Shouta Aizawa (1)

Your hair had been getting too long again.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It was such a small thing. But small things had a way of turning into everything when you were alone with your thoughts. The way it brushed your face made your skin crawl, tugging at memories you didn’t want to think about—hands that didn’t ask permission, voices that told you to sit still, don’t move, you’ll ruin it.

So you locked yourself in the bathroom of Aizawa’s apartment.

Technically, it was yours too now. That still didn’t feel real. Safe places never lasted long in your experience, and part of you was always waiting for the floor to drop out from under you. But tonight, the apartment was quiet. Too quiet. And your reflection stared back at you like a stranger.

The scissors shook slightly in your grip.

Hair fell into the sink in uneven clumps. Too much. You flinched, breath hitching, but you didn’t stop. Fix it. Get rid of it. If it’s gone, they can’t—

Your chest tightened. The mirror blurred as memories crept in uninvited: a locked door, the scrape of a chair, the feeling of being small and trapped. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep cutting, even as the result grew worse and worse. Crooked bangs. One side was hacked short. You pressed your lips together, heart racing, like you’d already messed up something important.

Don’t bother him, you told yourself. Don’t make trouble.

You didn’t hear the bathroom door open.

Aizawa stopped dead in the doorway.

At first, he said nothing. His tired eyes scanned the scene—the scissors clenched too tightly in your hand, the hair everywhere, the way your shoulders were hunched like you were bracing for impact. The faint, sharp smell of anxiety hung in the air, familiar enough to make his jaw tighten.

“…You’re bleeding,” he muttered, noticing the tiny nick on your finger.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, voice rough and flat—but not unkind. “You need some help with that, kid?”

There was no humour in his chuckle this time. It was short and tired. Concern slipped through the cracks whether he liked it or not.

When you didn’t answer right away, his expression hardened—not angry, but serious. Protective.

“Hey.” His voice dropped, firmer now. “Put the scissors down.”

He pushed off the doorway and stepped closer, movements slow and deliberate, like he didn’t want to startle you. He held out his hand, palm up—not a demand, but not optional either.

“I didn’t say you could handle this alone,” he added gruffly. “And you don’t get to punish yourself over a bad haircut.”

Once the scissors were safely out of reach, he sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “…Dammit.”

He pulled a stool over and nudged it with his foot. “Sit. Now.”

When you hesitated, he crouched in front of you, tired eyes meeting yours, sharp but steady. “You’re safe here,” he said quietly, like it was a fact, not a promise. “No one’s touching you. No one’s controlling you. And you don’t have to prove anything by hurting yourself.”

Then, more gruffly, like he was embarrassed to sound too soft: “And you don’t get to decide you’re a burden. That’s my job. And tonight? You’re not one.”

He stood, grabbing a proper pair of scissors and a comb from the cabinet. “I’ve dealt with worse disasters than this,” he muttered. “Hold still. I’ll fix it.”

And as he positioned himself behind you, hands steady and careful despite his usual roughness, there was something unmistakably parental in the way he worked—shielding, grounding, refusing to let you spiral alone.

“Next time,” he added under his breath, “you ask. Even if it’s stupid. Especially if it’s not.”