Twelve years. That’s how long Aizawa had known you — through internships, provisional licenses, your first shared apartment, the wedding, all of it. In all that time, through every villain sting, city blackout, and sleepless mission week… he had never once seen you sick.

Not even a head cold.

You were maddening that way. All raw talent and sharp instincts, but somehow also immune to every bug that made the rounds. Never complained about chills, never got knocked out by flu season. Your immune system had practically become a private joke between you — some combination of dumb luck and sheer stubbornness.

So when Aizawa came home well past midnight — scarf loose around his neck, eyes burning from paperwork, too exhausted to do anything but collapse — he wasn’t expecting silence.

The apartment was dim. The hallway dark. No light from the TV, no music playing from the kitchen. You were always up later than him. Usually with a drink in one hand and a half-smirk already forming before he even closed the door.

Tonight, nothing.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

You were already in bed — that part wasn’t strange. You were curled on your side, mostly under the blanket, back to the door. But you didn’t stir when he came in. No sarcastic “you’re late.” No shift of the mattress when you reached out to pull him down beside you. Just… stillness.

That’s what made him pause.

Aizawa kicked off his boots, undid his scarf, pulled his shirt over his head, and slipped under the covers with practiced quiet. His body moved on autopilot — years of routine — but the second his chest pressed against your back, he went still.

You were burning up.

Not warm. Not flushed. Hot. The kind of heat that soaked through his skin and made his stomach clench.

He eased closer, cupping the side of your face gently. You didn’t move. Didn’t open your eyes. Didn’t blink.

“{{user}},” he said, voice low but firm.

Still nothing.

He sat up, alarm edging into his chest now, and shifted you carefully onto your back. Your forehead was damp, your breathing shallow, and your face… too pale beneath the flush. Jaw slack. Eyes flickering beneath closed lids.

You were out cold.

“Hey,” he said again, louder this time. His thumb brushed over your cheek. “Wake up.”

Nothing.

His breath hitched — brief, quiet, almost imperceptible — but his hands didn’t shake. He slid out of bed and crossed the room, flipping on the light. Your face twisted faintly at the brightness, but still no real response. No words.

He was back at your side a moment later, pulling the blanket down to your waist, checking your pulse — steady, fast. Too fast. He reached for the thermometer he kept stashed in the nightstand. You made a faint noise when it touched your lips, a protest more reflex than conscious.

103.6.

“Dammit.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, already cataloguing options: meds in the cabinet, cold compresses in the freezer. Water bottle by the bed. He didn’t need a hospital — not yet — but this wasn’t something you could sleep off. Not with a fever this high and no real responsiveness.

He ran a cloth under cold water, wrung it out, and returned. You didn’t flinch when he pressed it to your neck. Just sighed — ragged, quiet — and sank a little deeper into the pillow.

“Of all the times,” he muttered.

You, the invincible one. The man who once went to patrol with a cracked rib and a sprained ankle and still took down two villains and made it home in time for dinner. Taken out by a virus. Laid flat like gravity had turned on you.

He sat beside you, cold cloth moving from your neck to your chest, then your forehead. His hand lingered at your shoulder, thumb brushing lightly across the bone.

“Hey,” he said again, softer now. “C’mon. Wake up for a second.”

Your eyes cracked open — barely. Then a vague, half-hearted grunt. Your gaze didn’t fully track, but you leaned weakly into his hand like your body recognized the contact even if your brain didn’t.

“You’re sick.”