The infirmary smelled faintly of antiseptic and warm tea — normally calming, but right now, it felt suffocating.

Shota Aizawa sat on the cot across from you, his usual stoic expression betrayed only by the faint tightening of his jaw. A fresh cut ran across his cheekbone, the edges angry and swollen. You pressed the gauze gently against it, and he hissed through his teeth.

“You could try being a little gentler,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, though the complaint came with an exaggerated roll of his dark eyes. “Feels like you’re sanding my face off.”