MHA Shota Aizawa

The night was chaos — true chaos — smoke curling upward from shattered pavement, emergency lights flickering over cracked buildings, the scent of burning concrete hanging heavy in the air. Aizawa moved through it like a blade, every step controlled, scarf snapping through the firelit haze as he disarmed one of the League’s stragglers with practiced precision.

The heat was unnatural tonight.

Because Dabi was here.

Blue flames rippled across the street like a living thing, reflecting off bent metal and pooling glass. Other pros split off to flank him, their voices sharp over the comms, but your eyes stayed locked on the man you moved with — the man who never asked you to keep up, because he trusted you could.

“Stay close,” Aizawa said, eyes glowing faintly red as his quirk activated. “He’s fast.”

Your chest tightened, not with fear, but with focus. “I know. I’m right here.”

You’d fought beside him long enough to understand his rhythm — the subtle tilt of his head before he dodged, the shift of his shoulder before he attacked. But Dabi wasn’t predictable. His flames billowed outward without pattern, heat prickling your skin even from yards away.

A roar of blue fire shot forward, and Aizawa’s hair lifted on static as he erased the quirk mid-arc. The flames sputtered and died instantly. For a split second, it worked — and then the world behind you cracked open.

The Nomu came from the blind spot.

Not one of the hulking monsters from Hosu — something sleeker, faster. It moved like a shadow with claws. Its quirk shimmered over its arms, distorting the air. Aizawa saw it too late — his quirk pointed at Dabi, not the thing sprinting behind him.

You didn’t think.

You shoved him aside and took the hit.

The impact ripped through you like fire and electricity combined, throwing you onto fractured asphalt. Pain detonated across your ribs, stealing your breath. Aizawa’s shout cut through everything — your name, raw and sharp and terrified — moments before the Nomu was obliterated by Gran Torino’s strike.

Aizawa was at your side instantly, dropping to his knees so fast he nearly slid on the rubble.

“Hey—hey,” he breathed, voice steady but cracking at the edges. His hands pressed to your side, blood staining his gloves immediately. “Look at me. Stay awake.”

His scarf came off in a blur, wrapping around your wound with practiced speed but trembling fingers. The façade of his calm — the wall he always kept — was shattered.

“I told you to stay close,” *he muttered, breath unsteady. *“Not—” His jaw tightened. “Not to throw yourself in front of me.”

You winced, trying to breathe. “Didn’t… plan on it. Just moved.”

His eyes flicked up — and the emotion there was enough to anchor you even through the pain.

Sirens wailed, pro heroes shouting over comms as the last threats were neutralized. Aizawa ignored everything else. His hand slid from your ribs to your jaw, steadying your head gently.

“You’re fine,” he said, but his voice wavered. “You’re going to be fine. I’m right here.”

Your fingers curled around his wrist, weak but certain. “Shota…”

“Don’t talk,” he whispered, inches from your face. “Just stay with me. I’ve got you.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out as a tiny breath. “You… always say that.”

“And I always mean it.”

Your vision blurred, fading in and out. He leaned closer, forehead almost touching yours, voice dropping into something soft and scared. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered — words you’d never heard from him before.

And then the world went dark.

⸻

You woke to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the familiar hum of machines. The infirmary at U.A. was quiet, dim, safe. Your body felt heavy, but the pain was dulled — treated, wrapped, healing.

You shifted — and saw him.

Aizawa sat in a chair pulled right beside your bed, elbows on his knees, scarf freshly washed and folded at his feet. His hair was down, messy, dark circles even deeper than usual. He looked like he’d been sitting there for hours… because he had.

When you stirred, his head snapped up instantly, eyes locking onto yours like he’d been waiting for that exact second.

“You’re awake,” he said quietly — relief breaking through his monotone.

“How long…?”

“Two days.” He exhaled slowly. “Recovery Girl said you just needed time.”

You reached toward him. He took your hand immediately, no hesitation at all, thumb brushing over your knuckles with a gentleness that only existed behind closed doors.

“You didn’t leave?” you whispered.

His eyes softened — exhausted, raw. “Didn’t want to.” He leaned back slightly but didn’t let go of your hand. “Didn’t feel right being anywhere else.”

You smiled faintly. “You worry too much.”

“And you don’t worry enough,” he shot back, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “You gave me a heart attack.”

You squeezed his hand weakly. “Sorry.”

He huffed, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “You’re the only person who apologizes for saving my life.”

Silence settled — warm, fragile, grounding. His thumb kept tracing your skin, slow and steady, as if to reassure himself you were really there.

Then he leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against your hand.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispered. “Please.”

Not an order. Not a scolding. A plea.

Your heart ached softly. “No promises.”

He let out a tired breath — almost a laugh — and stayed there, holding your hand like it was the last stable thing in his world.

And in the dim quiet of the infirmary, with his fingers entwined with yours, you realized:

He wasn’t just relieved you survived. He was terrified of a world where you hadn’t.

And he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.