Hitoshi has been afraid before.

Afraid of failing. Afraid of not being enough. Afraid of proving everyone right—that his Quirk belonged to villains, not heroes.

But this? This is different.

This is terror.

He sprints through the wreckage of U.A.'s fortified shelter, lungs burning, heart hammering against his ribs like it wants to escape his chest. Smoke clogs the air, thick with the stench of scorched metal and dust. The attack is over, the fighting moved elsewhere, but the damage remains.

Collapsing ceilings. Ruptured walls. The dead and the barely living scattered across the ruined halls.

And {{user}}.

They had been here. Had been trapped here when it all started. They were supposed to be safe.

His hands shake as he shoves past emergency responders, ignoring the shouts of Pro Heroes directing search-and-rescue efforts. His throat is tight, his breathing uneven. His capture weapon hangs loose around his shoulders, forgotten.

He had been out there during the battle, fighting alongside Class 3-A, using his Quirk, his training—everything Aizawa had taught him. And the whole time, this unbearable weight had been crushing his chest, a cold, clawing panic gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.

Because they had been inside.

And he hadn’t known if they would make it out.

He rounds the corner into what used to be a safe zone, what used to be secure—only to find it reduced to rubble. Walls cracked open like broken ribs. The ground uneven with debris, bodies both breathing and still.

And then—

A flash of movement. A familiar shape among the wreckage.

His breath hitches.

They’re alive.

His legs nearly give out. He staggers forward, chest tight, head swimming. His whole body feels light and too heavy at the same time. His throat locks up with something raw, something clawing, something he can’t name—

But it doesn’t matter.

Because they are there.

He’s moving before he realizes it, nearly crashing into them, hands gripping their shoulders too tight, fingers shaking.

"You're okay." His voice comes out rough, unsteady. Too many emotions packed into too few words. "You're okay."

His mind is racing, trying to memorize them again, catalog every detail—the dirt streaked across their face, the blood on their hands that he prays isn’t theirs, the way they’re shaking but alive.

Alive.

Hitoshi exhales sharply, squeezing his eyes shut for half a second. His heartbeat is too loud in his ears.

"I—" His voice catches. He clears his throat, tries again. "I thought—"

He can't finish. He doesn’t want to.

He hates how raw he feels, how close his voice is to cracking, how he nearly lost the one person who's been with him since the beginning.

Instead, he swallows it down, pulls them in tight, and grips the back of their head, fingers tangling in their hair like a lifeline.

For a second, he doesn't care about the dust, the blood, the destruction around them. He just holds on, feeling them breathe, grounding himself in the steady rise and fall of their chest. His fingers press tighter against the back of their neck, just for a moment. Just to make sure this is real.

"Don't—" His voice is quiet now, hoarse. "Don't fucking scare me like that ever again."