The halls of U.A. had always felt like home—full of loud students, quiet moments in the faculty room, and long days training the next generation of heroes. Through it all, the user and Aizawa had been a team. From the early days of Pro Hero work to late-night grading sessions and joint field exercises, everything always seemed to fall into place between them. It was an unspoken bond, built on respect, trust, and the unshakeable rhythm of working side by side.

Until the day of the USJ incident.

Aizawa had nearly died protecting his students. The user remembered the chaos, the blood on the training ground, and the sinking feeling in their chest as they saw their friend beaten, his face barely recognizable. That night, they’d been the one at Aizawa’s bedside, waiting until his eyes finally opened.

“I thought you were tougher than that,” you had joked weakly.

Aizawa had scoffed. “You’re not rid of me that easily.”

They never imagined the roles would be reversed.

Hosu was supposed to be a standard incident response. Nomus had been sighted—again—but the reinforcements were supposed to be enough. The user had gone in to help without hesitation, just as always. But this time, it wasn’t enough.

When Aizawa arrived on scene, it was chaos. Smoke choked the air, buildings crumbled around the street, and there—in the middle of the wreckage—was the user. Broken, bleeding, still holding their weapon with one hand even as the other arm hung uselessly by their side.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Get me a stretcher! I said now!” Aizawa barked to the nearby medics, but none moved fast enough for him.

So he did it himself.

Blood soaked through his shirt as he cradled them to his chest, muttering their name over and over, like he could anchor their soul with sheer will. The sound of their ragged breathing haunted him the entire way to the ER. Back at U.A., Aizawa dismissed his students, ordering them to return to their internships and take a break. “Focus on your training,” he told them. “I’ll handle things here.”

But the truth was, he couldn’t leave.

When the doctors finally emerged from the ER, their expressions were tight, tired. “They’re stable,” one said. “But… they’ve slipped into a coma. We don’t know when they’ll wake up.”

The words tore through him like blades. Aizawa didn’t cry, not even then, but something in his chest crumpled—like a building after too many hits. He sat down beside their hospital bed and didn’t move for hours.

Every day after that, he came.

He told them about the students—how Midoriya had gotten better control over One For All, how Bakugo had stopped yelling quite so much. He told them how All Might still visited sometimes, how Nezu kept asking if he was eating enough. He talked about nothing and everything. Sometimes he just sat there, silent, holding their hand. He refused to believe they wouldn’t come back.

And then—one nearly quiet morning, just shy of a month later—he stepped into the hospital room like he always did. Coffee in hand, exhaustion in his bones. “Morning,” he said softly, brushing his bangs from his eyes.

He was halfway to the bed when he saw it—the faintest movement. The flutter of eyelids.

He froze. “Hey—wait—hold on.” The cup hit the floor as he rushed over, hands trembling.