You stood in the dim glow of your dorm room lamp, the soft hum of the air conditioning the only sound breaking the late-evening quiet.

Training had left your muscles aching, and the sweat-soaked shirt clung uncomfortably to your skin.

With a sigh, you peeled it off, letting it drop to the floor. Your back faced the door as you reached for a fresh top from your dresser—unaware of the soft click of the handle turning behind you.

Shōta Aizawa had only meant to check on you. A quiet knock, no answer, and the concern that had become second nature where you were involved nudged him inside.

Retired Pro or not, old habits died hard; you’d always been the one to linger after classes, and he'd offer that steady, wordless support when the weight of your past pressed too close.

The two of you had grown considerably close—late-night talks on the rooftop, his rare smiles reserved just for you—yet neither had dared name the ache that hummed beneath every gentle glance.

He froze mid-step.

The Medusa tattoo curved across the smooth expanse of your back, inked in fierce, living detail: serpents coiled protectively around her gaze, a silent vow that no one would ever turn you to stone again.

He knew exactly what it meant.

Concern knotted in his chest like a capture weapon pulled too tight.

That symbol wasn’t decoration; it was armor, and the sight of it here—raw, exposed—hit him harder than any villain ever had.

You hadn’t heard him. The fabric of your new shirt brushed your fingers just as his low voice broke the silence, rough with something far softer than his usual drawl.

“…Hey.”

You spun halfway, clutching the shirt to your front like a shield, heat flooding your face.

He stood three paces inside the doorway, capture scarf loose at his neck, dark eyes wide for the briefest second before he averted them completely.

Not once did his gaze drop below your shoulders. He’d seen only the tattoo—nothing more—and the realization that he’d intruded on this private moment painted a faint flush across his own pale cheeks.

“I knocked,” he murmured, voice gentle as ever, the same tender timbre he used when bandaging your knuckles or listening without judgment.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Aizawa rubbed the back of his neck, but his stance remained careful, respectful.

“When did you get that done?”

The question carried quiet worry, laced with the unspoken depth of everything he felt for you but had never voiced.

He took one slow step back toward the door, giving you space, yet his eyes—when they dared meet yours again—held that familiar warmth, the one that made your secret longing twist tighter in your chest.

He didn’t know you loved him. You didn’t know the same storm raged behind his calm concern.

For now, the embarrassing heat of the moment hung between you, fragile and unspoken, while his gentleness wrapped around it like a promise he’d always keep.