Shota Aizawa

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The adrenaline from the final high note was still buzzing under your skin as you retreated into the quiet sanctuary of your dressing room. Outside, the muffled roar of the crowd sounded like a distant ocean, still chanting your name after that bombshell of an announcement: The tour was finally heading to Musutafu. You were still draped in your shimmering finale outfit, the sequins catching the vanity lights, when you grabbed your phone. You’d sent Shota a "heads up" text an hour before the show started, knowing he’d be out on patrol and unable to watch the stream. You didn't want him finding out from a news alert or a stray student shouting about it in the halls of UA. The phone buzzed in your hand almost instantly. A FaceTime call. When the connection cleared, the contrast was jarring. While you were surrounded by roses and glitter, Shota was framed by the cold, gritty shadows of a Musutafu rooftop. His capture scarf was bunched around his neck, his hair a mess from the wind, and those signature dark circles under his eyes seemed even more prominent in the moonlight. "Musutafu, huh?" Shota’s voice was a low, gravelly rasp that immediately grounded you. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, but the sharp edge of his "Eraserhead" persona was nowhere to be found. "I just got off a pursuit and my phone was glowing like a signal fire. The news is already everywhere." He leaned back against a concrete ledge, looking at you through the screen with that quiet, intense gaze that always made the 'pop star' persona melt away. "You're going to turn my city upside down," he said, a ghost of a tired, fond smirk tugging at his lips. "I suppose I should start preparing the faculty for the inevitable spike in students 'falling ill' on your concert dates.

The stadium lights were still pulsing behind your eyelids as you slumped into the plush velvet chair of your dressing room. Your heart was still racing—partly from the high-energy choreography of the finale, but mostly from the secret you’d just let go of. The "North Star" tour was officially hitting Musutafu, and the roar of the crowd when you announced it had been deafening. You reached for your phone, checking the message you’d sent Shota an hour before the lights went up. You’d wanted him to be the first to know, even if duty meant he couldn't watch the moment happen in real-time. The phone vibrated in your hand. Not a text, but a call. When you picked up, the background noise wasn't the cheering of fans, but the low hum of city traffic and the whistling of wind. Shota’s face appeared on the screen, illuminated by the harsh, blueish light of his phone. He was perched on a rooftop, his yellow goggles pushed up onto his forehead and his capture scarf tangled around his neck. "I just stepped off a ledge and my phone started vibrating like it was trying to stage a coup," Shota said, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes a sharp contrast to your stage glitter, but his expression was soft. "I took a look at the headlines. Musutafu, [User]? Really?" He adjusted his position, leaning back against a brick chimney. A small, almost imperceptible smirk played on his lips—the one he only ever showed you. "The UA dorms are probably in a state of total collapse right now. Midoriya is likely hyperventilating, and I’m fairly certain I can hear the screams from the shopping district from all the way up here." He sighed, but there was a flicker of genuine warmth in his tired eyes. "I’m glad you’re coming home.

The Tokyo Dome was a sea of shimmering light-sticks, a pulsing galaxy of fifty thousand people all breathing in time with you. You stood at the edge of the catwalk, the "Sweetheart of the Industry," drenched in sweat and glitter, your chest heaving after a three-hour marathon of high-octane choreography and powerhouse vocals.

​"I have one last surprise before I say goodnight," you panted into the mic, a mischievous, radiant grin lighting up the jumbotrons. "I’m not ready for this dream to end... so I’m adding a final stop. Musutafu, I'm coming home!"

​The roar that followed was physical, a wall of sound that shook the very foundation of the stadium.

​The Aizawa Residency: 11:30 PM

​The apartment was silent, smelling faintly of old books and the expensive laundry detergent you’d insisted on buying. Shota Aizawa was slumped in his worn leather armchair, his legs stretched out and his capture scarf draped over the back of the seat. A laptop was perched on his thighs, the screen glowing with the high-definition feed of your closing number.

​He had been watching with the intensity of a man analyzing a villain’s quirk, his eyes tracking every leap and every breath. When you dropped the announcement, he let out a low, rough huff of a laugh, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he felt a familiar headache—and a much more familiar warmth—blossom in his chest.

​"You're going to turn the city upside down," he muttered to the empty room, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. He could already hear the sirens, the fan-girls screaming outside the UA gates, and Bakugo’s inevitable "Who cares about a pop star?!" rant.

​He reached for his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen before he sent a message that was quintessentially him.

​Incoming Text: Shota ❤️

​Shota: "I hope you’re prepared to pay for my caffeine addiction next month. The paperwork for a stadium-sized event in a high-density hero zone is going to be a rational nightmare."

​Shota: "You were incredible tonight. Your stamina is better than half the students in Class 1-A. Don't let the adrenaline trick you—you're exhausted. Hydrate and get in the car."

​Shota: "And for the record... that final wink was a bit much. My heart can only take so much 'fan service' from my own girlfriend. See you soon, star."

​As you collapse into the plush leather seat of your getaway SUV, the tinted windows shielding you from the flashbulbs of the paparazzi, your phone buzzes. The "Star" persona melts away the second you see his name, leaving you with a tired, happy heart.

The stadium was still buzzing long after the final note faded, lights glittering like stars above a sea of cheering fans. Sweat clung to your skin, your chest still tight from the last high note as the crowd screamed your name. You smiled, breathless, lifting the mic one last time.

“And before I go,” you said softly, eyes shining, “I’ve got one more thing.”

The screens behind you flickered, the tour dates rolling in bold letters—cities, countries, continents—until one name appeared that made the crowd erupt louder than ever.

MUSUTAFU.

The roar was deafening.

Back in Musutafu, tucked in the shadows of a rooftop, Aizawa Shota paused mid-patrol. His phone buzzed in his pocket—one message, short and deliberate, sent hours earlier before your concert began.

I’m announcing something tonight. You should hear it from me first. I’m coming home.

He’d read it once. Twice. Then sighed, tugging his capture weapon a little tighter around his shoulders.

He couldn’t watch the concert. Couldn’t sneak a livestream. Duty came first, even when it hurt. Still, when his comm crackled with the distant echo of cheering carried across the city, he already knew.

You’d done it.

You were coming back to Musutafu.

Aizawa leaned against the ledge, eyes closing for a brief moment as the noise of the city wrapped around him. A tiny, almost invisible smile tugged at his lips.

“Idiot,” he murmured fondly to the night sky.

The crowd might think the announcement was for them.

But he knew better.

The stadium was still roaring when the final notes faded, thousands of glow sticks painting the night sky in waves of color. Sweat clung to her skin, chest rising as she laughed breathlessly into the mic—bright, warm, unmistakably her. The sweetheart of pop, the star who could command a crowd with a single note.

“And before I go...” she said, eyes glittering as the cheers softened into anticipation. “I have one more thing.”

The screen behind her lit up.

MUSUTAFU — FINAL TOUR STOP

The crowd exploded.

Back in Musutafu, Shota Aizawa was halfway through patrol, scarf fluttering in the cool evening air as he landed silently on a rooftop. His phone buzzed in his pocket—earlier that day, between reports and briefings, she’d told him. Told him she was announcing something big. Told him she’d be coming home.

He hadn’t been able to attend the concert. Couldn’t even sneak a glance at the livestream. Duty didn’t bend, no matter how badly he wanted to hear her voice fill the city.

But he knew.

As cheers echoed faintly through open windows miles away, Aizawa paused, gaze lifting toward the distant glow of the city center. A small, rare smile tugged at his lips beneath the capture weapon.

Musutafu, he thought. You’re really coming back.

And for the first time that night, patrol felt a little lighter.

The glitter on your cheekbones is starting to itch, and your lungs are still searching for their rhythm after a three-hour set of high-intensity choreography. Behind the heavy velvet curtains of the Tokyo stage, the muffled chant of your name—one more song!—sounds like a distant ocean. You’ve just dropped the bombshell of the year: you’re bringing the tour to Musutafu. The city of heroes. The city where he is. As your assistant scurries over to drape a silk robe over your shoulders, they hand you your phone. It’s glowing with a single message from the man who is currently the only person in Japan not screaming your name.

Aizawa: Patrol just got extended. There’s a villain spike near the industrial district, so I’m going dark. I won’t be able to catch the stream or the announcement. Stay hydrated. I'll see you in Musutafu—try not to cause a riot when you land.

It’s so quintessentially Shota. No "I love you," no "You were amazing," just logistical updates and a dry warning about public order. But you know his shorthand; you know the "stay hydrated" is his version of a standing ovation. Still, a small part of you aches. You just performed the best set of your life, hit a high C that would make a siren jealous, and the one person who knows the real you was busy staring at a dark alleyway instead of a screen. You look at yourself in the vanity mirror. To the world, you’re an untouchable idol. To Aizawa, you’re the guy who steals the blankets and always wants to cuddle.