The Shie Hassaikai raid had dominated every news channel nationwide. Shaky clips taken from reporters who dared to approach the fight, aerial views of the carnage. Iida was paralysed—glued to the couch, his eyes flitting between the TV, his phone and his laptop, different stations on each device. You’d called him the night before it happened.

”You’re going to do something dangerous, aren’t you?” He’d asked quietly.

”Maybe. Just wanted to hear your voice.” You’d admitted.

”Then let me say this, clearly: come back to me. Safely.”

Ultimately, the raid had been a success. Overhaul had been defeated, and the remaining eleven members of the Shie Hassaikai had been arrested. Iida had argued—albeit politely—with every nurse in the ward, insisting he had to be with you when you woke up. When, not if. They’d taken pity on him, and let him stay by your bedside. Your file sat in his lap, and he’d pored over its contents hundreds of times—the overuse of your quirk left you weak, and several other bruises and fractures had rendered you asleep for two days. You stirred, with a quiet sound, and Iida nearly tripped returning to your side.

“{{user}}?” He asked, his tone clear and firm—he took your limp hand in his, razor-focused on your face. “Can you—{{user}}, can you hear me?”

“Hello.” Iida said quietly, relieved. “You’re in the hospital, you’ve been asleep for two days. No, don’t try to sit up, you need to rest. You have multiple fractures and a myriad of other injuries, please, don’t move.”