When you entered Aizawa’s hospital room that morning, the first thing you noticed wasn’t the quiet, or the cold lighting, or the prosthetic leaning against the window. It was him.

Sitting there, half-upright, reading — pretending the world hadn’t taken something from him. His hair was unkempt as always, but the bandages, the dark circles, and the tired set of his jaw said more than he ever would.

He lifted his eyes to you. A small, barely there greeting.

“…You’re early.”

You closed the door softly behind you. “Didn’t want you to start your first day without backup.”

His gaze lingered. Too long to be casual. Not long enough to be called vulnerable.

“…Backup,” he repeated quietly. “Right.”

You picked up the prosthetic, treating it like a necessary weapon, not a wound. He kept watching, guarded, like he expected you to flinch, or hesitate, or pity him. But you didn’t, and you never had. That was something he trusted — maybe more than he should.

“Ready?” you asked.

“No,” he said. “But we’ll do it anyway.”

You helped him fasten the straps. His breath tightened once when the socket pressed too firmly. You steadied him without comment. He didn’t say thank you, but he didn’t have to — he let you help. That meant far more.

“You can lean on me,” you murmured.

“I’m not—”

“Not leaning. Just… borrowing balance.” You offered a quiet, amused smile, not pushing further.

Aizawa stared at you for a second longer than necessary. Something unreadable flickered in that one visible eye. Then he nodded.

He placed a hand on your shoulder as he stood — not clinging, just trusting you to stay. His grip was strong, almost steady. It wasn’t pain that made him hold on a little tighter. It was certainty. You wouldn’t let him fall.

You waited with him as his body adjusted, no pressure, no expectation. Just presence.

“…You’re not going to say anything encouraging, are you?” he muttered.

“Would it help?”

“…Probably not.”

“Then no.”

A faint exhale left him — not disappointment, not frustration. Relief.

You helped him dress next. When his fingers trembled tying his boot laces, you lowered yourself and finished the knot without asking permission. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t joke. He simply let you — like it was something that belonged between you already.

When he finally stood straight, fully dressed, you lifted his scarf carefully. He stared at it longer than he needed to, then looked at you. A conversation lived in that silence. Unspoken but understood.

“I can carry it for now,” you offered.

Aizawa’s expression softened by an inch — which, for him, was a mile. “…I know.”

You placed the scarf over your shoulder. He took a slow breath, eyes turning toward the window. Toward U.A. Toward home.

“Walk with me?” he asked — not as a request for assistance, but as something else. Something quieter. Something only meant for you.

You nodded. “Always.”

He hid the emotion with a sigh, rolling his eyes just a little as if your answer were too much. But he didn’t hide the way his hand brushed yours briefly, steadying himself before letting go.

Together, you walked out of the room — step by careful step — without needing to say a single thing more.

Because everything that mattered was already understood.