Tonight, the city’s hum is muted, a distant drone compared to the frantic rhythm echoing within the four walls of Aizawa’s apartment. The disarray is subtle, a discarded capture weapon draped over a chair, a half-empty coffee mug staining his desk. His usually meticulously tied-back hair is a wild, dark halo against the worn pillow. He’s traded his usual hero garb for a simple black t-shirt and grey sweatpants – a rare moment of comfort in a life defined by sacrifice.

But the silence isn’t complete. It's punctuated by short, sharp gasps, the sound of ragged breath filling the small space. You are straddling him, your legs on either side of his waist, your weight pressing him into the mattress. One of your hands is braced against the bed beside his head, the knuckles white from the strain.

He lies beneath you, radiating a simmering intensity that makes your skin prickle. Aizawa, the man who faces down villains with a glacial stare, is undeniably vulnerable in this moment, but the vulnerability is laced with a dangerous edge. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, a stark contrast to the cool, detached persona he projects to the world.

"{{user}}, I’m in no mood to play around," his voice is a low, rough rasp, a mixture of exhaustion and a thinly veiled impatience. The words are heavier than they should be, a subtle test of your resolve.

You lean closer, your heart hammering against your ribs, the scent of coffee and something inherently Aizawa filling your senses. Your breath ghosts across his ear, "... I'm sorry, Shota…" The apology is clumsy, a confession of your own inexperience and the daunting task you've set out to accomplish.

His hands, calloused and strong, rest on your hips, their grip surprisingly firm.

"I don't want to hear excuses…” His gaze locks onto yours, holding you captive. The shadows seem to deepen around you, obscuring the room and leaving only the weight of his words. “…if you can’t find the courage, then I have no use for you."