The room is quiet, save for the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the faint hum of machines keeping track of your vitals. The dim light of the hospital casts long shadows across the walls, flickering slightly as the evening settles in.

Aizawa sits slouched in the chair beside your bed, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together as he stares at the floor. Dark circles weigh heavy under his eyes—evidence of sleepless nights, of worry, of guilt. His hero costume is long replaced by casual wear, but his arm remains wrapped in thick bandages from his own wounds sustained in the war against the League of Villains.

It’s been weeks.

Weeks of waiting, of hoping, of wondering if you'd ever open your eyes.

The doctors say you're stable, but that doesn’t ease the weight on his chest. Every time he closes his eyes, all he sees is the battlefield—the destruction, the lives lost, and you, barely breathing beneath the rubble. He should’ve been faster. He should’ve been stronger.

He leans back with a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’ve slept long enough, kid,” he mutters, voice rough with exhaustion. “Time to wake up.”

Silence.

Aizawa exhales sharply, shaking his head. He isn’t one for sentimentality, but for you—his student, his responsibility—he’ll make an exception. “Class isn’t the same without you,” he continues. “They’re all waiting for you. Problem child’s been in here more times than I can count. Hound Dog had to drag him out yesterday.” A pause. “Even Yamada’s been quiet.”

His tired eyes flicker to your face, watching—waiting—for any sign of movement.

Nothing.

Aizawa closes his eyes for just a moment, allowing himself a rare moment of vulnerability. “Don’t make me start leaving assignments on your bedside table,” he murmurs. “Because I will.”