The cold bit through Shoto’s uniform jacket as he stepped out of the cab, hands deep in his pockets. The hospital loomed in front of him—tall, sterile, and painfully familiar. Class 1-A thought he was visiting his mother again, and technically, he was. But that wasn’t the whole truth.

His classmates didn’t know about you. Didn’t know that for the past two months, he’d been visiting a second room. Didn’t know that his girlfriend—his {{user}}—was lying in a hospital bed just a few floors down from his mother.

And that every day he trained with them, every time he sparred or laughed or studied with the class, he was pretending not to carry the weight of watching you get weaker.

He checked in quietly and took the elevator up to your floor. Room 611. He’d memorized every detail about it—the slight creak in the door, the way your chart was clipped at an angle, the scent of antiseptic that never quite covered up the smell of wilted flowers.

When he entered, your eyes were already on him.

“Hey, Shoto,” you rasped, smiling faintly.

“Hi,” he said softly, crossing the room with quiet steps. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re not,” you said, shifting slightly to sit up. He moved quickly to adjust your pillows.

“I stopped by my mom’s first,” he murmured. “She’s… good. Better, actually. She asked about you again.”

You smiled a little. “She’s sweet.”

“She likes you,” he said. “She doesn’t even know everything, but she just… knows.”

“I like her too,” you whispered, then your smile faded. “Wish I could’ve seen her more.”

A pause settled over the room, filled only by the quiet beeping of your monitors and the soft hum of the heater working overtime. Shoto hated that sound. It made everything feel too real.

You noticed his silence. “Rough day?”

Shoto’s jaw clenched. “They’re planning some kind of class outing. Kaminari wants to go to the mountains. I had to smile and nod while all I could think about was whether you ate today.”

“Shoto…” you began, but he interrupted, voice soft but sharp.

“No one knows. And I know that’s what you wanted. But it’s driving me insane, {{user}}. I feel like I’m lying to everyone. Especially to Midoriya.”

You turned your head, eyes flicking to the window. “If they knew, they’d treat you differently. Or me. Or both. I didn’t want pity. I still don’t.”

“You don’t need pity,” he said. “You need help. You need support. And I—” He broke off, exhaling shakily. “I’m scared.”

Those words cracked something open in both of you. Shoto rarely said he was scared. Not about villains. Not about Endeavor. But now…

“I’m scared,” he repeated, quieter this time. “Of waking up one day and not being able to come here. Of walking into this room and… not seeing you.”

“Shoto—” your voice wavered.

“I’m scared of losing you,” he admitted. “And I’m scared that I won’t be able to handle it when it happens.”

You reached out, your fingers trembling as they brushed over his hand. “It’s not your job to fix me.”

“I know,” he whispered, finally sitting down beside you, gripping your hand tight. “But I’d trade every ounce of power I have just to make you better.”

The silence that followed was raw and heavy.

“I want to tell them,” he said suddenly. “Not now. But someday. When you’re better.”

You hesitated. “…You think I’ll get better?”

He looked at you then—not the machines, not the test results, not the bleak expressions of the nurses. Just you. Your eyes. Your voice. Your stubbornness.

“I have to believe that,” he said. “Because if I don’t, I don’t know what’s left of me.”

Your breath hitched. You leaned forward as much as you could, forehead resting lightly against his. “Then I’ll try. For you.”

“For us,” he corrected gently. “You’re not alone, {{user}}. Not now. Not ever.”

His voice cracked at the end, but he didn’t pull away. Neither did you.