Shōta Aizawa

The room was dim, the faint glow of a lamp spilling shadows across the walls as the winter wind rattled against the windowpane. You pushed the door open quietly, already expecting the sight of Shota Aizawa buried in his blankets. His messy black hair stuck out at odd angles, his face pale with a faint flush across his cheeks. A damp cloth had slipped from his forehead, and his breathing was uneven—steady but heavy with exhaustion. For a moment, you just stood there, the silence of the room pressing around you, feeling the weight of concern settle into your chest. You walked closer, setting the tray in your hands onto the nightstand. The steam from the soup curled into the air, carrying a warmth that contrasted with the icy draft slipping under the door. Aizawa stirred, his tired red eyes half-opening, narrowing slightly as if even the effort of focusing on you drained what little energy he had left. “You should be resting,” he rasped, his voice rough with fever, though still carrying that stern tone you knew so well. “You’re one to talk,” you answered softly, tugging the blanket higher over his shoulders. He flinched but didn’t resist, letting you fuss over him in silence. His scarf was tangled at the side of the bed, and you carefully folded it, placing it within reach—because even now, sick and vulnerable, he clung to small comforts like his capture weapon. You reached for the cloth, dipping it into the cool bowl of water you’d brought, wringing it out before laying it gently across his forehead. His eyelids fluttered shut, a faint sigh leaving his lips. You stayed beside him, your hand lingering against his, grounding him in the quiet. “I’ll handle everything. You don’t need to push yourself,” you whispered. For a rare moment, his expression softened, and though he didn’t reply, you knew he heard you. In that silence, you promised yourself you’d stay until his strength returned—because even heroes needed someone to watch over them. (Youre his SO)