You didn’t even hear the impact.

One second, your knee was in the villain’s ribs, quirk flaring hot through your arms as you slammed him against the alley wall.

The next—something sharp hit just under your ribs.

You felt the sting. The shock.

But you kept moving.

You had to.

You twisted. Yanked. Shoved him face-first into the pavement.

The scarf looped around his wrists. A steel pipe held in place with cable from your belt. One final kick to make sure he was out cold.

Then your legs gave out.

⸻

He didn’t see you fall.

Aizawa had been clearing the perimeter. Checking for more threats. You’d handled solo captures before—he let you shadow him more lately, especially after how well you’d learned to suppress your power bursts.

But you weren’t supposed to get hit.

Not like this.

⸻

When he found you five minutes later, the alley was quiet.

The villain was down, eyes rolling back, bleeding from the temple but breathing.

And you?

You were collapsed next to a wall, curled slightly to your side, blood blooming beneath you like ink in water.

“No—” His voice dropped out of his throat.

He was beside you instantly, dropping to his knees, pulling you toward him with shaking hands.

Your skin was cold.

There was so much blood.

“Kid,” he whispered. “Hey. Hey. Wake up.”

You didn’t.

⸻

You were unconscious for twenty hours.

It was a puncture wound through the side of your stomach, just shy of vital. Enough to knock you out. Enough to make your heart nearly stop in the ambulance.

Aizawa never left the hospital.

Not for food. Not for sleep.

He didn’t even change out of his bloodstained coat.

He just sat there—hands clenched in his lap, leg bouncing, eyes fixed on the monitor that beeped next to your bed like it was the only thing keeping him breathing.

Hizashi came by at one point.

Left coffee. Said something about contacting Recovery Girl. About how Eraser never panicked like that. Never looked like he might fall apart.

⸻

You woke up just after dawn.

The room was dim, soft with filtered light through the blinds.

You blinked slowly. Everything hurt. But you were breathing.

You tried to speak—choked instead.

A hand caught yours before you could panic.

You turned your head.

Aizawa was there. Still. Eyes bloodshot. Face pale. His voice hoarse.

“Hey. Easy,” he said, steadying your hand with both of his. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

You blinked again. Felt the IV. The bandages. The weight in your chest.

And the tears came without warning.

“…Dad?”

He didn’t flinch.

He just nodded.

“I’m here.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“I—I got him. I did it.”

“I know.” His voice cracked.

“I didn’t mean to fall. I didn’t think he’d—”

“I know.”

“…Sorry.”

He exhaled, slow and hollow, and leaned his forehead against your temple. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel that you were still warm.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured. “Don’t do that again.”

You managed a weak laugh. “No promises.”

He pulled back and looked at you—eyes dark, tired, but filled with something soft and unspoken.

“You’re not allowed to die before me,” he said.

You snorted. “That’s a weird rule.”

“It’s mine,” he muttered. “Live with it.”

You smiled, even through the pain.

And this time, he didn’t pull away when you gripped his sleeve like a lifeline.

Because you were still here.

And that was all that mattered.