprised even you.

He smiled — just barely — the curve of his lips faint and fleeting, almost swallowed by shadow. But it was there. Real. Unmistakable.

And he didn’t let you see it. Not fully. He kept his face turned away, eyes focused on the hallway ahead as he carried you the rest of the way in silence.

Still, in the dark, your heart felt something warm beginning to stir.

You reached out with trembling fingers, wrapping them around the door handle. The brass was cool against your skin as you slowly twisted the knob and eased the door open. It creaked softly, the kind of sound that always seemed louder at night. You tilted your head back slightly to glance at him — still cradled in his arms, the close press of his chest rising and falling in a measured rhythm against your own chest pressed up against him. Crazy how he hadn't once noticed.

He stepped through the threshold without hesitation, your weight still nestled against him. You twisted awkwardly to grab the door, shutting it behind you with a muted click. The world beyond it felt miles away now.

“Alright,” Aizawa said with a steady breath, his voice low and calm, “made it this far. Now what do you need?”

He gently lowered you down — not onto the cushions of the couch, but perched delicately on the thick, flat top of its frame. His hands lingered, palms braced on either side of your hips, in case you faltered or slid. His body framed yours — close, grounded, attentive. It wasn’t rushed or hesitant, but deliberate and secure. It made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with injury. Your eyes flicked up, briefly meeting his, and then darted away just as quickly. The closeness unnerved you in the strangest of ways.

You furrowed your brow and scoffed, falling back into old habits. “What are you talking about?” you muttered, your voice dipping with just the faintest curl of sarcasm as you caught the unimpressed look on his face.

He blinked once, unimpressed. “Oh, you said a bath? Alright. I’ll draw it for you.” He pivoted immediately, walking away as if you had earnestly requested it. The air rushed to fill the space he left behind.

“Hey—!” you called after him, but your words caught on a sigh. You were stuck. Helpless on the edge of the couch frame, legs aching, pride stinging. “No!”

But he was already gone around the corner, his footsteps soft against the floors.

Truthfully, he wasn’t trying to push you. He’d never do that. But he also wasn’t going to ignore what you needed just because you were too stubborn to ask for it.

The nurses hadn’t cleaned you properly — only around your wound, quick and clinical. No warm water. No steam. No peace. You still felt the grime of dried sweat, of bandage adhesive and discomfort clinging to you like a film. You wouldn’t say it aloud, but he could tell. You needed this more than you’d admit.

In the bathroom, you heard the old pipes groan faintly as the faucets turned. The sound of rushing water echoed softly down the hall — clear, steady, soothing. It filled the silence in your chest where shame and helplessness had sat for hours.

You stared at the empty space in front of you, arms wrapped around your middle. Your bare foot tapped lightly against the side of the couch, as if testing its own strength. Finally, you called out toward the bathroom.

“Not too hot, please,” you said, voice low—half reluctant, half resigned.

Silence answered you. But somehow, in that silence, you heard him acknowledge you.

He didn’t say a word.

But he was listening.

And that was enough.

The steam drifted faintly through the air, curling against the frosted mirror and warming the tiled walls. The gentle sound of running water was replaced now with the tranquil hum of stillness, the bath drawn to just the right temperature. Aizawa stepped back into the room, his hair slightly disheveled, sleeves rolled up as if he were bracing himself—for your discomfort, or maybe his own.

“It’s ready,” he said, his voice soft but steady. His dark eyes found yours, gauging your state before moving closer. “Once you’re in, I’ll run and grab your crutches so you won’t need to be carried again…” His voice faltered for just a moment, gaze drifting somewhere behind you, remembering the feeling of you resting so fully in his arms—how your thighs had sunk into the bend of his palms, how the gentle weight of your head had pressed against his neck, your breath soft and warm against his skin.

He cleared his throat, snapping back to the present. “Not that I minded,” he added quickly, voice lower now, almost under his breath.

He moved toward you again, arms curling beneath your knees and back, lifting you with the same ease as before. You didn’t resist. Your eyes lingered on his collarbone, exposed slightly where the fabric of his shirt had shifted, and he could feel the faint puff of your breath near his neck. His hands were careful—never lingering, never clutching too tight. There was a tension in the air, unspoken, stretched thin like a wire humming between you.

As he stepped into the bathroom, his steps slowed, gaze flicking toward the tub—then toward you. It hit him then: you wouldn’t be able to get undressed easily. And he was standing here, holding you, knowing it.

He stopped short of the bath, setting you gently down on the cushioned stool just beside it. You winced slightly as you adjusted your position, and he hesitated.

“…Do you—” He exhaled quietly, looking away for a second before forcing his gaze to return to yours. “Do you need help?”

His voice was soft, uncertain. Not weak, but careful. He wasn’t shy, but he was respectful—always had been. If you needed help, he’d give it. But if you didn’t, he wouldn’t press. The last thing he wanted was to make you feel exposed in a way that hurt more than your injuries.

You met his eyes, cheeks tinged with a heat that had nothing to do with the bath. “No,” you mumbled, your voice small. “I think I got it.”

Aizawa gave a small nod and turned around immediately, folding his arms loosely across his chest as he stood facing the door. He stayed close enough to hear you if you faltered, but far enough that your privacy was intact. Behind him, the quiet was filled with the rustling of fabric, the occasional pained grunt as you struggled with stubborn folds of clothing and stiff joints. He heard your breath hitch more than once, and it took everything in him not to turn around and offer his hands.

Ten minutes passed. Then your voice, tired but composed: “Okay."

“I’m gonna grab your crutches,” he said quickly. “Yell if you need me. I’ll be fast.”

With that, he exited, jogging down the hallway. The tension in his chest hadn’t fully left. He didn’t like the thought of you hurting alone, but you deserved dignity—and space.

Back in the bathroom, you finally slipped into the tub with a long, shuddering breath. Your body submerged slowly beneath the surface, the warm water wrapping around you like a balm. It was the first moment in hours—maybe days—that you felt the slightest relief. The warmth hugged your aching muscles and settled against the bruises like a whispered apology.

But your heart felt heavier than your body.

You were being watched after like a child. ‘Holler if you need help,’ he said. Like you couldn’t be trusted to manage on your own. Like you were fragile. Breakable. Needy. The thought coiled around your ribs and made your stomach twist.

Yet—he was attentive. Gentle. Present. The way he hadn’t left your side even once. The way he carried you like you weren’t a burden. You replayed the feeling of his arms beneath your legs, the firm cradle of his chest. How his scent lingered faintly in your hair even now—clean linen, a hint of warmth, something undeniably him.

The bath was just warm—not too hot, just like you asked.

Just like his body had been.

You sank further into the water, letting your hair float and fan around your shoulders. Your fingers trailed absentmindedly along the surface, but your mind wandered elsewhere. Back to the feel of his shirt against your skin. Back to the sound of his voice, quiet and full of concern. You hated feeling this vulnerable.

But somehow, the thought of him being the one to see you like this… didn’t make you feel smaller.

It made you feel safe.

You let yourself slip lower into the water, until it reached your collarbone, your chin barely grazing the surface. Your eyelids drifted shut, lashes damp and heavy. The bathwater cradled you like a second skin—warm, quiet, unjudging. It softened the soreness in your muscles, dulling the ache in your joints. A breath left your lungs, long and unsteady, as if you had been holding it since the hospital.

You didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to feel. Not the resentment toward your own body, not the helplessness that clung to you like a second wound. You wanted silence. Oblivion. Just the warmth of water and the gentle weightlessness that let you forget—just for a little while—that everything had changed.

You tilted your head back, resting it against the porcelain edge. The soft ripple of water brushing your ears muffled the outside world. The dull sting of your healing wounds pulsed faintly beneath the surface, but for once, it wasn’t overwhelming. You inhaled deeply, catching a trace of the bath salts—eucalyptus and lavender. He’d picked those. Of course he had.

Your brows pinched slightly. Despite everything, despite how much you hated needing help… his presence had made it easier. Made you feel… seen, maybe. Cared for, not just watched.

The door creaked slightly. Your eyes opened halfway as you heard the cautious shuffle of someone at the edge.

Aizawa.

He cracked the bathroom door open just enough to slide the crutches through, resting them carefully against the wall nearest the tub. You watched the movement from beneath the curtain of your damp lashes, the silhouette of his tall frame briefly outlined by the hallway light.

“Thank you, Aizawa,” you mumbled, voice nearly drowned out by the water. It was quiet, but genuine.

A soft grunt was his only reply—acknowledgment without drawing attention to your vulnerability. The door clicked shut again with care, and you were alone once more.

He didn’t return to the couch immediately. Instead, he padded back toward his room with quiet, deliberate steps. He scanned the space, mentally checking off a list of everything you might need. Water bottle—filled. Painkillers—on standby on the bedside table. Your phone was gone, so he placed his own there in case you needed to call anyone. The room was dim, lamplight glowing warm and low. He moved his remote closer within reach, tucked the extra blanket at the foot of the bed, and straightened the sheets without much thought.

It didn’t even cross his mind to share the bed. He’d already decided—he would sleep on the couch just outside, close enough to hear you if you called out in the night.

But back in the bath, you weren’t settling for that.

Minutes passed. You finally gathered the strength to rise from the water, limbs shaky but clean, your skin flushed from the heat. Wrapping yourself in one of the thick towels he’d set out earlier, you dried off as best you could before slowly reaching for the crutches. Your arms trembled, but you moved on instinct, driven not by strength but by the desire to reclaim some part of yourself.

With small, controlled movements, you made your way into his room.

He looked up when he saw you at the doorway—slightly damp hair tucked behind your ears, oversized towel snug around your chest, cheeks a little pink from the bath and effort. You looked exhausted. But you were standing, leaning against the crutches with quiet defiance.

His brows furrowed with concern, but he didn’t move just yet. “You alright?”

You didn’t answer at first. Instead, you slowly made your way into the room, eyes flicking to the couch he’d been preparing as his makeshift bed. Your lips pressed into a thin line.

“You’re not sleeping out there,” you said softly, your voice firmer than he expected.

He blinked once, unsure if he’d heard you right. “I figured you’d want space—”

“I don’t,” you interrupted. Your gaze met his now, unflinching. “You’ve done everything else. I don’t want you in another room like I’m contagious or something.”

His shoulders relaxed just slightly, but the tension in his jaw lingered. He looked at you—really looked—and saw not just exhaustion, but the remnants of loneliness shadowing your expression. You weren’t asking because you needed company.

You were asking because you needed him.

“…Okay,” he said quietly. “You take the bed. I’ll stay on top of the blankets.”

You shook your head, hobbling slightly closer, standing beside the mattress. “No. Just… lay down with me. Please.”

His lips parted, but the words caught in his throat. Your eyes were open—vulnerable, unguarded in a way they rarely were. There was no teasing in your tone, no pride or stubbornness. Just quiet honesty. Trust.

He nodded once. “Alright.”

You stood in the dim lamplight of his room, fingers tightening around the towel still wrapped around your body, the cotton damp and clinging to your skin. Your hair fell loosely around your face, slightly tangled from the bath. You looked small standing there, fragile in a way you hated—but couldn’t hide.

Aizawa’s eyes flicked over you briefly—just enough to assess. He noticed the oversized U.A. hoodie draped over the back of his chair, the one you had thrown on before leaving the bathroom, and how it had swallowed your frame at the hospital because it wasn’t yours. It would work for sleep, but…

He cleared his throat. “Your clothes are fine for now, but—” he gestured vaguely, hands stuffed in the pockets of his joggers, unsure of how to phrase what you were both thinking. “You probably want something a little more comfortable. I can grab some shorts. I’ve got a spare pair that should reach your knees.”

You nodded silently. But then there was the other issue—undergarments.

You both realized it at the same time.

Aizawa shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right.” His voice was low, strained—not out of embarrassment, but consideration. He didn’t want to make you feel exposed, or worse, infantilized.

You avoided his eyes, looking instead at the hem of the towel twisting between your fingers. Your brows pinched slightly. “It’s okay, I’ll manage,” you said, though the words sounded like a lie even to yourself.

He stepped forward just a bit, not too close. “Your dorm’s not far. I’ll go,” he offered plainly.

Your eyes lifted to his at last, wide and tired. “You’d do that?”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Yeah. Just tell me where to look.”

You gave him rough directions—bottom drawer, second to the left. You even mentioned the pair of shorts you liked best, half-sarcastically. The ones with the little rip near the waistband. He smirked lightly at your description, then turned to leave without another word.

You didn’t stop him.

Truthfully, you were too drained to argue. Every muscle in your body begged for rest. The idea of peeling off the towel and forcing yourself into makeshift clothes just to collapse felt too much. Your mind felt like it was floating, like it hadn’t fully returned from the hospital.

So you waited.

The room was quiet in his absence, lit only by the bedside lamp casting warm shadows against the walls. The soft thud of his door closing had left an echo of stillness behind. You sat carefully on the edge of the bed, exhaling a shallow breath, clutching the towel tighter around you. Your eyes fluttered shut briefly, just to shut everything out.

Five minutes later, the door creaked open.

You blinked awake again, and there he was—Aizawa, slightly disheveled, a small bundle of clothes tucked beneath one arm. He’d moved quietly, respectfully, but you still caught a flash of something on his face. Guilt, maybe. Or restraint. He handed you the clothes wordlessly, holding them out with both hands.

Tank top. Soft cotton, cropped just above the waist. The built-in support was a lucky guess. Your favorite black sleep shorts—worn, familiar. And a fresh pair of underwear, folded carefully between the fabrics.

You stared at the items for a moment, then up at him. “You did good.”

He looked relieved. “Wasn’t sure if I was invading your privacy or saving your night.”

“Little of both,” you admitted with a tired smirk, and for a moment—just a flicker—he smiled back.

“I’ll give you some space.” He turned and exited the room again, this time with slower steps, leaving the door cracked in case you needed anything.

Changing took effort.

Every movement was stiff, calculated, interrupted by winces and muttered curses. Your back ached sharply with each reach, your legs protesting as you lifted them into the soft shorts. But eventually, with slow and stubborn persistence, you managed it.

The tank top hugged your frame comfortably. The shorts sat securely on your hips, the waistband folding just slightly. It all felt right—like yourself. You didn’t feel pretty. But you felt human again. That was something.

You caught sight of yourself in the mirror as you passed the dresser. Your hair was still damp and unbrushed. There were shadows beneath your eyes. But there was a small glint of warmth returning back to your face.

Normal.

You reached for the bed, lowering yourself carefully into it, sighing as your back met the mattress. Your limbs sank into the bedding like it had been waiting for you all day. The sheets were warm. The pillow, soft. You nestled in deeper, letting the comfort wrap around you like a second bath—this one dry, but no less healing.

And when he knocked softly and stepped back inside, eyes flicking to your now-settled form, your lips curved slightly.

“Thank you,” you murmured again.

He sat down on the far side of the bed this time, on top of the covers just like he’d promised earlier. But his eyes stayed on you a moment longer, watching you settle in, safe, warm, clean.

“Get some sleep,” he said gently.

You were already halfway there.

“Don’t be a stranger to your own bed just because I’m here,” you murmured, your voice low and muffled by the pillow beneath your folded arms. The soft cotton of the pillowcase cooled your cheek while your body stretched out across the mattress, angled slightly to avoid any pressure on the tender injury along your back. Your bare legs shifted slightly beneath the thin blanket, your eyes barely open as you peered up at him through the strands of your damp hair that clung to your temple.

“I don’t want to inconvenience you anymore,” you added, your voice lined with quiet guilt, barely audible over the faint hum of the TV still flickering across the dim room.

Aizawa stood nearby, his silhouette tall and still in the soft ambient light. His dark eyes lingered on you longer than they should have—studying the curve of your back, the way your shoulder shifted with each breath, the fatigue buried in your words. His hands flexed at his sides before he finally exhaled, almost as if grounding himself.

“You’re not,” he said after a pause, his tone low, the edges worn like sanded wood. “Trust me. I’m happy to do this.”

Then, slowly, he moved.

He stepped out of his shoes with a lazy grace, then approached the bed and eased himself onto the edge beside you. He remained above the blanket, keeping a cautious distance at first—his body angled so you could see him if you turned your head, but far enough not to impose. His presence was heavy in the air, but not overbearing. Warm. Reassuring. Grounding.

You turned slightly, cheek pressing deeper into the pillow as your lashes lifted to meet his gaze. Your eyes locked.

And lingered.

It was a quiet moment, but not empty. The air between you vibrated with unspoken things—gratitude, exhaustion, a fragile tenderness neither of you acknowledged out loud.

You felt your chest tighten, unsure how to express what sat on the tip of your tongue. Instead, you gave him a small hum of acknowledgment, letting your gaze trail over the soft shape of his mouth, the dark strands of hair that fell across his cheek, the stillness in his posture that somehow made you feel… safe.

Then your lips curled into the faintest smile. Mischievous. Shy.

“Psst,” you whispered.

A brow lifted at your invitation. He leaned slightly forward, head tilting, the curiosity flickering in his gaze.

“Come here.”

Before he could ask why, or even think to question it, you pushed yourself upward with a slight wince and pressed a fleeting kiss against his cheek.

It was soft—barely there—but the effect was immediate.

He blinked, his body pausing mid-breath. The skin beneath your lips was warm. When you pulled away, you could feel your own pulse stuttering against your ribs. Your eyes flicked up toward his, searching, unsure.

But the way he looked at you then…

Like a storm had passed through him.

His expression didn’t shift much, but something in his eyes ignited—a flicker of something restrained yet electric, like a lit match held too close to dry leaves.

Without thinking, his hand lifted, fingers brushing along your jaw, then cupping your cheek with surprising gentleness. You leaned into it instinctively, your breath catching.

And then—he kissed you.

Deliberate. Careful. Devastating.

His lips found yours in a soft, unhurried motion, your mouths moving together in a slow rhythm that neither of you pushed nor rushed. His thumb grazed the side of your face as his body leaned just slightly closer, anchoring himself beside you. It wasn’t intense. Not yet. But it was intimate in the kind of way that made your stomach twist and your heart flutter.

When you finally parted, your breath trembled in your chest. A giddy smile danced at the corners of your mouth—small, genuine, impossible to hide.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice lighter now. Less burdened.

Aizawa, who had at some point leaned in closer, propped himself on one elbow beside you, hovered just inches away. His eyes—half-lidded, dark, and unreadable—studied you with a newfound focus. His lips parted as if to speak.

“For what?” he asked, voice just above a whisper.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, your fingers rose to trace the back of his neck, pulling him gently back down. And this time, you kissed him again.

But not sweetly.

Hungrily.

Your lips moved faster, more eager. Your mouth opened against his, pulling him into a deeper kiss. Your teeth grazed his lower lip, biting gently before releasing it with a quiet pop that echoed like a promise in the air between you.

You pulled back, breathing shallow.

“For that,” you said, eyes flicking over his expression, flushed and unreadable. “For this. For everything.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. But then—his lips curved into something new. Not a smirk. Not polite amusement.

A smile.

It was subtle, but real. And the look in his eyes now was undeniable—dark, intense, focused entirely on you. A kind of reverence, worn like armor. Like you were something precious he’d been keeping at a distance for far too long.

“Don’t be,” he began, but didn’t finish.

Instead, he leaned forward, settling his weight over you carefully, never pressing too hard. He shifted until his body hovered protectively above yours, then dipped down to press a lingering, tender kiss to your temple. His hand slipped down your arm, anchoring you beneath his warmth.

“You’re exhausted,” he murmured against your hair, his voice hoarse with fatigue and restraint. “We’re not continuing this.”

“Mm. Fine,” you replied, lips curling into a small pout that barely masked the relief you felt as your head sank deeper into the pillow.

He reached past you, body stretching above yours as he flipped off the bedside lamp. The room dimmed, leaving only the glow of the TV painting shadows across the walls. And then he returned to your side, wrapping his arms around you carefully.

His chest pressed to your back, legs tangling lightly with yours. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and steady against your skin.

“Can we leave the TV on?” you whispered, shy now, barely daring to ask after everything he’d already done.

He let out a faint groan—not one of frustration, but amused reluctance—and shifted to obey without question. Then, without ceremony, he returned to your side, wrapping his arms around you with surprising gentleness. One slid beneath your chest, the other curved protectively around your waist.

His face pressed into the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

“Sleep,” he murmured against your throat.

He was close enough that you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your back.

Close enough that you didn’t want to disappear into sleep alone.

#i wanna hold onto this

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