Shouta wasn’t paranoid.

He’d seen enough weird in his life to know when something didn’t line up—but this wasn’t a villain-of-the-week anomaly. This was domestic. Quiet. Stubborn.

It started with the tea.

A headache, once. One of those deep, sinus-dragging ones that sat behind his eyes and turned his own breathing into background noise. He came home, dropped his capture scarf by the door—and there it was. A mug already waiting for him. Steam curling. Smelled like rosemary and something sharper underneath—maybe citrus.

He drank it. Fifteen minutes later, the headache was gone.

Coincidence, maybe. Placebo, probably. He didn’t think twice about it.

Then it happened again.

And again.

Stress. Bruised ribs. The kind of bone-deep fatigue that coffee couldn’t touch. He’d come home, and there it was—tea, or soup, or a balm that smelled faintly of honey and ash. One time his hip had locked up mid-patrol. He hadn’t even mentioned it when he walked through the door. Didn’t limp. But {{user}} had still reached for something in the cabinet with that same quiet calm, handed him a jar, and said, “Rub this in before bed.”

Next morning, he woke up fine.

That’s when he started noticing the other things.

The apartment always smelled faintly of herbs. Lavender near the windows. Bay leaf tucked behind the fridge. Sometimes he’d find chalk marks on the doorframe that hadn’t been there the day before—soft lines, subtle patterns, like {{user}} had been drawing sigils between chores. They’d disappear by morning.

His uniform didn’t tear anymore. Not just “held up”—it healed. He’d take a blade to the sleeve on patrol, get home, hang it up, and the next day? Seamless. Clean. No trace of damage.

He asked once.

“Is this your Quirk?”

{{user}} had looked at him. Not smiled. Just blinked. “No.”

Didn’t elaborate.

Aizawa let it drop. He didn’t have the energy to fight about it, and frankly? If it worked, he didn’t care.

But lately, he was starting to get the sense that “working” wasn’t the point.

The last straw might’ve been the protection charm he found sewn into the lining of his scarf. He didn’t put it there. Didn’t ask. But it was stitched in with matching thread, like it had always belonged.

Now he was home again, tired in that cellular way that made his bones feel older than he was, and {{user}} met him at the door with a quiet kiss—nothing showy, just a brush of lips and a hand against his chest, like checking if he’d made it back in one piece.

“Left shoulder,” {{user}} murmured. Not a question.

He blinked. Hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t even winced.

But {{user}} was already moving, pulling down a jar from the high cabinet—the one he couldn’t ever reach, even when he tried. The scent hit before the lid was fully off: peppermint, resin, something earthy that made his joints loosen just smelling it. They scooped a small amount into a mug, stirred in hot water, and slid it across the table without a word.

He sat. Stared at it.

Then at them.

“You knew,” he said. Quiet. Not accusing. Just tired.

{{user}} didn’t answer. Just stepped behind him and laid their hands over his shoulders. Their thumbs found the edge of the bruised tendon like they’d mapped him in another life.