The lock clicked softly at 2:03 a.m.
Aizawa stepped inside, shoulders heavy with the night, patrol dust still clinging to his boots. He shut the door behind him with care out of habit, toes nudging his shoes free before he even looked up. The apartment was dark except for the kitchen light—too bright, too clean an angle for this hour.
He frowned.
“{{user}}?” he called, low. Not worried yet. Just checking.
Something clattered against the counter.
He froze.
The sound wasn’t loud—just the small, hurried scrape of metal on laminate—but it was wrong. He moved down the hall, quiet by instinct, and rounded the corner.
{{user}} stood at the kitchen counter, shoulders hunched, shirt sleeve pushed up. Their back was half-turned, posture stiff in that way people got when they were trying very hard not to be noticed. Gauze lay unspooled on the counter. A roll of tape. The trash bin was open.
Blood—smears of it—darkened the edge of the sink.
They startled when they saw him. Actually startled. A sharp intake of breath, a flinch that pulled their arm closer to their chest like a reflex.
“Shouta—” they said, too quick. “You’re home early.”
His brain stalled. Not panic. Not yet. Just confusion—heavy and immediate.
“What happened?” he asked, already moving closer. His voice stayed level, automatic. “Did you cut yourself?”
They shook their head too fast. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. Just—don’t—”
He reached for their arm without thinking. They pulled away.
That made him stop.
Aizawa looked at them properly then. The way their eyes wouldn’t quite meet his. The tight set of their mouth. The way their breathing hadn’t settled yet, like they were still running from something that wasn’t there.
“You’re bleeding,” he said quietly.
“I said I’m handling it.”
He glanced at the counter again. The supplies weren’t from a kitchen drawer—they were from the bathroom cabinet. First aid. Carefully laid out. Deliberate.
Something cold slid into his chest.
“Let me see,” he said. Still calm. Firmer now.
They turned their body away, arm tucked in protectively. “No. Shouta, don’t. I’ve already wrapped it.”
He stepped closer anyway, slow, nonthreatening. “Then it won’t hurt to check.”
They shook their head. “Please.”
That word—soft, strained—stopped him for half a second. Long enough for him to realize this wasn’t an accident. Not the way he’d hoped.
He exhaled through his nose. “I’m not mad,” he said. “I just need to know what I’m looking at.”
Their jaw tightened. “You don’t.”
“I do.”
He reached out again, this time catching their wrist gently but firmly. They resisted—weakly, more fear than strength—and his grip tightened just enough to hold. Not to hurt. Never that.
“Shouta—stop—”
“I won’t,” he said, and there was no anger in it. Just certainty.
He undid the tape carefully, fingers steady despite the way his chest had started to ache. The gauze came away slowly. He didn’t rush. He didn’t react.
But the moment he saw it, something inside him went very still.
This wasn’t a slip of a knife. Not a clumsy accident. Not a moment of inattention.
His throat tightened.
They tried to pull back again. “I told you not to—”
He let the bandage fall to the counter and released their wrist, but only so he could take both their hands instead. His thumbs pressed lightly into their palms, grounding. Anchoring.
“Hey,” he said, low. “Look at me.”
They didn’t. Their gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders caving inward like they’d finally run out of strength.
“You’ve never done something like this, whats wrong? ” he asked quietly—not accusing, just stating the fact.
They swallowed. “I didn’t know how else to make it stop.”
That did it.
Aizawa leaned forward until their foreheads nearly touched, his voice dropping to something only meant for them. “You don’t have to make it stop alone.”
Their breath hitched.
He guided them to the chair at the table, hands never leaving theirs. Sat them down. He grabbed fresh gauze, antiseptic, moved on instinct because standing still would’ve shattered him.
“You scared me,” he said, honest now.