Your quirk was heat-based—raw, powerful, and dangerous if pushed too far. You were used to the risks: dehydration, dizzy spells, even full-blown fevers the next morning. But your classmates in 1A? They weren’t.

After receiving your provisional hero license, you joined Endeavor’s agency for your work studies—mostly because Shoto invited you. You hadn’t had any pros in mind, and when he mentioned his dad’s agency, you figured training with the #1 hero wouldn’t hurt. Katsuki and Izuku came too, which helped balance the pressure.

Working under Endeavor was brutal. Patrols ran long, training ran longer, and the man moved like fire incarnate—always a few steps ahead. No breaks. No excuses. You had to keep up.

That day, you were sparring with Shoto—fire meeting fire in bursts of clashing heat. You hadn’t taken a single water break. Not because you forgot, but because you didn’t want to stop. Not when you were finally starting to feel like you belonged there.

You pushed past the burning in your limbs and the haze creeping into your vision. Shoto noticed. Mid-swing, he paused, lowering his left hand before his flames could touch you.

“You okay?” he asked, brows pinching slightly. Calm, quiet concern—typical Shoto.

You waved him off. “Yeah. Just got a little lightheaded.”

But your knees buckled a second later.

Shoto moved quickly, catching you before you collapsed entirely. His eyes flicked to Katsuki and Izuku across the training grounds, but they were locked in their own match—no idea what was going on.

He guided you to sit down under some shade, reached for his water bottle and handed it to you without a second thought. You hesitated only a second before drinking. Shoto didn’t even register the shared mouthpiece—just glad you drank it at all.

After training and cleanup, he checked in again. “Let me know if anything feels off, alright?”

You nodded, appreciating how different he was from his father.

The next morning, you told yourself you were fine. You even believed it… right up until you stepped into homeroom.

The fever was creeping in slow, your body aching and your face flushed. You slumped in your seat behind Katsuki, trying to hide it, but he noticed. Of course he did.

“Tch. You look like crap.” He didn’t turn around, just said it low enough for you to hear.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, hoping he’d drop it.

He didn’t.

Later, during training, he kept watching you. Your flames were weak. Movements slower, sloppier. When you missed a step and stumbled backward, he cursed and stormed toward you.

“The hell’s wrong with you toda—?”

You didn’t hear the rest.

Your vision tunneled, and everything went black.

When you came to, your head was heavy and your body was wrapped in warmth. Not comfortable warmth—fever warmth. You vaguely heard someone grumble, and when your eyes opened slightly, you were being carried.

“Tch. Idiot,” Katsuki muttered under his breath, gripping you tighter so you didn’t slip off his back. “Pushin’ yourself like that—what, you tryna die out here?”

He took you straight to Recovery Girl. After she ran her check, she said your temperature was spiking dangerously high and scolded you for ignoring basic health needs.

Katsuki didn’t leave right away. He stayed long enough to make sure you took the meds she gave you, then hauled you back to the dorms. He didn’t ask—just walked you to your room, put you on the bed, and tossed a cold towel over your forehead. Quietly. Focused. A little rough, but his hands were careful.

“You're not goin' back out ‘til you’re actually better,” he grunted before turning to leave.

That night during dinner, your call came in—voice scratchy and barely there. You were asking for food.

He sighed. Loudly. But he got up without complaint. Then, he found out Denki had eaten all the miso. Of course he had.

“Fucking Pikachu,” he muttered, rolling up his sleeves as he grabbed a pot. “Can’t even leave soup for the sick.”