Chapter 1: The Night It All Changed
Chapter Text
Shouta stood on the fifteenth-floor balcony, wrapped in the hush of early dawn. The sky above him was still dark, a deep velvet blue before the first light bled in. Below, the city was quiet—no traffic hum, no sirens, just the occasional flicker of headlights winding down empty streets.
From where he stood, the cars looked like tiny ants, their lights blinking like lazy fireflies. It was oddly peaceful, and that unsettled him more than he’d admit.
He checked his watch.
4:57 AM.
He sighed, cigarette resting between two fingers as he leaned over the railing, smoke curling up into the cool air. His other hand raked through his disheveled hair, lingering briefly on the back of his neck as he exhaled a long, weary breath.
Patrol had ended not long ago. He’d tossed his binding cloth somewhere near the couch the second he got home. His body still hummed with leftover adrenaline, but his mind was already shutting down.
This—this moment on the balcony—was routine now. Instinctual.
He never planned it. Just ended up here.
It wasn’t quite peace, but it was something close. Something quiet. Solitary. He told himself he liked it that way.
No questions. No noise. No expectations.
Just silence and smoke and the faint rustle of wind high above the city.
Not that anyone cared about his routines, anyway.
He took another drag of his cigarette and tapped the ash into the tray beside him. The red tip glowed softly in the dark, a single spark in the sea of stillness.
He preferred the night. It suited him. No blinding lights, no cameras, no forced smiles. Just work and shadows and the kind of silence you could breathe in without choking.
He'd chosen the underground hero route for a reason.
The media could have their darlings.
He had his patrols and paperwork. It was enough.
The minute hand on his watch ticked.
5:00 AM.
Right on time.
The sliding door next to his creaked open.
Shouta didn’t need to look. He already knew.
Tuesdays. Fridays. Sundays. Like clockwork. Sometimes oddly at odd hours, too. He’d stopped pretending he hadn’t noticed.
The voice came seconds later, always the same—warm, bright, and far too chipper for the hour.
“Oh hey! Good morning, neighbor!”
There it is.
However, He didn’t respond.
Didn’t turn his head. Didn’t flinch.
Just another slow drag, eyes still trained on the city below as her voice carved a path through the quiet.
She never seemed to notice—or care—that he ignored her.
Fukukado Emi.
His new neighbor.
She’d been here for a month and had already made herself impossible to avoid.
Shouta had learned a lot without meaning to. Her age—late twenties. Twenty-eight, he’d guessed, confirmed by a phone call through their paper-thin wall. Her schedule was odd. Office shifts, maybe? Night hours, sudden departures. He’d caught glimpses of her in scrubs more than once—though just as often, she wore pencil skirts and office heels. Confusing.
And always smiling. Always.
Seafoam green hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Emerald eyes that always sparkled like she was in on a joke you hadn’t heard yet. A voice that hit him like sunlight through a cracked curtain.
He hadn’t asked. Didn’t want to know. But he noticed.
She made it impossible not to.
Emi hummed a cheery tune as she stepped out onto her balcony, a small watering can in hand. She moved from plant to plant—some vines, a couple of succulents, one drooping sunflower that looked like it needed a pep talk.
How was she this awake?
How was she this happy?
“You know,” she said, pausing in her watering, “you should really stop smoking. Mr. Next Door Neighbor.”
He raised a brow at the nickname but kept his scowl to himself.
This woman…
“I mean, it’s bad for your lungs, and probably terrible for your heart, too. You want to end up with a chronic cough by forty?” she teased, grinning and glancing sideways at him, her hands on her hips now. “No offense, but you don’t look like the fun patient type.”
She crossed her arms, cocked a hip, and tilted her head like she was about to scold him. Like a mom. Or worse, like someone who cared.
Shouta grunted. Still no answer. Still no eye contact.
She didn't need encouragement. Never did.
“And don’t give me that look,” she added, smile unwavering. “It’s not like I haven’t asked for your name before. Multiple times, actually.”
He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray with a sigh.
She was right. Again.
And that annoyed him more than the smoke in his lungs.
Emi turned fully toward him, leaning on the balcony railing as if they were friends catching up, not near-strangers with very different definitions of ‘quiet morning.’
“My name is Emi, if you still remember–” she said, grinning like this was the first time. “I moved in last month. Nice to meet you…again.” She reintroduced herself, still trying—still hoping, maybe—for a response. Just one.
Shouta made no move to reply. His gaze shifted briefly to her—just enough to catch the soft curve of her smile, the genuine warmth in her eyes—and then turned away again.
He remembered their first meeting vividly.
She’d been covered in dust, a box half-falling from her arms, hair pulled up with an orange bandana. She’d looked ridiculous. She’d also smiled like meeting him was the highlight of her day.
“Hi! I’m Fukukado Emi—your new neighbor! Sorry if I blocked your door with my boxes—ah, I probably did. I’m trying to make a good first impression, and—oh! What’s your name?”
He hadn’t said a word. Just walked past her and into his apartment.
She still smiled.
She always smiled.
Even now, even with the cold shoulder. It never seemed to faze her.
And instead she kept trying.
Every time she saw him.
“Hi!”
“Morning!”
“Rough night?”
“You should really eat something with that coffee.”
“Oh, you’re back—looked like a long shift!”
She never gave up.
As if she wasn’t trying to win anything. She just… was.
And that was somehow worse.
Because it meant she’d keep showing up.
“Anyway,” she said, pulling a small towel from her back pocket and wiping her hands, “I’ve got an early shift, so I’ll be heading in soon. Don’t fall asleep out here, okay? You look like you haven’t slept in three days.”
He scoffed quietly.
Because it had been four.
She disappeared inside a moment later, humming again as the sliding door clicked shut behind her.
Finally,
Silence.
Shouta lingered a moment longer before turning inside. He collapsed onto his couch with a heavy sigh, muscles loosening as the exhaustion settled in fully.
He let his eyes rest close.
Just before sleep dragged him under, the last image in his mind was a pair of bright green eyes, a ponytail swinging as she smiled, and the soft trace of her voice lingering in the air.
Too bright.
Too damn cheerful.
Too… Emi.
Emi couldn’t help it.
Her thoughts kept circling back—like a stubborn song stuck on repeat—to the man next door.
Why is he so cold? So closed off?
Did she say something wrong that first day? Had she done something to earn those grunts and tired glances? The only thing he ever offered her was silence. And when he did respond, it was through a sigh or a scowl. Never words. Never warmth.
It stung more than she liked to admit.
Did I annoy him? Was I too much?
Her mind flicked to him again. Tall. Tired-looking. Always in black. Always watching, even when he pretended not to be. The bags under his eyes were darker lately—deep shadows carved into skin that looked stretched too thin.
He’s exhausted. Always.
She’d seen him out on the balcony before dawn more times than she could count, cigarette in hand, looking like he hadn't slept in days. Weeks, maybe.
What did he do for work? Why did he move like someone always waiting for the next bad thing to happen? And that scar—just beneath his eye—sharp and clean, like it had a story behind it. One he’d never tell.
God, she wanted to know .
Every time she passed him in the hall or caught sight of him at dawn, something inside her ached with quiet curiosity. A need. Not even romantic—not yet. Just this desperate pull to understand the man made entirely of shadows and silence.
And he never gave her a single thing to work with.
No name. No conversation. Just smoke and avoidance.
“Ugh.” She dropped her forehead to her desk with a groan. “You’re so frustrating.”
“Who?” a voice cut in.
Emi bolted upright. “Shit—sorry, Makoto!”
Her coworker raised an eyebrow, amused. “Zoning out again, huh?”
“I wasn’t—okay, maybe a little.”
“Well, save it. We’ve got an incoming.”
Just like that, her heart shifted into gear. Work-mode snapped into place as she stood and jogged beside Makoto toward the ER entrance. The automatic doors parted with a mechanical sigh, and they stepped into the Tokyo night, snow drifting lazily around the ambulance pulling in.
It was cold. Biting. She barely noticed.
The rear doors of the vehicle swung open.
“What’s the status?” she called out, voice sharp and steady.
“Male. Around 183 cm, early thirties. Deep stab wound—lower abdomen. Found unconscious about ten minutes ago,” the paramedic recited, handing her the chart.
Emi nodded, flipping it open.
Dark hair. Slim build. Early thirties.
Her brow creased.
That description—it was too familiar.
No. It couldn’t be. That would be…
“Emi!” Makoto called. “Need you inside.”
“Right—on it!”
She climbed in without hesitation, sliding into the tight space as the paramedics began stabilizing the patient. She took position opposite Makoto, her hands already moving on instinct, grabbing gauze and gloves, snapping into the role she knew best.
And then she saw him.
Her hands froze.
Her lungs stilled.
No fucking way.
It was him.
The man next door. Mr. "No Words." The one she’d been thinking about all damn day.
Shouta—if that was even his name—was lying there, unconscious, pale, bleeding through soaked fabric. That same scar. That same exhausted face. Eyelashes too long for someone that angry all the time.
He looked even more vulnerable now than he did at dawn—less like a man carved out of steel and smoke and more like someone who had finally hit their breaking point.
Her throat clenched.
“Pass me the B-positive,” she said, sharper than she meant to, but her hands were steady again. “Now.”
They moved in sync.
Makoto secured the stretcher while Emi kept pressure on the wound, climbing over him as carefully as she could, straddling his body just enough to keep her balance as they rushed toward the entrance.
“Makoto—push us in, I’ve got the pressure covered.”
“Copy that.”
She didn’t dare look at his face again, but she could feel him—warm beneath her, but too still. Too quiet. Her palm pressed firm against his abdomen, blood seeping between her fingers.
What the hell happened to you?
The thought echoed louder than the sirens.
She didn't know his name. Not really.
She didn't know why he always looked like he was carrying the weight of a world she couldn’t see.
But here he was—broken and bleeding and entirely in her hands now.
And Emi wasn’t going to let him go.
Chapter 2: Cold And Steel... Just Who Are You?
Chapter Text
“ Blood pressure dropping—ninety over sixty! ”
“ Prep OR two, now! ”
“ Keep pressure on the wound—don’t let up! ”
The ER fractured into rapid-fire commands and the blur of movement—gurney wheels spinning, gloved hands moving with frantic precision, and the sharp scent of antiseptic stinging the air.
Emi’s heart thundered in her chest, but her hands? Unshakable. Steady as a scalpel. She was kneeling on the gurney above him, palm sealed tight against his abdomen, pressing into the open wound to stem the bleeding.
The warmth of it soaked through her gloves.
Too much.
Too fast.
Her legs burned from the awkward position, but she didn’t shift. Couldn’t. Shouta’s blood clung to her like a second skin, and all that mattered was keeping it inside him.
The man beneath her—quiet, brooding, unknowable Shouta—was fading fast.
Her mind scrambled to process it.
This can’t be real.
This can’t be happening.
Not him.
His skin had gone pale, waxy. Sweat clung to his temples. There was a tremor in his lips—his body trying to fight, to stay alive even as it betrayed him.
“ BP’s down to eighty-five and falling! ”
“ We’re losing him! ”
“ No, we’re not. ”
Emi barked, voice sharp, eyes blazing. Emi’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade. Her eyes snapped to the nurse. “ Clamp ready? ”
“ Ready! ”
“ Good. On my mark—three, two—go! ”
She pivoted into command without hesitation, like the thousand hours of training behind her were stitched into her spine. She guided the team with crisp, practiced movements—clamp here, suction there, get the damn retractor in place.
And still—
Still, her thoughts screamed behind her calm.
How long was he bleeding before someone found him?
Was he just lying there alone in the dark?
Did he think no one would come for him?
She fought to quiet her mind.
No. No, not now. You can feel whatever you want later. Right now, he needs you sharp.
But gods, she couldn’t stop seeing him— really seeing him —even through the blood and the wound and the haze of antiseptic.
That stupid frayed black shirt… or costume? There are gears and…stuff. The bags under his eyes. The way he always looked like the world weighed a little too heavy on him. Like he was quietly breaking under something no one else could see.
And now—he looked so small on the table. Long limbs limp. Chest struggling to rise. Pale lips. A deep gash below the ribs that wouldn’t stop bleeding.
“ He’s tachycardic—heart rate’s through the roof! ”
“ Get another unit of B positive ready! Hang it now! ”
“ He’s going into shock—core temp’s dropping! ”
Emi’s hands worked faster, blood slicking the surgical drapes. “We need to stabilize before we lose the window. Makoto, pressure—now!”
The retractor clicked. Blood spurted.
Shouta twitched. Just barely.
He’s still in there.
Emi’s jaw tightened as she reached for the clamp. “Okay, I see the vessel. I need a better angle—Makoto, lift just a bit—yes, right there—”
She clamped.
The bleeding slowed.
A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding stuttered out of her.
“Bleeding’s reducing! BP’s climbing—ninety-two over seventy.”
Still too low. Still dangerous. But climbing.
“Let’s move. Get him to OR. I’ll assist,” she said firmly, stepping off the gurney as they prepped the transfer. The front of her scrubs was soaked in blood— his blood—but she didn’t flinch.
She pushed the gurney herself as they raced down the hallway, barking orders. Time blurred. Hallways melted into white light and the shrill of monitors. Emi didn’t care. She was tethered to that gurney by something deeper than duty. By something she hadn’t admitted to herself until now.
She cared. Too much.
And now wasn’t the time to question it.
It was time to save him.
It was hours before the surgery ended.
The moment he was stable and transferred to recovery, Emi scrubbed her hands raw and let herself breathe for the first time in what felt like years.
Then she sat.
And didn’t leave.
They told her to go home. Twice.
She ignored them.
They told her he wasn’t her responsibility anymore.
But the truth was—he kind of was. At least in her heart, where logic didn’t stand a chance.
So she stayed.
The recovery room was quiet, save for the muted hiss of the oxygen and the soft, persistent beep of the monitor. Night had long since swallowed the hospital. Most of the floor had gone still, except for the skeleton staff and low voices in distant corridors.
But here, in this small, dimly lit room, time had folded in on itself.
Shouta Aizawa lay still beneath thin blankets, an IV in his arm and a fresh line of sutures beneath the bandages on his abdomen. His face, pale under the fluorescent glow, looked different like this. Not peaceful, exactly—he didn’t seem like someone who even knew what peace was—but softer. Less carved from stone. Less braced for war.
The tension that usually lived between his brows had smoothed. His lashes lay like shadows on his cheeks. His breathing was even, shallow but steady.
Emi sat with her legs tucked beneath her in the chair at his bedside, one elbow resting on the rail, her chin propped up on her palm. She’d taken off her bloodied outer layer and now sat in thin navy scrubs and a jacket that didn’t belong to her. Someone had offered it. She didn’t remember who.
Her bones ached. Her soul did worse.
“I finally got your name,” she said into the silence, voice low, hoarse with exhaustion.
“Aizawa Shouta.”
She’d seen it on the chart. Typed in the system. Neatly printed on the surgical notes. She’d read it three times.
Now she clung to it like it meant something.
Her eyes traced his features, the angles of him that always seemed so distant from the other side of the apartment balconies. The slouch of his shoulders, the way he never met her eyes, the silence that stretched between them like fog.
She’d never heard him say her name. Never seen him smile. Barely heard his voice above a grumble.
“You’re one hell of a mysterious person, are you?” she murmured. “What the hell could’ve happened to you… to end up unconscious in a dark alley, stabbed and bleeding out?”
Her chest tightened as she said it aloud.
It didn’t add up. None of it did. People didn’t just end up in that kind of shape. Not with those kinds of injuries, not with that kind of precision. This wasn’t a mugging gone wrong. Whoever had done it hadn’t been trying to steal anything—they’d been trying to finish something.
And yet, there he was. Her grumpy neighbor. The man she’d spent months waving at across balconies. The man who never waved back.
“I always thought you just didn’t like people,” she whispered. “But now… I wonder if it’s something else. Something heavier.”
She looked down at her hands. Clean now. But she could still feel it—the weight of his blood. The way it had soaked into her gloves, warm and slick, spilling over her fingers. She could still feel the shift in the air when his body seized beneath the defibrillator pads. Still see the line on the monitor flatlining for half a second before he came back.
You almost died on me.
The thought stabbed through her again, sharp and unforgiving.
“You don’t even talk to me,” she whispered. “And you almost died on me.”
Her voice broke on the last word, catching in her throat. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth to hold it back, but the sting was already there. Behind her eyes. In her ribs.
She hated how scared she’d been. Hated how much it had hit her. She didn’t understand it.
But it was real.
And that terrified her more.
“You always looked like you were carrying something,” she said, softer now. “I just didn’t know it was... this. And maybe I still don’t. But I want to.”
She didn’t understand it. Why couldn't she leave? Why her chest hurt in ways she hadn’t felt since med school, when the first patient she lost had been younger than her.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to be able to draw a line. Professional. Detached.
But the line had blurred the moment she realized it was him.
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the edge of his bed.
Just for a moment.
She told herself it would just be a minute. She just needed to breathe. Just needed to close her eyes. But her body was trembling from the adrenaline crash, and the silence was too heavy to fight.
She blinked slowly, eyes fixed on the steady rise and fall of his chest.
And in that quiet space between sleep and ache, her last thought surfaced like something long-buried breaking free:
Why do I feel like I’ve known you longer than I have?
Why do I feel like I was supposed to find you like this?
Why do I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me—something the rest of the world already knows?
She didn’t have the answer.
Not yet.
But she knew one thing, with a clarity that cut through the haze:
Please wake up.
Please… don’t disappear before I figure out who you really are.
She woke up to the sound of soft beeping. The light in the room had shifted—still dim, but greyer now. Morning must’ve crept in.
Emi blinked groggily, head still resting on the edge of the bed, her cheek marked with faint indentations from the blanket. Her neck ached from the angle, but she didn’t move. Not yet.
Aizawa Shouta was still asleep.
Still breathing.
Still here.
Her chest sank with quiet relief.
A nurse peeked in some time later, saw her there, and said nothing. Just nodded and left. Maybe they understood. Maybe they’d seen it before—someone waiting without reason, tethered to something that didn’t make sense on paper but felt like everything anyway.
The hours slipped by slowly.
She left only once to grab water. Came back later with two cups.
He didn’t wake.
Another nurse changed his IV. Emi offered to help, even though she wasn’t on shift anymore. It gave her a reason to stay. Gave her hands something to do.
The man who never said her name was suddenly the most familiar thing in her world.
Every so often, she spoke to him.
Little things. Half-murmurs.
“You don’t really talk, huh?” she’d whisper. “You always looked like you had something to say, but didn’t bother.”
She reached out once—not quite touching him, but close. Her fingers hovered near his arm.
“I thought you hated me,” she admitted, voice almost childlike in its honesty. “I thought I annoyed you. I guess I did. I got that a lot anyways” A pause. “But you still brought my packages upstairs when the elevator broke.”
A faint smile tugged at her mouth.
“You left them by my door without a word, like some brooding delivery ghost.”
Silence answered her. Of course it did. But the stillness didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt... patient. Like he was still listening, somewhere in that deep, sedated sleep.
“You don’t strike me as the type to need help,” she whispered later, pulling her knees up into the chair. “But you did. And someone found you. Just in time.”
That thought wouldn’t leave her.
Who found him? Why was he stabbed? What the hell was he doing out there? Not to mention he was found and brought at three in the morning during her shift? What if she hasn’t had a shift?
And why did it feel like there was more to him than the man in all-black with tired eyes who smoked on balconies and never said hello?
She shook her head and leaned back. Rubbing her temple to ease her tension.
Maybe she was imagining it. Maybe she was just making meaning out of silence because that’s what she did—filled in the blanks. But something in her gut told her he wasn’t just some shut-in loner. He moved like a man who’d seen things. The kind of man who fought shadows no one else noticed.
The nurse returned hours later to check vitals.
Still stable. Still sleeping.
“Any change?” Emi asked quietly. Barely whispered above, maybe she is tired.
“No. But no news is good news, right?”
Emi nodded firmly. Still a slight smile tugging on her face.
Her gaze drifted back to him.
“I never thought your name would suit you,” she murmured. “Aizawa Shouta. It sounds like... strength. Not silence.”
She paused.
“I hope I get to hear you say mine someday.” She tilted her head slightly to the side with still a smile on her lips.
The sun was setting now—soft gold bleeding in through the blinds. Another day gone. Another sleepless night is approaching.
Still, she stayed.
Even when the shift nurses switched out.
Even when someone offered her a blanket.
Even when the ache in her back grew sharper from the chair.
She stayed.
Because something in her—some strange, aching part of her—needed to.
She didn’t know why. Not yet at least.
But she would.
Soon.
Chapter 3: Hi And Hello. Your Name Engraved In My Mind.
Chapter Text
He ran.
Boots pounding across rooftops slick with frost, the weight of winter pressing into his lungs with every step. The Tokyo skyline blurred past, neon bleeding into fog, but he kept his eyes fixed forward—on the flicker of motion just ahead. The villain was fast. Sloppy, but fast.
So was he.
Or at least… he used to be.
Aizawa’s breath hitched. A stitch in his side dug deep, sharp as a blade. His chest burned, his lungs clawing for air like a man underwater. Every inhale was tight. Shallow. Too loud in his ears.
He pushed harder anyway.
The chase took him from alley walls to fire escapes to the ledge of a ten-story building, his legs aching, capture scarf slicing through the wind behind him. The bastard was still in sight—a blur of black and red leaping the gap between rooftops. Close.
So close.
But something was wrong.
His vision blurred at the edges. His footing faltered just for a second. His lungs—god, his lungs—he couldn’t draw in a full breath without pain flaring down his chest. The cold air scraped his throat raw, ragged, like it didn’t belong there.
Still, he grit his teeth.
Still, he moved. Pushing to the limit.
Aizawa launched forward with a burst of speed he’s skilled. He had always been. He caught the villain mid-air with his scarf, and yanked him down—hard. The impact echoed as they hit the rooftop, and Aizawa landed on top, one knee pressed to the man’s back, scarf coiling tighter like a snake.
“Got you,” he growled, breathless.
But the moment the adrenaline dipped, everything crashed at once.
His lungs seized.
The cold bit deeper.
He choked on air that wouldn’t come, yanked his scarf free in a panic just to open his chest more, but it didn’t help. He stumbled back, hunched over, hand fisting the fabric of his coat near his heart as if that would hold him together.
Breathe. Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe Shouta.
No.
It wasn’t working.
A cough wracked his body—wet, violent—and his knees buckled just enough for him to lose focus.
The villain moved.
A flash of silver. A twist of muscle.
Aizawa looked up too late.
The blade sank in low, just under his ribs.
The breath he
did
have left him in a violent gasp and groan, his entire body recoiling as the pain tore through him like lightning. The villain didn’t stay to finish the job—he just ran. Vanished over the next ledge and disappeared into the night like smoke.
Fuck, Damnit!
Aizawa staggered. Dropped to one knee. Pressed a shaking hand to his side and felt the warmth bloom instantly. Blood. Too much. Hot and fast.
He blinked slowly, mouth open, drawing in useless air.
Stupid.
He knew better than this. He knew his body was starting to slip. He wasn’t twenty-five anymore. The chain-smoking, the sleepless nights, the refusal to ask for help—it was all catching up now.
The irony didn’t escape him.
He hunted villains in the dark, but his own body had betrayed him first.
He collapsed sideways against the rooftop vent, head slumping to the cold metal, breath stuttering. His scarf dangled uselessly from his fingers. The sky above him spun.
How long until someone found him?
Would they find him?
I can't die yet.
There’s so much I wanted to do.
So much dream unfulfilled.
Still so much…to see.
He closed his eyes. His eyelids felt heavy. Heavier than when he has not been sleeping for weeks.
No he can’t sleep now.
Now is definitely not the time.
But fuck…someone help him. Anyone at all.
For a second, the silence didn’t feel like peace.
It felt like punishment.
It felt like he’d been hit by a double-decker bus.
Or dropped from a five-story building, bounced off every ledge on the way down, and then ran over for good measure.
Thousands of bricks. That’s what it felt like—slamming into his skull over and over. A slow, pulsing migraine that throbbed behind his eyes and made every flicker of light behind his lids feel like a blade.
Holy shit.
Aizawa didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
His limbs were heavy, numb in places, prickled with pins and needles in others. The sharpest pain bloomed in his lower abdomen—a deep, searing ache that radiated outward like fire licking through every nerve.
He let out a low, pained breath.
The smell hit him next.
Sterile. Faint antiseptic. Bleach. Plastic tubing.
The hospital. Of course.
At least he knows that he's alive.
It surrounded him—the soft, low beep of a heart monitor to his left, the distant rumble of wheels on tile, murmurs of nurses in the hallway. He knew this place too well. A battlefield dressed in white coats and quiet.
And yet... something was different.
A sound. A voice.
Faint. Gentle. Nearby.
A woman’s voice.
His brow twitched, just slightly. He couldn’t make out the words. Not yet. But the tone sank through the haze. Soft, melodic. It scraped at the edge of his consciousness like a memory half-formed. Like the feeling of warm sunlight through a curtain you didn’t realize you missed until it was gone.
It tugged something inside him.
Warmth.
Safety.
He didn’t know why.
She was still talking. Muttering, maybe. He couldn’t focus long enough to catch the words, but he heard the cadence. The rise and fall. She sounded close. At ease, but tired. As if she’d been speaking for hours to someone who couldn’t hear her.
To him.
He wanted to open his eyes. To speak. Anything. But the weight of his own body anchored him down like concrete.
Instead, his mind floated.
A flash.
A scent—lavender and citrus. Not the kind you wore to be noticed, but the kind that lingered when someone passed too close in a hallway.
A touch—small fingers brushing his arm. No gloves. Just skin. Warm. Gentle. A momentary tether when the world was spiraling.
A voice, again. Not in the present, but from earlier. Somewhere buried.
"Don’t you dare flatline on me now."
A memory? Or a dream?
"You’re not allowed to go out like this, got it?"
Who was she?
He didn’t know.
But he remembered the sound of urgency wrapped in affection. The feeling of being held in a moment, even if just by a voice.
He remembered… care.
When was the last time someone cared for him like that?
His fingers twitched.
Not much. Just a small, involuntary jerk of his index and middle finger, but it was enough. Enough to remind him that he wasn’t dead.
Yet.
Another breath. Shaky. Shallow.
He turned his head—slowly, painfully—toward the sound. The voice had quieted now. Was she still there?
He didn’t know why it mattered. Why it stirred something in him that felt too raw to name.
Maybe it was the way she’d spoken. Not like a nurse. Not like a stranger.
But like someone who had waited.
His eyes adjusted slowly, the haze thinning just enough for shapes to gain clarity. The throbbing in his skull isn’t going away anytime soon, but it dulled beneath the fog of painkillers, pushed into the background by the sharper pressure in his abdomen every time he breathed too deep.
He gritted his teeth and turned his head, sluggish and aching, toward the figure slumped in the chair.
And blinked.
What the hell—
That hair.
That stupid, unmistakable shade of seafoam green.
His brow furrowed, as much as his bandaged head would allow.
Emi. Fukukado Emi…is her name. Was it?
The annoying neighbor. The one who talked too much in the hallways, who always smiled like life was a joke she was in on, who insisted on greeting him with too much brightness and too little warning. The one who made too much noise at the ungodly hours of the morning and would sometimes bake things she left at his door with stupid sticky notes like “In case you forgot to eat again, Mr. Grumpy.”
What the hell is she doing here?
She was asleep, slumped forward on the edge of his bed, face half-hidden by her arm. She’d pulled the chair impossibly close, practically resting against him.
His gaze lingered on her hand, resting just inches from his own. Her nails were short, her fingers scrubbed red raw. Her entire posture screamed exhaustion in a way he didn’t associate with casual acquaintances—or neighbors who should’ve minded their business and gone home.
Something didn’t line up.
He stared at her for a long moment, chest rising and falling shallowly, quietly fuming beneath the layers of confusion.
Why
her
?
Why is she here?
He knew he hadn’t imagined her voice—he remembered it in the blur. Not just hearing her talk, but command. Focused, sharp. She hadn’t sounded like the neighbor who left him muffins and eye-rolls. She’d sounded like someone trained to take charge when people were dying.
He’s , people.
He shifted slightly, and pain lanced through his side. His breath caught, involuntary.
Emi stirred.
Not fully—just a twitch of her fingers, a small, sleepy sigh.
Don’t wake up, he thought instinctively. He wasn’t ready for that yet. For the way her eyes would look at him now, probably full of concern and questions he didn’t have the patience for. He wasn’t ready for her to be different from the box he’d put her in. The cheerful nuisance with a bright smile and no boundaries.
Not someone who sat through the night like this. Not someone whose hands had pressed against his bleeding body and pulled him back from the brink.
He felt... unbalanced.
Like the floor had shifted beneath him.
A memory surfaced, clear and sudden:
“I’m not letting you die, okay?”
That same voice. Same grit.
“You don’t get to go out like this.”
It had been her.
All along.
He let out a breath, slow and bitter. This complicated things. He didn’t do anything complicated.
Certainly not with neighbors who left baked goods at his door and then turned up in trauma bays pulling him out of death’s grip.
He hated this. The way it unsettled him. The way it made her harder to ignore now.
But the worst part?
The worst part was the way his gaze softened—just a little—as he watched her sleep.
Because now, despite everything he thought he knew, he wasn’t sure where she ended and this new version of her began.
And he didn’t know which one of them scared him more.
His gaze drifted to the window, to the pale slant of morning light cutting through the curtains. It was quiet in the room, too quiet for his liking, but also—he hated to admit—too peaceful to break.
Until she stirred.
A soft sound, followed by the creak of fabric and the shuffle of movement. Her body shifted upright, arms stretching slightly as if waking from the kind of sleep that left a mark on your soul. He heard the breath catch in her throat the moment she realized.
“…Oh my god—”
He didn’t turn.
Not at first.
He heard her scramble back in her chair, the scrape of it against the tile abrupt and clumsy. “Shit, I—I didn’t mean to fall asleep like that,” she muttered, clearly flustered. “Sorry! I wasn’t— I mean, I was —but only because—” She stopped herself. Took a breath. Collected the pieces of herself she’d dropped in her panic.
He still hadn’t said anything.
He didn’t have to. The silence stretched, not hostile, but heavy. She glanced at him—saw his profile, calm but unreadable, jaw tight as he looked out the window like it might give him answers she couldn’t.
“Aizawa Shouta,” she said softly, more to herself than anything. Testing the name on her tongue again.
His head turned just slightly. Enough to catch her in his periphery. His eyes narrowed faintly in confusion, or maybe just in his usual way of existing.
“So that’s your name.” Her smile tugged at the corners of her lips—soft, gentle. Not the bright, sharp grin he was used to when she left cookies at his door. This one was... quieter. Realer. And tired.
He noticed it now. The shadows beneath her eyes. The slight puffiness. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Which, he realized grimly, might actually be true.
“You,” he said simply, voice hoarse—lower than usual, half-gravel and half-sleep. His throat felt like sandpaper. But it was the first time he’d spoken to her. Really spoken.
Her eyes lit up.
“You’re awake, Aizawa!” she beamed, scooting in without thinking, a little too close. It made him stiffen instinctively, but she didn’t seem to notice—or care. She just kept smiling, a little sheepish now. “God, that’s a relief. I mean, you flatlined. You scared the hell out of us. I thought I was going to have to write your eulogy and I don’t even know your middle name.”
He blinked at her. Slowly.
“What are you doing here?” he rasped, and it came out rougher than intended, like an accusation.
But she didn’t flinch. She just tilted her head with a knowing sort of patience, the way you do when you're used to someone's bark meaning very little bite.
“What am I doing here?” Emi echoed with a soft, incredulous laugh. She stood, reaching for the IV bag with a practiced motion, already prepping a replacement. “I think I should be the one asking you that question, Aizawa.” She grinned at the way his brow twitched when she said his name again.
He didn’t respond. But his scowl deepened.
He wasn’t sure he liked how easily she said it. How familiar it sounded on her lips.
“In case you’re wondering, I’m a doctor here, you doof.” She chuckled—soft and raspy, just a whisper of her usual brightness—but pleasant in a way that annoyed him because he liked the sound of it.
He watched her with narrowed eyes as she moved—graceful, efficient, completely in her element. His gaze fell to the white coat draped over the chair. The black embroidered name on the chest: Fukukado Emi . That stupid smiley-faced hair tie. Navy scrubs. Orange undershirt. Scuffed sneakers.
She looked like she’d run three marathons and somehow still had the energy to run a fourth.
She also looked like she belonged here. Like she'd been fighting to keep him alive while he was busy nearly dying on a rooftop.
He hated that.
He hated how easily she slid into this version of herself—so far from the nosy, cheerful neighbor he thought he knew.
But what he hated most was how her tired smile tugged something inside his chest.
“Did you remember anything before waking up, Aizawa?” she asked, voice gentler now. Cautious.
There it was again. His name. Like she’d said it before, in darker moments, when he couldn’t respond.
He tore his eyes away from her, trying not to make it obvious that he’d been watching too closely. He turned his gaze to his hands instead, fingers twitching slightly under the thin hospital blanket.
“Enough,” he muttered.
Enough to remember the pain. The cold. The feeling of his lungs failing him. The blade. The voice. Her voice.
He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t owe her that much.
But Emi just nodded, like she understood more than he said.
The silence settled again, more comfortable this time.
Then, with a teasing little tilt of her head:
“Glad you didn’t die, Mr. Grumpy.”
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. The way her smile pulled at her lips—not forced, not fake, just... honest. There was relief in it. Real relief.
He didn’t know what to do with that.
So he scowled again.
And Emi, bless her, only smiled wider.
Emi walked to the chair she’d been slumped in for hours and picked up her white coat, shaking it out with a soft huff before slipping it over her scrubs. She tugged the collar into place and rolled her shoulders, wincing faintly—clearly sore from sleeping in such an awkward position.
“You were stabbed, you know,” she said lightly, like she was commenting on the weather.
Aizawa didn’t answer. His gaze had drifted back to the window, jaw tight.
That fucking villain. I let him get away .
The bitter thought clung to him like smoke. It was the only thing he could focus on—the blade sliding in, the sting of failure sharper than the wound.
Emi didn’t seem fazed by his silence. She took a step closer, voice still casual but with a thread of something heavier beneath it.
“It was a pretty deep stab. You lost a lot of blood.”
Her hands stilled at the edge of her coat, fingers curling slightly. For a second, she didn’t speak. Just stared down at her palms. Aizawa’s eyes tracked the movement.
“I remember how warm it was,” she said finally, her voice quieter now. “Your blood, I mean. It soaked through my gloves. I was trying to stop the bleeding, but you kept slipping. I didn’t think we’d—” She cut herself off with a breath. Cleared her throat.
He didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
“The paramedics found you a few minutes after you lost consciousness,” she continued, regaining some of her composure. “You were in a dark alleyway— or was it a rooftop? But it’s near the edge of Shinjuku. Completely alone. If they’d been even a little later…”
She trailed off again. Then forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“You’re lucky the wound didn’t hit anything vital,” she added, trying to inject some cheer into her voice. “It came really close to your liver. A few centimeters to the left, and I’d be filling out paperwork instead of talking to you.”
Still, he said nothing. The weight of his silence filled the space between them like smoke in a room with no windows.
Emi took another breath and tugged her stethoscope from the back of the chair. She looped it around her neck out of habit, tucking the crumpled paper from the table into the front pocket of her coat as she spoke.
“That being said, you’ll be discharged soon,” she said, voice shifting back into professional cadence. “You’ll need weekly checkups, though. And we’ll have to keep an eye on the sutures. Make sure they don’t tear or reopen.”
She turned slightly, beginning to organize the few things she’d left on the side table—his chart, an unopened bottle of water, a spare gauze pad.
“And you'll need someone to change the dressings every few days,” she added. “Preferably someone who won’t let you ignore basic medical advice just because you’re too stubborn to—”
“It’s fine,” Aizawa cut in flatly.
She paused, mid-reach for her clipboard.
Emi blinked at the interruption.
He hadn’t even looked at her when he said it—just stared down at his hands, jaw clenched, voice clipped like always. Like he could end the conversation just by willing it.
But she wasn’t deterred.
“You say that like you’re going to do any of it,” she muttered, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. “Don’t think I haven’t heard about your reputation. I know your type.”
That made him look at her—finally. His brow lifted, just a little.
“My type?”
Emi shrugged, the corner of her mouth quirking despite her exhaustion. “Yeah. The ‘I’ll be fine’ type. The ‘don’t worry about me’ type. The broody, emotionally constipated, probably eats instant noodles for dinner every night and pretends it’s a lifestyle choice type.”
His eyes narrowed.
She only grinned wider.
“You’ve got the look down. Very moody. Very ‘do not perceive me.’”
“...I wasn’t aware I was being perceived,” he deadpanned.
“Oh, you’re definitely perceived. All the time. Every time you scowl at me in the hallway, I take it as a personal greeting.”
“That wasn’t a greeting.” It really wasn’t.
“I know,” she chirped, bright and unbothered. “But it’s the closest thing I’ve gotten, so I’ll take what I can get.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. It wasn’t quite a laugh. But it wasn’t a sigh, either.
Emi, despite herself, softened. The banter had come easily—too easily, maybe. But now that the worst was over, now that he was awake and talking and alive , the weight she’d been carrying for the last twelve hours loosened a little more.
She could still see it, though. The tension in his shoulders. The guilt behind his silence. That haunted look in his eyes when she’d mentioned the stab wound.
"You blamed yourself," she said, quieter now. “For letting him get away.”
He stiffened.
She didn’t press. Just moved gently, calmly, like she did with patients on the edge of panic. Like if she gave him enough quiet, he’d find his own way back from it.
“You’re alive,” she said finally. “That’s what matters.”
A pause.
Aizawa didn’t answer, but he didn’t look away either.
And somehow, Emi figured that was enough—for now.
“I said, it’s fine.”
His tone wasn’t angry. Not really. Just… final. As if shutting the conversation down was the only way he knew how to regain control of it.
She turned back to look at him.
“ No," she said simply, without softness this time. “It’s not fine.”
That made him glance up. Just briefly. But her expression was unreadable—some strange mix of exasperation and… something else. Something brittle.
“You almost died, Aizawa.”
She didn’t say it like it was a dramatic declaration. She said it like it hurt to remember.
“You don’t just brush that off.”
His mouth pressed into a tight line. He shifted, just enough to pull the blanket higher across his chest, like he could bury himself under the weight of it. But his eyes stayed on her. Watching. Measuring.
“Why are you even here?” he asked finally. “You could’ve handed me off to any doctor in this place.”
Emi blinked at him.
Then she let out a quiet laugh—tired and not even a little bit amused.
“I asked myself that, too,” she admitted. “Believe me. More than once. Sitting here all night while you refused to wake up, trying to ignore the fact that I’ve got three other patients down the hall I had to pawn off on my intern just to stay.”
She stepped back toward the chair and rested her hand on the back of it, eyes down.
“But when they wheeled you in, covered in blood, half-conscious and fading fast...” She hesitated, just for a second.
“I couldn’t walk away.”
The words lingered between them. Her voice hadn’t cracked, but it was close. Close enough that Aizawa felt something shift under his ribs, just for a moment.
Emi let out a breath. Smiled again—wry this time.
“Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so much time listening to you stomp around upstairs at 3 a.m. that I couldn’t stomach the idea of it being quiet.”
He stared at her.
She met his eyes, finally, and the tiredness there hit him harder than any scalpel. The way her smile didn’t quite fit on her face today. The faint shadows under her eyes. The soft, human edges of someone who had just spent hours fighting for a man she barely knew—and somehow, cared about anyway.
“Or maybe I just didn’t want you to die before you tried the banana bread I left at your door last week,” she added with a small shrug.
Silence.
Then, unexpectedly—
“…It was dry,” Aizawa muttered.
Emi’s mouth dropped open in mock horror. “Excuse me?”
His face was unreadable. But there was a flicker—barely visible—at the corner of his mouth.
She huffed. “Unbelievable. Almost bleed out in an alley and still find time to insult my baking.”
He didn’t answer.
But for the first time, the silence between them didn’t feel heavy.
It felt... tentative.
Like the beginning of something neither of them had the vocabulary for yet.
Chapter 4: Bandages And New Company, It's Just The Begininng
Chapter Text
The apartment was too quiet.
Aizawa sat slouched on the couch, a blanket haphazardly thrown over his lap, one arm resting along the backrest as his phone cast a cold glow onto his face. His thumb hovered above the screen, the volume turned down low as a video looped silently. A cat—round, fluffy, and clearly overfed—tried and failed to leap onto a kitchen counter, knocking over a cup in the process. It was the third video he'd watched in ten minutes.
He stared blankly at the screen. Then sighed.
Dumb. Why was he watching this?
He let the video play again anyway. Something about the cat’s determined little jump reminded him of her. Stupid.
With a grunt, he dropped the phone onto the cushion beside him. The ache in his side had dulled to a persistent throb, wrapped and stitched beneath layers of bandage, but it wasn't what kept him tense. Not really.
He leaned back against the cushions and stared at the ceiling for a long moment, eyes half-lidded, the buzz of low thoughts circling like gnats.
He should’ve just asked the Recovery Girl.
She would’ve healed him up in a few seconds flat, maybe scolded him for overexerting himself at his age. He could’ve avoided the hassle, the pain, the damn check-ups. But even that small ask… it felt like too much. Too personal. Too much like weakness.
And now, all he had was time to sit here and think. Think about the hospital. Think about her.
Emi Fukukado.
He’d barely spoken to her before last week, and yet now—he couldn't stop hearing her voice in the back of his head. Not the bubbly chatter from next door, but the tired, determined tone she’d used when she thought he couldn’t hear her.
Her hand on his chest. Her blood-stained fingers. That panic in her voice.
And—
"Fukukado!"
Aizawa’s brow furrowed slightly as the memory surged to the surface, vivid and immediate.
The door had burst open, slamming against the wall. A new figure stood framed in the light, breathing hard, voice sharp.
"K-Kaito!" she’d yelped, jumping slightly from her seat.
He remembered how she straightened instinctively—shoulders pulled tight, hands fluttering uselessly for a second. Her voice had dropped low, her body angled slightly toward him, like she was caught doing something wrong.
"I was just about to leave—!"
"No, you weren’t." The man—Kaito, apparently—had cut her off with a calm severity that was harder than anger. He stepped forward, and Emi backed up a fraction, uneasily laughing.
"I am—!"
"How long have you been here?"
That voice—controlled, but lined with something else. Concern. Frustration. Tired affection.
"Not… long. Eight… teen?" Her eyes darted guiltily to the floor.
"Twenty-eight. Twenty-eight hours, Fukukado." The man exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Time to go, Emi."
He grabbed her collar with one hand, tugging her away from Aizawa’s bedside like she weighed nothing. Emi squawked, struggling and flailing in a half-hearted protest.
"Alright, alright! I’ll go, Kaito—release me!"
The door slammed behind them, leaving Aizawa in a stunned silence.
Even from his bed, weak and foggy, he could hear her still. Muffled bickering through the walls. Her voice, unmistakable.
That’s what stayed with him. Not the pain. Not the blood.
Her.
He shifted now on the couch, jaw clenched, arms folding tight over his chest as if trying to physically restrain the thoughts from returning. But they came anyway. The way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes when he woke up. The exhaustion smudging beneath her lashes. The soft, careful tone she used—even when he growled at her.
No one had waited at his bedside like that before. Not for that long. Not in silence. Not without expecting anything in return.
And for what? He was just her neighbor.
A grumpy, antisocial, forgettable man living next door. The one who never responded when she knocked to deliver her stupid muffins or her dumb jokes. He had given her nothing but apathy—and she still waited. Stayed.
He reached for his phone again, flipping it over in his palm, the screen lighting up his features. No new messages. No new calls.
Of course not.
He ran his thumb across the edge of the screen absently, staring past it this time, mind drifting again. This wasn’t like him. He wasn’t sentimental. He didn’t dwell.
So why did it bother him so much, picturing her sleeping with her head slumped over his hospital bed?
Why did it bother him even more that she hadn’t come knocking on his door since?
He exhaled sharply through his nose and tossed the phone onto the table.
“Stupid cat,” he muttered.
But it wasn’t the cat he was thinking about.
It was her.
Just as Aizawa pushed himself up from the couch, ready to shake the thoughts of her out of his head and maybe grab a painkiller or another bottle of water—
Knock knock.
He froze.
The sound came again, louder this time.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Persistent. Sharp.
He groaned. “I have no time for this,” he muttered under his breath. His body already felt heavy, and now this? He dragged himself across the living room with sluggish irritation, muttering curses under his breath.
The knocking didn’t stop. Two more. Then three. Each one louder, more insistent. As if whoever it was refused to be ignored.
“Alright, alright ,” he grumbled, stomping barefoot toward the door without even bothering to peek through the peephole. He was too tired to care. Too sore to play guessing games.
He swung the door open with the kind of expression that warned people to back off. A full scowl was already etched onto his face—eyebrows furrowed, jaw tight.
And then—
He stopped.
There she was.
Emi Fukukado.
Exactly as he’d imagined her just minutes ago. Except more vivid, more real, more—irritatingly there.
She beamed up at him like the sun had personally appointed her its ambassador. Her signature grin was in full force, and for a split second he could’ve sworn the hallway brightened.
She looked... different. Not like the doctor he remembered leaning over him with exhaustion in her face and blood on her hands. Today, she was all warmth and softness—hair down and gleaming against her shoulders, wearing a snug henley top and low-rise jeans that hugged her in all the right places.
He noticed. And immediately cursed himself for noticing.
He also noticed how the soft fabric of her shirt clung to the curve of her chest when she shifted her weight slightly, her bag swinging from one hand.
He clenched his jaw. Hard.
“What do you want?” he asked, his voice coming out gruff, as if he'd just been rudely awoken from a nap—which, to be fair, wasn’t far from the truth.
Her smile didn’t budge. In fact, she laughed—light, amused, and completely unaffected by his tone.
“Well hello to you too, Aizawa!” she said brightly.
“You’ve been missing your check-up,” she said, tilting her head slightly as she reached into her bag. “And since I’m your— or was , attending, I brought the supplies!”
She held them up like a prize—gauze, gloves, antiseptic, fresh dressings, even a roll of medical tape. All perfectly organized. She looked far too pleased with herself.
He furrowed his brows and closed his eyes for a second. “I’m fine,” he said, voice flat and dry.
“It’s not an offer, Aizawa,” she muttered, planting her hands on her hips. She leaned forward slightly, like a mother scolding her kid for skipping lunch.
Unfortunately, she also wasn’t wearing a coat. And that henley didn’t exactly leave much to the imagination. His eyes accidentally caught the dip of her cleavage.
He turned his head sharply. Groaned. “Why do you feel the need to do this?” he muttered, still standing in the open doorway.
“Because I’m a doctor,” she said sweetly. “And also your very caring neighbor. Come on, please?”
She stepped closer, hands still full of medical gear, and gave him her best puppy-dog eyes—wide, sparkling, utterly disarming.
His eye twitched.
He tried denying her a few more times. But Emi, in classic Emi fashion, was stubborn as hell. She slipped past every protest with soft words and pointed logic until he gave up entirely.
With a sigh of defeat, he stepped aside.
“Fine.”
She grinned like she’d just won a prize and brushed past him, her shoulder brushing his arm as she walked into the apartment. As she passed, he caught the faintest whiff of her—floral, warm, slightly fruity. It caught in his throat. He didn’t know shampoo could smell like that.
“Pretty decent place you’ve got here,” she said, glancing around with mild curiosity. “Not much different than mine, honestly. Kinda cozy.”
He gave her nothing but silence, already walking toward the kitchen out of habit.
“Stop,” she said suddenly.
He paused, just as her small frame stepped in front of him, both arms stretched out like she was guarding a vault. Her head barely reached his shoulder.
She looked up at him, brows raised. “You’re not serving me anything, got it? Sit down. You’re the patient.”
“I wasn’t going to,” he deadpanned.
She flushed slightly. “Whatever! Just, sit down.”
She folded her arms—unintentionally lifting her chest just enough to draw his eyes again before he quickly looked away.
He did as she asked and sank back into the couch. Might as well get it over with, he thought. Maybe she’d leave faster if he cooperated.
“Take off your shirt,” she said, tugging on a pair of gloves with a snap.
He hesitated—not because he was shy, but… well. Her eyes were on him now. And when he looked back at her, they trailed slowly across his body—intent, professional, but…
There was a flicker of something else.
“Aizawa?”
He snapped out of it and sighed through his nose, then peeled off his shirt with slow, careful movements, wincing slightly as the fabric tugged against the dressing.
She stepped closer and crouched beside him to examine the wound, her brows furrowing.
“Hmm…”
Her fingers ghosted over his skin with careful precision, warm even through the gloves. She worked in silence for a minute, disinfecting the area and peeling away the old gauze. Then, softly, she said:
“I wanted to say… I’m sorry.”
He glanced at her. “For what?”
“For staying by your side so long in the hospital,” she murmured. Her eyes didn’t meet his. She focused on the wound instead. “I know it wasn’t really… my place. I just… I couldn’t leave. Not when you were like that.”
He said nothing.
“I know I’m just your neighbor. And a doctor doing her job. But it felt like more than that,” she admitted quietly. “And I pushed myself. Maybe too hard.”
He let her talk. Her voice was softer now. Less sunbeam, more dusk.
When she started taping a fresh dressing over his ribs, he finally spoke.
“…It’s fine.”
She blinked, surprised.
“I didn’t ask you to stay,” he continued. “But I didn’t hate that you did.”
Her hands stilled for a moment on his skin. He didn’t look at her.
“You shouldn’t have pulled a twenty-eight hour shift, though.”
She huffed a laugh under her breath. “You remembered, huh?”
“Hard to forget. You looked ready to collapse.”
“I was fine,” she said, though her smile this time was sheepish. “I had snacks. And caffeine. And…” She trailed off.
He raised an eyebrow.
“And I guess I just… wanted to make sure you woke up. That’s all.”
She finished peeling his old bandage and leaned back slightly, still crouched beside him. Her eyes lifted to meet his.
For a long second, they just looked at each other. Her knees were almost touching his. Her hair fell over one shoulder, catching the light. Her cheeks were slightly pink—not from the effort, but from something else entirely.
He cleared his throat and looked away first.
“Next time, let someone else take the night shift.”
“I will,” she said. But there was mischief in her smile again. “Unless you’re the patient.”
He sighed. “You’re relentless.”
“Thank you,” she said cheerfully,
Emi’s fingers lingered on the line of the dressing, smoothing it down with more care than strictly necessary. She was quiet for a beat longer than usual, her eyes casually flicking up over his chest—his defined pecs, the muscles lining his stomach, the faint scar trailing down one side. He has a lot of scars…
She swallowed.
Okay. Wow. So the man was built like a damn statue. No wonder he was so heavy when she had to help lift him in the hospital. Her hands stilled, pressing lightly against the ridges of his abs. Definitely not just a lazy neighbor with insomnia.
And so damn well fit too.
“What do you do, Aizawa?” she asked, almost absently, but her gaze locked on his with curiosity, with something a little warmer behind it. “You’re not just some night owl accountant or whatever, right?”
He looked down at her.
Her knees were between his legs. Her hands were literally on his stomach. Her face tilted up like that, impossibly close. Intimate. Far too intimate.
How the hell had he let this happen?
She blinked up at him with wide, open eyes.
He sighed. Might as well get it over with.
“I’m a Pro Hero,” he said quietly.
She blinked.
“…A what now?”
“A Pro Hero. Underground division.”
Her jaw dropped, a smile breaking through instantly like the first spark of a firework. She leaned in, all sense of modesty forgotten.
“No way. No way. My neighbor is a Pro Hero?! How come I’ve never seen you on TV?! That’s— Wait—do you have a name? A hero's name? Aizawa, this is insane—!”
He frowned and lifted a hand, placing it firmly but not harshly on her shoulder, nudging her back an inch. Her breath had hit his skin, and it was doing things to him that he didn’t want to acknowledge.
“Did you miss the part where I said underground?” he muttered.
“Oh. Right.” She still looked like Christmas had come early. “So you’re, like, a secret hero. That’s even cooler.”
“Not secret. Just… discreet.” He rubbed at his temple. “Pro Hero EraserHead. My quirk’s Erasure. I can nullify other people’s quirks when I look at them.”
Emi’s eyes widened again. “Whoa. That’s powerful. Wait, like—permanently?”
So cool!
“No. Temporarily,” he explained patiently, like he was talking to an excitable intern. “The effect ends when I blink. But it dries out my eyes, fast. One of the reasons I patrol mostly at night.”
Emi’s brows drew together slightly. “Ah. That explains the… whole ‘perpetually exhausted insomniac’ look.”
“Thanks.”
She giggled, and the sound was unfairly cute.
Then her expression softened. Her fingers returned to his ribs, more delicate now, gentle in a way that made something unfamiliar twist in his chest.
“That explains why you got stabbed,” she murmured. “And why you were so calm about it.”
“I didn’t know you were a doctor,” he offered, breaking the silence.
Emi gave a sheepish little laugh. “Yeah. I don’t exactly broadcast it either. I like people treating me normally.”
He hummed. “You’re too loud to be normal.”
She bumped her shoulder lightly into his side, careful not to jostle him. “And you’re too grumpy to be endearing, but somehow you manage.”
He should’ve rolled his eyes. But her smile made it harder than it should’ve been.
Just as she leaned in to tape the last edge of the dressing, the sharp sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Aizawa stiffened. Emi glanced toward the door.
Then—BANG.
The front door flew open with a crash.
“SHOUTAAAA!”
A tall man burst into the apartment, all energy and panic. Blond, lanky, wearing sunglasses indoors like it was 1999 and somehow still pulling it off. His loud floral shirt was unbuttoned halfway, jeans tight, and his long blond hair tied up in a loose man bun. He looked like a fashionable disco ball with legs.
Hizashi Yamada.
Aizawa’s best friend.
Also known as Present Mic.
The second his green eyes landed on the scene—Aizawa shirtless on the couch, a stunning green-haired woman kneeling between his thighs, hands on his bare abs—his mouth dropped open. Comically wide.
“YO WHAT THE—SHO!” Hizashi’s voice echoed through the apartment like a damn concert speaker. “BRO. ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!”
Aizawa groaned. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“It looks like you’re getting lucky on a Tuesday afternoon!”
“I’m dressing his wounds,” Emi said cheerfully, utterly unbothered. “Hi! I’m Emi.”
Hizashi blinked. “Uh. Hi. Wow. Okay. Hi.”
“She’s my neighbor,” Aizawa added dryly, rubbing at his temple like he was seconds from collapsing into the couch.
“Sure, sure,” Hizashi said, eyes still bulging. “Your neighbor is hot as hell and has her hands on your abs. I totally believe that’s casual.”
“It was casual,” Aizawa muttered under his breath.
“Was,” Emi echoed, amused.
Hizashi just stood there, arms flailing a little. “I rushed over because I heard you were discharged, I brought you food, I thought maybe you’d be bleeding out, and instead you’re being nursed back to health by—by—by Aphrodite over here!”
“Aphrodite?” Emi laughed, standing and dusting off her knees. “That’s a new one.”
Aizawa sighed and slowly reached for his shirt. “Can we not?”
Hizashi didn’t answer. Just slowly turned back toward the door and muttered, “I need to recalibrate my entire worldview.”
Just as the atmosphere began to settle from the dramatic entrance, Hizashi finally shut the apartment door behind him with a click . He turned back toward them, now much calmer, his energy shifting into something more playful and curious.
He walked over, flashing Emi a dazzling grin that felt like sunshine with glitter sprinkled on top.
Emi blinked. Wow, she thought. He’s the exact opposite of Aizawa.
“I’m Hizashi Yamada,” he said, extending a hand with a flourish. “This grump’s best friend.”
Emi beamed and shook it enthusiastically. “Fukukado Emi. You can call me Emi. His next-door neighbor, slash doctor.”
Hizashi raised a brow, clearly impressed. “Cool! He’s one lucky patient-slash-neighbor.”
“Oh, stop it,” Emi giggled, scratching the back of her head, cheeks flushing just slightly.
They both laughed, easy and bright. It was instant—like they’d been longtime friends instead of just meeting. Aizawa, now fully over it, got up with a groan and trudged toward the kitchen without a word.
“I’m getting tea,” he muttered. “You two are loud.”
“You know you love me,” Hizashi called after him.
Aizawa responded by flipping him off over his shoulder without even turning around.
Hizashi just grinned and leaned against the back of the couch. “So Emi—doctor, huh? That’s impressive. He usually attracts people with more caffeine than credentials.”
“Thanks,” she chuckled. “I’m usually neck-deep in emergencies, but patching up your best friend has been… an experience.”
“Oh, I bet it has.”
They bantered a little more—shared stories, teased Aizawa once or twice from across the room. He grunted at them both in reply, deeply regretting his life choices.
Then something tugged at the edge of Emi’s thoughts.
She narrowed her eyes on Hizashi. His voice was familiar. That overly expressive tone. That dramatic flair. His mustache.
She tilted her head slightly.
Green eyes. Loud personality. That voice…
She stared a little harder.
“Uh…” Hizashi’s smile went crooked. “You alright there, Aphrodite?”
She gasped suddenly, her hands flying to her mouth.
“You!”
Both Aizawa and Hizashi turned to her in surprise.
“...Yes, me!” Hizashi said, throwing up his arms in jazz hands. “Still here. In the flesh. Not a ghost. Hopefully.”
“No, no, no, you! ” Emi pointed at him, eyes wide. “I know you. That voice—you're Present Mic! ”
Hizashi blinked. Then broke into a full grin.
“Ding-ding-ding! We have a winner!”
Aizawa groaned audibly from the kitchen. “Here we go.”
“You’re on the radio ! I listen to your show during my ER shifts!” Emi’s face was practically glowing now. “You’re hilarious! I didn’t recognize you without all the, you know—” She gestured vaguely at him. “Shouting. And leather.”
“I do clean up pretty well,” Hizashi said with a wink. “But hey, I’m flattered. Always glad to hear I’ve got a fan.”
“I mean,” she said, cheeks still pink, “you’re kind of hard to ignore. It’s the mustache. And the, uh... volume.”
“You say volume like it’s a bad thing,” he said, hand to chest in mock offense.
“It is a bad thing,” Aizawa called from the kitchen. “You woke up my cat last time you visited.”
“You don’t have a cat,” Hizashi shot back.
“Exactly.”
Emi burst into laughter.
Aizawa returned a moment later with a cup of tea and dropped onto the couch beside her with a tired sigh. His shirt was still loose, collar hanging open, hair slightly disheveled from having clearly lost the battle with Hizashi’s energy.
“You’re enjoying this,” he muttered under his breath to her.
She gave him a cheeky grin. “A little.”
“You’re still kneeling on my floor.”
She quickly scrambled up to sit beside him properly, brushing imaginary dust off her pants, trying not to make it obvious she’d forgotten she was still on the floor.
Hizashi plopped into the chair opposite them with zero shame. “Man, Sho, I gotta say—if this is what happens when you finally talk to your neighbors, you should do it more often.”
“Get out.”
“Rude!” Hizashi gasped. “I brought food!”
“You brought chaos,” Aizawa deadpanned.
Emi looked between them, eyes sparkling. “You two are nothing alike.”
“That’s what makes it work,” Hizashi said with a wink.
“That’s what makes me question my life,” Aizawa grumbled.
Hizashi threw an arm over the back of the chair, still smirking. “Aw, come on. You’re in good company. You’ve got your charming doctor, and me, your emotionally supportive ray of sunshine.”
“I’m seriously going to kick you out.”
“You say that every time,” Hizashi replied, unconcerned.
“I mean it every time.”
Emi leaned toward Aizawa, nudging him with her elbow. “Let him stay a little longer. He’s entertaining.”
Aizawa gave her a long, pained look. “You’re not helping.”
A silence paused in between three of them.
“You’re pretty handsome up close in real life…”
Emi meant to mutter it to herself. She really did. Just a little thought that slipped out under her breath as she glanced at Hizashi's features again—his strong jawline, the way his green eyes caught the light behind those funky glasses, and that loud, easy charisma that somehow didn’t annoy her as much as it should’ve.
But the room had gone a little too quiet.
And her voice had carried a little too well.
Hizashi blinked. Then grinned.
A pink hue bloomed across his cheeks. “Well thank you, Emi.”
Emi’s eyes widened, hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my God , did I just say that out loud?!”
Hizashi laughed—a rich, warm sound that filled the apartment. “You sure did. Loud and clear. Can’t lie, it’s a great confidence boost.”
Emi groaned and buried her face in both hands, utterly mortified. “I need to be sedated.”
“Too late,” Aizawa muttered, not even looking up from his tea. But his eyes flicked to her from the corner—narrowed, quiet, unreadable.
He took a slow sip.
Hizashi, of course, was enjoying every second of this.
“Don’t worry, Emi,” he teased. “I’m used to getting compliments from beautiful women. You’re just... braver than most.”
Emi gave him a playful shove. “Oh, shut up . That was a thought , not a declaration!”
“But now it’s canon,” Hizashi replied with a wink. “And honestly? You’ve got good taste.”
She groaned again, this time with a laugh, and threw a pillow at him. He caught it with ease.
Meanwhile, Aizawa was doing his best impression of a statue. Completely unmoved. Except for that one sharp, sideways glance.
Emi caught it.
She turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “What? Jealous of your friend’s getting all the compliments?” She teased him.
He didn’t flinch. “You compliment him, and he turns pink. You compliment me, and you’re suddenly cursed with regret.”
Her eyes widened. “Wait,
you
heard me earlier?”
Did I say that out loud? That he’s fit?!
Hizashi blinked. “Wait, what compliment? You complimented him ?”
“Nope,” Aizawa cut in flatly. “She didn’t mean to.”
“I said he was… fit,” Emi muttered, looking away quickly.
“Oh-ho-HO!” Hizashi’s grin stretched wider than ever. “Now
that’s
news. Sho, when were you planning on telling me your next-door neighbor-slash-doctor has a crush on you?”
“Huh–? No I don’t–!”
Aizawa’s jaw tensed, but his voice stayed flat. “She was patching me up. It was a professional observation.”
“Professional, my ass,” Hizashi cackled. “You don’t get flustered over someone’s oblique unless it’s got a side of emotion in there.”
"I wasn't!– Tch” Emi reached for another pillow. “I will smother you with this.” She grunted slightly as her voice drowned a few times.
“Rough,” Hizashi said, thoroughly amused. “No wonder Sho likes you.”
A pause.
Emi and Aizawa both went still. Aizawa told him no such thing.
Hizashi froze. “...Did I say that out loud?”
Aizawa gave him a look like he was five seconds away from hurling him off the balcony.
“I’m going to physically eject you from this apartment,” he said, calm and deadly.
“Wha— what did I do?! ”
“You exist .”
Emi, caught in the middle, blinked between the two of them—amused, confused, and blushing like crazy. Her gaze finally settled on Aizawa. “Wait… did you really hear what I said earlier? About the, uh... ‘fit’ thing?”
He looked her dead in the eye, then calmly set his tea down.
“You were literally kneeling between my legs. Of course I heard you.”
Her face flushed instantly. “That’s—it wasn’t like that—!”
“It kinda was,” Hizashi muttered, not helping in the slightest. Emi shot him ‘you weren’t even there’ look.
Aizawa leaned back on the couch, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “It’s not like I can control what you blurt out.”
“Okay! That’s it, I’m going home—”
“No, you’re not,” Aizawa said firmly. “You haven’t finished checking the stitches.”
Emi blinked. “Are you seriously making me stay after that ?”
“I didn’t make you say it.”
“Wow,” Hizashi said, watching the tension build with glee. “This is better than daytime drama. Can you two argue more? Or maybe kiss? Either works.”
They both turned to glare at him in unison.
He put his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, I’ll shut up.”
But the grin never left his face.
The silence that followed was thick—heavy with all the things they weren’t saying. Emi glanced at Aizawa again. He wouldn’t look at her now, even though she could see the faintest tinge of red on the tips of his ears.
She bit her lip, a smile creeping in despite herself.
“Hey, Hizashi,” she said casually.
“Yeah?”
“You think I could steal your best friend for a night or two? Just medically speaking.” Emi said with a lace of teasing in her voice.
Aizawa’s head snapped toward her. Hizashi nearly choked on his laughter.
“Oh, I like you,” he grinned. “You’ve got guts.”
Aizawa stood up without a word.
“Where are you going now?” Emi called.
“To take my meds,” he muttered as he walked off. “And then maybe throw myself into traffic.”
Just as they finished eating and Emi gave his stitches one last careful inspection—satisfied with the healing progress—she started to gather her things.
“Well,” she said, brushing her palms together. “Looks like you're healing fine. I should head back now before it gets too late.”
But before she could even rise fully to her feet, Aizawa's voice cut in, low and firm.
"You're not. Join us."
It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a decision. A command cloaked in his usual gravel.
She paused, her bag halfway slung over her shoulder.
Emi blinked at him. “Uh… I mean—if you’re sure I’m not intruding—”
"You’re not," he said, this time without even looking at her, as if the matter was settled.
There was a strange silence that followed. Not uncomfortable, but charged. Like something heavy was resting in the space between them.
Yamada leaned back in his chair, lips quirking into a knowing grin as he sipped from his water. He’d seen this movie before. Hell, he might’ve written the script.
“Yeah, join us, Emi-chan!” he echoed brightly, elbow propped on the table. “No one in this apartment’s kicking you out. Least of all grump-zilla over there.”
Emi hesitated a beat longer, eyes flicking to Aizawa, then sighed, smiling to herself as she dropped her bag again. “Alright, fine. I’ll stay a little longer. You two are a weird combo, though, I gotta say.”
“Compliment accepted,” Hizashi said, raising his glass. “He’s the gloomy stormcloud, and I’m the rainbow after.”
“You’re more like the disco ball in the middle of a lightning storm,” Aizawa muttered.
“Bold of you to assume people don’t love disco balls,” Hizashi shot back.
Emi stifled a laugh. “He’s got a point. I kinda like the sparkle.”
Hizashi winked at her. “See? At least someone here appreciates culture.”
Aizawa groaned and rubbed his temples. “I should’ve locked the door.”
“Too bad,” Hizashi said cheerily, “I’d have picked the lock anyways.”
“You’re stuck with me and him now.” Emi quickly added.
Yamada grinned at her like she just passed a test. “Oh, she’s definitely your type, Sho.”
Emi choked on her drink. “ His type?! ”
“ I don’t have a type, ” Aizawa said flatly.
“You absolutely do,” Hizashi grinned.
“Let me guess,” Emi leaned in, playful. “Petite and persistent?” A if describing herself.
“Stubborn with no sense of boundaries,” Aizawa muttered under his breath.
“Sounds familiar,” Yamada said with a wide grin, nodding toward Emi. “Maybe someone who shows up uninvited, brings her own medical supplies, and insists on treating wounds on her day off?”
Emi gasped, hand to her chest in mock offense. “How dare you reduce my acts of compassion into character flaws.”
“I call it as I see it,” Aizawa said with a faint smirk.
She threw a napkin at him.
Yamada watched them, grinning behind his hand, utterly entertained. But eventually, he stretched and stood up with a groan, patting his sides. “Alright, lovebirds—”
“We’re not—!” the both snapped but he casually continued,
“ I should get going. Got an early show at the station tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving already?” Emi asked, surprised.
“Yeah, yeah,” Hizashi waved a hand lazily. “You two look cozy enough without me playing third wheel.” Emi again frowned at him with a pout. When Aizawa was too tired to pay anymore mind with the blond.
He leaned down slightly, gaze pointed at Aizawa with a smirk that could cut glass. “I gotta say, Sho... you’re in good hands.”
Then he turned to Emi, voice dropping with playful charm, “And so is he.”
She flushed immediately, laughter bubbling out as she swatted his arm. “Stop that.”
He winked at her. “Make sure he doesn’t forget to take his meds. And, y’know… maybe force him to sleep a full six hours. He respects violence, so feel free to be assertive.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she laughed.
Yamada gave one last stretch, then turned toward the door.
“I’ll come back around later this week,” he called over his shoulder. “Try not to scare her off before then, Sho!”
“I make no promises,” Aizawa said without missing a beat. That made Emi look at him in slight shock and horror.
The door clicked shut behind Hizashi.
Silence settled in his absence. Not heavy, this time—but softer. Comfortable.
Emi was still smiling faintly, looking down at the table.
“He’s really different from you,” she said quietly.
Aizawa grunted. “We balance each other out.”
“I like him. He’s… loud. But warm.”
He nodded.
“And he clearly knows you very well.”
“Don’t mind all of his teasing.” Which made Emi laugh to hide a faint blush across her face.
Another pause.
“I didn’t mean to invite myself in earlier,” she added, suddenly more subdued. “I just… I wanted to check on you. That’s all.”
Aizawa studied her for a moment. Then, voice quieter, “I know.”
Her eyes met his.
“I wouldn’t have let you in if I didn’t want you here.”
She blinked. Her heart did something strange.
Then, before she could think too much about it, she smiled.
“Still,” she said, nudging his arm, “next time, maybe just ask me to stay instead of growling it like an order?”
He rolled his eyes. “I don’t ask.”
“Yeah,” she laughed softly. “I've noticed.” She said below whispered
Chapter 5: Early Mornings and Unspoken Things
Notes:
Man, this chapter makes me miss med school for some reason.
Emi feels... restless. Battling in her own thoughts and feelings.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He hadn’t written back.
Again.
Not even a single word on the little sticky note she left on top of the container of honey-almond muffins. Not a smiley face, not a check mark. Nothing.
Just the empty container she found by her door the next morning. Clean. Every crumb is gone.
The nerve.
Emi lay flat on her back, arms wrapped tightly around her favorite plush cat, her knees curled slightly as she stared up at the ceiling of her dark room. The plush was pressed close to her mouth, muffling a frustrated little groan.
She’d been treating his wounds for the past few weeks—quiet visits, tending to the angry gashes along his ribs and shoulder with careful hands. He never flinched. He barely spoke. But he always let her. Trusted her. That was something.
They weren’t… friends. Not quite. But they weren’t just neighbors anymore either.
He was nicer now. Sort of. Sometimes he even opened the door before she knocked. Sometimes he let her ramble about work or the neighbors or how the cat downstairs kept trying to sneak into her apartment. Sometimes he sat in silence and just listened.
And that was dangerous.
Because Emi’s imagination had started to run away from her.
Her cheeks flushed hot in the dark.
He was—well—he is handsome . Obviously. If he’d just shave a little more often. Or maybe not. She kind of liked the stubble. It suited him. Made him look real, a little undone. Like he didn’t care how the world saw him—and yet, he saw everything.
The hair too. Messy. Falling into his face. Half-tied when he was tired. Damp sometimes when he opens the door after a shower, and—god, she shouldn’t know what his hair looked like wet. But she did. And now her heart was hammering again.
She buried her face in the plush cat and groaned.
Was it bad that she liked how broad his shoulders were? How solid he felt when she helped him sit upright to change his bandages? How she had to force herself to look at the wound and not the curve of his waist or the way his voice sounded like gravel when he muttered thank you?
She was losing it .
“I can’t be thinking about my neighbor like this,” she whispered against the plushie. “He’s grumpy. Grumpy and broody and injured and—ugh.”
But he smelled so nice . Like cedarwood and heat and something faintly burnt from his cigarettes.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
They’d made progress. Maybe not a lot. But definitely more than she ever thought possible the night she first met him.
A glance at the clock told her it was 4:56 a.m.
Too early to be awake, too late to go back to sleep. She sighed, peeling herself from the bed. Might as well stick to her routine. Water the plants. Clear her head.
Emi padded barefoot to the bathroom, splashing cool water on her face, brushing the knots from her hair. She tied it up loosely, letting the wisps fall along her cheek. Still half-asleep, she grabbed the small green watering can from the windowsill and stepped out onto her balcony.
The early morning air hit her all at once—cool, damp, soft. There was a slight haze to the sky. Birds were just beginning to chirp.
And then she smelled smoke.
And him.
Her eyes lifted—and there he was. Same spot. Same posture. Elbow braced on the railing, cigarette held loosely between two fingers. Hair unkempt, barely tied back. Black shirt clinging to the lines of his body, half-tucked, as if he hadn’t really meant to come out here, but couldn’t sleep either.
Why am I getting mad deja vu?
His eyes met hers instantly. Like he was already waiting.
“Mornin’,” he said, voice low and gravelly from disuse.
God help her. That voice. Emi swore her toes curled a little.
“M-Morning, Aizawa,” she stammered, fumbling slightly with the watering can.
She turned quickly to her plants, watering them one by one with practiced ease. Only now her hands felt slightly shaky.
Why was she nervous around him?
They’d talked plenty of times. Sat together. Shared actual silences that didn’t feel awkward.
But this? This was different.
Maybe because of the way he was watching her.
Not looking — watching . Carefully. Intently. Like he didn’t want to miss a thing.
“You got an early shift?”
His voice rumbled across the air, curling around her like a slow-burning ember.
She cleared her throat. “Yeah. Hopefully not more than twenty-eight hours this time.”
She gave a soft laugh—meant it to be casual—but it came out breathy. Her cheeks flushed hotter when he didn’t laugh back. Just stared. Unblinking.
Was it the shirt she was wearing? It was one of her looser ones—pink and slightly oversized, slipping off her shoulder without permission. She reached up to adjust it, too fast, accidentally splashing water onto her foot.
Real smooth, Emi.
“How about you?” she asked, trying to salvage her dignity. “Just got back from patrol, I assume?”
He nodded slowly, and then—unexpectedly—stepped closer to his railing. Close enough now that she could see the faint shine of sweat along his collarbone, the flicker of lighter scars she hadn’t noticed before, the slight parting of his lips around the cigarette.
They were only a few feet apart. Balcony to balcony. Too close. Not close enough.
“You’re staring again,” she murmured.
“I know,” he said simply.
A beat of silence passed.
He really should stop smoking… she thought, glancing at the cigarette between his fingers. The ember glowed faintly, casting the barest orange light across his knuckles. She frowned slightly, the concern evident in her eyes before she could mask it. Especially after recovering.
“You know, those are bad for your lungs,” she murmured, still watering the tiny pot of mint she kept on the ledge.
His response came slow. Dry. “So is getting stabbed.”
She let out a breath that was half amusement, half exasperation. “Touché. But one of those I can actually scold you for.”
He gave her a sidelong look. “You already do.”
She bit back a grin. “Because someone needs to.”
There was a quiet hum of acknowledgement between them. The kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled, only lingered comfortably.
But then he did something unexpected.
He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray beside him. Half-finished. Without another word.
Emi blinked.
“You… actually listened to me? That’s a miracle, am I dreaming?” Emi said in a mocking tone pinching her cheeks.
“I’m not deaf.”
“No, but you’re usually—what’s the word—grumpy. Stubborn! Stuck in your ways.”
“I’m still all of those things,” he said, his voice low and even. But he wasn’t looking away from her. In fact, he was watching her more intently now.
Emi’s fingers tightened slightly on the handle of the watering can. “Then why did you—”
“You looked worried.”
The words were simple. Almost careless. But they knocked the breath out of her for a second.
She swallowed and looked down at her plants again, heart thudding a little too loudly for this early in the morning.
“I worry about all my patients,” she lied.
“I’m not your patient anymore.”
She looked up, startled, and found his gaze still locked on hers.
“No,” she said, voice soft. “You’re not.”
Another gust of wind swept through, and her hair shifted over her shoulder, catching in the breeze.
He leaned closer to the edge of his balcony, the distance between them narrowing to only a few feet. She could see the way the early light caught in his tired eyes, the faint shadow of sleeplessness still beneath them, and the quiet way he took her in.
“You didn’t sleep,” he said.
“Couldn’t,” she replied.
He didn’t ask why. He didn’t need to.
She added, almost against her better judgment, “You’ve been in my head...”
His eyes narrowed a fraction, but not in annoyance. More like… curiosity.
His brows lifted just slightly.
She panicked. “I mean—not in a weird way. Just—like. You've been taking up space. Rent-free.” A pause. “
Not
in a way you think it is –” She quickly added after.
AGain. Real fucking smooth Emi Fukukado.
“You’re not subtle,” he said with a smirk.
“I never claimed to be.”
Another silence. It stretched between them like a taut wire. Neither of them broke it.
Finally, he said, voice quieter, “You bake when you’re stressed.”
She blinked. “You figured that out?” She didn't think anyone would taken notice.
“You leave little notes on the containers,” he said, tilting his head. “Feedback required. All caps. Underlined twice.”
Emi flushed. “Well, you never responded.” She folded her arms.
He shrugged. “Didn’t think I needed to. You’re good.”
Her heart hiccupped. “You liked them?”
“I finished all of them, didn’t I?”
She looked down at her feet. “Still. It wouldn’t kill you to write at least one word back.” She pouted.
A small, tired smirk tugged at his mouth. “Next time.”
That’s when something shifted in her chest. It wasn’t fireworks or butterflies. It was quieter than that. Something steady. Strong. Unsettling in the best kind of way.
She looked back up at him, and for once, he didn’t look away.
“Why do you keep doing that?” she asked.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
He didn’t answer right away. But then, just as the sun began to crack over the rooftops, he said, “Because you’re not what I expected.”
Emi’s heart stuttered.
“…Is that a good thing?” She grinned.
“I haven’t decided,” he replied. “But it’s not a bad thing.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”
“So you’ve said.”
She smiled softly, the kind that crept up and stayed. “I need to get ready. Shift starts in an hour.”
He nodded once. “Be careful.”
That stopped her.
She looked at him again, slower this time. “You too.”
He gave her a small nod and disappeared back into his apartment without another word.
But the heat in her cheeks didn’t fade for a long, long time.
The ER bay was already chaos by the time Emi stepped through the automatic doors, white coat swishing with purpose. The air was thick with antiseptic and tension—monitors beeping, voices overlapping, the shuffling of gurneys and nurses. Another typical morning.
Trailing behind her was Akira, a young intern with big eyes and perpetually scuffed sneakers who was trying (and failing) to balance a tablet, a clipboard, and her coffee cup without spilling anything.
“Stay close,” Emi said briskly, not slowing her pace. “If you fall behind, you become someone else's problem.”
“Yes, Doctor Fukukado!” Akira chirped, breathless.
Poor thing. Emi didn’t have time to babysit—not during a packed shift like this. But something about Akira’s wide-eyed anxiety and eagerness to help reminded her of herself during residency. That fierce desire to prove you belonged in the chaos.
Still, she wasn’t going to cut her any slack.
"Chart reviews first. Then rounds. Then you beg the cafeteria for coffee that doesn’t taste like floor cleaner,” she said over her shoulder as they turned a corner. “Congratulations. You’re officially mine today.”
Akira squeaked and nearly dropped her tablet.
Emi had already stopped beside a familiar bed.
“Mr. Okashi,” she sang sweetly, voice immediately shifting into warm, honeyed tones. “You're still giving the nurses a hard time, huh?”
The older man, bandaged from a recent fall and content in his adjustable bed, grinned through a wrinkled face and missing tooth. “Only the cute ones, Doc.”
She laughed gently and moved to check his IV. “Anything I can do to make you feel better today?”
He gave her a crooked, mischievous grin. “Marry me.”
Akira froze mid-step, her mouth opening slightly in shock.
“Wow,” Emi blinked. “That escalated fast.”
“I have a free bus pass,” he added proudly, like it was the crown jewel of his proposal.
She pressed her lips together to stifle a laugh, looked to Akira, then back to him. “Well, how can I refuse that? Let me ask my sister if I can borrow a dress.”
“You don’t have any siblings,” Akira said quietly as they walked a few steps away from the bed.
“I know.” Emi smiled, tearing her gaze from the chart. “Keep an eye on my fiancé. Let’s decrease his morphine drip and monitor pain management from here.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
They moved through the rest of the ER like a blur. One laceration here, one fever workup there. A trauma code in bay four. A crying child in urgent care who Emi managed to calm with a strawberry lollipop and a frog sticker. It was all second nature—like dancing through fire with an unshakable rhythm. Controlled chaos.
She bantered with nurses, gave fast orders, and asked the right questions. She even flicked the ear of Dr. Makoto, one of her long-time colleagues, when he nearly walked off with her tablet. Again.
“Get your own, you mooch.”
He grunted something under his breath, but smiled as he walked off.
Later, she leaned over the nurse’s station to grab updated labs when Dr. Kaito strolled by—messy hair, smug grin, and clipboard in hand. He raised an eyebrow at her.
“You’ve got that flustered look again.”
“I’m working,” Emi said without looking up.
“Sure. Or maybe you’re daydreaming again about that neighbor of yours.” He propped his elbow on the counter. “What was his name again? The one with the jawline and tragic loner energy?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied calmly, though her fingers were definitely gripping the lab sheet tighter than necessary.
“Oh come on, Emi,” Kaito grinned. “You’ve got a type and he’s clearly it. Brooding. Mysterious. Probably fights crime at night or writes sad poetry.”
He was closer to the truth than she’d ever admit.
She made a face, brushing past him. “You’re ridiculous.”
But her heart was already betraying her—because now she was thinking about him again. His gravelly voice when he said "You're not. Join us." His eyes watching her from across the balcony. The way he’d smelled faintly of cedar smoke and soap. The way he’d leaned just slightly too close during their last conversation. Not close enough to touch… but close enough to feel.
She cursed under her breath and ducked into the med supply closet.
This was insane. She wasn’t some hopeless girl crushing on the guy next door. She was a professional. A doctor. A rational, competent adult.
…Who happened to like his stupid stubble and grumpy scowls and the way his shirts stretched a little too well across his chest when he moved—
“Emi,” she whispered to herself, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Get it together.”
She took a few deep breaths, grabbed the saline bags she needed, and slipped back into the hall just as Akira rounded the corner.
“There you are,” the intern beamed. “You okay?”
“Perfectly fine,” Emi lied. “Just... giving myself a very intense pep talk about professional boundaries.”
Akira tilted her head. “Is this about the neighbor again?”
Emi paused, narrowed her eyes at her intern. “I see you’ve gotten bolder.”
Akira flushed. “Sorry! Just… you were muttering to yourself about his arms the other day in the break room and I—uh—accidentally heard—”
“I will assign you to charting discharge summaries for a week.”
Akira clammed up immediately.
Still, Emi couldn’t help but laugh under her breath as she turned back toward the patient bays. Maybe she was hopeless. Maybe she’d lost her mind.
But somewhere, deep in that overly warm and overworked heart of hers, she knew this was already more than a harmless crush.
Emi leaned against the break room counter, her fingers wrapped tightly around the disposable coffee cup as if it might anchor her in reality. The bitterness of hospital-grade caffeine hit her tongue, but her mind was too distracted to even wince.
How the hell did everyone know about her neighbor?
Sure, the stabbing incident made a splash—a Pro Hero stabbed and dragged into the ER under blackout orders wasn’t exactly forgettable—but still. Her shift had barely started and already she’d gotten:
Three “How’s your patient
next door
?” jokes.
One “You’re glowing lately, is it love or lack of sleep?”
And a very unhelpful “If he looks like how you describe, maybe I should try getting stabbed.”
That last one was from Makoto. She was still debating whether to report him or smother him with a pillow.
She sighed, taking another sip. Was she that transparent? That easy to read? Did her coworkers really think she was the type to fall for a cranky, emotionally unavailable man with pretty eyes and a tendency to brood on balconies at 5 a.m.?
…
Okay, maybe they had a point.
Still, it was her business. Private. Delicate. A little absurd, even to her. She wasn’t even sure what it was herself. She just—
"Why are you blushing again?"
Kaito’s voice snapped her out of it, and Emi jumped, nearly spilling her coffee.
“I’m not blushing,” she said automatically, though her ears betrayed her.
“You look like someone’s teenage diary,” he teased, slumping into the seat across from her with a protein bar and too many opinions. “Let me guess—grumpy neighbor left a note this time?”
“I wish ,” Emi muttered into her cup, then froze when she realized what she’d said.
Kaito blinked. “Wait. Wish ?”
Emi stood abruptly, brushing imaginary lint from her coat. “Don’t you have rounds?”
Kaito just laughed as she swept out of the break room, heart pounding way too fast for someone who hadn’t even finished her coffee yet.
The day moved on in a blur of beeping monitors, panicked families, and endless blood work. A toddler with a fractured arm. A woman in labor who refused pain meds. A teenager with alcohol poisoning. One fire alarm. Two code blues. She moved through it all with trained grace—clipboard in one hand, her stethoscope swinging against her chest, commands slipping from her lips like instinct.
But somewhere, under the crisp coat and calm voice, her mind kept tugging back to him .
To the morning air, damp and quiet. To the smell of smoke curling toward her like fingers.
To the way he’d looked up first—before she even stepped out, as if he knew she’d be there.
As if he’d
waited
.
His posture, casual and unbothered, leaning into the railing. Hair wild, lips barely parted, the pink ash of his cigarette pulsing at the tip. There was something maddening in how effortlessly he existed.
And then… the way he looked at her. Like she’d interrupted something. Like she was something.
It was a look she hadn’t forgotten all day.
Dark, deliberate, not just curious—but attentive. A look that said: I see you. I’ve been seeing you.
It clung to her skin, more than her scrub top, more than the sweat between the nape of her neck and her collar. She felt that gaze between her ribs. Deep.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Emi caught herself at the medication cart, palm gently pressed to her cheek as she blinked herself back to the now.
“Girl, you okay?” one of the nurses asked, pausing with a tray of syringes.
“Yeah,” Emi replied too fast, her voice thinner than usual. “Just...feeling warm.”
“Maybe you're getting sick,” another nurse muttered, snapping a cap off a saline flush nearby. “You’re flushed.”
Emi laughed nervously, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s the fourth coffee. I think my blood is 80% caffeine at this point.”
But her eyes wandered again—this time toward the window. The world outside was bright and pulsing with movement, but all she could see was that morning: the wind in her hair, the rise of goosebumps along her arms, and him .
His voice replayed in her head—deep and gravelly, a morning rasp that made her toes curl even though he’d only said, “Mornin’.”
God, she was in trouble .
She swallowed and turned back to the task at hand, but her fingers fumbled when she reached for a vial. It clinked against another, nearly toppling to the floor.
“Whoa—careful,” said another nurse, catching it mid-air and raising a brow. “You sure you're okay?”
“Yep,” Emi said again, almost robotic, smiling like a deer caught in her own headlights.
But inside, her thoughts were anything but okay. They twisted and coiled and ignited in all the wrong places.
I need to stop thinking about his voice.
Or how his shirt rode up when he leaned forward and—god help me—those scars on his hip.
Why do I like the stubble?! It’s unsanitary. I’m a doctor, for god’s sake.
And the hair? I shouldn't want to touch it. He’s my patient—no—neighbor. Just my neighbor.
She caught her own reflection in the glass of a supply cabinet as she turned a corner. Her cheeks were unmistakably pink.
Or maybe I’ve lost my goddamn mind, she thought as she turned away, tugging her coat tighter across her chest as if it could contain whatever this was building inside her.
Whatever this... need was.
Later, as her shift slowed into its final stretch, Emi found herself back at Mr. Okashi’s bedside. The old man was dozing, snoring lightly through an oxygen mask, and Emi smiled to herself as she gently adjusted his blanket, tucking it under his arm like she had so many times before.
“Lucky bastard,” she whispered. “At least you get to sleep.”
The fluorescent lights overhead hummed quietly, the ward finally catching its breath after the day’s storm. Emi was exhausted—bone-deep tired. Her feet throbbed in her shoes. Her shoulders ached from holding the weight of too many lives, too many decisions. But even now, even in the quietest moments when her mind should’ve been blank and still, he found a way in.
Aizawa.
Her annoying, secretive, unfairly hot neighbor with a voice like a back massage and eyes like ink.
She kept thinking about how he looked that morning, all shadows and sleep, the cigarette dangling lazily from his fingers. The way his eyes met hers like he didn’t need to say anything at all. Like silence was enough between them.
And the worst part?
He probably had no idea what he was doing to her.
She bit her lower lip, resting one hip against the counter nearby. Maybe she should stop bringing him baked goods. Stop writing those silly notes with smiley faces and stars and demands for reviews. Maybe she should stop putting so much thought into which pastries he might like best.
Or maybe she should double down. March into his apartment, plant the banana bread in his lap and say, “Tell me what it means to you , Eraserhead.”
She huffed a quiet laugh. Hell, she’d even take a grumble at this point. A nod. A scowl of approval. Anything. Something. Just enough to prove he wasn’t completely immune.
A soft knock on the door broke her thoughts. Akira peeked inside, a tablet hugged to her chest like a schoolgirl with a secret.
“Rounds are done, Dr. Fukukado,” she said, voice hushed. “Should I file the notes from the orthopedic consult?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Akira.” Emi offered her a soft smile, one that didn’t quite hide the fatigue in her eyes.
Akira lingered, fingers nervously picking at the edge of her tablet case. “Um. Sorry if I’m overstepping but… you seem kind of… off today?”
Emi blinked. “Off?”
“Not in a bad way!” the intern added quickly, eyes wide. “Just… distracted. Like you’re thinking about something important… Or someone.”
For a second, Emi thought about denying it. About brushing it off with a joke or a sigh or a playful eyeroll.
But her guard was thin. Paper-thin after so many hours on her feet, after so many thoughts of cigarettes and gravelly voices and stolen balcony glances.
“Maybe I am,” she said instead, voice quieter than usual. Her lips twitched at the corners. “But don’t worry about me. I’ve got one more stop to make before I’m officially off duty.”
Akira tilted her head. “A patient?”
Emi’s smile softened, tilting her head to side slightly, something fond creeping into her eyes. “Yeah. A very important one.”
She paused outside the pediatric oncology ward for a moment, collecting herself.
This part of the hospital always made her breathe differently. Made her chest tighten—not in fear, not in grief, but in reverence. Like it was sacred ground. Like even on her worst days, this was the place that reminded her why she did this. Who she did this for.
Room 412.
Hana’s room.
She exhaled quietly, smoothing a wrinkle in her coat before gently pushing the door open. The lights inside were dimmed low, curtains drawn to block the harsh fluorescent glow from the hallway.
Inside, a familiar voice lit up the room brighter than anything else could.
“Dr. Emi!”
Emi smiled instantly as her eyes landed on the small girl propped up in bed. Hana’s face was pale but radiant, her bald head covered with a soft purple beanie decorated with tiny embroidered stars. Her IV stand loomed beside her like a loyal guard, a quiet monitor beeping steadily at her side.
“Well, look who’s still awake,” Emi said, stepping in. “Shouldn’t you be asleep, Miss Warrior?”
“I was waiting for you,” Hana said matter-of-factly, with the kind of confidence only kids seemed to have. “You’re late!”
Emi chuckled and held up her hands. “I was saving lives, Hana -chan! Give me a break.”
“Uh-huh.” Hana narrowed her eyes. “Were they cuter than me?”
“Oh no, definitely not,” Emi said, crossing the room. “But one of them did offer me a bus pass if I married him, so the competition was fierce today.”
Hana laughed, nose crinkling. “Was he old?”
How cute
.
“So old,” Emi said, lowering herself onto the chair beside the bed. “Like, prehistoric. But sweet. You’d like him!”
“Was he a dinosaur?”
“I think he might’ve been. He had the sleepy eyes of a brontosaurus.”
Hana giggled again, then winced slightly and touched her side.
“Still sore?” Emi asked, immediately leaning forward.
“A little,” Hana admitted. “But not bad. I didn’t throw up today. Just… queasy.”
“That's a win,” Emi said gently, brushing a knuckle over Hana’s covered head. “You’re getting stronger.”
“I know,” Hana said with a small shrug. “I’m training for the rematch.”
Emi’s heart tightened. “That’s right. You beat it once, you can beat it again.”
Hana’s voice dropped to a whisper, but her eyes were steady. “I’m gonna punch cancer right in the face.”
“Good,” Emi said, voice catching slightly. “Make sure it knows who it’s messing with.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the monitor’s beeps steady behind them. Emi watched her—really watched her—this little girl with the brave mouth and trembling hands, with the spirit that somehow hadn’t dulled after everything she’d been through.
“You know…” Hana started, glancing sideways. “I’ve decided something.”
“Oh?”
“I wanna be like you when I grow up.”
Emi blinked. “Like me?”
“Yeah. You’re, like, all the cool things.” Hana counted on her fingers. “Smart. Strong. Pretty. Not afraid of needles. You yell at doctors when they’re dumb. And you always smell nice.”
Emi laughed, startled and touched all at once. “You’ve been sniffing me?”
“I live here, Dr. Emi. I have to get my entertainment somehow.”
“Well, that’s fair,” Emi murmured, smiling.
“And,” Hana added seriously, “you always talk to me like I’m normal. Not sick-normal. Just normal-normal.”
Emi reached over and gently adjusted Hana’s blanket. “That’s because you are normal. You’re just going through something unfair.”
“But it’s okay,” Hana said, eyes bright. “Because I’m gonna beat it. Again.”
“You will,” Emi whispered. “I believe in you.”
“And when I do, I’m gonna go to medical school. And then I’ll be your intern.” Hana beamed. “I’ll have the cool coat and everything.” Hana yawned.
“Oh no,” Emi said with mock concern. “Not another intern.”
“I’ll be better than that girl with the messy bun.”
“Akira?” Emi laughed. “She’s trying her best.”
“Yeah, well, I already know how to hold in puke,” Hana said smugly.
Emi let out a full, warm laugh, then leaned in and kissed her forehead. “You’re gonna put me out of a job.”
“I’ll give you a tour of your new hospital when I’m in charge,” Hana said proudly.
“I can’t wait.”
They were quiet for a few more heartbeats.
“Emi?” Hana said after a moment, voice softer.
“Hmm?”
“Do you ever get scared?”
Emi looked at her, surprised by the question’s sudden weight. “Yeah,” she admitted. “I do. More than I let on.”
“But you don’t look scared,” Hana whispered.
“That’s because I’ve learned how to look brave, even when I’m not.”
“Oh.” Hana nodded. “Maybe I’ll learn that too.”
“You’re already better at it than most adults,” Emi murmured, reaching out and squeezing her small hand.
Hana squeezed back.
After a few more minutes—after adjusting her pillow just the way she liked it, after one more round of bad jokes and a pinky promise to bring her a strawberry milkshake on Friday—Emi finally rose from the chair.
“You’ll come tomorrow?” Hana asked sleepily as she settled deeper into the bed.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Emi said.
“Even if the dinosaur man proposes again?”
That made her giggled.
“Even then.”
Hana smiled, eyes already fluttering shut.
Emi stood in the doorway for a few more seconds, watching her breathe, watching the faint rise and fall of her chest, the defiant peace on her face.
She didn’t know how one tiny kid could carry so much light. So much resilience.
But Hana did. Somehow, she did.
And for the first time all day, Emi’s mind was quiet.
Not because she’d stopped thinking about him.
But because Hana had reminded her of something she’d almost forgotten: she wasn’t just floating through life with a crush and exhaustion. She was anchored. She mattered. She was seen.
Even if the one seeing her wasn’t a mysterious, dark-eyed neighbor with impossible shoulders and infuriating silence.
Maybe it was a ten-year-old with a shaved head, ninja vomit control, and enough courage for both of them.
She left the hospital just as the moon was setting, a dull dark sky washing over the city skyline. The streets were quieter now, the sharp rhythm of city life fading into something gentler. Faint wind whispered through the alleys, and the occasional taxi rumbled by, headlights cutting gold across the pavement.
Emi rolled her shoulders back as she walked, fingers aching, back sore—but her mind still humming.
With him. Again.
Always him.
She hated how easily he’d made a home in her head. The weight of his stare. The curl of his voice. The goddamn way he said her name like it meant something. Like she meant something.
It was infuriating. And yet—
When she reached her apartment door, she paused without meaning to.
Her gaze slid across the hallway to his . Lights off. The door was closed.
It was quiet.
She stood there for a beat too long, chewing the inside of her cheek, her hand resting limply on the doorknob. “Stupid,” she muttered to herself. “You’re not sixteen. You’re a grown woman. Stop acting like a hormonal idiot.”
But still… she lingered.
Because part of her—some foolish, fluttering part—wondered if he was just inside, awake. Maybe waiting for her. Maybe he’d fallen asleep on the couch, long legs tangled in a blanket, hair falling over his eyes, that guarded expression softened by exhaustion.
The mental image made her stomach twist. Inconveniently warm. Dangerously soft.
With a breath she couldn’t quite steady, she turned her key and stepped inside—
—and immediately spotted something on the floor.
A small piece of paper, folded in half, resting just inside her doorway. She blinked, confused for a second, then bent to pick it up. The edges were slightly curled, the ink a little smudged.
Her heart stopped.
It was his handwriting.
“Next time, add walnuts. Might change my mind.”
—A.
Emi stared. Just stared.
Then read it again.
And again.
It wasn’t long. It wasn’t even particularly nice.
But it was something .
Proof that he’d read her stupid banana bread, that or honey-almond muffins note. Proof that he’d thought about it. About her . Enough to write this. To walk over and slip it beneath her door when no one was looking.
Her heart thudded too hard against her ribs. She backed into her apartment on unsteady legs, shutting the door behind her, still gripping the note like it might vanish if she looked away.
She slapped it onto her fridge with a magnet—right next to a photo of her and Hana from last fall, where they were both mid-laugh—and stood there, flustered beyond reason.
“Stupid Emi,” she muttered aloud. “Stupid, stupid Aizawa. This isn’t fair.”
She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, laughing quietly and helplessly to herself.
“I didn’t mean to fall this hard.”
But oh, she had. Truly.
She had , and it was a mess. It was a beautiful, delicious mess of tension and glances and offhand notes that made her legs feel like jelly. Heart heart is beating in a robotic rhythm that she can't explain.
She crossed her apartment slowly, peeling off her coat and letting it fall to the floor. Her chest still fluttered with the adrenaline of it. Just one note. One goddamn note. And she felt like she'd been kissed.
And that was the worst part.
Because now all she could think about was him—tall and tired and annoyingly handsome—leaning over her counter, flicking a walnut into his mouth like a smug bastard while she tried not to combust.
She imagined him tasting the bread again, this time with walnuts. Raising a brow, giving her that tiny, approving nod. Maybe muttering something like, “Not bad, Sunshine.”
God. She'd actually die .
She leaned back against her kitchen counter, letting her head drop back with a groan.
“Get it together, Emi,” she said aloud to the ceiling. “You’re literally fantasizing about baked goods and judgmental grunting. What is wrong with you?”
But it didn’t stop.
Because beneath all that exasperation, all that flustered heat and brainless attraction, there was something deeper. Something still and magnetic and quiet. The way he’d looked at her in the morning light. The gravel in his voice. The distance in his eyes that felt just a little closer now.
She glanced at the note again.
“Might change my mind.”
Was that… was that a joke? Whos is she kidding, he doesn't seem like the type to joke.
Or something more?
She groaned again, this time collapsing onto her couch. Her legs curled up beneath her, fingers still tingling. The hospital day had left her drained, but this? This left her vibrating.
Dizzy and warm.
Hopeful and confused.
And maybe, just maybe, a little in love with a man who didn’t talk much but somehow still managed to say too much.
She reached for her phone, thumb hovering over the screen, tapping away for new recipes. This is ridiculous, she has gone mad haven’t she?
But she smiled.
And whispered into the empty air:
“Next time, I’ll bring double walnuts. Let’s see you really suffer.”
Notes:
We get to see more of Emi's day in the hospital in this chapter. I want to try and insert more characters in the future and especially Hizashi! Hopefully we'll get to see more future characters popping up! And what do we think about Hana?
Chapter 6: Next Time Im Using Your Oven
Notes:
Do they know they're flirting? Or maybe just Emi? Neither of them seem to know anything ... yet.
Chapter Text
He hadn’t meant to write it.
It just… happened. A moment of weakness. Or maybe strength. He still wasn’t sure.
He’d stood there for too long that night, her last note clutched between his fingers—creased, a little smudged from where he’d touched it too much. “Not even a rating?” she’d written, all pout and teasing in her bubbly scrawl. “ Stars? Letter grade? Anything, Eraser-man? ”
He should’ve ignored it like he always did. Tossed it. Burned it. Let her wonder.
Instead, he’d scribbled back:
“Next time, add walnuts. Might change my mind.”
—A.
It wasn’t much.
But it felt like too much.
Stupid. He scoffed at himself again as he sat on the edge of his balcony, elbows on knees, eyes on the dim skyline. The ink had barely dried before he’d slid it under her door like some awkward teenager slipping a love note to their crush.
That should be enough, right? Whatever. He did what she wanted—responded. That was more than he usually gave anyone.
That should be enough, he told himself. She wanted a response. She got it. Done.
He wouldn’t give her more. He couldn’t afford to.
Not when she looked at him like that. Like he wasn’t made of broken pieces.
He wasn’t about to start handing out gold stars and heart stickers just because she made him banana bread.
Even if it was good. Annoyingly good.
He exhaled and leaned back, stretching long legs out in front of him as the night air brushed his bare arms. Still in sweatpants and a black threadbare shirt, freshly showered from patrol, but wide awake. Again.
Sleep didn’t come easy. Never had.
But lately, it wasn’t just the missions or the nightmares keeping him up.
It was her.
That stupid pout she made when he didn’t answer. The brightness in her eyes during those half-dawn balcony chats. The way her voice carried when she was humming in the kitchen. How she talked to her plants like they were people. Like she cared .
God, she cared so easily. So much.
And somehow—somehow—he’d started caring that she cared.
He glanced at the pack of cigarettes sitting on the balcony railing. They were practically calling to him. A routine older than most of his scars. One he didn’t question.
So why was he hesitating?
Right. Because she scolded him.
Just once. That early morning when she caught him lighting up and called him out with a scrunched-up nose and a breezy, “Seriously? You’re healing from a stab wound, not asking for another.”
He hadn’t smoked since. Not near her.
He rolled his eyes at himself and reached for the pack anyway.
Just one. No harm in one.
Still, before he lit it, his gaze drifted— again —to her balcony.
Empty.
No watering can. No clumsy slipper steps. No sleepy hums or crooked smile.
Huh.
That was odd. She always came out at dawn.
Aizawa stared for a few more moments, cigarette between his fingers, unlit. Something itched in his chest. Not worry. Not really. Just… an absence.
A missing piece he hadn’t realized he’d started expecting.
He lit the cigarette, took a single drag—and it didn’t even taste right. Bitter. Hollow. The edge of his craving blunted.
He burned the tip out on the ashtray without finishing it, jaw tight.
“This is ludricrous,” he muttered and pushed off the balcony rail, retreating inside.
The silence in his apartment stretched thin as he lay on the couch, arm flung over his eyes, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths.
Just as he was about to finally let his eyes close—
A noise. Muffled, but distinct.
Through the paper-thin wall, from the other side.
Her kitchen.
The gentle clang of pots. The whirl of a mixer. A low, off-key hum.
His eyes snapped open.
She was up.
And she was singing.
He couldn’t make out the song. Didn’t need to. He knew the tune was stuck in her head from somewhere—maybe a pop song from the radio, maybe a jingle from a show she watched on her tablet while cooking.
He listened. That soft voice. That messy, early-morning chaos she carried like a second heartbeat.
She was baking.
No way, he thought.
No way she was actually doing it.
His note had been a joke. A throwaway line. A response to get her off his back. It wasn’t an invitation to—
The sound of the oven door clanging shut made him freeze.
She was actually making banana bread. Again.
With walnuts. Maybe?
He couldn’t help himself. A single, sharp breath escaped him—half a laugh, half a scoff—and his lips tugged into a reluctant smirk.
Goddamn it.
How cute.
Too cute.
He pushed his palm over his mouth like it might erase the smile.
What the hell was happening to him?
This wasn’t… this wasn’t supposed to be anything.
She was just a neighbor. A persistent, nosy, warm-laughed, bright-eyed neighbor who was too damn nice for her own good and baked like she was trying to win his soul with cinnamon and sugar.
He turned over on the couch, burying his face into the crook of his arm.
This was bad. He was in trouble.
He could feel it now—in the way his pulse kicked up every time he heard her voice, in the way he found himself listening for her footsteps, her laugh, her—
God, she hadn’t even touched him. Not really. A brush of fingers here. A hand on his chest when she checked his stitches. That time she’d leaned too close and he could smell the faint vanilla of her lotion.
And still, he was unraveling.
From a goddamn note about walnuts.
He huffed into the couch cushions.
“Stupid,” he muttered. “She’s stupid. I’m stupid. This whole thing’s stupid.”
But his hand still reached up—slow, automatic—and rested against the wall between them.
Thin drywall. One shared breath away from her.
And maybe, for just a second, that was enough.
He stayed there a moment longer, hand to the wall, heartbeat thudding slow and stupid in his chest.
“Just a neighbor,” he said aloud.
There was a knock.
Once.
Twice.
Then a third, lighter than the rest—hesitant.
Aizawa blinked his eyes open.
He hadn’t realized he’d drifted off.
He sat up, heart thudding once, sharp and unexpected, like his body already knew who it was.
He didn’t check the peephole. He didn’t need to.
He opened the door, and there she was.
Emi. Bright-eyed and barefoot in her sneakers, standing like she’d been debating something the entire short walk up. She looked… different. Casual, but intentional. Her dark jeans hugged her hips just right, and the black Henley she wore was just snug enough to pull his eyes against his will.
Black.
His color.
On her.
God, why did that feel like a punch to the gut?
“Good morning, Eraser!” she beamed, lifting a plastic container with both hands right up to his chest, nearly bumping into him as she tiptoed.
He looked down at her. She was too damn close. Way too damn close.
The light scent of her shampoo—coconut, or vanilla, or something he didn’t know the name of but had started to associate with warmth —hit him full-force. It made his brain short-circuit.
He blinked.
She was still there. Smiling. Holding the box of… whatever. Banana bread, obviously. But fancier. There was powdered sugar dusted on top this time, the faintest swirl of frosting near the edge. Upgraded.
Her lips were glossy. Why were her lips glossy?
“You're wearing black,” he muttered, without meaning to. “Did you steal that from my closet?”
She grinned. “Maybe.”
He scowled. “It doesn’t suit you.”
She tilted her head. “Why? Too broody?”
“Too me. ”
“I’m flattered,” she said, biting back a smirk.
He grumbled something that vaguely sounded like a protest, but she was already slipping past his defenses—verbally and physically.
“Eraser?” she chirped again.
He flinched. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? It’s short for Eraserhead. Catchy. And Cute!”
“Not at all,” he said too fast.
She just laughed. It bounced off his bare walls, settled into the silence like it belonged there.
“You’re just going to make me stand here all day?” she asked innocently, blinking up at him, lashes soft and fluttering.
God help him.
He stepped aside with a sigh, letting the door open further. He didn’t say a word. Just watched her walk past him like she belonged there.
And somehow—she did.
She made a beeline for his kitchen, slipping in like she’d done it a dozen times.
“Your place is so dark,” she muttered with amusement. “Do you live in shadows by choice, or is it part of your brand?”
He said nothing. Just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her move.
She spun slowly, taking it in. “No plants. No snacks. No color. Just... vibes.”
“I’m not a snack person.”
“You’re barely a person,” she teased, flashing him a look over her shoulder.
And God help him, he smiled. Just a twitch. Barely there.
Then she set the container down with a thud and popped it open. “I hope you like coffee.”
His stomach stirred. His chest, too.
He stepped closer.
“I made coffee-walnut-banana cake,” she said softly, with that little burst of pride that made something stupid in him twist. “I infused espresso grounds into the batter. You said walnuts. I listened.”
His throat was dry.
Why the hell was that so cute?
“You didn’t have to,” he said.
“I know.” She smiled again. “But I wanted to.”
Silence stretched. Something heavier hanging in the air now. Unsaid, but very present.
She glanced toward the counter. “Where’s your knife?”
“Why?”
“To cut the cake, grumpy. I don’t do that ‘rustic pull-apart’ nonsense. Presentation matters.”
“You really thought this through,” he muttered.
“Obviously. You think I show up looking like this for just anyone?” She struck a pose—mocking, playful—but he noticed the realness under it.
She had dressed up. Even casually, she looked—hell, radiant.
And she was in his kitchen, opening his drawers like she owned the place. Completely unbothered. Digging around in his life without hesitation.
And he was letting her.
She bent forward slightly to peer into a cabinet.
The hem of her Henley lifted just enough for him to see a sliver of skin above the waistband of her jeans. Smooth. Bare. Warm from the oven.
He looked away. Fast. Jaw clenched. One second longer and he would’ve done something fucking stupid.
Like memorize it.
Or imagine how she’d feel if he—
Nope.
He cleared his throat. “Second drawer. Left.”
She found it with a triumphant hum. Pulled out the sharpest knife he had and sliced clean through the loaf.
“I dusted it with cinnamon sugar,” she said as she worked. “And there’s espresso glaze in the middle. A little gooey on purpose.”
He swallowed. “You really want that five-star review, huh?”
She cut him a look. “I want the truth.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
She met his stare. “Always.”
Another beat passed. The tension shifted.
Less playful now.
He stepped closer.
Close enough to feel the heat coming off her.
Close enough that her elbow brushed his chest as she turned.
And then—quiet. Stillness. Only the sound of her breath and his.
She handed him a slice. Her fingers lingered on his.
He didn’t pull away.
“You always this determined?” he asked, voice low.
Emi grinned, setting the knife down with a little flourish. “I’m a doctor, of course I am. Especially when it’s something worth it.”
He paused. Something about the way she said that—light, casual, but too honest—hit deeper than it should’ve.
His eyes flicked to her again. She was standing with her arms folded now, leaning one hip against the counter like she wasn’t just talking about banana bread anymore.
He cleared his throat. “You really want that review, huh?”
She gave him a look, sharp and playful. “We’re settling this today.”
That damn smirk of hers was back.
“The truth. No more dodging, no more vague grunts. You’re going to eat this cake, and you’re going to tell me—honestly—if it’s worth your highly-coveted, Eraser-grade seal of approval.”
He blinked at her. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is now. ”
He let out a dry snort, tearing another bite from the slice with his teeth as he leaned against the opposite counter.
She watched him, arms still crossed, toe tapping against the tile. “Well?”
He chewed slowly. Deliberately. Just to mess with her.
Her eyes narrowed.
“You are so dramatic,” she muttered.
He swallowed. “It’s decent.”
Her jaw dropped. “ Decent?! That’s downgraded from last time!”
“You added walnuts,” he said with a shrug, tone maddeningly calm. “That’s worth something.”
“But I also added espresso glaze. Did you even notice the cinnamon? The crumb is perfect. Moist, not wet.”
He quirked a brow. “Moist?”
“Moist,” she repeated, proud and defiant.
His lips twitched.
She stepped closer, pointing a finger at him like she was about to scold a very stubborn patient. “Don’t pretend you don’t care. You ate the whole slice. ”
“Force of habit,” he lied, licking a smear of glaze from his thumb. “Reflex.”
Her eyes tracked that small movement. Just for a second.
Then she snapped herself out of it with a small scoff and turned away, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like liar.
He watched her hips sway just slightly as she walked toward the sink to rinse the knife. Black Henley, dark jeans, all domestic and unbothered like she hadn’t just wandered into his guarded, hollow space and filled it with something warm.
Too warm.
“I’ll make you something else next time,” she said over the running water, back to him.
“Next time?” he echoed.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Unless this is a one-time thing" She shrugged "Admit it, you like my baking skills!”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t trust himself to.
Because if he said no , he’d be lying.
And if he said yes , she might start expecting things from him. Things he didn’t know how to give.
She turned around again and leaned against the counter, her bare fingers toying with the edge of the cake container. “I could make a lemon loaf next. Or cinnamon rolls, maybe. Oooh- how do you like a chocolate crossaint? But I’ll need to borrow your oven.” She said as she tapped her chin and pointed at his oven.
“You have one of your own.”
“Yeah, but yours is quiet. And I think my place might be cursed. Every time I bake, the smoke alarm goes off for no reason. I think it’s the toaster’s fault. Yours is brand new! the latest even, and you barely- almost never used it. Have you?”
He gave her a long, steady look. “So your plan is to infiltrate my kitchen and take it over?”
“ Obviously. ” Her smile curved. “You didn’t think this was just about the bread, did you?”
That silenced him.
The air shifted again. Warmer. Denser.
He wasn’t sure what to do with it.
“So?” she asked, voice softer now, as she stepped closer again—closing the space, carefully, deliberately. “What’s the verdict? Be honest.”
He stared at her. Really stared.
At the way she tilted her chin, half-defiant, half-hopeful. The soft sheen on her lips. The tiny freckle near her collarbone that the Henley didn’t quite cover. How close she was now—close enough that if he reached out, he could touch her wrist. Her hip. Her waist.
He didn’t.
But he wanted to.
God, he wanted to.
“The bread’s good,” he said finally, voice like gravel.
She raised a brow. “And?”
“And…” He hesitated. His throat worked. “...You’re persistent.”
“I am. ”
“And nosy.”
She smirked. “Very.”
“And you don’t stop talking.”
She laughed. “You’re really selling me here!”
He looked at her. Quiet. Still.
Then said, low and almost reluctant: “...And I don’t hate it.”
Her breath caught just slightly.
She didn’t smile this time. Didn’t tease.
Just stared up at him like she was trying to solve something unsolvable.
“Good,” she said quietly. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
That did something to him.
Somewhere in his chest, something gave.
Cracked.
He wasn’t ready. He’d never be ready.
But for some reason… that didn’t scare him like it used to.
“Oh come on, don’t be such a grump!”
Emi shoved him lightly between the shoulder blades, nudging him out onto the balcony.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” she said, already slipping past him with the banana bread and two mugs in hand. “Textbook grump. But it’s fine. I’ve decided it’s part of your charm.” she shrugged.
He didn’t argue. The warmth of her touch still lingered, embarrassingly noticeable.
The air outside was crisp. Sunlight spilled over the rooftops, golden and soft. She was already seated, legs curled under her on one of the foldable chairs, her mug clutched in both hands like it was something sacred. She looked like she belonged there.
And he hated that it felt… right.
“You’re seriously making me eat banana bread outside?” he muttered quitely almost to himself, settling into the other chair beside her. Eyebrows furrowed.
“Oh please.” She grinned over the rim of her cup. “The outside is a pigeon and one retired couple two balconies down. You’ll survive.”
He gave her a side-glance. “You’re unusually chipper this morning.”
“I’m always chipper,” she said breezily. “But this coffee’s top-tier, and the sun’s out, and you let me invade your kitchen, so yeah, I’m basically thriving.”
He sipped his coffee—strong, smooth, exactly how he liked it. She looked at it like it was ambrosia.
“ER doctor standards,” she said, catching his expression. “You get picky when caffeine is the only thing keeping your organs functioning.”
He hummed, watching her.
“See?” she said, nodding at the horizon. “Not so bad. You even get the morning light. Kind of romantic, actually.”
He gave her a look. That kind of look.
But the sunlight caught on the curve of her cheekbone, the strands of hair curling around her face. There was something startling about how natural she looked here—like this wasn’t a stranger’s balcony, but hers.
He cleared his throat. “You always do this?”
She tilted her head. “Do what?”
“Run on fumes. Three a.m. shifts. Stitching people together like you’re made of adrenaline and spite.”
She laughed softly. “Spite helps.”
But her tone had dropped, just a little. Something quieter behind it. He waited. She didn’t elaborate.
So he asked the next thing without thinking.
“Your quirk.”
She blinked. “What about it?”
“You’re a doctor,” he said slowly. “You’ve taken care of me. I have never seen you used any kind of healing quirk.”
“That’s because I don’t have one.”
A beat.
He stared at her. He said what first came to his mind “You’re quirkless?”
She snorted. “God, no.”
Then she paused—subtle, but there. Her shoulders rolled like the question had slipped under her skin.
“No,” she said again, softer this time. “Not healing. Nothing useful like that.”
Then, half-grinning: “Wanna see?”
His eyes narrowed. “Is it going to sedate me?”
She smiled. “Nope. Promise. It’s called Outburst. ”
Outburst, huh?
Before he could stop her, her body shimmered with a soft green glow—barely there, more like a heat-haze in the light.
At first, nothing.
Then it hit.
A strange, rising pressure in his chest. His throat itched—almost like laughter was being dragged out of him by force. He bit it back, but—
A sharp, unexpected laugh burst from him.
He almost spilled the coffee.
“What the hell—” he growled, eyes flaring red as his quirk surged. Hair rising, gaze sharp, his power sliced through the air between them, and the green shimmer vanished in an instant.
Emi froze.
Her eyes were wide—startled, a little horrified. “S-Sorry!” she squeaked, hands clenching around the mug. “I didn’t think it’d actually work on you—”
He stared, catching his breath, still half-chuckling. “What the hell was that?”
“My quirk,” she said quickly. “Outburst. Makes people laugh. I can scale it, but sometimes it… leaks. When I’m feeling too much. But it rarely happens now!”
She didn’t meet his eyes. Her voice was small now, vulnerable. “I usually use it on kids. Scared ones. When they’re hurting and need something to distract them. It’s not—” she faltered, “it’s not really helpful for anything serious. Not when it matters.”
He didn’t respond. Just watched her. And that seemed to make it worse.
“I know it’s ridiculous,” she muttered, running a thumb along the mug’s rim. “I’m not a healer, not a fighter. Just good with sutures and calm hands. I show up. I try not to fall apart.”
Still, silence.
She finally looked up at him. “What?”
“You made me laugh.”
Her lips parted slightly. “Accidentally.”
“Still counts,” he said.
She huffed , half laugh. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you laugh.”
“It’s the first time I have in months.” Or even years. He doesn't even rememebr.
The words hung there between them.
She blinked. Her throat worked around something she didn’t say. Then she slowly set her mug down, leaned forward, elbows on her knees.
“Is it always like that?” she asked, voice low. “For you?”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Her gaze dropped to her hands. “Right,” she said quietly. “I get it.”
The wind shifted. Softer now. The light is warmer on their skin.
“How do you do it?” he asked suddenly. “You see the worst of it. Day after day. And you still smile. Still somehow able to make banana bread.”
“I don’t think I do do it.” Her voice was raw now. “Some days I go home and cry in the shower. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
He didn’t flinch.
“And then the next morning,” she said, “I show up again. Bake something stupid. Pretend like it doesn’t stick to my ribs. Like it doesn’t haunt me.”
Her eyes were glassy, but she didn’t look away. “I think maybe I’m tired of pretending.”
A long silence stretched between them.
Then—he reached out. Gently. Slowly. And brushed a loose curl behind her ear, like a reflex.
She inhaled sharply. Froze. Eyes widened.
His fingertips grazed her skin, and she swore she could feel it down her spine. A pause bloomed in her chest, breath caught between want and warning. He was too close. His eyes on her—quiet and intense and impossibly unreadable.
Her cheeks flushed, but she pull back just slightly in surprised. Her voice was breathy when she asked, “Was that… really necessary?” She covered her ear.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “It was.”
Something cracked inside her then. Not broken—just split wide open.
She leaned in an inch. Just an inch. Enough to feel the tension snap between them like wire pulled too tight.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this,” she said softly.
“And what’s ‘this’? exactly”
“Warm,” she whispered. "You're usually cold" She snickered at her terrible attempted pun.
His jaw ticked. Her breath mingled with his now, coffee and something sweeter.
Neither moved.
But god, it would’ve taken so little.
Then—her hand brushed his as she reached for her mug again. The touch lingered.
“So…” she said, recovering slightly. “You’ll let me use your kitchen?”
His voice dropped. “Yeah.”
“For the bread,” she teased, eyes still on his mouth.
He looked at her, gaze slow and heavy.
“Sure,” he said. “For the bread.”
But they both knew damn well it wasn’t about the bread anymore.
Emi leaned back in her chair, coffee nearly gone, the last of the banana bread picked apart between her fingers. It has been a few minutes. Her laughter had faded, but the softness in her eyes lingered — something unspoken swimming just beneath the surface.
She looked at him a beat longer than she probably should’ve. And then she sighed.
“I should go,” she said gently, not moving right away.
Aizawa watched her. “Shift?”
She nodded. “Mhm. A few hours, technically, but I should shower and emotionally prepare for the storm.”
He didn’t reply, but the corner of his mouth dipped — the closest thing to disappointment.
Emi seemed to notice.
With a quiet breath, she rose, collecting the plates and mugs in careful hands, the ceramic clink soft and final. The casual intimacy of it — her clearing dishes on his balcony like she belonged — tugged something low in his chest.
But then she did something he didn’t expect.
As she stepped past him, she paused — just a moment. Then with a kind of deliberate gentleness, she placed a palm to his shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. Familiar. Tender.
And then… let go.
A small space opened between them. Not just physical — something quieter, more careful.
Like she knew it had all hovered too close to the edge.
“Thanks for the coffee,” she said, smiling, but this time it didn’t reach her eyes the same way. “Really. Top-tier. I’ll be thinking about it all shift.”
He didn’t stop her when she stepped inside. Just followed with his eyes, the imprint of her touch still warm on his shoulder.
“I’ll clean these before I go,” she said over her shoulder, already headed to the sink.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
That was the thing about her — she always did. Even when she shouldn’t.
She rolled her sleeves up like she’d done it here a hundred times. Her body moved easily through his kitchen, rinsing, humming faintly under her breath. He stayed in the doorway, watching her with a strange, unfamiliar ache.
It hit him, then, how quiet his apartment would be when she left.
She glanced at him once, catching him mid-thought, and offered one more smile — that soft, real kind that folded just slightly at the corners.
“I’ll see you later, grump,” she teased gently.
And before he could think of something to say — before he could stop her — she was already slipping out the front door.
The click of it closing echoed louder than it should’ve.
He looked down at his coffee cup, still warm in his hand.
Still not about the bread.
Chapter 7: Distance Gives Us A Reason To Love Harder
Notes:
Just when Emi thinks she was making progress with him. Things escalated, and drowned in her overthinkings. Thoughts.
Somehow thankful for her friends for being a distraction.
But her thoughts lingered.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It had been a few days since their last real conversation.
The last time she caught his eye.
The last time they spoke — or managed to utter anything beyond polite silence and heavy looks across the hallway.
The last time Emi had seen the handsome, raven-haired, hot-as-hell neighbor of hers.
And it had been a while.
Even though they lived just a wall apart, their professions had a funny way of keeping them planets away. Aizawa was always coming or going at weird hours, and her own ER shifts twisted her sense of time until days bled into nights and everything blurred into antiseptic and beeping machines.
But still.
She noticed it had been five days.
Exactly.
“Which is stupid ,” Emi muttered to herself, adjusting the collar of her scrubs. “Who keeps count? I’m not twelve.”
What am I? Sixteen all over again with attachment issues?
She reached into her tote to make sure the little container of banana cake was still tucked there safely. She’d baked it the night before with left overs banan she has, almost mindlessly, like her hands had remembered what to do while her brain was busy thinking about him. Or not thinking. Or pretending not to think.
“I didn’t even get to use his oven,” she sighed to herself, fingers brushing the container lid. She grabbed the bottle on the table and opened the cap with a twist for a quick sip. "Five days," Emi muttered under her breath, jabbing the locker shut with her hip. “Ridiculous.”
“Five days since what?”
She nearly jumped out of her skin.
Makoto’s voice startled her hard enough that her water bottle slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a sad thunk.
“ Seriously ?” she hissed, stooping to grab it. “You have the stealth of a feral raccoon.”
Makoto just grinned, arms crossed over his chest. “Five days since what , Emi?”
“Nothing.”
“That didn’t sound like nothing. That sounded like a woman scorned. Or a woman whose baked goods got rejected. Which would you like to claim?”
Emi narrowed her eyes. “I will choke you with a latex glove. So you’d better shut up.”
“Ooh, foreplay?”
“Makoto.”
“I’m just saying, if someone broke your heart, I can totally egg their car. Or send a glitter bomb. I know a guy.”
“You are the guy,” she muttered.
Before Makoto could launch another quip, Kaito appeared like a walking cologne commercial. His sleeves were rolled up, tie gone, a coffee in one hand, and an eyebrow already raised like he’d walked in halfway and didn’t even need context.
“What’s this? Did someone finally reject her baked goods again??” he asked, handing Emi the extra coffee without asking.
“Not the baked goods. Maybe the baker,” Makoto replied, waggling his eyebrows.
“Oh please,” Emi scoffed, taking the cup with a resigned sigh. “Nobody rejected anyone. People are just busy. Professionals . Adults. You know, like me.” Emi sticks her tongue out at Makoto.
“Says the woman who sighed dramatically and said ‘ I didn’t even get to use his oven ’ five minutes ago,” Makoto said helpfully.
Kaito blinked. “I—what?”
Emi nearly choked on her coffee. “ Out of context , Makoto!”
“I mean. It was in context for me.”
Kaito turned toward her with an amused smile. “You baking with someone, Emi?”
“No?!”
“That sounded like a ‘not yet’.”
“It’s not a ‘yet’ situation.”
“So it is someone?” Makoto asked gleefully.
“No comment,” Emi said, sipping the piping hot coffee that soothes and helps her calm down her nerves every time.
Makoto leaned forward conspiratorially. “Is it the guy you stayed for last time? The one that got stabbed during our 3AM shift. The one you had a twenty eight hour shift non stop? Even when people told you to go home countless times until Kaito had to drag you back home, the one guy with the very stab-me eyes?”
Emi shot him a bored unamused look at his exaggeration.
“Do you mean that Underground Pro Hero, Eraserhead?.... Aizawa Shouta was it?” Kaito asked mildly, remembering that particular patient that was rolled in a few weeks ago, already knowing the answer and enjoying the mess.
“You know him?” Emi turned her to him with a raised eyebrow and looked up as he is taller than her. She’s surprised there’s anyone that recognised his hero name.
She just discovered he’s a hero only a few weeks ago.
Makoto snapped his fingers. “That’s the one! Scary hot. Looks like he’d murder me for breathing too loudly. Kind of into it.”
“He’s not scary,” Emi mumbled. “He’s just… reserved.”
“Oh my god , you like him,” Makoto gasped, slapping the locker for dramatic effect.
Emi rolled her eyes. “Can we not do this in the locker room? I’m begging.”
Kaito took a calm sip of his own drink and leaned his shoulder against the wall, eyes on her. “We’re just surprised, that’s all. Usually when someone flirts with you, you pretend not to notice until they cry and transfer hospitals.”
“I do not —”
“She totally does,” Makoto whispered behind his hand.
Emi groaned and tugged at her ponytail like it might ground her back to sanity. “You two are worse than children. You’re like… if my internal chaos got assigned human forms.”
Kaito gave a slow, teasing smile. “Well, to be fair, Makoto is chaos. I’m just the dash of mystery and good looks.”
“And the permanent ‘I just woke up’ hair,” Emi added.
“Which is part of the charm.” He said with a smug.
“Tell that to your stethoscope. I found it in the break room freezer last week.” She doesn’t even want to know how it ended up there.
“Okay, that wasn’t me—”
“Anyway,” Makoto cut in, “when are we meeting this man? I want to vet him. Ask him important questions. Like what his credit score is and whether he’s prepared to date someone who threatens me with surgical tape and scalpel.”
“What?! You are not vetting anyone. Especially not him !”
“Oh come on. Don’t you think it’s a little weird you haven’t seen him in days?”
“I see him,” Emi said. “I mean—we live next to each other. He’s probably just been out.”
Kaito tilted his head with a smirk. “You sure?”
The way he asked it made her falter just a bit. Like he could see that quiet corner of her worry that she hadn’t even let herself name yet.
But she smiled through it anyway. “Yeah. I mean, he’s probably just doing hero stuff. You know. Saving cats. Brooding on rooftops. Being emotionally unavailable.”
And hopefully not another stab.
Makoto gave a delighted wheeze.
“I just think it’s funny,” Kaito said after a beat, stepping closer to hand her a napkin from his pocket, “that you’re so clearly gone for this guy, but we —the two people who’ve known you since you couldn’t intubate without panicking—never even got a clearer picture. Or even a description of how the guy is.”
“Because I didn’t want this,” she said lightly, softly. “It just… happened.” She bit the inside of her cheek.
There’s no way she’d tell them… right? Well Kaito maybe, he once caught her by the collar once while she was in Shouta’s room. But that’s about it. Although, she’d actually trust him more than Makoto when it comes to talking about…particular stuff.
Makoto looked at her, a little quieter now.
Kaito, too.
A beat passed.
And then Makoto leaned forward. “So when do you get to use his oven?”
She broke into a laugh then, bright and startled, pushing both of them away with a scowl that didn’t reach her eyes. A sound that lifted up the spirit in the room.
“You’re both insufferable .”
“But you love us.”
“Barely.”
Makoto slung an arm around her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go be mature adults and pretend we’re not emotionally stunted medical professionals.”
Kaito took her other side, hand casually brushing the curve of her lower back, gentle and steady like always. “You still bringing that cake to Hana?”
Emi smiled, despite herself. “Yeah. Saved her a big slice.”
“Tell her it’s from all three of us,” Kaito whispered next to her ear loud enough for Makoto to hear him too.
“Yeah!”
“Absolutely not,” Emi replied.
It had always been like this with the three of them. Since their rookie years. Through night shifts, code blues, disastrous holiday potlucks, and the pandemic-era chaos, Makoto and Kaito had somehow managed to stay firmly planted in her life like two weeds she couldn’t get rid of — loud, relentless, sometimes too much, but dependable in the ways that counted.
And maybe that’s why, even when they teased her about the neighbor she definitely wasn’t thinking about every night before bed, she didn’t mind too much.
They walked down the hallway like that—three people who’d seen each other through blood, sweat, breakdowns, and breakroom coffee wars. And somehow still made it out the other side whole.
Even if her heart still wandered next door some nights.
“Aight I gotta check on my patient’s blood test, see ya later Emi, Kaito!” Makoto jogged his way and waved leaving the two of them alone.
As soon as Makoto left, Kaito leaned closer to Emi again in the middle of the hospital reception hall with a firm steady hand still on her curved lower back “— She missed you too, you know. Go make her smile.” He smiled down at her and walked away.
Emi watches him walk away the opposite hallway nonchalantly, surely he’s talking about Hana.
But what did he mean by too ?
The pediatric ward always smelled faintly like crayons and hand sanitizer.
As Emi stepped through the brightly colored doorway, the low murmur of cartoons and the occasional squeak of sneakers echoed down the hall. The container in her hands was still warm from where it had been nestled in her tote all morning. Banana, walnut, and a little extra cinnamon — just the way Hana liked it.
She spotted the familiar room near the end of the corridor and smiled softly to herself before knocking gently.
“Hana?” she called in her usual sing-song voice. “I come bearing bribes.”
There was a beat of silence — then a muffled gasp and the thump of something hitting the floor.
“EMI!” came the delighted squeal. “YOU CAME! Is it cake?! Please tell me it’s cake. Please please please—”
The door burst open to reveal an excited little girl with a face lit up like sunrise — and a brand-new head of bouncy brown curls.
Emi blinked dramatically, then grinned. “Is that a new collection I see?”
Hana twirled on the spot, the curls bouncing as she struck a pose. “Do you love it? Nurse Ami says I look like an eighties pop star. I don’t even know what that means, but I think it’s a compliment.”
She is a pop star. At least here at the hospital.
“You look like the cover of a magical girl comic,” Emi said, crouching to eye level. “The kind who saves the day with glitter and sass.”
“I am glitter and sass.” Hana crossed her arms proudly. “This is Clarabelle. She likes cake.”
“Clarabelle has excellent taste,” Emi said, handing her the container with a wink. “Please inform her that today’s offering is banana walnut with a little cinnamon. A very exclusive recipe.”
Hana gasped. “From the secret doctor bakery?”
“Well.” Emi tilted her head dramatically. “It’s actually from Kaito, Makoto… and me. I guess.” The last part came out softer, a little awkward, the memory of Kaito’s voice still fresh in her ear from earlier — She missed you too, you know. Go make her smile.
Hana grinned mischievously as she took the container. “I knew it. You doctors always share cake when you're being sneaky.”
Emi laughed, ruffling her curls gently. “You’d pick up all the gossip if you lived surrounded by nurses and doctors.”
“I do live surrounded by them,” Hana pointed out. “I hear everything. Nurse Ami snores!”
Emi gasped as if in disbelief. “No!”
“ Yes !” Hana pulled a wooden spoon from her drawer like she was about to conduct an investigation. “And Dr. Makoto talks to the vending machine.”
“Well, that I believe.” Not surprised.
“And you,” Hana said, pointing her spoon at Emi like it was a microphone, “you are always thinking your thoughts out loud when you think nobody’s watching!”
“I absolutely do not!”
“You said something about stitches and neighbors once. Ask Nurse Ami. She wrote it down.”
Emi gave an exaggerated groan and flopped onto the chair beside the bed. “I should never have come.”
“You absolutely should have come,” Hana said, already digging into the cake with reverent glee. “You brought Clarabelle her offering.”
“And here I thought I was visiting you .”
“We come as a package,” Hana said, cheeks full of cake. “Like mac and cheese. Or frogs and mud.”
“Frogs and—what? Ew.”
“I saw a frog yesterday. It was outside the window.”
“Did it say hi?”
“No. But I waved.”
Emi chuckled, watching her work through the cake with single-minded joy. Crumbs dotted her blanket, her cheek, and one had somehow landed in Clarabelle’s curls, but she looked content — like a child on a picnic, not one fighting her second round of chemo.
“You’ve gotten taller,” Emi said suddenly, nudging her knee.
“I’ve been eating my broccoli,” Hana said proudly.
“Liar.” Emi teased.
“Okay, Nurse Ami made me eat my broccoli. But I only gagged twice.”
“Such bravery.”
“I try.” She took another bite, then leaned her head against Emi’s arm without looking. “I missed you.”
Emi softened. “I missed you too, munchkin.” She let out a breathy laugh and tucked a strand of a curl of the wig so called— Clarabelle personality behind her ear.
There was a moment of silence as the monitors beeped gently in the background. Emi smoothed the blanket over her knees, then reached over to pluck the crumb from Clarabelle’s curls.
“She’ll need a comb after this.”
“She needs a fan club,” Hana said around her mouthful. “Can you make a club? You’re good at that.”
“I am,” Emi said with mock seriousness. “We’ll make badges. And maybe even a secret handshake.”
Hana beamed. “And cake! Always cake.”
Emi reached over and tapped the tip of her nose and chuckled. “Always.”
For a while, they just sat like that. A little girl and a tired doctor, the world paused around them. Outside the room, life went on — patients buzzed in and out, monitors beeped, laughter came and went in waves. But here, in the warm glow of midday light through cartoon curtains, there was just Clarabelle, banana bread, and the quiet joy of being loved exactly as you are.
The locker room was quiet — for once.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Emi peeled off her scrubs with the slow, sluggish rhythm of someone who’d spent the entire day running on caffeine and adrenaline. Her arms ached, her legs felt like noodles, and her braid was halfway unraveling, but the weight in her chest had lightened just a bit after seeing Hana. That girl had a way of cracking the gray out of her day.
She tugged on a fitted vany blue long-sleeved top, the fabric clinging to her skin like a second layer of sanity. With a sigh, she reached for the jeans draped over her locker door — just in time for a familiar voice to sneak up behind her.
“Yo!”
Emi screeched .
Her elbow shot back on reflex, smacking directly into something solid and very much head-shaped .
“OW!” came Makoto’s dramatic yelp as he staggered back, clutching the side of his skull like he’d been struck with a frying pan.
“ Idiot! ” Emi cried, spinning around in her socks and underwear, jeans still in hand. “You scared me half to death!”
Kaito appeared beside Makoto, entirely too calm as he leaned against the lockers with one hand in his coat pocket and the other holding a half-empty bottle of green tea. “You’re in a hospital, Em,” he said dryly. “If you had died, we’d have had a head start.”
Emi narrowed her eyes. “Wow. Comforting.”
Kaito sipped. “I try.”
Makoto was still dramatically rubbing his head, eyes squeezed shut. “I see stars. I might have a concussion. I need compensation.”
Emi stepped into her jeans and zipped them up without missing a beat. “I’ll compensate you with a fresh slap if you don’t stop whining.”
“You’re mean sometimes,” Makoto muttered. “One of these days I’m calling HR.”
“You are HR.”
“Then I’ll file a report against myself. For suffering.”
Kaito chuckled, eyes dropping momentarily before he politely looked away. “You’re awfully casual being pantless in front of two men, you know.”
“We’ve all seen worse. You were literally elbow-deep in someone’s chest cavity two days ago.”
“True,” Kaito said with a grin. “But they didn’t have legs like yours.”
She gave him a flat look as she tugged on her socks. “You flirt like a man who’s been punched before.”
“Many times.” Kaito tilted his head thoughtfully. “Never by you though. What do I have to do to earn that honor?”
“Ask me again when I’m holding a scalpel.”
Makoto, having “recovered” from his near-death experience, perked up. “Speaking of plans involving scalpels and poor life choices — do you have any tonight?”
Emi blinked, now fully dressed but still barefoot. “Plans?”
Kaito leaned in, grinning. “We’re going to Haru’s. Couple nurses are coming. Makoto’s treating because he messed up the coffee order this morning and owes the entire trauma unit.”
“It was one wrong syrup—”
“It was a war crime , Makoto,” Emi said.
“Ya'll are being hella dramatic.”
“You gave Dr. Oda a caramel hazelnut double shot with oat milk instead of black. He almost cried.”
“I thought the old man looked betrayed.”
Kaito laughed and nudged Emi’s arm gently. “Come with us. It’s Friday. And you’ve been pulling back-to-back shifts. You deserve a drink.”
“And fries,” Makoto added. “Haru’s fries can resurrect the dead.”
“Hmm. Tempting,” Emi admitted, sliding her phone into her back pocket. “But what if I just want to curl up in a blanket burrito and pretend I’m a ghost?”
“Then we’ll bring the fries to you,” Kaito said smoothly. “But they’ll be cold. And soggy. And possibly stolen by Makoto.”
“I can’t help it!” Makoto said defensively. “Fries are my love language.”
Emi gave a long-suffering sigh as she grabbed her sneakers. “Fine. One drink. Maybe fries. But I’m not staying late.”
“You say that every time,” Makoto grinned.
“And then we find you singing karaoke with a stethoscope mic,” Kaito added.
“That happened once !”
“It was recorded,” Kaito said, already pulling out his phone. “Would you like a reminder?”
“Absolutely not.” Emi groaned, tossing her jacket at him. “Put that away or I’m stuffing it down the OR sink.”
Kaito caught the jacket easily, holding it hostage while she slid into her sneakers. “We’ll meet you out front. Don’t bail, or I will text you pictures of your sleep-talking notes.”
“You wouldn’t!” Emi gasped.
“She once said something about spaghetti and eyebrows,” Makoto stage-whispered.
“You two are the worst ,” Emi muttered, biting back a smile.
But the truth was — she needed this. The laughter, the warmth, the ridiculous banter. For a little while, she could shove her complicated neighbor-shaped thoughts to the back of her mind and just... be.
Kaito offered her jacket back with an easy smile. “Come on, Clarabelle’s probably judging you for staying cooped up all night.”
Emi raised a brow. “You remember her name— you knew !?”
“Of course. I never forget a diva.”
And just like that, Emi laughed again — light and bright as they pushed out of the locker room together, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as the day finally gave way to something lighter.
Something that almost felt like freedom.
The inside of Haru’s was the same as always — dim lights, worn booths, and an easy buzz of Friday-night chatter that wrapped around Emi like a favorite sweater. Someone was butchering an old pop song at the karaoke stage, and the familiar scent of fried food and cheap beer clung to the air like secondhand smoke.
But even with the laughter, the clinking glasses, and Makoto spinning like an idiot near the DJ booth with a glowing stick in his mouth — her mind wasn’t here.
It was elsewhere .
With him .
Aizawa.
She leaned against the bar, her elbow resting on the counter as she traced the rim of her drink with a slow finger. Her half-melted ice clinked quietly against the glass.
It had been five days.
Well… technically six. She glanced at the clock behind the bar. 11:55 p.m. Close enough, that counts as the next day.
Six days since she’d last seen him. Since that strange, breathless night in his apartment. Since the way he looked at her like he wanted to say something but didn’t. Since his quiet “thank you,” spoken in that gravelly, warm tone that still echoed in her ears.
Why do I keep thinking about him?
She shut her eyes briefly.
His voice, low and rough and steady. That furrow between his brows that deepened when he was annoyed — or concentrating — or pretending he wasn’t amused. His shoulders, broad and tense under that threadbare shirt. His scarred torso, his stomach, the way her fingertips had grazed over warm, solid skin while she changed his bandages, trying to act like she wasn’t flustered.
And the fact that sometimes — just sometimes — he could be so gentle beneath all that brooding.
She sighed into her glass.
She was definitely falling. And she wasn’t even sure he’d notice.
Or if he’d even—
“Whatcha thinking about?”
A finger poked her cheek, startling her slightly. She turned to find Kaito standing beside her, his smirk easy and playful, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
“Weren’t you just talking to some girl?” Emi asked, narrowing her eyes at him.
“Mm,” Kaito hummed, not even pretending to be sorry. “She was nice. Laughed at my jokes. But then I saw you looking like your drink insulted you, so I came over.”
“How noble.”
“Truly."
"Where’s Makoto?”
Kaito tilted his head lazily toward the DJ section — where Makoto was, predictably, in the middle of some sort of makeshift dance-off with a group of interns.
Emi laughed. “Ahh… he seems to be having fun.”
“He lives for this kind of chaos,” Kaito said, watching her with an unreadable expression. Then his gaze sharpened, voice softening. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
She blinked. “Which one?”
“What were you thinking about?”
Emi hesitated, then offered a crooked smile and leaned back on her stool — and immediately forgot that it was a stool. She yelped as it tipped slightly, but before she could fall, Kaito’s hand shot out and caught her, palm firm against the small of her back.
“Careful now,” he said with a low chuckle, not moving his hand.
She laughed breathlessly, cheeks flushing from both the near-fall and the warmth of his touch. “I’m okay. Thanks.”
“No problem. But you’re still dodging.”
“Nothing serious,” she said, shifting slightly but not entirely pulling away. “Just… thinking about a girl.”
Kaito raised an eyebrow at her, clearly amused. “Oh?”
She caught the teasing lilt in his tone and shoved his shoulder. “No, smartass. I was thinking about Hana.”
“Ah.” Kaito smirked.
He relaxed into a smile — this one softer, touched with something quiet. “She’s a good kid.”
“She is,” Emi murmured, turning her gaze back to her glass. “Second round of chemo, and she still walks around like she’s got glitter in her veins. Wearing wigs like it’s her crown.”
“She’s got a great nurse,” Kaito said.
Emi chuckled. “I’m not her nurse.”
“You’re more than that,” he said, nudging her knee gently with his. “You show up. That matters.”
There was a pause, thick and warm with the kind of silence that comes only when you’ve known someone long enough to stop filling space with words.
Kaito glanced sideways at her, then down at the bar, drumming his fingers lightly against the wood. “You know… I can tell when you’re pretending you’re okay.”
Emi raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yep. It’s in the way you stir your drink. And the way your laugh comes half a second late. And you’ve been extra clumsy lately.”
“Please. I’m always clumsy.” Emi rolled her eyes stating the obvious.
“Sure. But lately it’s like your head’s somewhere else.” He leaned his elbow on the bar, turning to face her fully. “Is it work? Family?”
She hesitated, eyes flicking up to meet his. For a split second, she considered telling him. Telling him everything — about Aizawa, about the way her heart had tangled itself into knots since he entered her life like a quiet storm.
But instead, she said, “It’s… just been a long week.”
Kaito didn’t press. Didn’t push.
He just nodded, then reached out and tapped the edge of her glass. “Then let me at least buy you another drink. You look like you need something stronger than citrus soda.”
She smiled, small but genuine. “Only if you let me buy the fries.”
“Deal.” He lifted his hand toward the bartender, then glanced sideways again. “Hey…” he started “have you ever thought about leaving this place?”
She blinked. “The bar?”
“No dumbass, I mean… this job . This city. Everything.”
His tone wasn’t heavy — just curious. Like he’d been thinking about it, too.
Emi looked down at her hands. “Sometimes. When I’m tired. When it’s all too much.”
“Where would you go?”
She smiled faintly. “Somewhere small. Quiet. Maybe near the mountains. Open a small bakery maybe.” She shrugged.
“Sounds peaceful.”
“Yeah.”
They fell into silence again, and this time it wasn’t heavy. Just... thoughtful.
Then.
And they both laughed. Really laughed. Burst out laughing.
The kind of laugh that made their stomachs ache and heads tilt back. The kind that caught the attention of a few patrons nearby, who turned to look, smiling faintly at the sight of two overworked healthcare professionals unraveling under bar lights.
It was genuine — that rare, sparkling kind of release only two people in the same trench could understand.
“There is completely no way we’re leaving this job,” Emi wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye with the pad of her finger.
“Not in this lifetime,” Kaito agreed, grinning, his voice still colored with amusement as he leaned back on his stool.
They caught each other’s gaze again, the laughter slowly dying down but the warmth still lingering in their smiles.
“What a joke,” Emi muttered, shaking her head, cheeks flushed both from laughter and the alcohol humming softly in her veins.
Kaito let out a breathy chuckle, softer now. “The moment I step outside this job, I think I’d forget who I am.”
Emi’s grin curved wider — mischief and heart. “There’s no way we’re leaving this job.” She muttered again.
Her voice wasn’t defiant. It was full of affection. For the mess. For the chaos. For the long hours and emergency calls and the smell of antiseptic and cheap cafeteria coffee.
Kaito’s eyes softened. “You’re right. It’s hell. And I still can’t imagine doing anything else.”
Emi leaned her arms on the counter, swaying slightly with the music pulsing through the bar. “Why’d you do it? Become a doctor?”
Kaito blinked at her sudden seriousness. Then he rolled the question around in his head like he hadn’t thought about it in a while. “My sister,” he said finally. “Leukemia. She didn’t make it. I was thirteen.”
Emi’s smile faltered, but not from pity. It was a different softness now — knowing, quiet.
“She used to joke that I'd make a terrible doctor,” he added with a chuckle. “Said I cried too easily.”
“You do cry easily.”
“I cried during Moana , okay? That grandma scene got me.” In which made Emi laughed harder, slapping her knees. Kaito is a Hafu, a person born in Japan with half-Japanese and half non-Japanese in his case he’s a mix of English. Totally not a surprise if he’s popular and surrounded by women.
Emi snorted. “You sang along , too.”
Kaito grinned. “And you recorded it, traitor.”
She winked. “Still have the video.”
A pause.
Then Emi turned the question back. “What about you?” he asked gently.
She looked down at her fingers around her glass. Thought for a beat. “I liked helping people,” she started.
“Of course you do.”
“But that sounds too simple.” she shook her head.
“It’s never that simple.”
“My mom,” she said softly. “Heart attack when I was seventeen. We were in this rural town, a tiny clinic, understaffed. She survived, but… barely. That helplessness? That waiting ?” Dreadful.
She shook her head. “I never wanted to feel that again. Or let someone else feel it.”
Kaito didn’t speak, but his gaze said enough. That he got it. That he knew that feeling too — the kind that roots deep in your chest and never really leaves.
A paused in between them “And of course,” Emi said with a smile creeping up on her lips. “I fell in love with medicine.”
Kaito scoffed. “Of course.”
For a while, they just sat in that stillness, not uncomfortable, not heavy — just full of shared truth.
Then Emi turned toward him, the corners of her lips pulling into something light again.
“We’re both hopeless,” she said.
Kaito clinked his glass against hers. “Completely doomed.”
And they both laughed again.
Behind them, Makoto had somehow found himself back on the dance floor wearing two glow necklaces and a crown made of drink straws. Emi watched him with a snort.
“I swear he’s part golden retriever.”
“Part?” Kaito deadpanned.
She laughed, finishing the last of her drink. Her cheeks glowed faintly pink, but not just from the alcohol. It was the warmth of company. The kind that felt easy. Familiar. Safe.
And yet, despite the comfort of it all — the shared memories, the laughter, the bond they clearly had — somewhere in the back of her mind, a familiar face still lingered.
Dark hair. Tired eyes. A voice like gravel and thunder.
Emi blinked. Aizawa.
It was stupid, she thought. He’d probably already forgotten all about that night. About her. Maybe he was out on patrol or back in the hospital. Maybe he’d finally decided to move on. Or maybe she has been too annoying and drove him away. Or maybe she's the only one who's feeling this way.
But still…
“Hey,” Kaito nudged her shoulder. “You okay?”
Emi looked at him and smiled. A real one. But a little sad at the edges.
“Yeah,” she said. “Just thinking.”
He gave a knowing nod but didn’t ask more. Instead, he stood, offering her a hand. “Come on. Let’s go rescue Makoto before he climbs onto the bar and gets us banned.”
She laughed, taking it. “God, I don’t want to fill out another HR report.”
Kaito grinned. “Too late. I already filmed it.”
As they waded into the crowd, Emi felt herself exhale — not just from the drinks or the laughter or the stories, but from the rare comfort of being around people who got it . Who lived in the same kind of exhaustion, carried the same kinds of ghosts.
And yet, as she smiled at her friends, another face stayed lodged quietly in her chest.
Aizawa.
Always a little too quiet. A little too far.
And she’s been missing him for six days.
They parted ways on the sidewalk outside Haru’s, the cold air rushing to meet them like a bucket of ice dumped straight onto the back of their necks. Kaito raised a hand with a lopsided smile, his other arm wrangling Makoto, who was absolutely belting Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” like he was on stage at the Tokyo Dome.
“I will always— hic— looooove yooouuu— !”
“Okay, alright, Whitney,” Kaito muttered, dragging the human jukebox toward the street while throwing Emi a look that was half exasperated, half fond.
Emi chuckled behind her knitted scarf, raising a hand in return. “Good luck,” she mouthed.
Kaito saluted with two fingers, and then they were swallowed up by the curve of the streetlight’s glow, disappearing into the night.
Left alone, Emi pulled her coat tighter around herself. The air bit a little now — sharp and dry, the kind that made your nose sting and your breath come out like smoke. She tucked her hands into her coat pockets and sighed quietly.
She pulled out her phone and checked the time.
1:47 AM.
“Oh, wow,” she whispered. The hour felt both impossibly late and oddly weightless. The kind of hour where everything feels quieter, where your thoughts get louder, and the world seems to shrink into just the space you’re standing in. A sigh puffed out from her lips in a cloud of white breath. “I would be asleep at this time,” she murmured, smiling a little to herself. “But nooo, Makoto had to buy everyone tequila shots…”
She tilted her face up toward the sky. No stars — just the dull glow of the city haloing everything in a sleepy haze. The streetlamps buzzed softly overhead. Somewhere, a car passed. Somewhere farther, a dog barked once and went quiet.
Her boots made soft scuffs against the quiet pavement as she strolled through the sleeping streets, the city dimmed and hushed in a rare moment of stillness. A cat darted across the alley ahead of her, vanishing under a car. A distant siren moaned somewhere in the background. Everything felt slow — a bit unreal.
Her cheeks were warm. Probably the alcohol. Her nose was red — she could feel the tip of it going numb. Still, she didn’t rush.
This part — this short walk home after a long shift and a longer night — was a kind of ritual. A breath of space between the noise and the silence. She liked the way her footsteps sounded on the concrete, and liked the chill biting at her skin. It made her feel alive. Awake in a different way.
And yet, despite the chill in the air, something warm pulsed inside her chest.
She smiled faintly. “This feels like something out of a shoujo manga.”
A girl walking home alone in the middle of the night, nose pink from the cold, heart too full from laughter and lingering thoughts of someone far away. A dramatic montage moment, complete with glittering city lights and the soft murmur of a love song in the distance.
The thought made her chuckle to herself again.
“How dramatic,” she said aloud, shaking her head.
She wasn’t the heroine of some manga. She was just Emi — tired, a little tipsy, and maybe too full of thoughts she had no business keeping. But tonight had been good. It reminded her of something she hadn’t felt in a while.
Her apartment building loomed ahead — a squat, familiar thing nestled between a few other older buildings, all of them quietly existing like tired sentinels.
As she approached the stairwell, she caught sight of the familiar yellow sign duct-taped to the wall by the entrance:
"Elevator Out of Order :( We’re Working On It!"
Right.
She rolled her eyes, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “You’ve been working on it for two weeks, ” she muttered, tapping the bottom of the sign with one cold finger before trudging up the steps.
There was something about the echo of her footsteps on the stairs — sharp, rhythmic, like a heartbeat. She climbed slowly. No rush. She was used to the stairs by now. Besides, it gave her time to let her thoughts drift.
They didn’t wander far.
Shouta.
The name came quietly, like a whisper she didn’t mean to say out loud.
Five days.
Or no — technically six now. She glanced at the time again on her phone. 1:52 AM. Six days since she saw him. Since that strange, quiet, oddly intimate morning in his apartment. Since she’d touched his skin — that small scar below his rib still vivid in her memory — and he told her who he really was.
She hadn’t expected to miss him.
And yet, here she was. Climbing five flights of stairs in the dead of night, red-cheeked and slightly buzzed, wondering if the grump next door had eaten anything in the past week. Wondering how is he doing. Wondering if she has been in his mind like he is in hers. Wondering if he is safe...
He wasn’t exactly the type to send a text. He didn’t owe her anything. Come to think of it, they never exchanged numbers. They weren’t... anything. Not really.
But still.
The way his voice sounded when he called her name. Low. Careful. Like it mattered.
“ Fukukado ” is what he’d always used to call her even though she told him to call her Emi.
She gripped the stair rail a little tighter.
She didn’t want to be dramatic. God, she wasn’t in some shoujo manga , she reminded herself. She wasn’t the clumsy protagonist with sparkles in her eyes who tripped into love and made bento boxes for the emotionally repressed boy next door.
But she still laughed a little — a soft breath escaping through her nose — because wasn’t that exactly what this felt like?
She’d patched him up, hadn’t she? Sat at his bedside. Made him banana bread. Listened to his heartbeat when she thought he was asleep.
She reached her floor at last and paused at the landing, catching her breath.
Maybe it was dramatic. Maybe she was being ridiculous, reading too much into small glances and warm silences. Or maybe she's just delusional.
Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe something had shifted that night. Not just in the room — but inside her.
She exhaled, rubbing her hands together as she walked the hallway toward her door. Her keys jingled faintly as she pulled them out, pausing at the doormat.
Then she glanced — instinctively — at the door next to hers.
No light under the crack.
No sound.
Still gone.
She looked at the door for just a second longer than she needed to. Then she sighed and turned away.
“Good night, Shouta,” she murmured, and slipped quietly inside.
Notes:
Haru's is a the owner's name hehe. I love writing these three, I feel like Makoto and Mic should meet some day. I dont know, we'll see!
Chapter 8: A Little Bit of Everything And A Lot Of Nothing
Notes:
Soft. Slow. Emi is frustrated, mad, glad, worried, all at once. What should she feels now?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
She hadn't slept.
She
tried
— curled up on her couch in her softest sweater and a pair of shorts that barely covered her thighs, eyes closed, body still, counting breaths and sheep and seconds between each drip of the leaky tap — but her mind refused to settle. Sleep had always been elusive on nights like these, when something in her brain wouldn't stop buzzing, and the leftover haze of alcohol from earlier made the silence too loud.
Sometime past 2:30 AM, Emi gave up.
Her hair was tied messily on top of her head, her sweater hung off one bare shoulder, and her legs were chilled from where they stuck out over the blanket. She groaned into the dark ceiling and rolled off the couch with a grumble. " Coffee. I need coffee. "
Dragging her feet across the cold tile, she shuffled into the kitchen, her sweater sleeves flopping past her fingers. She opened the cabinet, squinted inside — and pouted.
"Seriously ? " she muttered.
Empty. No coffee.
She yanked open her pantry. "Okay
,
ramen it is
.
"
Empty.
"...You’ve got to be kidding me
.
"
She stood there, blinking at her sad, hollow shelves.
When was the last time she went grocery shopping? She thought back. The last full day off she'd had was — God , a week and a half ago? Between overnight ER shifts, surprise double shifts, and stress baking for her coworkers, she'd managed to deplete nearly everything edible in her apartment.
She sighed, grabbed her keys, and muttered to herself, "Guess I’m going out . "
It wasn’t like she was going to sleep anyway. A short walk to the twenty-four-hour convenience store might help. The night air would sober her up, clear her head, or at least distract her from the fact that she could still hear Aizawa’s voice in her brain like a ghost. She stepped into her flip-flops and made her way outside, the concrete cool against her toes.
She didn’t make it far before she felt something soft and warm brush against her foot.
“Huh?” Emi looked down.
A cat. A fluffy, golden-eyed tabby with a white chest and paws. It was purring, weaving between her ankles like it had known her forever.
“Ohhh, hello,” she whispered with a delighted beam, crouching low. “You’re new. Haven’t seen you around before.”
She stroked its back gently, smiling as it leaned into her palm. Still a little tipsy, still with flip flops in the hallway, she laughed softly and whispered, “You hungry? I’m going to the store, I’ll get you something, okay?”
The cat meowed as if it understood.
Emi stood back up, tugged her sweater back into place — and turned, distracted and smiling —
Smack.
Her face collided with something solid. Her nose took the brunt of it. “Ow!” she yelped, stumbling back, hand flying to her face. “Watch it—!” Her brows knit together in a scowl as she rubbed the tip of her nose, muttering, “Who the hell just—” Then she looked up. And froze.
….
“Aizawa.”
Her voice came out hoarse, barely more than a breath, like his name had been caught in her throat for days and finally broke free.
There he was.
Right in front of her.
Standing tall and solid in the moonlight, dressed in the dark, battered remains of his hero costume — capture scarf hanging loose, blood crusting along the edge of his temple, bruises already forming high on his cheekbone. His hair was messy, tangled and half-unbound, the heavy strands brushing against the shadow of his jaw.
He looked like hell.
And yet —
he was here.
Emi’s heart lurched violently in her chest, like it had been waiting for him without her permission.
“Aizawa,” she repeated, softer now. Her fingers dropped from her nose. “What the— What happened to you?!”
He didn’t answer right away.
His eyes — those dark, sharp, familiar eyes — scanned her quickly, intensely. Her bare legs. The sweater that had slipped back off her shoulder. The way her breath was fogging in the cold night air. She felt that look settle over her like a weight, like his gaze was trying to memorize her in this moment, sweater threads and sleepy blush and all.
Then his brow furrowed.
“What are you doing out here at this hour?” His voice was low and rough — even more gravelly than usual, threaded with something harsher. Something she couldn’t name.
Emi blinked, struggling to process that he was actually here. After six days of nothing. After all that worrying. After lying awake wondering if she'd ever see him again.
She took a small step closer. “I— I couldn’t sleep,” she said, arms crossing over her chest, not because she was cold, but because suddenly, with him here, she felt exposed. “I was going to the convenience store. I ran out of coffee. And ramen. And, well… pretty much everything. ”
She tried to smile, to make light of it. But he wasn’t smiling back. Of course. He almost never does.
“You shouldn’t be out walking around dressed like that,” he muttered, gaze cutting sharply to her bare thighs again. “It’s the middle of the night.”
Her cheeks flared, more with heat than embarrassment. “It’s not like I was planning on a photoshoot,” she shot back. “It’s just the corner store. I’m five minutes from home.”
His eyes didn’t budge from hers. The air between them had shifted, grown heavier.
“You could’ve at least worn pants.”
Emi gaped at him, exasperated and flustered. “Seriously? That’s what you’re going to say? You show up looking like you just got dragged through a warzone, and you’re worried about my shorts? ”
She stepped toward him again, this time with more force, the worry in her chest bursting past her defenses. “What
happened
to you, Shouta?”
His heart stuttered when she used his name for the first time. But he didn’t say anything.
He didn’t stop her this time when she reached up. Her fingers brushed gently along the dried blood at his temple, soft and tentative. He flinched — not from pain, but from the contact. Like he wasn’t used to being touched like that. Like he didn’t know how to let it happen.
“It’s nothing,” he said finally, quietly.
“It’s not nothing,” she whispered, her thumb lightly brushing over the bruise forming just under his eye. “You’re bleeding.”
He let out a slow breath, eyes half-lidded under her touch, and for a second, just one second, his whole body seemed to sag. As if the moment she touched him, he realized how tired he actually was.
The cat — still at her feet — meowed once and brushed against his shin. He didn’t react.
Emi dropped her hand reluctantly and took a small step back, needing to breathe again. “You’ve been gone for six days,” she said, “ six days , Aizawa!” her voice is a little steadier now, but the worry still laced through it. “No calls. No notes. Not even your grumpy smoking routine.”
she said, voice suddenly quiet, eyes searching his face. “I thought— I mean—”
I thought something happened to you. I was worried. I missed you, you idiot.
She didn’t say it. She didn’t have to.
His expression softened for half a second — barely noticeable, but it was there. The tension in his shoulders dropped a fraction. His lips parted like he might speak.
Then he looked away.
“I was on patrol. Got called in for a long op.” His voice was gravel again, tired and rough. “Didn’t have time to stop by.”
“That’s a shit excuse.”
He didn’t argue.
Emi swallowed, throat tight, heart beating fast for a million reasons. Anger, relief, residual tipsiness, the sting of missing him. The weird ache of how much she’d wanted him to come back, even when she told herself not to.
“You scared me,” she said. “You could’ve left a note,” she murmured again, rubbing her arms. “I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere.”
He sighed, something heavy and regretful in the sound. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
That made him look at her again.
Something flickered behind his eyes — regret, maybe. Guilt. Something softer.
“I’m sorry.”
And God, he sounded like he meant it.
The silence that followed was thick. The kind of silence that feels full, not empty. Full of everything unsaid. Full of the fact that they were standing here, flip flop and boots on, and bruised, in the middle of a quiet hallway at 3AM with a cat between them and years of baggage building slowly toward something they couldn’t name.
Finally, Emi exhaled and shook her head. She stepped closer. Close enough to see the faint tremble in his arms from fatigue. Close enough that she had to look up to meet his eyes. “Come inside,” she said softly. “You’re bleeding.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not fine. You're a mess. You look like you’re about to collapse anytime soon, and I am not dragging your ass back up.”
Aizawa almost smirked at that.
Almost.
Then she reached out — slowly this time — and gently cupped his jaw, her thumb brushing just under a bruise on his cheekbone. His stubble scratched her palm, his skin warm beneath it.
He flinched, just barely. Then went still.
“You don’t have to do this alone all the time, you know,” she whispered, eyes locked on his. “You’re allowed to let someone take care of you.” Let me take care of you .
His gaze dropped to her lips, lingered for a breath too long.
“You’re not going to the store like that,” he muttered again, voice raspier now. He wasn’t looking at her sweater anymore. He was feeling the heat of her against him, the way her hand still rested on his jaw.
“Fine,” she murmured, rolling her eyes and dropping her hands from his face. “Then come inside with me. We need to treat your bruises.”
A pause.
A beat. Then another.
He nodded, just once.
And as she turned to unlock her apartment door, he followed her up from behind and followed her in.
The cat padded after them like a blessing.
The door clicked shut behind them with a soft thud.
Inside, her apartment was dim, lit only by the warm glow of a small kitchen light she’d forgotten to switch off earlier. It cast everything in a hazy gold — the cluttered counter with half a banana bread loaf, a mug with faded lettering, the pile of blankets she’d abandoned on the couch.
Aizawa stood near the entrance, silent, still as stone. His boots left faint marks on the tile, and for a second, he didn’t move — like he wasn’t sure he belonged here.
Emi noticed.
“You can sit,” she said gently, nodding toward the couch. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
He didn’t answer, but after a long moment, he obeyed — lowering himself slowly onto the edge of the cushions like his body didn’t quite trust the furniture to hold him. His capture weapon dragged faintly behind him, part of it still looped around one shoulder. She watched as he reached to unhook it, fingers trembling just a little.
She turned away before he could see her watching.
In the hallway, she flicked on the bathroom light and dug under the sink for the box of supplies. Bandaids, gauze, disinfectant spray. It wasn’t much. Definitely not hospital-grade. But it was something.
She returned to the living room, first-aid box in hand, and stopped short.
He was sitting exactly where she’d left him — on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees — but now his scarf was folded neatly beside him, and his jacket hung halfway off one shoulder. His black shirt was torn at the hem and stained dark with blood near his ribs. Without a word, he pulled it off entirely and dropped it onto the floor.
Emi’s throat went dry.
She stood in front of him, the box clutched to her chest like a shield. “I’ll be gentle,” she muttered, kneeling on the floor between his knees.
Up close, the damage was worse. Bruises bloomed dark across his ribs and along one shoulder, old and new, some yellowing, some fresh and angry purple. Dried blood crusted over a shallow cut above his hip. There was a deeper gash at his side that had already stopped bleeding, but barely.
She bit the inside of her cheek and set to work. Gauze. Antiseptic. Silence.
Then, after a beat — her voice cut sharp and low.
“Why the hell didn’t you go to the hospital straight away?”
He didn’t answer.
Emi didn’t look up. She dabbed gently near his rib, movements slow and practiced but undeniably firm. “Don’t give me bullshit about hating hospitals,” she snapped. “You were bleeding , Aizawa.”
Her tone startled even her. She wasn’t yelling, but the edge in her voice could’ve cut glass. It was rare — too rare — for her to lose her temper like this. But six days of no contact and a hallway reunion that nearly broke her… it boiled over.
Aizawa didn’t look fazed.
In fact — he almost looked amused .
His gaze lingered on her as she worked, the corners of his mouth twitching. Her hair was coming loose from its tie. Her sweater kept slipping off one shoulder again, and she kept pushing it back like it wasn’t her top priority. Her brow was furrowed, eyes narrowed with fierce concern, and her lips were pressed into a tight line.
She was pissed. And worried. And cute as hell.
“Cause I have you,” he said simply, voice low, steady. “That’s why.”
She froze.
Her fingers halted just above a bruise, and for a second, neither of them moved.
She didn’t look at him. “Don’t,” she muttered, heat prickling up the back of her neck. Her stomach twisted — a strange, infuriating, fluttering mess of feelings she didn’t have time to unpack. “Don’t say stuff like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” she bit off the words, too sharp and too soft at the same time, “—because it makes me want to punch you in the face and cry at the same time.”
She moved to clean the dried blood on his side with a fresh pad of gauze. Her touch was gentler this time — barely. She meant to be calm, composed.
But when she moved up to his face, dabbing at the scrape near his cheekbone, her hand slipped a little rougher than she intended.
He winced. A breath hissed through his teeth.
His hand shot out automatically — one arm curling behind her waist, palm resting flat against her lower back as he pulled her forward, as if the sudden sting had triggered something deeply ingrained.
Their faces were close. Closer than they’d ever been.
“You said you’d be gentle,” he muttered, voice gravel and heat. His eyes lifted to hers, sharp and heavy-lidded, framed by tired lashes. The way he looked at her made her pulse jump — like he was trying to memorize the shape of her expression.
“I am being gentle,” she snapped, cheeks burning. “You’re acting like a baby.”
His hand didn’t move.
Neither did she.
His eyes narrowed slightly, and then he did something completely uncalled for.
He rested his chin lightly against her stomach.
Emi froze.
Her breath caught.
His forehead pressed just under the hem of her sweater, right where the fabric brushed the bare skin beneath. She could feel the warmth of him. The stubble of his jaw scratched softly against her navel, and her hands, still holding gauze and antiseptic, hovered in midair like she’d forgotten what they were for.
“You should be extra gentle,” he muttered, voice muffled now. “I’m injured, remember?”
Her brain short-circuited.
A low, annoyed sound left her throat — somewhere between a scoff and a groan. “You’re unbelievable ,” she said, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m here trying to save your reckless, stubborn life, and you’re flirting with my belly button.”
“I don't flirt.”
Another beat of silence passed. He didn’t let go. And, despite every nerve in her body begging her to move , to breathe , to do something , she didn’t push him away.
Finally, she sighed, exasperated. “You better not be bleeding on my sweater.”
He made a faint, amused sound — something like a half-grunt, half-chuckle. His grip on her waist didn’t tighten, but it didn’t let go either. His head rested a little heavier against her now, like exhaustion was finally catching up.
“…Thank you,” he murmured against her, voice so quiet she almost didn’t hear it. “For being mad.” It made him feel like he’s been cared for.
She blinked.
Her heart ached. What the fuck? Is this even the same grumpy person she knew?
“I missed you, dumbass,” she whispered.
He didn’t say anything.
But his fingers curled a little tighter at her back. And that was enough.
She pressed the gauze to the cut on his cheek — gently , this time.
Aizawa didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed on her, steady and unreadable, even as her fingers brushed along the delicate skin near his eye. Her touch lingered longer than it needed to. She wasn’t even sure why. Maybe because he was warm. Or because he was real . After six days of wondering if she’d ever see him again, she couldn’t help but drink him in with her fingertips.
“No complaints,” she murmured, almost to herself.
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t look away either.
Her hand moved lower, tracing a new scrape along the angle of his jaw. A shallow one, but it still bled when she dabbed it clean. Aizawa’s breath caught — just slightly — and Emi felt it, the quiet shift in his body as he reflexively leaned into her touch instead of away.
He wasn’t wearing his scarf. Or his usual half-scowl.
Without them, he looked... softer. Less like the man she teased in passing and more like something unguarded. Human. Quietly tired. Still bleeding.
“Hold still,” she whispered, barely audible.
She dipped her head closer to get a better look at the bruise forming beneath his cheekbone. It was angry and red, blooming over pale skin, and she frowned.
“You didn’t even try to defend your face, huh?” she muttered, her voice tight with concern. “What were you even fighting?”
He exhaled a slow breath. “Doesn’t matter. It's over.”
“Don’t give me that,” she said. Her thumb ghosted over the edge of the bruise. “It matters to me , you jerk.”
A silence bloomed between them, heavy and hot. He could smell the faintest trace of wine on her breath now. Her voice was lower, tinged with frustration and something else — something softer that she kept trying not to let slip.
His eyes dropped to her mouth, then back up to her flushed cheeks. “Were you drinking?”
Her hand froze in midair.
He didn’t move — still resting his chin gently against her stomach, his arm curved behind her back like a tether, like instinct. The contact was solid. Intimate. Her sweater was warm against his skin. She could feel the way his fingertips settled into her spine, possessive without even meaning to be.
“…What?” she asked, her voice too breathy.
“You heard me, Fukukado.” His voice was low, gruff. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
She looked away, flustered. “I was,” she said after a beat. “How did you know?”
“You smell like tequila…and wine.”
Her cheeks deepened in color. “I had half a glass,” she muttered. “And maybe a little sip earlier. That’s not even enough to—”
“You’re flushed.”
She glanced back at him sharply, only to find his gaze already waiting. Steady. Amused. Quietly intense.
“That’s not from the wine,” she said before she could stop herself.
The moment hung between them like a thread pulled too tight.
His brow lifted. Just barely.
Her throat dried. She turned away fast, rummaging through the first aid kit like it would protect her from the silence stretching between their bodies. But she could still feel him — the heat of his breath, the weight of his hand on her back, the brush of his chin just beneath her chest.
“Anyway,” she said, flustered, “you’re one to talk about drinking. Weren’t you the one who disappeared for six days and came back looking like someone dragged you through a hedge?”
A faint grunt from him. “Didn’t say I was sober.”
“You absolute idiot—”
“I’m here now.”
Her hands stopped moving.
The way he said it — low, unassuming, but certain — disarmed her.
“I’m here now,” he repeated, like a promise. Like a confession.
She looked at him again. Really looked. His hair was a tangled mess, his jaw peppered with stubble, blood dried at the corner of his mouth. But his eyes — dark, unwavering — held hers like they were the only thing anchoring him to the room.
Her heart clenched.
“You don’t get to say that,” she said softly. “Not after making me wonder if you were dead in a ditch somewhere.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t ask for an apology.” She moved closer, leaned in to dab the corner of his lip. “I asked for you to let me in next time.”
His eyes flickered.
Then her wrist trembled — just for a second — and he noticed. Without thinking, his hand behind her waist tightened, pulling her just a little closer. Her knees bumped his thigh. Her chest brushed against his forehead. And then, slowly, deliberately, he rested his chin just below her sternum again — this time not just from pain, but something else.
Something raw.
Emi swallowed hard, but didn’t push him away.
“Be extra gentle, then,” he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching.
She huffed a shaky breath, barely holding back the smile threatening to rise. “You’re acting like a baby.”
“You’re acting like my mom.”
“Your mom is already a great person and I can already tell,” she murmured, focusing on the wound “Don’t get used to it.”
But her hands stayed exactly where they were — steady and warm and threading through the shadows of his wounds like she meant to memorize every one.
“All done,” she murmured, taking a deliberate step back. She tried to make the smile on her lips casual, like her heart wasn’t pounding in her chest. Like his touch wasn’t still burning through the fabric of her sweater. Like she hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes patching up a half-naked Pro Hero who looked at her like she was the only solid thing left in the world.
Aizawa didn’t say anything. He blinked slowly, eyes heavy with exhaustion, but there was something else lingering behind them—an odd softness, almost dazed. He yawned, deep and quiet, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand like a sleepy cat.
“You should rest, Aizawa,” she said, forcing herself to focus as she tossed bloody gauze into the trash and cleaned up the supplies. “You look like hell.” Her voice was quieter now, more gentle. “Seriously, you’re gonna crash.”
He didn’t answer right away. When she turned back around, he was already standing, moving toward her with that same slow, almost drunk walk.
“Aizawa?” she asked, brows furrowing. “Hey—hey, are you okay?”
She took a step back, but he kept coming closer, shirtless, barefoot, the long lines of his tired body moving with unsettling fluidity. His hair was still damp at the ends from sweat or rain—she wasn’t sure—but it made him look even more undone.
“I fought a villain,” he muttered.
That made her pause. “Okay…?”
“I think I was hit with his quirk,” he said, and his voice was getting lower now. Slurred. He swayed a little. “It’s messing with me... I think…”
Before she could react, his weight suddenly collapsed forward—his entire body pressing into her like gravity gave up.
“ Ah—Aizawa!! ” she gasped, nearly stumbling under the weight of him. Her arms instinctively wrapped around him, steadying his body against hers. “W-what are you—?! Get off—”
His head dropped against her shoulder. His stubble scraped the side of her neck, and his breath was warm, heavy against her collarbone. One of his arms had snaked lazily around her waist, like it belonged there. His skin was hot against her sweater.
“H-hey! I—Shouta— fuck —you’re heavy!” she hissed, face rapidly going red. “You can’t just—ugh!”
“This is... definitely the quirk,” he groaned again, his voice muffled into her shoulder, lips brushing her skin by accident. His eyes fluttered closed.
“Clearly,” she muttered, frozen in place. Her hands hovered awkwardly at his back. She didn’t know whether to shove him away or pull him closer.
What the hell was this?
This wasn’t the sharp-tongued, distant man she knew. This wasn’t the cold neighbor who avoided small talk and only sometimes offered her a deadpan “thanks” for banana bread.
This was Shouta. Vulnerable. Warm. Falling asleep with his face buried in her neck like he belonged there.
And it was melting her alive.
Her knees wobbled. “Okay, okay, c’mon. Couch. Couch. You’re gonna break my spine in half—”
With great effort, she guided him across the living room. It was like wrestling with a sleepy cat who didn’t want to be put down. He muttered under his breath the whole way, his fingers still tangled in the hem of her sweater. By the time she got him to lie flat on the couch, she was out of breath and thoroughly flustered.
He mumbled something incoherent as he curled slightly to his side, hair a dark halo on her pillow. His brow furrowed like he was dreaming already.
She exhaled and crouched beside him.
“Unbelievable,” she whispered.
She grabbed a blanket from the closet and gently draped it over his chest. Then, with a tenderness she didn’t want to examine too closely, she brushed the strands of hair away from his face. Her fingers hovered above his cheek for a second too long before she snatched them back.
“Idiot,” she whispered, more to herself this time.
She stood there, just watching him breathe, her heart going rogue in her chest. He looked so peaceful now. So unguarded. Like the part of him he always tried to hide had finally slipped out through the cracks.
She couldn’t look at him anymore.
She padded quietly into her room, shutting the door with a soft click behind her. The moment it closed, she pressed her back against it and let out a strangled noise, halfway between a scream and a laugh.
“What. The hell .”
She slid to the floor.
Her whole face was hot. Her chest ached. Her stomach was still tight from where his head had rested. Her hands were shaking, just a little.
And when she finally climbed into bed, after a very long shower and standing in front of her sink staring at herself like she didn’t recognize her own face, she flopped face-first into the pillow and groaned.
“Fucking hell, Shouta.”
It hit her all at once.
That stupid, gentle voice. His hand on her waist. The way he’d leaned on her like he trusted her. Like he needed her.
It was the quirk.
It was just the quirk.
But goddammit, it had felt real.
Her fingers dug into the edge of her blanket. She buried her face deeper into the sheets.
“Fuck, I’m already falling for him,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice muffled. “And now this? What the fuck , Shouta?”
She groaned into the mattress and rolled over onto her side, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling fan above.
“I’m taking this to my grave.”
No one could know. Not Kaito. Not Makoto. Not Hizashi, god forbid.
This— this —was staying locked in a mental vault and buried six feet under.
Even if her body still remembered the way he held her like she was the only solid thing left in the room.
Even if her heart was already slipping dangerously close to something she couldn’t take back.
Notes:
Lol what is she gon do now.
Chapter 9: How Many Bullets Can You Dodge?
Notes:
Just how long she could keep this up... Until she can't. The world has its planned out for her. Even if it is against her will.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He shouldn’t be smoking again.
He knew it. Felt it in the tightness of his chest and the faint sting behind his eyes as the smoke curled past his lashes and disappeared into the heavy morning air.
But here he was—on the balcony, hoodie slung lazily over his shoulders, hair still damp from a rushed shower, a cigarette resting between his fingers like it had never left.
Old habits didn’t die hard. They just waited patiently until he was weak enough to reach for them.
He took another drag, exhaled slowly.
The sky was overcast, light still dim, the sun hiding somewhere behind the clouds. The street below was still asleep, save for the occasional delivery van or early morning jogger. It should’ve been quiet. Peaceful.
But something in him itched.
It has been days now. Five days, to be exact. May not seem much but five days since he woke up on her couch, bandaged and sore. Five since he’d caught the faint scent of lavender clinging to a blanket tucked around his waist. Since he found her note beside a plate of scrambled eggs.
Five days since he’d seen her face.
He told himself it was nothing.
She was probably busy. She had a demanding job. A chaotic schedule. He understood that better than anyone. They weren’t anything to each other—just neighbors. Acquaintances. The occasional shared cup of coffee and a few too many lingering glances. Nothing more.
But it was getting hard to ignore the patterns.
Emi used to open her curtains before he even lit his first cigarette. Used to step out onto her balcony half-awake, wrapped in that ridiculous pink robe, hair a mess, with a cup of coffee in one hand and an opinion about his smoking in the other.
Now, her curtains stayed shut. Still.
Now, she left earlier than usual—too early. And when she didn’t leave, he’d hear the faint sound of her sliding balcony door just barely closing the moment he stepped outside. As if she was already there. As if she’d seen him first.
And decided to leave.
At first, he chalked it up to bad timing. Coincidence. Maybe even paranoia. He wasn’t the most social person in the world—maybe he was reading too much into it.
But the signs added up.
The potted plants on her balcony were suddenly overwatered. Leaves sagged and pots overflowed, like they’d been doused in a panic. Once, he swore he heard her drop the watering can.
He’d glanced up, just in time to catch the rustle of her curtains and a flash of orange disappearing behind the glass.
And then there were the notes.
Brightly colored sticky notes left on her door whenever he passed by. Little scribbles in her familiar bubbly handwriting:
"On shift! Left early, see ya later!"
"Gone grocery shopping—probably buying too much again :')"
"Working! Hope the smoke isn't making your lungs cry!!"
Always signed with a smiley face. Sometimes doodled with a cat or a loaf of bread or a sad wet cigarette.
He hated how cheerful they were.
He hated that he looked forward to them.
He hated that he even noticed.
She was just his neighbor. A chatty, overly bright, borderline chaotic woman with a tendency to push past his boundaries and leave banana bread on his doorstep like it was a casual thing.
She wasn’t supposed to matter.
But now—when he glanced at her door and saw another damn note instead of hearing her voice—he felt it. A little flicker of something sharp. Quiet. Ugly.
Disappointment.
And it pissed him off.
Not at her. No, never really at her. She was kind. Too kind. The type of kind that made him uncomfortable because he didn’t know what to do with it.
He was pissed at himself. For caring. For even having thoughts about it.
He leaned on the balcony railing, brow low, cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. He’d only meant to come out for a breath of air. But he was still here. Still waiting —as if some part of him thought she might finally come out again. Say something. Smile like nothing has changed.
But nothing came.
No sliding door. No clumsy greeting. No "Morning, Aizawa!" in that sing-song voice that grated on him more gently than he’d ever admit.
Just stillness.
Just smoke.
He scoffed under his breath and stubbed out the cigarette. The bitter taste lingered in his mouth.
He was being ridiculous. Acting like a kicked dog.
He turned to go back inside—but not before his eyes flicked once more to the quiet door across the way.
Damn it, Fukukado.
Why did it feel like she took the sun with her when she shut that door?
The first thing he noticed was the scent.
Lavender.
Soft, grounding. Mixed faintly with something sweeter—vanilla, maybe. Warmth lingered in the air, along with the low hum of silence, the kind that felt lived in. Aizawa blinked against the soft light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. His body ached. His ribs protested every breath. His face throbbed with a dull, pulsing sting.
The second thing he noticed was the blanket tucked across his chest.
Lightweight. Fleece. Pale pink, of all colors. He stared at it for a moment.
This wasn’t his apartment.
And he wasn’t alone.
No—he was alone now. That much he could tell. But someone had taken care of him. Thoroughly. Clean gauze wrapped around his midsection. The dried blood had been wiped from his face. The nasty gash near his cheek was properly dressed. Not a half-assed patch job like what he usually did for himself after a patrol. No—this had been done with practiced, careful hands.
Emi.
It had to be her.
He sat up slowly, muscles stiff and sluggish with exhaustion, groaning quietly as he adjusted to the weight of his own body again. He was shirtless, his capture scarf folded neatly on the arm of the couch. His boots were by the door, arranged side by side. Even his gears had been draped over a chair, cleaned off, dusted.
Aizawa stared at the coffee table.
There was a plate of toast. Scrambled eggs—lukewarm now. A glass of water beside it. And a note.
Hey! I made breakfast — eggs and toast. Nothing fancy. Hope you're not deadly allergic to!
Please rest.
You scared me.
—Emi :)
He stared at the smiley face for far too long.
Scared her?
Something tugged at the back of his skull. A whisper of a memory. The kind that blurred at the edges, like looking through fogged glass. A hand brushing his forehead. A voice murmuring something near his ear. A lap? No—maybe. He couldn’t be sure. He’d never blacked out like that before.
He remembered the mission. The villain’s quirk. The sharp impact of concrete against his ribs. A burst of pain, then—
Then nothing.
And now he was here.
In her apartment. With her note. Her breakfast.
Her care.
Aizawa pushed the blanket off and stood slowly, limbs stiff. He ran a hand through his tangled hair and glanced around.
He'd never been in her place before. It was similar in layout to his, naturally—it was the same building—but the energy was completely different. Lived-in. Thoughtful. The walls were warm beige instead of plain white. The couch was draped with a chunky knitted throw. Her small dining table had a crocheted runner. A plant drooped from a hook by the window, surrounded by sunlight and tiny glass charms.
It was minimalist, but not cold. And much quieter than he expected.
For some reason, he’d imagined her space would be chaotic. Cluttered with color. Neon mugs. Loud posters. Clown stuff. Something bright to match her.
But this… This was soft. Grounded. Personal.
And then he saw them—the photographs.
Framed. Scattered along a wall shelf. Clustered magnet-style on the fridge. Hung on a string of twine with tiny wooden clothespins. Dozens of them. Emi laughing in various stages of her life. Holding up a tray of burnt cookies with a proud grin. Hugging her coworkers in scrubs. At the beach. On a couch with two other women and a cat curled in her lap.
One photo in particular drew him in.
It was Emi, mid-laugh, squished cheek-to-cheek with a small girl wearing a purple beanie dotted with stars and rainbows. The kid was maybe six or nine, her eyes almost closed from how big her smile was. Their faces looked so alike it nearly startled him. Emi’s arm wrapped tightly around the girl’s back. Pure joy.
He didn’t know who the child was.
But the photo stayed in his mind like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit—but still mattered.
He let his eyes linger only a second longer before tearing himself away.
This wasn’t his space. This wasn’t his right.
He didn’t want to feel like he was trespassing. He didn’t want her to come home and find him standing in her kitchen like some stray she had to take in.
He picked up the scarf and gears with quiet hands.
Still, as he moved toward the door, he caught sight of one more photo—this one tucked beside a row of coffee mugs.
Teenage Emi. Green hair braided back in twin plaits. Oversized glasses slipping down her nose. A mouthful of braces and a determined grin. Her eyes were the same.
And Aizawa…
He smiled.
Barely. When nobody’s around.
Something about that photo pulled a breath out of his chest. She’d been awkward, bright, human. Nothing about her felt like a lie. She had one hell of a glow-up.
Still, even then… that smile.
It was the same one she gave him, on the rare mornings when they bumped into each other and she was still brushing crumbs off her hoodie. That smile she tossed him before scolding him for being “the literal embodiment of secondhand smoke.”
It was pure. Full of light.
And it gutted him a little, the realization that he hadn’t seen it in five whole days.
He stepped back, ran a hand through his hair, and slipped his boots on without a sound. Even when there’s no one around. Just him.
He left the apartment as quietly as he could.
Didn’t take the food.
Didn’t touch anything else.
He didn’t look back.
But the warmth clung to him the entire walk home. The ghost of her note still pressed against his thoughts. The strange sense of… not intrusion, but intimacy. Being taken care of. Being thought of.
He didn’t remember anything from the night before.
And that was the worst part.
Because he wanted to.
He wanted to remember.
What had she said? What had he said?
Had he done something?
Why did his chest ache every time he tried to recall it?
He closed the door to his own apartment, set the scarf down, and leaned against the wall with a low exhale.
He always remembered everything.
He was trained to. Conditioned to. Surveillance, intel, escape routes, injuries. His memory was sharp. Controlled.
But not with this.
Not with her.
And now that she was avoiding him—
Now that her laugh had disappeared from his mornings—
He hated that it mattered.
He hated that he noticed.
But most of all…
He hated the way her absence felt like bruising in reverse. Like something tender blooming in his ribs where the bandages had been.
Quiet.
Soft.
Unsettling.
And not easily ignored.
And now—standing in his own apartment, arms crossed, staring at his floor like it held answers—he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something happened.
Something he didn’t remember.
And worse… something she did.
Something that made her disappear behind cheerful sticky notes and closed curtains.
And for once, Aizawa Shouta didn’t have a single goddamn clue in the world how to fix it.
Emi’s scrubs were wrinkled, her hair was pulled into a barely-functional bun, and her soul was about three steps away from leaving her body. She was three steps away from flatlining—mentally, emotionally, spiritually. But she had one mission: milk, ramen, and maybe—if her knees didn’t buckle—bread. Nothing fancy. Just survival food. Enough to make it look like she had her life together.
The air conditioning of the store hit her like a slap of sanity. Bright fluorescent lights buzzed above her head. Muzak versions of 90s pop songs hummed through the ceiling.
Her thoughts, though, were louder.
She was still running on caffeine, adrenaline, and just enough emotional repression to pretend she wasn’t actively avoiding her neighbor. She wasn’t even trying to look presentable anymore—not when avoiding eye contact with her neighbor had become a full-time job. She told herself it was because of her schedule. Night shifts. ER chaos. Short staffing. You know. All those real, reasonable things.
But that wasn’t the truth.
She was avoiding him. And every time she thought about it, she wanted to bury herself under her weighted blanket and die of secondhand embarrassment.
It wasn’t like she could go back to normal. Not after that night.
No no no no no.
The night he’d shown up bruised and half-broken, collapsed against her, heavy and warm and mumbling something about a villain’s quirk. The night he’d rested his head against her like she was a pillow and said her name like it was a balm.
The way he’d looked at her.
The way he’d touched her.
Then the way he forgot it all.
She wasn’t even angry about it. Not really. But every time she saw him—or almost saw him—her stomach did this awful twist, like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to flutter or clench.
So she avoided. Like a coward.
She sighed, turning the corner toward the instant noodles aisle. “Robbery,” she muttered as she stared at the price tags on the coffee. “Literal daylight robbery.”
“Emi? Is that you?”
Her head snapped up so fast she almost collided with a tower of paper towels.
She blinked. “Yamada!?”
There he was.
Hizashi Yamada, civilian mode: blond hair tied back, no hero gear, just a loud yellow sweatshirt and a pair of distressed jeans, somehow still managing to look like the center of attention even next to a shelf of on-sale soy milk.
“Long time no see, doc!” he greeted with the kind of grin that made people turn and stare.
Her shoulders relaxed, lips curling into a real smile. “Wow, I barely recognized you. You look almost normal.”
He gasped, pretending to be wounded. “Oof! That’s cold, Emi. Real cold.”
“I mean,” she teased, “where’s the leather? The neon? The sound system built into your shoes?”
“Hey, hey,” he pointed, “don’t let the lack of volume fool you. I’m still me, baby.”
She laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “What’re you doing here? You don’t seem like the type to grocery shop.”
“I’m not,” he said, mock-whispering. “But Present Mic doesn’t survive on takeout alone. Sometimes I do my civic duty.”
She giggled. “Good for you.”
He glanced her up and down, expression softening. “You look beat.”
“Gee, thanks,” she deadpanned.
“I meant it with affection. You’re in full medic-mode, huh?”
“Something like that.” She exhaled. “I’m on break. Technically. I told myself I’d nap, but milk won the battle.” She raised her shoulder slightly.
“Ah,” he nodded, pulling his sunglasses off his head and tucking them into his collar. “Well, you’re just the person I wanted to bump into. I was actually gonna text you.”
“Text me?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Shouta and I are hanging out soon. You should totally come.” He said facing her now.
Her grip on her grocery basket tightened just a fraction. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” he said easily. “Just a casual thing. Nothing loud. I promise no impromptu DJ setups.” He raised both his arms jokingly.
“Oh,” she said again. “That’s... nice of you.”
“You say that like you’re already halfway to rejecting me.” Hizashi raised an eyebrow with a grin and folded his arms.
Emi laughed weakly and gripped the carton of eggs a little too tightly. “I mean—I’m probably busy. Work’s... unpredictable.”
Hizashi’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it grew slightly more smug.
That pause? That eye twitch? Amateur stuff, Emi.
He simply just scoffed it off.
She’s one terrible liar.
“Mhm,” he said. A nod. Nothing more. Just enough of a pause that made her feel seen.
There was no accusation in his tone. Just curiosity.
She looked down at the carton of eggs in her basket, suddenly very interested in expiration dates.
He didn't push. Just raised a brow, almost like he was filing away information.
But her ears were pink.
Hizashi tilted his head, studying her with something gentler behind the teasing. “I’m not pushing you,” he said gently. “But he’s been... I dunno. Off.”
Emi's eyes perked up to look at him. “Off how?”
“He’s just quiet. Moodier. Broodier.” He scratched his chin.
“But he always is quiet , moodier , broodier ” Emi grinned while counting those words with her fingers. They both laughed.
“That sounds about right!” Hizashi laughed.
They reached the end of the aisle, and Hizashi ruffled her hair gently, just enough to annoy.
“Take it easy, Emi,” he said, more sincerely this time. “Don’t let the world chew you up too much, yeah?”
“I’ll try,” she said softly.
He gave her a little two-finger salute and began to turn.
“Oh, and—” he glanced over his shoulder, smile crooked, “see you around, Aphrodite.”
She chuckled and waved. “Bye bye, Yamada.”
“And tell your subconscious I said hi!” he called, disappearing around the corner.
She frowned. “...What?”
But Hizashi was already gone.
She stood there a moment longer, eggs in her hand, her chest feeling far too full for such an ordinary trip to the store.
The fluorescent hallway buzzed above Emi’s head, too bright against her sleep-deprived eyes. Her scrub top was wrinkled, loose around her frame. Her claw clip was barely hanging on, holding her hair back in a loose mess of strands that had long since escaped. There was a faint coffee stain on her pocket from two shifts ago, and her ID badge was spinning crookedly on its lanyard like it was dizzy too.
She didn’t notice any of it.
All she could see was the OR schedule board—half-filled. A single open slot at 4PM. One chance. She could take it. Assist or shadow or even just prep and close. She didn’t care. She just needed to move.
To be useful. To keep going.
From down the hall, Makoto narrowed his eyes. Arms crossed, leaning against the nurse station counter with a half-eaten granola bar in hand.
“She’s doing it again,” he muttered.
Next to him, Kaito was already watching. Brow drawn in quiet concern. His white coat slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to the forearms. Always too well put-together for someone working a 14-hour shift.
“She’s pulled three back-to-back shifts. No fucking reason,” Makoto said, chewing.
“She’s not even on-call today.” Kaito’s voice was soft, but not casual. Not this time. “That slot doesn’t need to be filled.”
Makoto made a low sound of agreement. “She looks like a sunflower someone stepped on.”
Kaito sighed, pushed off the counter, and started walking.
“C’mon.”
They moved with purpose, quick enough to intercept her just as Emi stepped closer to the board. Marker uncapped, hand lifted, about to write her name in the empty 4PM slot.
Kaito’s hand wrapped gently but firmly around her wrist.
Makoto appeared on her other side, leaning on the board with arms crossed like a very tired, very unimpressed gargoyle.
“Uhm. Excuse me?” Emi blinked at them, completely unfazed. “What are you two doing?”
Kaito didn’t let go. His tone, calm but commanding: “Put the pen down.”
“There’s an opening—”
“No,” Kaito said again, more firmly this time.
Makoto scoffed. “What are you doing, Emi?”
“What does it look like?” she said, still as if this was a completely normal day and her eyebags weren’t shadowing half her cheekbones. “There’s a procedure opening. I’ve only assisted cardio twice this month. I can scrub in.”
“You’re barely standing upright,” Makoto said flatly.
“False,” she replied. “I’m leaning. Entirely different.”
Kaito finally let go of her wrist. But not before squeezing it gently, like he was grounding her.
“Emi,” he said, voice quieter now. “Look at yourself.”
She hesitated. Glanced down at her own hands—ink-stained, trembling just slightly. Her pulse was still fluttering too fast.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” Kaito said, still calm. “You’re burning through yourself.”
Makoto gave her the look. The one that said ‘you’re being an idiot and I love you but also stop.’
“Is this about the kid from Room 12?” he asked, voice surprisingly gentle for Makoto.
“What? No—why would it—?” Emi whipped her head at him.
“It is,” he said, simply cutting her off. “You always get like this after a loss.”
She looked away. Her fingers gripped the marker tighter. They could be right .… partially. Maybe.
Kaito stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper now. “We all lose patients, Emi. But running yourself into the ground won’t undo it.”
Her throat tightened.
“And it’s not just that, is it?” Makoto asked, watching her face carefully. “Something else is up. You’ve been... off.”
“I'm just a little tired,” she said, looking at the board again. “It’s fine.”
“No, you’re exhausted. That’s different,” Kaito said, finally taking the marker from her hand and capping it.
She didn’t fight him this time.
There was a long pause. The hallway buzzed again.
Then—
“You’re going home,” Kaito said. Not a suggestion.
She looked at him. “I still have time on the clock.”
“I already paged the chief. They approved of the particular stubborn ass attending an early leave.”
“You— what ?!”
Makoto grinned. “You really think we wouldn’t team up to stage an intervention?”
“You assholes,” she muttered, but it came out more fond than angry.
Kaito touched her shoulder gently. “You need sleep. Real sleep. Not a twenty-minute nap in the on-call room.”
Emi looked at both of them, still caught somewhere between annoyed and touched.
“I could’ve just taken a break, you know.”
“Bullshit,” Makoto said, “you were about to jump into cardio like a caffeine-fueled stray cat.”
She huffed, and finally, finally—her shoulders sagged. The fight drained out of her.
“I hate when you’re right.”
Kaito smiled at her softly. “We’re always right.”
“Ugh.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Kaito said, gentler now, already turning toward the hallway.
“I’m not a patient.”
“No,” he agreed, casting her a side glance, “but you’re acting like a stubborn one.”
Emi groaned again, but her feet didn’t resist when he began to guide her away. She didn’t have the strength to argue, not really. And part of her didn’t want to.
Makoto gave her a lazy wave from behind, his grin still sharp with affection. “Go on, Sunshine. Go nap, cry, rage-clean your kitchen, or whatever weird cryptid behavior you do when nobody’s watching.”
Emi lifted her hand and flipped him off half-heartedly over her shoulder without turning around.
“Love you too!” he called after her.
They made it halfway down the hallway before Kaito leaned down just slightly, lowering his voice just for her.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured, amusement laced in his words. “I won’t take pictures if you pass out in the elevator.”
Emi let out an incredulous huff with a smile. “I will end you.”
He chuckled. “I’d like to see you try. You’ve got about two hours of sleep and a bad caffeine addiction backing you.”
“You have no idea what I’m capable of Dr. McDreamy.” She said in a mocking tone.
“Please. You can barely walk straight.”
“I’m conserving energy for the takedown.”
Kaito looked at her, amused and fond all at once. “Sure you are.”
They stepped into the quieter hallway leading toward the staff exit. The noise of the ER dimmed behind them, swallowed up by the hum of fluorescent lights and the familiar creak of old tile under their shoes.
It was quieter here.
And in that quiet, Emi let her shoulders sag. Just a little.
Kaito noticed.
He didn’t say anything—just adjusted his pace so their steps fell in sync.
“Y’know,” he said after a beat, “you don’t always have to be fine.”
Emi glanced at him, eyes tired but curious.
“I know you think people expect that from you. The smiles. The jokes. The— you .”
“That obvious?” she said softly, something fragile in her voice.
“Only to those who care about you,” he replied. “Which is unfortunately a long list.”
She gave a weak laugh, one that faded too quickly.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately,” she muttered.
“You’re tired. We lost a patient. You’ve been working nonstop lately. That’s three things off the top of my head.”
Emi shook her head. “It’s not just work.”
Kaito waited.
She didn’t finish the thought. Her lips pressed together.
He didn’t push.
Instead, when they reached the staff locker area, he stopped at the threshold and gently touched her elbow again. His voice was warm—no teasing this time, no smile hiding behind it.
“Go home, Emi.”
Her eyes flickered up to him, tired and searching.
“Go home,” he said again. “Shower. Sleep. Eat something. And don’t come back until you look less like a ghost in scrubs.”
She snorted, brushing past him toward her locker. “You’re a terrible comforter.”
“I’m not trying to comfort you. I’m trying to bully you into self-care.”
Emi rolled her eyes, but he caught the way her shoulders dropped—just a bit more. The wall she kept up cracked. Not crumbled, but enough to let in a breath.
As she gathered her bag, tugging her yellow hoodie from inside the locker, Kaito leaned on the doorway with his arms crossed.
“You scared us, y’know,” he said finally.
Her fingers stilled.
“You weren't talkative. No dad jokes. You weren’t sleeping. You weren’t smiling like usual. We didn’t know what version of you we were going to get each day.”
She turned slowly.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” he said, meeting her eyes. “We just miss you.”
That nearly did it.
Emi blinked quickly and pulled the hoodie over her head. “Okay,” she said through the fabric. “Enough emotional manipulation.” Emi held up her palm onto his face.
Kaito smiled. “I’ll see you soon?”
“I said I’m taking tonight. I didn’t say I was dying.”
“You say that, but you look like a medical textbook warning.”
“Again,” she muttered, slinging her bag over her shoulder, “terrible comforter.”
“Still effective,” he said, walking her toward the back entrance.
“Fine. But if I oversleep and forget to text, just assume I’m alive and probably buried under three blankets.”
He didn’t answer right away, just held the door for her.
“See you tomorrow, Emi.”
She paused outside in the chilly air. The sky was pinking at the edges, late afternoon bleeding into dusk.
And for the first time all week—
She let herself breathe.
“…Yeah,” she said quietly. “See you.”
And she walked off into the evening, the weight on her back a little lighter, her steps slow—but finally her own.
The cold evening air bit at Emi’s cheeks as she stepped out of the hospital, hoodie zipped up all the way to her chin, breath fogging faintly in the dimming light.
She didn’t head straight home.
Instead, she walked slowly—half a block past her usual turn, footsteps dragging more than stepping. Her scrubs felt like they clung to her skin, heavy with fatigue and that invisible weight she always carried after a rough shift. Her bones felt like they remembered every beep of the monitors, every second of CPR compressions, every second she’d stood there and done nothing because the patient wasn’t hers.
It wasn’t even her patient.
But it still felt like a loss.
A teenage boy. Sixteen. Head trauma. Multiple fractures. He’d been in the trauma bay less than twenty minutes before the call was made. His mother had arrived too late. His friends had already texted goodbye.
It wasn’t fair.
It never was.
Emi exhaled slowly, her hands buried in her hoodie pocket. Her fingers curled into the fabric as she crossed the street back toward her neighborhood.
It wasn’t fair how some people were loved so fiercely and still had such short lifespans. Like whatever or whoever was running the universe had no sense of proportion. No logic.
A heart like that should’ve had more time.
But that was the job. That was the life she chose. It didn’t make it easier, but it made sense in some cruel, familiar way.
Still.
She hated when the world made her feel powerless. She hated that some days she could be sunshine and jokes and late-night ramen runs... and other days, like this one, she was barely holding herself together at the seams. Quiet. Strained. Empty.
And then there was Aizawa.
The weight in her chest shifted uncomfortably.
Why was she avoiding him?
What was she afraid of, really?
The thought hung in her chest like a slow, twisting knot. She wasn’t stupid—she knew she was avoiding him. Had known the moment she’d shut her balcony door like a criminal avoiding detection. The moment she tiptoed down the stairs when she thought he might be outside.
She just didn’t know why.
She could blame embarrassment. That was easy enough.
But it was more than that, wasn’t it?
It was the memory she wasn’t supposed to have. His voice—soft and low—saying her name. His body, warm and heavy, draped across her abdomen like she was something he needed. The way he looked at her like she was comfort. Like she was... home.
He forgot it. he has to.
Of course he did. He’d been exhausted. He’d been injured. He’d been hit by a quirk.
But she didn’t forget.
And now? The quiet between them was unbearable.
He was probably wondering why she disappeared. Why she never knocked on his door again. Why she wasn’t laughing anymore when he stepped onto the balcony.
It wasn’t like she was special. Just the nosy neighbor next door who liked annoying him.
She shook her head at herself and sighed into the cold.
“God, Emi,” she muttered. “Get over yourself.”
Her apartment complex finally came into view. The familiarity of it usually gave her a sense of comfort. Today it just reminded her that she’d have to walk past his door again, hoping she didn’t bump into him in the hallway, or worse—catch him mid-smoke on the balcony.
Somehow, the moment she was off shift, her shoulders felt lighter, and that just pissed her off more. The moment she stopped working was the moment everything she was trying not to feel finally found a way to creep back in. And of course the elavator is still out of order.
Ugh.
She reached her door, keys dangling between her fingers, and was just about to slide them into the lock—
“Aphrodite!”
The voice startled her hard enough that she flinched. She spun around with a startled, breathless noise from the stairs. “Y-Yamada?!”
Sure enough, there he was—same sunny grin, same dramatic coat flapping around him even in civilian mode, waving enthusiastically as he strolled down the hall with someone beside him.
And not just anyone.
Walking with Hizashi was a woman who looked like she stepped out of a fashion magazine and maybe, also, a Greek myth. Tall. Confident. A beauty mark under her eye. With thick waves of dark purple hair cascading down her shoulders, a slit dress that clung to curves that shouldn’t be legal, and the kind of strut that said I’m dangerous, and I know it.
Her makeup was perfect. Her red lips that match her glasses. Her smirk even more so.
“Yamada?” Emi blinked. “Wait—you’re—” she tried not to look as mortified as she felt. “I thought—weren’t you—busy?”
Hizashi stopped just a few paces in front of her, hands casually shoved into the pockets of his coat.
“Busy? You told me you were busy,” he said, voice all sugar and mischief.
“I—I was!” she said, flustered. “I am ! I mean, I was ! I’m– I just finished my shift just now. But it was—like—busy with life. Things. Stuff.” For god sake she’s blabbering total nonsense. Someone stopped her.
The woman beside him quirked a brow in amusement.
“You’re adorable,” she said in a voice as smooth as silk. “Hizashi didn’t say you were so cute.”
“I—uh—thanks?” Emi said, voice going up half an octave.
“Oh, Emi, meet Kayama,” Hizashi added, slinging an arm over the woman’s shoulder like it was second nature. “Nemuri Kayama. A good friend of ours.”
“The best friend,” Nemuri corrected, winking at him. Then she turned her full attention to Emi. “You must be the girl Shouta’s been brooding about.”
Emi choked.
“Wh—he—what?!”
Nemuri just grinned. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”
Hizashi made a show of zipping his mouth shut.
“You —are awful,” Emi muttered– almost whispering to Mic, red from her neck to her ears.
And that’s when it clicked. Hanging out.
He’d said hanging out.
She’d thought somewhere else.
Not here.
Not outside her apartment.
Which meant—
Oh god.
Her eyes slowly trailed past them and across the hallway.
To her right.
To his door .
The light was on.
Notes:
Ahh, such a filler and a cliffhanger. And Hello Nemuri!
Chapter 10: Smoking Is Bad For You. You Know That?
Notes:
Hizashi amd Nemuri, truly has their way with her. The best way possible. Just a continuation on how Emi wasn't able to dodge him anymore this time. Time to patch things up she guessed ... maybe. Sort of?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“So this is the infamous hangout,” Emi muttered to herself, blinking at the grocery bags Hizashi was carrying—one clinking with unmistakable bottles of alcohol, the other suspiciously puffed out from chip bags along with dried squid.
“Huh?” Hizashi turned around, his dark t-shirt catching the hallway light. “What was that, doc?”
“Nothing,” she said way too quickly, pulling the sleeves of her hoodie over her palms.
She should’ve left. She tried to. She was literally standing in front of her apartment door, key halfway in the lock. Seconds away from entering.
But then—
“Nonsense!” Hizashi beamed, stepping forward with the enthusiasm of a game show host. “No way we’re letting you off the hook now!”
Before she could even say another word, a pair of arms wrapped around her shoulders. Warm. Soft. Smelled faintly of rose and spice.
“Oh, come on, I wanna get to know you more!” Nemuri’s voice was as honeyed as it was deadly. Just like venom.
Emi, now caught between sensory overload and internal gay panic, barely managed a squeaky, “Uh—uhm.”
"But—!" she tried.
“No buts!” Hizashi sang, turning the knob to Aizawa’s apartment door like he owned the place. “Shou’s expecting us anyway!”
“YOOOOO, SHO!” he yelled the second the door swung open, the hallway echoing with his signature entrance.
Nemuri cooed behind him, eyes twinkling. “Shouta~ We brought a guest!”
Emi, however, was panicking. Internally and externally.
What the hell is happening.
She had been mentally preparing to hide in her room for the rest of the night. And now she was being dragged into enemy territory—aka the apartment of the man she’s been avoiding like the plague. The very shirtless, clingy man she stitched up. Who may or may not remember any of it. Who may or may not have noticed that she’s been ducking and dodging him all week.
The universe was cruel. Cruel to her at that very moment.
She took one step inside, blinking rapidly, heart fluttering like a moth against glass.
Aizawa’s apartment was dim but clean. Minimalist. Sharp edges softened by lived-in shadows. The kind of place that didn’t try to be welcoming—but somehow was. Black leather couch, shelves that looked like they hadn’t been dusted in weeks, wood-paneled flooring that creaked just slightly under her worn sneakers. A couple of books lay face-down on the coffee table. A black cat-shaped mug on the counter. The scent of cedar and something musky and warm clung to the air—like sleep and soap and him.
She barely had time to breathe it in before she heard the footsteps. Bare. Slow. Familiar.
Then—
“Calm down, you dumbasses.”
That voice.
Low. Deep. Still laced with sleep and gravel and the kind of slow thunder that made something in her spine straighten.
Her breath caught. Her knees nearly buckled.
She hadn’t heard that voice in days.
And god— how she’d missed it .
He stepped into the living room, tousled hair falling into his eyes, sweatpants low on his hips, and a dark cotton shirt clinging to his frame in a way she was not going to look at too long. He was barefoot. Eyelids are heavy. Jaw shadowed in scruff.
She wanted to say something witty.
Wanted to pretend she wasn’t imploding inside.
But he looked right at her.
Her lungs forgot how to function. It had been days—six? Seven?—since she last heard it, and yet it carved straight through her bones like it had never left.
She turned.
And there he was.
His scowl perfectly in place. Barefoot, because of course he was. He looked like he’d just woken from a nap, like someone who wasn’t expecting company and couldn’t be bothered to care.
Except when his eyes found hers—
He paused.
Mid-step. Mid-breath.
And so did she.
Something tightened in her chest. Not panic. Not exactly. But something heavy and warm and sharp at the edges.
And the moment paused. Like time sucked all the air from the room.
She blinked. Swallowed. Stuck under Nemuri’s arm like a hostage with a plastic bag containing drinks in her hand and a very obvious crush on her neighbor.
She smiled awkwardly, lifting her hand in a weak wave. “Yo… Aizawa!”
It came out too high. Too fake. She was dying. This was it.
Aizawa didn’t blink.
Didn’t smile. As always.
His dark eyes didn’t move away from her for a second.
“What is she doing here?” he asked flatly, gaze sharp but unreadable. Almost sounded annoyed.
Stab. Direct hit.
Goodbye, heart.
Emi's stomach dropped. Her throat went dry. Her smile faltered at the edges.
Seriously? That’s the first thing he says to her after all this time?
Her smile faltered for half a second before she plastered it back on. “Wow. Hello to you too.”
“She was outside your door,” Nemuri said easily, batting her lashes like a cat playing with her food. “So we invited her along. She was totally waiting for you.”
“H-huh?!” Emi’s voice cracked, full of betrayal.
“Yeah! Poor girl just got back from a nightmare shift, should've seen her state when I met her this morning.” Hizashi added, flashing his best ‘innocent and proud of it’ grin. “She deserved to have a little fun. Right, Emi?”
“What!?” she whisper-yelled through her teeth, sending him a glare.
They were insufferable.
And she was going to die right here in the doorway of Aizawa’s apartment.
His gaze didn’t leave her.
Didn’t soften. But it didn't harden either. It lingered. Took her in, like he was memorizing all the tiny pieces.
Navy scrubs under her hoodie. Her green hair a bit tousled. Her lashes brushing against the dark circles under her eyes. Her mouth—tired, but smiling. That soft, exhausted smile she gave to patients and now, stupidly, to him.
Aizawa didn’t look away.
Didn’t even react to their antics.
He just stared at her. And Emi… felt herself burn under that gaze.
It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t cold. It was worse.
It was focused. Like she was some unsolvable puzzle he didn’t realize he’d become obsessed with.
“She’s tired,” he murmured.
Just that.
Like it explained everything.
And somehow, it kind of did.
Nemuri cooed, whining, swaying against Emi’s side. “Awww, Emi~ you’re not gonna ditch us, are you?”
“Yeah, c’mon!” Hizashi grinned, tossing his grocery bag onto the kitchen counter like he owned the place. “We’ve got beer and chips and questionable life choices to make!”
Emi looked between them. These two were chaos incarnate. Blunt and loud and absolutely charming. And right now, they felt a little too much like comfort.
It would’ve been so easy to leave.
So easy to make another excuse, play the ‘I’m tired’ card, fake a yawn, turn around—
But something about that kindness. That warm, overbearing chaos. The way they made room for her like it was second nature.
It made her stay.
Her shoulders dropped, the last of her defenses slipping quietly to the floor.
She smiled again. This time, real.
“Okay,” she said softly, stepping further inside. “Sure. I’m in!” Of course.
Nemuri let out a delighted squeal and looped both arms around her like they were best friends already. “Yesss! Girls’ night plus two grumpy men!”
Well. She wasn’t sure if Yamada would be considered as grumpy. But,
Emi laughed—light and surprised—as she was pulled toward the kitchen. She stumbled slightly, breath catching when she realized Nemuri was already opening beers.
“Wait, are we—are we drinking? It’s 7PM!”
“Exactly,” Nemuri winked. “Happy hour, baby.”
Hizashi chimed in from the fridge, “And I brought banana milk, in case you wanna feel like a delinquent and a child at the same time!”
Emi snorted despite herself, warm and worn and caught in the whirlwind of it all. She glanced over her shoulder—
And froze.
Because Aizawa was still there.
Still watching her.
He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t spoken again. But his eyes were on her. Sharp. Focused. Like he didn’t know whether to call this a fever dream or something worse.
And something flickered there.
Something unreadable and deeply human. Like confusion and ache and want all tangled into one.
She turned away before she could get swallowed by it.
But her heart didn’t. It beat faster. Louder.
Something in her chest ached for that look.
And worse—something in her wanted to chase it.
The soft thrum of music played from Hizashi’s phone on the kitchen counter, and the low clink of glass filled the background. Laughter flared again—Nemuri had just snorted into her drink after a particularly dramatic retelling of a patrol gone wrong, and Emi nearly choked trying not to laugh.
She slipped off her hoodie—just warm enough inside to need to—and reached to hang it on the back of a chair.
Shouta’s eyes followed the motion like they had a will of their own.
The hem of her scrubs lifted just slightly. Just a glimpse. The faintest tease of skin, pale and soft, curved at her hip. The slope of her waist was there and gone in half a second—but it was enough to make his jaw lock, his fingers twitch against the counter.
It wasn’t the first time his eyes had lingered.
He shut his eyes, breathed deep through his nose. Part of him was just relieved to hear her voice again. To see her smile.
He’d forgotten how much it filled the room.
When he looked again, she was laughing—bright, unfiltered—as Hizashi said something outrageous about catching a purse thief with nothing but a saxophone.
Shouta stepped forward.
And without a word, passed in front of her and smoothly took the can from her hand. The one she was drinking.
“Hey!” she gasped, brows rising, mouth parted in surprise. “That’s mine!”
He met her eyes as he took a sip. Didn’t say anything.
Just drank. Gulping down the liquid, his Adam's apple bobbed at every single swallow.
Held the eye contact.
Emi’s face bloomed pink in an instant. Her ears flushed, her cheeks followed, and she blinked rapidly as if trying to compute what just happened.
She reached for it half-heartedly, still processing.”You—!” she huffed, pouting. “Take your own, Eraser !”
He didn’t flinch at the nickname. Used to it at this point when it’s coming from her.
Didn’t give it back either.
He finished the rest slowly, swallowed, and handed her the empty can with a look that was equal parts smug and unreadable..
“Seriously?” she muttered, cheeks still burning.
Nemuri watched with a purr in her voice. “Eraser, huh?” she said, smirking over the rim of her glass. “I like it.”
“Right?” Hizashi laughed. “That’s a good one, Emi! You just took all the edge out of Eraserhead to a damn stationary!” They both hollered at the idea.
Aizawa just gave him a long-suffering look and leaned back against the counter, right beside Emi now. Their shoulders were just inches apart. She was trying not to look at him. He could tell. Then leaned one arm on the counter beside her—close. Not quite touching. But enough to make the hair on her neck stand up.
Emi could feel the heat of him at her side.
She didn’t dare look.
She opened a new can.
“Are you a Pro Hero too, Kayama?” she asked, aiming the question at Nemuri, clearly trying to redirect the tension off herself.
“Oh my! Of course I am,” Nemuri said, absolutely delighted. A hand rested against her left cheek.
“She’s the R-rated hero, Emi-chan,” Hizashi added, nudging her with a grin. “That’s Midnight.”
Emi’s eyes widened in a mix of amazement and full of curiosity. “No way! I’ve never heard of that before. Is there really such a thing?!"
“She’s good at what she does,” Aizawa said, voice low, calm. “Quirk: Somnambulist. She puts people to sleep.”
Emi turned to Nemuri again, surprised. “No way?” Emi has always admired Heroes. Ever since she was little, meeting heroes was like getting to meet a celebrity. Their sacrifices, the challenges that had to face, the costumes, the uniqueness of every hero's quirk. Never failed to amaze her. She looked up to them, it reminded her back when she was a child and dream of being a Pro Hero one day.
“Oh yes way,” Nemuri smiled, sultry and amused. “Quirk puts people to sleep. Very sensual , darling.” Nemuri winked.
“That’s so cool!” Emi grinned, genuine and wide-eyed. She passed the new can toward Shouta without even glancing—automatic wordlessly offering it to him like she had before. Her focus was still on Nemuri.
Shouta was caught off guard.
But he took it anyway.
He took it. Fingers brushing again.
This time, he didn’t pull away immediately. Just enough contact to feel the warmth of her.
Their fingers grazed. Her skin was warm. Softer than he remembered. And gods, she smelled like lavender again.
He took a slow sip, watching her from behind the curtain of his hair, eyes drifting.
The neckline of her scrub shirt dipped slightly with her, where the v-cut of her scrubs slipped slightly from movement, just enough to draw his eye. Just enough to tempt thoughts he shouldn’t be having.
A glimpse.
A suggestion. A tease.
He looked away, jaw tightening.
Then suddenly Emi asked—sweet and innocent—“So what’s your costume look like?”
Silence.
There was a pause.
A very tense pause.
Hizashi choked slightly on his drink and Shouta side-eyed him in a rare moment of shared misery. “Nope,” he muttered. Shouta and Hizashi both groaned.
“You don’t wanna know.” Shouta muttered, large hand suddenly resting at the small of her back, warm and startling. “Trust me.”
She startled slightly at the touch—but didn’t pull away.
It was so casual. So natural. But Emi’s breath hitched.
She didn’t know what was more surprising—how much she liked it, or how much she wanted it to stay there.
He gently nudged her, guiding her away from the kitchen. He guided her away from Nemuri with quiet pressure, walking her back toward the living room like it was nothing. Like he did this all the time. Like his hand belonged there.
“Yeah,” Hizashi groaned, following behind them. “Let’s not go there. Save that mental image for another day.” He continued “Let’s not scar her. She’s still pure.”
“What?” Emi blinked between them, totally confused. Why is everyone reacting like that?
Nemuri cackled from the kitchen. Nemuri’s laughter floated behind them like perfume. “I’ll show you pictures later, Emi-chan!”
“Nemuri—” both men said sternly in unison.
But Shouta kept walking, his hand lingering just long enough before he let it drop. He didn’t look at her again, but he didn’t need to.
She was already turning pink again.
Emi was just trying not to melt at the feel of his hand on her spine, the quiet closeness, the scent of cedar and clean cotton that came off of him in waves.
This man had the emotional range of a tree stump, and yet he had her entire nervous system in a chokehold.
She wasn’t going to survive the night.
And god help her, she didn’t want to.
They moved to the living room. Hizashi flopped onto the couch with zero grace, legs kicked over the armrest, already reaching for the chips. Nemuri sauntered in after, holding a bottle of wine she had found somewhere in Aizawa’s kitchen like a trophy.
And Emi?
Emi stood there for a moment, stunned by the shift in gravity.
Everything was too loud. Too warm. Too easy.
Except the one thing that wasn’t.
Shouta.
Still standing near her. Still close enough to touch. And looking at her like she was something he hadn’t figured out yet.
Her fingers curled tightly around her drink.
Play it cool. Just play it cool.
But when she looked at him—really looked—her heart betrayed her again.
She smiled. Small. Nervous.
And he didn’t smile back.
But his eyes didn’t leave hers.
Not once.
A few hours later…
The room was a mess of half-finished snacks, empty cans, discarded bottle caps, and chaos. Absolute chaos.
And Aizawa Shouta was trapped in the middle of it.
Nemuri was lounging on his recliner like she owned it, swirling her drink with that telltale mischievous glint in her eyes. Hizashi was on the floor—actually on the floor—laughing to himself, an empty can on his chest and one sock missing. His hair was a wreck. But somehow manag to make it seem gorgeos on him. His words were slurred.
And then there was her.
Emi.
Pink-cheeked, tipsy, giggling so much she had to clutch her stomach as if she was trying to physically hold the laughter in. Which she failed, terribly. Her head tilted back, green hair tumbling in loose waves, her bare throat exposed in the most distracting way. Her scrubs top had ridden up enough times during the evening that Aizawa had now memorized the dip of her waist.
God, she was such a lightweight.
He should’ve known. But she looked so pleased about every dumb joke Hizashi made, so happy to exist in this moment, glowing despite the exhaustion that had clung to her earlier like a second skin. She seemed... lighter now. She didn’t seem to be avoiding him anymore, even if it was only thanks to the alcohol buzzing in her blood.
She was happy.
And that did something to him he didn’t know how to name.
She stood suddenly, wobbling a little, arms flailing as she threw herself dramatically toward Nemuri. “I swear , you’re lying,” she laughed. “That didn’t happen.”
“Oh, baby, it absolutely did,” Nemuri laughed, sipping her drink like she was at a royal court delivering gossip. “Hizashi wore fishnets for a week because he lost a bet.”
“I REGRET NOTHING,” Hizashi yelled from the floor, raising his arm like a victorious gladiator.
That earned another round of chaotic laughter from both women.
Aizawa, still slouched on the couch, pinched the bridge of his nose. “I want to die.”
“Same!” Hizashi called. “But like— fashionably .”
Emi was still wheezing as she stumbled sideways, nearly tripping over a cushion before she plopped right next to Aizawa again with a soft oof. She leaned into the couch, completely unaware of how her thigh pressed against his. Her hair smelled like citrus shampoo and sugar. He could practically feel the heat radiating off her skin.
“Aizawa,” she grinned, eyes half-lidded and voice slightly slurred. “Drink with us.”
“No.”
Nemuri joined in with a faux-innocent pout. “Come on , Shouta. I don’t see why you have a reason to brood anymore. You’ve got company. Real cute company.”
“Still no,” he muttered, refusing to look directly at Emi.
He could feel her smiling, though. That kind of smile that you could hear in someone’s voice before they even said a word.
“Ugh, you’re no fun,” she pouted, leaning in dangerously close. Close enough that her breath ghosted against his cheek. “Didn’t know you were this boring, Zawa .”
That name.
The casual, careless way she said it—slurred, soft, affectionate—it hit him like a fucking punch to the chest.
He turned, slowly. Met her eyes.
She blinked, lips parted, face flushed. She was so close. And still so unaware. Of everything.
“Don’t call me that,” he said quietly, almost under his breath.
She tilted her head. “Why not?”
Because I’ll come undone.
Because I’ll forget I’m supposed to keep a distance.
Because you’re making it too easy to imagine what it’d be like to kiss you right now.
Because you’re not mine to want.
He swallowed the words. Didn’t answer.
Her hand reached out, playful and warm, fingers poking his arm gently. “Are you mad at me?” she asked, quieter this time.
He blinked at her. That question came out of nowhere.
And suddenly—it wasn’t funny anymore.
The tension between them pulled taut. Like a string, too tight, threatening to snap. The background noise of Nemuri laughing with Hizashi is dulled, muffled. It was just them, in their little bubble of complicated silence.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, voice low.
Emi blinked, then bit her bottom lip. Looked down. Her buzz made her braver than usual, but that— that —sobered her up just a little.
“I’m sorry…” She pouted, eyes locked with his, refusing to look away. Neither of them can. Neither of them want to. She played with her nails looking like a kid that just got scolded at. “I wasn’t avoiding,” she mumbled. “I was just… taking space.”
“Why?”
“I dunno.” She shrugged.
He didn’t say anything.
So she sighed, rubbed her temple with the back of her hand, and gave a wobbly half-smile. “You don’t remember, do you?”
A beat passed. Two. “No.”
Remember what?
Her expression didn’t change, but something in her shoulders dropped. Like an invisible weight had settled.
“I figured.”
Aizawa hated how her voice softened. How the playfulness disappeared. He hated that he couldn’t fix the unknown thing that broke between them.
He looked at her again—really looked. Her mouth slightly parted, her tired, glassy eyes. Her hoodie discarded across the back of the chair, the dip of her waist still visible where her scrubs lifted. Her scent still lingering between them.
She leaned back against the couch slowly, eyes fluttering half-shut. Her thigh still pressed into his.
“Don’t be mad,” she whispered softly.
“I’m not.”
“Good. Because I still think you’re so handsome even when you’re a broody buzzkill.”
He chuckled. Quiet. Almost too soft to hear. But it was there.
And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull her closer or push her away.
But what he did know—was that he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about the way she looked tonight. Or how easily she filled the space around her with light. Or how terrifyingly easy it would be to fall for her.
Her words hung in the air like a fragile thread— Because I still think you’re so handsome even when you’re a broody buzzkill.
It wasn’t flirtatious. Not really. It was quieter than that. Like an admission that slipped through the cracks of her tired smile before she could catch it. And Aizawa felt it like a slow ache blooming beneath his ribs.
She leaned back further into the couch, head tipping against the cushion with a soft thud. Her lids drooped heavy, lashes casting faint shadows beneath her eyes. And yet—despite the haze of alcohol, the flushed cheeks, the exhaustion—there was still something impossibly lovely about her. Something real.
Her voice, just a breath now: “I missed your voice.”
He froze.
It was quiet. Maybe Nemuri and Hizashi didn’t hear it. Maybe she hadn’t meant for anyone to hear it. Maybe she didn’t even realize she said it aloud.
But he heard.
And something inside him buckled.
He turned slightly, his body now angled toward hers. His arm rested across the back of the couch, and from this close, he could see the rise and fall of her chest, the glint of light catching on her lower lashes, the tiny crease in her brow like she was still holding something unsaid.
“You’re not good at this,” he murmured, voice low, rough.
“Not good at what?” she mumbled, eyes fluttering open just a sliver. Head slightly tilted to the side.
“Pretending nothing’s wrong.”
A beat.
Then a soft huff of breath from her, something like a laugh but sadder. “Yeah, well. You’re not good at pretending either.”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when she looked up at him like that—with half a heart’s worth of vulnerability swimming behind tired, drunk eyes.
“You’ve been looking at me all night,” she said, lips curling at the corners. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
“You’ve been looking away all week,” he replied quietly.
The air thickened. Even Nemuri and Hizashi’s noise, still echoing from across the room, couldn’t pierce through it.
Her hand brushed down her face, and she sighed into her palm, turning to look at the ceiling instead. “I didn’t know what to say.”
“You didn’t have to say anything.”
“Then why does it feel like I should have?”
He blinked at that.
Because he didn’t know either. And that unsettled him more than anything.
She sniffed faintly, not from crying—just from being worn out. Her skin glowed warm under the living room lights. Her scrubs had slipped a little off one shoulder, baring the soft slope of it, and she didn’t seem to notice.
Aizawa did.
He noticed everything.
The rhythm of her breathing. The soft curve of her mouth. The way her thigh still brushed his. The heat between them, rising steadily like coals beneath a kettle.
“You shouldn’t drink so much if you’re that bad at holding it,” he said gruffly, almost like an excuse to say something.
“Maybe I did it on purpose,” she muttered without looking at him. “Maybe I just wanted to forget for a little while.”
He turned toward her fully now, brow slightly furrowed. “Forget what?”
She gave a tiny, drunken shrug. “That I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Her eyes were still on the ceiling. But her words—her words lit a fuse somewhere low in his chest.
And when she did finally turn to look at him, her eyes soft and almost apologetic, his breath caught.
“I know I’m being ridiculous,” she whispered. “You’re you. I’m me. You’ve got your world, your secrets, your brooding. And I just... patch people up and try not to fall apart.”
He was quiet.
Because she had no idea just how untrue that was. How hard it had been not to walk to her door a dozen times. How many hours he spent remembering the feel of her hand on his chest, her fingers brushing his cheek, the sound of her humming to herself while making coffee just one wall away.
She thought she’d been avoiding him.
But he’d been hiding too.
And now, with her slumped half-drunk beside him, her shoulder bare, her words raw and unfiltered—he couldn’t hide anymore.
His hand moved slowly. Thoughtfully. Until it rested just barely against her knee.
A featherlight touch. One that could be mistaken for steadying her if either of them needed an excuse. But they both knew better.
Her breath hitched.
He leaned in, just slightly—close enough to speak just for her.
“I think about you too.”
Her eyes widened.
And maybe if Hizashi hadn’t chosen that exact moment to sing off-key from the floor, or Nemuri hadn’t started yelling something about karaoke and turning the TV on at maximum volume, maybe they would’ve said more.
But they didn’t.
Emi blinked, stunned. And then—she smiled.
Soft. Real.
Not a drunken grin, but something far deeper. Something warmer.
She didn’t say anything else.
Didn’t need to.
They just sat there—side by side—closer than before. And for a moment, the rest of the room fell away.
He didn’t move his hand.
And she didn’t ask him to.
The door clicked shut behind Nemuri, who was practically dragging a very, very drunk Hizashi down the hall.
“I LOVE YOU GUYS!” Hizashi hollered, one shoe missing, eyes glassy, His sunglasses rested on top of his head, clutching a mostly empty can of something questionable.
“You said that ten minutes ago, Hizashi.” Aizawa muttered, gripping his arm tighter as the blond tried for the third time to hug Emi.
“No, but really,” Hizashi sniffed dramatically, head lolling toward her. “Emi’s like—a ray of light. A sunbeam. You hear me, Sho?! You better not ruin this. She’s gonna fix your life.”
“Oh my god,” Emi laughed, pink from alcohol and secondhand embarrassment. “You’re literally leaking poetry, please stop.”
“She’s precious! A precious green fairy!” he wailed.
“Alright, Romeo,” Nemuri groaned, hauling him toward the elevator. “Goodnight, you chaotic disaster. Emi, darling, we have to do this again sometime.”
“I’d love that,” Emi grinned, cheeks glowing. “Next time, I’ll bring cupcakes!”
“Ugh, of course you bake. Disgusting,” Nemuri said, clearly smitten. “I’ll text you.” She winked at her.
Then they were gone—Nemuri’s heels clicking, Hizashi howling something about starshine and destiny, the elevator doors mercifully closing on their departure.
Silence returned.
Emi exhaled, swaying a little on her feet. Her hand grazed the wall for balance. “Well. That happened.”
She turned back toward the living room, eyes scanning for signs of life.
“Shouta?” she called softly, stepping further in. But he was gone.
Her gaze swept the room, her tipsy brain finally registering the mess of snack wrappers and empty cans—but no tall, brooding, gorgeous man in sight.
She frowned, then wandered forward on unsteady feet. “Don’t tell me he ghosted me again.”
Her bare feet padded across the floor as she chuckled to herself. They were fun, she thought, thinking of Nemuri’s teasing, Hizashi’s ridiculous antics. She felt light. Warm. Even if she was a little dizzy.
Then she spotted it—the sliding door to the balcony cracked slightly open. A breeze whispered through the gap.
She stepped closer. Peeked through.
There he was.
Standing against the railing, head tilted back, cigarette between his fingers, exhaling a thin stream of smoke into the night.
Her smile faltered. “…Shouta,” she called, softer this time. Slurred. Tipsy. She rarely calls him by his first name. Almost never does. Maybe she didn't even notice it. But Aizawa didn't stop her either.
His head turned slightly, enough to see her in his periphery.
She stepped out, tipsy balance teetering, arms folded for warmth against the cool air.
“Oi. You’re smoking?” she said, mock-offended, wrinkling her nose. “I thought you quit.”
He didn’t reply right away. Just took another drag, staring ahead.
Then, quietly: “Habit’s hard to kill.”
She pouted, stepping to his side, her shoulder brushing his. “I’m gonna start judging you and scold you real hard, Eraser-man.”
He looked down at her, at the way she leaned into him without hesitation. Unraveled. Unbothered.
Vulnerable.
Tap the excess burnt tip of the cigarette onto the ashtray.
Then.
“Why did you avoid me?” he asked, voice low. Not demanding. Just… real. “What did I do, Emi?” He leaned closer to her. "Tell me." Almost like a desperate plea.
Because he can't bear to think anymore. Not being able to not know what had happened. And the worst part is only she does. What really happened that night.
Her name on his tongue sent a quiet shiver up her spine.
She blinked, thrown off by how gentle he sounded. His eyes were on hers, unwavering. Searching. His cigarette forgotten between his fingers.
“I…” she stammered, cheeks warm, heart thudding.
God, she was tipsy.
The silence stretched long between them. Tense. Fragile.
“I…” she tried again. Glancing at his lips so often. Unable to utter anything. She didn't know what exactly to tell him. What happened that night. Which part should she tell him anyway? The part where he was clingy and hugged her or the part where he scared her when she saw him covered in bruises.
“You scared me.” She whispered, Not a lie, just half of the truth.
He blinked, confused. “Scared you?”
She nodded slowly, then stepped around to face him fully, brows pinched. “Yes, Shouta. Scared. Worried. All of it.”
Her voice cracked, but she kept going. Her emotions are catching up to the buzz in her veins.
“You left. For six days. No word. No note. No nothing, you just left !” she said, breath hitching. “And then—then you just showed up. In the middle of the night, bruised, broken, barely able to stand. Of course you scared me Shouta!”
Her hand pressed to his chest with a poke. “You just collapsed on me like I was supposed to know that’s normal for you.”
His expression shifted. The lines of his face softened. But he didn’t interrupt.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she went on, words tumbling out now. “You scared the hell out of me, and then you slept it off like nothing happened. Like I imagined it.” And still the truth. Just not ... everything.
He stared at her, thunderstruck.
Then—
“Or did you run off on a mission because I said I wanted to use your oven?” she muttered, pouting, crossing her arms over her chest. In all seriousness.
That cracked him.
A soft, unfiltered laugh broke from his lips. He dropped his cigarette into the tray and covered his mouth as his shoulders shook.
She gasped in disbelief. “You’re laughing at me?! I knew you were heartless!”
“No,” he managed through his smile. “You’re just… ridiculous.” He smiled. Really smiled, amused by her. She truly has no idea what she had done to him.
“Well—rude.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’m being vulnerable here, Eraser.”
He exhaled again, that rare, small smile tugging at his lips.
“Sorry,” he said softly. Emi wouldn't be able to catch that if she didn't pay close attention.
She tilted her head. “What was that? I didn’t catch it.”
He looked down at her again—close now. So close. Her eyes were big, her cheeks flushed, lips parted ever so slightly.
“Mind repeating that for me, Zawa ?” she pushed. Teasing.
He smirked. Dangerous. Controlled.
And then—without warning—his hands slid to her waist.
Under her scrubs.
Skin to skin.
Her breath caught in her throat.
“I said,” he murmured, leaning down, voice low, “I’m sorry.”
His fingers pressed softly into her sides, thumbs brushing over bare skin like a secret. Her lips parted on a quiet inhale. His hands finally got to feel the part he had been memorised against his will.
“I really am.”
Their eyes locked.
The heat between them pulsed.
Emi’s breath hitched.
She was still so close to him, chest pressed just lightly to his, his hands steady and warm against her bare waist beneath her scrubs. His touch wasn’t forceful—but it was firm. Anchoring. Intentional. Warm against her cold skin.
She could feel his thumbs gently stroking against her skin, absentmindedly. The smallest, softest motion. And it was wrecking her.
Her heart slammed against her ribcage.
“I—” She swallowed hard, face warming. “Y-you really need to stop smoking.”
She turned her face away, trying to focus on the streetlights outside, the dark rooftops, the anything but him.
Aizawa hummed low, smirking.
She wasn’t going anywhere now, and they both knew it.
“Have you tried it?” he asked softly.
The question caught her off guard. Her gaze flicked back to his, brows furrowed. “…Tried what?”
“This,” he said—lifting the cigarette, the tip glowing dimly between his fingers, smoke trailing upward like a slow ribbon.
He brought it close to her.
Too close.
Emi wrinkled her nose, leaning her head back. “Ugh. What the hell? No. Absolutely not.”
“You sure?” he murmured, voice warm with amusement.
She groaned, twisting lightly in his grip—though not with much force. More embarrassed than resisting. “God, Aizawa—what kind of ridiculous question is that? I’m a doctor .”
He noticed that she started calling him Aizawa again. But he didn’t push it. Not yet at least.
“I know,” he said. “You’re the worst kind. All righteous. All rules.”
He was teasing her, but it wasn’t cruel. It was playful . The kind of edge that made her want to shove him and kiss him in the same breath.
She huffed. “You’re impossible.”
His smirk grew. And then—he brought the cigarette to his lips again, took a drag. Slow. Deliberate. His eyes still locked on hers as he did it. The glow of it painted his face in amber, shadow and fire.
He exhaled the smoke to the side, then lowered the cigarette between them—toward her.
“Try it,” he said again, but lower now. Dangerous. Intimate. Like a dare whispered in a dark alley.
Emi stared at him, lips parted.
He tilted his head. Just a little.
“Just once,” he added, voice silk. “Then I’ll let you go.” His grip tightened to punctuate his words.
“You’re blackmailing me with nicotine? ” she accused, eyes wide in disbelief. “You evil, evil man.”
“Not evil,” he said. “Just curious.”
“Curious about what?” she narrowed her eyes. “How fast can you give a pulmonologist a heart attack?”
He chuckled— actually chuckled—and Emi could feel it reverberating against her, where their bodies were still far too close.
Then he said it:
“Curious how you’d look when you do something just a little bad.”
The silence that followed was molten. Heavy. Heat pooling down at her lower abdomen.
She swallowed. Her face was so red now, she was certain it had entered tomato territory.
Her hands—still somewhat on his chest—tightened their grip on his shirt. She could feel his heartbeat under her palm. Steady. Deep.
Their eyes locked again.
His smirk faded, but not entirely. Something serious crept into his gaze now. Hunger, yes—but restraint, too. That deep pull that lived in his chest, the one that’d been clawing at him for weeks, whispering her name into every quiet moment.
Emi licked her lips nervously.
“I’m not going to smoke your gross cigarette, Aizawa.”
He arched a brow. “Then I guess I’m not letting go.”
Her laugh broke out before she could stop it. Tipsy, embarrassed, breathless. “You’re such a bastard.”
“Mm,” he agreed, entirely too pleased with himself. “But you like me anyway.”
Emi groaned dramatically, leaning her forehead against his shoulder. “That’s the problem.”
His arms shifted.
And then—without warning—he wrapped them fully around her. Pulling her closer.
Not teasing this time.
He held her.
Warm and solid and silent.
The tension between them settled—not vanished, just changed. Softer now. Quieter. Like the crashing waves had turned into a tide.
She didn’t pull away.
Didn’t want to.
Her voice came muffled against his shirt. “You smell like cedar and ash.”
“You smell like soap and sugar.”
“That’s weirdly poetic of you.”
“Must be Hizashi’s fault,” he muttered.
She snorted. “Yeah. He’s a menace.”
Another pause.
Then, softly: “You didn’t deserve that silence from me. I just… I didn’t know what to do.”
“I’m not good at saying things either,” he murmured, his chin resting gently atop her head. “Or… knowing what I should be.”
His hand shifted, one palm tracing a slow, absent pattern along the small of her back.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that night,” he said. He can't remember a thing. That is what bothers him the most.
She closed her eyes. Heart thudding. Emi inhaled. Shaky. Delicate.
Their breath mingled in the quiet.
And neither of them moved.
Not yet.
Emi looked up at him, her face flushed, her emerald eyes gleaming under the low city glow. Still tipsy. Still lingering in that space where impulse overrides inhibition.
“Fine,” she whispered. Breathless. Rebellious. A grin tugging at the corner of her lips.
Aizawa’s brows lifted just slightly. “Fine what?” he asked, voice low and amused.
She squared her shoulders—or tried to, wobbling slightly against his body—and looked him dead in the eyes. “Bring me the damn cig.”
That caught him off guard. His lips twitched, the smirk forming without resistance. She had no idea what she was doing to him. Not really. Not yet.
His grip around her waist tightened slightly. Just enough to feel her press closer against him. Heat pooled low in his stomach.
“…Interesting,” he murmured.
He brought the cigarette between his fingers to her mouth, slow and deliberate, his movements unhurried—like savoring every millimeter of the space between them. Her lips were parted, uncertain, but willing. Her face was flushed, her breath shallow. He could feel her heart hammering against his chest.
“I can do it,” she murmured, trying for control, but it was soft. Half-hearted.
“No,” he said, his smirk deepening. “Let me.”
Because he wanted this moment. He wanted to hold it, to keep it in his chest for days. The image of her—flushed and breathless, letting him this close. Letting him touch her like this. Her mouth inches from his fingers, willing and hesitant.
He tilted the cigarette toward her lips.
“Open,” he murmured, and it came out more like a command than he meant.
She glared at him—but then obeyed, pouting just a little as she parted her lips. Slightly. Just enough.
It was electric.
Her breath ghosted over his fingers. Her lips closed around the cigarette—right where his mouth had been just moments ago. The intimacy of it. The indirect kiss. His pulse roared in his ears.
She took a puff—
And immediately jerked away, coughing violently to the side.
“ Ghhk—!! What the—!!” Emi groaned, doubling over slightly, fanning her face and coughing through watery eyes.
Aizawa laughed.
Not a chuckle. A full, quiet, real laugh. It rumbled through his chest as he watched her fall apart from one puff.
He couldn’t help it.
He pinched her waist—lightly, teasingly—just enough to make her squeak and glare at him through her coughing fit.
“ Asshole! ” she wheezed. “You—you knew that would happen!”
“I did, ” he admitted with no remorse, a grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But you said fine.”
“You’re the worst,” she muttered, still red in the face. “Horrible. That was horrid! ” She reached for his chest, steadying herself as she coughed again, her fingers clutching the front of his shirt like a lifeline.
His hands stayed loosely on her. Still warm. Still against her waist.
She looked up at him once more, breathless and pouting, but her eyes were glowing now—half annoyed, half exhilarated.
“God, Aizawa, I don’t know how you even get addicted to that. That’s disgusting.”
He shrugged, exhaling through his nose. “You get used to it.”
“Well, don’t. ”
She jabbed a finger into his chest.
“Seriously,” she said, stubborn despite how disheveled she looked. “You need to quit.”
His smirk faded a little. Something softer took its place.
She was serious.
“You shouldn’t,” she continued, brushing ash off his arm. “You’re always so tired. You look like hell when you overwork. This just… makes it worse.”
His eyes studied her—really studied her. Despite the haze of alcohol in her blood and the flush in her cheeks, she looked so earnest. Fierce and protective in a way he hadn’t known he needed.
He remembered a moment—not long ago—waking up in her apartment. Covered in gauze, aching, disoriented. But there she’d been. Exhausted, yes, but watching over him like a silent guardian.
Like someone who cared.
And now—here she was again. Scolding him. Looking wrecked from one drag, but still angry on his behalf.
His chest tightened.
“I’m not addicted,” he said softly. “I only smoke when it’s bad.”
She raised a brow. “Well, maybe stop waiting until it’s bad.”
Her fingers were still against his chest. Her body is still against his.
He nodded slowly. “I’ll try.”
“Promise?” she asked, holding up her pinky with a drunkenly solemn expression.
He blinked.
“Seriously?” he asked, amused.
“Deadly serious,” she insisted.
He rolled his eyes— fondly —and wrapped his pinky around hers. “Promise.”
The smallest smile curled at her lips, triumphant.
Before he could stop her, she reached over, snatched the half-empty pack from his pants pocket.
“Hey—!”
“Mine now!” she chirped, turning on her heel. “Confiscated by Dr. Emi.”
“Emi—”
“Sorry for the mess, Eraser-man!” she sing-songed, already half through his living room.
“You’re drunk,” he called after her.
“I know! ” she shouted back, laughing.
And then—like a breeze, she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her.
Leaving him alone.
Surrounded by the smell of cedar and citrus and sugar.
Aizawa stared after her, lips parted, his hands still hanging loose at his sides.
He dragged a palm down his face.
She’d come in, ransacked his heart, stolen his smokes, and sprinted back into the night like it was nothing.
He stared down at his hand.
At the empty space where she had just been.
Hell.
Yeah. He was definitely falling for her.
And the worst part?
He wasn’t even mad about it.
Notes:
What a chapter, I hope the slow burn is burning.
Chapter 11: Now I Can't Say Goodbye If You Stay Here The Whole Night
Notes:
Everyone notices Emi has slightly changed. In a good way or a bad way? Whatever it is she seems to be back to her old self that's what matters. Also an unexpected case came upon her ... or should she say, them?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Are you in love or are you just well-rested?”
“Alright, sunshine patrol, back it up. You’re blinding the rest of us.”
Kaito’s voice floated across the nurse’s station as he leaned dramatically over the counter, squinting at Emi like she’d turned up wearing high beams instead of scrubs.
Emi blinked innocently, sipping from her oversized pink thermos that said ‘DOCTOR? I thought you said CHOCOLATE’ in glittery script. “Excuse you. I’ve had exactly one full night of sleep and three bites of a muffin. This is as dim as I get.”
Makoto wheeled his chair closer, nudging her elbow with his pen. “She’s lying. I saw her skipping down the hallway like a Disney protagonist this morning.”
“I was not skipping.”
“You were humming.”
“...Possibly.”
Kaito folded his arms, eyeing her with exaggerated suspicion. “Something’s different.”
“Yeah,” Makoto said, twirling his pen like a baton. “She’s not muttering to herself at the coffee machine anymore.”
“She hasn’t threatened to flip her pager off the roof in two days.”
“She used her lunch break to eat lunch , not rechart half the ward.”
“Oh my god,” Emi groaned, sinking into her chair. “You two need hobbies.”
“We do,” Kaito deadpanned. “It’s stalking your emotional health like concerned aunties.”
Makoto leaned in. “So. What gives?”
“Did someone finally confess their love in the breakroom?”
“Did you win the lottery and forget to tell us?”
“Did you get a boyfriend and he moved in with you?” An outrageous guess popped out from Makoto.
Emi choked on her drink. “What?! No!”
“She’s definitely glowing,” Makoto said, narrowing his eyes as if inspecting a crime scene. “Look at her skin. That's a glow. A suspicious glow.”
“It’s called moisturizer, you asshats.”
Kaito grinned. “So it’s a man.”
“It’s not a man.”
Makoto held up his hands. “Okay. So not a man . Maybe a woman perhaps?” He teased her. “Or maybe just a grumpy, dark-haired neighbor who happens to be devastatingly handsome and built like a Greek tragedy.”
Emi stared him down. “Makoto.”
“What? Just narrowing the options.” He innocently shrugged.
“You’re both unhinged.”
“Oh, come on,” Kaito said, leaning over her desk. “You’ve been in a better mood than we’ve seen in weeks . The walking corpse act is gone, you’re cracking dad jokes again—”
“What do you mean? I never stopped.”
“—and just yesterday I saw you get a toddler to laugh and do their nebulizer with a stuffed frog named Beans.”
“Beans has a medical license,” Emi said solemnly.
Makoto leaned back, twirling in his chair like a five-year-old. “You’re dodging the question.”
“I don’t remember what the question was,” she said breezily.
“Are you happy?” Kaito asked, quieter now, watching her over the rim of his coffee mug.
That one landed.
Emi paused, fingers tightening slightly around her thermos.
She could still feel the warmth of a certain someone’s arms wrapped around her. The quiet apology whispered into her skin. The way his fingers had traced her sides, how his smirk had melted into something… else .
The cigarette. The laugh. The promise .
She smiled softly, eyes dropping to the stack of patient notes on her clipboard.
“Yeah,” she said.
Kaito and Makoto exchanged looks.
“Okay, she’s so in love,” Makoto declared.
“I’m going to throw my clipboard at you if you don’t stop that now.”
“You’re glowing!”
“It’s my job to look warm and caring, dumbass!”
“You were glowing in the supply closet , Emi.”
Kaito chuckled. “We’re just glad to have you back.”
Emi blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been here,” Kaito said with a shrug, “but you’ve felt... far away. For a while. Like you were somewhere else.”
“Yeah,” Makoto added, grinning. “Somewhere broody. And moody. So unlike the Emi we knew.”
Emi tried not to smile too much. “I’m going to report both of you for emotional harassment.”
“Worth it,” they said in unison. High fiving each other.
Just then, a call rang out from one of the nurses in pediatrics. Emi immediately stood, all business in a blink, flipping her clipboard back open.
“Alright, gentlemen. Playtime’s over. Time to go be competent.”
“Aw, and just when we were getting somewhere,” Kaito groaned, but he stood too.
Makoto trailed behind them, whispering to Kaito: “It’s totally that Hero neighbor guy, right?”
“I’m gonna start a betting pool,” Kaito whispered back.
“ I can hear you, ” Emi called without looking.
“We wanted you to,” both replied smugly.
Late morning sun filtered through the tall windows, painting the pediatrics floor in a soft, buttery light. The halls were quieter than usual—no urgent calls overhead, no alarms ringing down the corridor. Just the hum of conversation, distant laughter, the rustle of a chart being flipped.
Emi relished this rare lull.
Her clipboard was tucked under one arm, her white coat swaying around her knees as she made her way down the hallway—light steps, almost a bounce in her walk. The hallway to Hana’s ward was familiar by now, carved into her weekly rhythm like a little ritual.
She was humming under her breath. Just a little. Not enough to be noticed. Just enough to feel like herself.
As she neared Hana’s room, she slowed. Her eyes caught on a familiar silhouette standing outside the doorway—tall, crisp coat, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other gesturing lightly as he spoke to a couple.
Kaito.
He was speaking quietly to Hana’s parents, his expression calm, kind, but serious. That look he wore when he was walking someone through hard truths in the softest way possible. He had a skill for that—Emi always admired it. That quiet confidence. The way people naturally leaned in when he spoke.
The mother’s brows were pinched, the father nodding slowly. Emi hovered for a moment, not wanting to interrupt.
Inside the room, she could see Hana playing with a couple of the other pediatric patients—paper crowns and crayons spread across the bed, laughter bouncing off the walls. Her tiny voice carried in pieces.
“…No, I get to be the dragon! You’re the knight this time!”
Emi smiled. Her chest warmed.
After a moment, the parents gave Kaito a nod and patted his arm in thanks. They didn’t notice her as they turned to peer through the window. Emi stepped back, pretending to check her watch, waiting until they moved on.
Then she stepped inside.
Hana’s room was decorated with drawings taped all over the walls—dragons, castles, cats in sunglasses (that Emi helped her draw), and one slightly concerning sketch of what appeared to be a unicorn with knives for legs. Terrifying. The smell of crayons and hospital-grade hand soap mingled faintly in the air.
“Knock knock,” Emi said, voice gentle.
Hana looked up from the bed and her face lit up . “Emi-san!!”
“Well hey there, sunshine,” Emi grinned, walking over. She perched lightly on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the coloring chaos. “Miss me already?”
“Always,” Hana declared, tossing her crayon like it was a mic drop. “You haven’t visited since Monday !”
“Ugh, I know,” Emi said, placing a hand over her heart. “I’m the worst. I was busy being responsible. You’d be so disappointed in me.”
“I am .” Hana folded her arms and pouted.
They both giggled, leaning in conspiratorially.
Just then, Kaito entered the room with Hana’s parents. He stepped in quietly, coat still immaculate, one brow quirked at the sight of Emi lounging like a goblin on the bed.
“Oh, she got to you first,” he said. Unsurprised.
Kaito introduced them to Emi “This is, Dr. Fukukado, Fukukado Emi.” The couple bowed slightly towards her.
Emi stood to greet the couple, brushing invisible wrinkles off her scrubs.
“Oh please,” Emi smiled towards the couple “Call me Emi.”
“Oh, we know,” Hana’s mother said warmly, shaking her hand. “Hana talks about you all the time.”
Emi's eyes slightly widened “Oh really?” She beamed “Ah… good things, I hope?” Emi smiled, side-eyeing the little traitor in the bed.
Hana giggled behind her hands.
“She loves you,” the father added. “Always saying you tell the best stories and make the yuckiest medicine taste better.”
Emi laughed. “Trade secret. I mix it with a little sass and stubbornness.”
Kaito’s eyes followed her as she spoke. The way she relaxed around Hana. The natural affection. How easily she made people feel safe.
“She’s been doing really well,” Emi added, turning to the parents with a more professional tone. “She’s a strong kid. Brave, too.”
“Thanks to all of you,” the mom said, getting misty-eyed.
They chatted for a while—gentle updates, a few laughs, reassurance where needed. After a few minutes, the parents kissed Hana goodbye and stepped out, waving a soft farewell.
Emi sat back down beside the bed, reaching for a pink crayon. “You missed a spot on your dragon. Why is he bald?”
“He’s in disguise , Emi-san.”
“Obviously,” Kaito said, crouching on the other side of the bed now. "How dare you question the tactical decisions of a dragon.”
Emi narrowed her eyes on both of them. “Okay, but bald? Not even a wig? Where’s the creativity?”
“He has a hat,” Hana said very seriously, picking up a drawing and pointing to a jagged triangle that looked suspiciously like a pizza slice.
Kaito nodded solemnly. “Clearly, you’re not fluent in dragon fashion.”
Emi scoffed. “I am fluent. I’m basically a dragon fashionista. I just have standards.”
“High standards,” Kaito deadpanned, giving her a sidelong glance. “Except when it comes to your choice of tea. Hospital-grade tea, really?”
Emi gasped. “Excuse me?! That’s medicinal. Restorative. A little chalky, yes, but it has character.”
“It tastes like cardboard and lies.”
“Everybody lies.” She folded her arms.
Hana giggled uncontrollably, watching them volley back and forth like a tennis match.
Emi shook her head with mock offense. “You know, Kaito, if you keep insulting me in front of my favorite patient, she might start to think you’re cooler.”
“Oh, it’s too late,” Kaito said, grinning as he looked down at Hana. “Right, Hana-chan?”
Hana blushed furiously and covered her face with her blanket.
“Traitor,” Emi muttered.
“Jealous?” he asked. Smirking.
“No,” she said, without hesitation. “But, she was mine first.”
“Only Hana can decide that,” Kaito smirked.
They both turned to her, eyebrows raised.
Hana peeked through her fingers, giggling so hard she snorted. “M-maybe… I can share?”
“Fine,” Emi pouted. “But only because you’re cute.”
Kaito leaned in slightly, voice smooth. “That’s the only reason?”
Emi paused just a beat too long before rolling her eyes. “You really want me to say you’re cute too, don’t you?”
“Wouldn’t hate it.” he shrugged playfully.
“Keep dreaming, McDreamy .”
He laughed—genuinely—and along with Hana, Emi’s heart did that flip of wholesomeness thing it did sometimes around happy people. She adored it, she craved it. She misses it.
Before the moment could hang too long in the air, the door burst open, and Makoto popped his head in.
“There you two are,” he said. “Hey, Hana-chan! Did Emi tell you I saved a guy from choking on a grape today?”
“She didn’t!” Hana gasped. “Was he okay?!”
“Oh, totally,” Makoto said. “The grape wasn’t. I murdered it.”
Emi shook her head with a groan. “Makoto. Please.”
“What? That grape knew what it was doing.”
Kaito stood, dusting off his coat. “Is this going to be another one of your chaotic ‘mini cases’ talk.”
“Absolutely not,” Makoto said, eyes sparkling. “This one is about fruit accountability.”
Emi turned to Hana, stage whispering. “Never eat grapes. They’re cursed.”
Hana nodded solemnly, giggling. “Noted.” SHe gave her a thumbs up.
Makoto held up a folder. “Anyway. Thought I’d find you here, Emi. You’ve been assigned to the isolation unit for a consult.”
Emi blinked. “Wait, now?”
“Yup. Some kind of viral weirdness. Symptoms all over the place. Fever, rashes, one patient said he started hearing music that wasn’t playing.”
“…Are we sure that’s not just stress?” That’s usually the main reason.
“Nope.”
Kaito frowned, taking the folder. “This is strange. Who else is on this?”
Makoto grinned like he was about to drop a bomb. “ Us .”
…
“What.”
“All three of us. It’s like a team thing. Department crossover.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Emi muttered. “Is it my punishment for missing two staff meetings in a row?”
“Probably,” Kaito said. “Or karma for that tea.”
“ Shut up Kaito.”
Makoto wiggled his eyebrows. “Aw, come on. It’ll be like old times!”
“We’ve never worked on the same case together in a long time,” Emi said. The last time she could remember was when they were still desperate pity little interns.
“Exactly. New ‘old times.’ The best kind.”
Hana perked up on the bed. “Are you gonna be like detectives?”
“Yup!” Makoto said proudly. “The Virus Busters!”
The ghostbusters? Really? How lame.
Emi squinted. “That’s… unfortunate branding.”
“I’m workshopping it.” Makoto shrugged.
Kaito sighed. “Let’s just make sure it’s not airborne before we start naming ourselves.”
“Wait, are we wearing full suits?” Emi groaned. “Please don’t say the bunny suits.”
“Bunny suits,” Makoto confirmed cheerfully. “With the face shields.”
“I just started feeling cute again.”
“You’ll look fine. I’ll draw eyelashes on your visor.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
Hana, now fully in on the chaos, shouted, “Team Bunny Busters!”
Emi clutched her chest with a mocked horrified expression. “That one’s actually worse.”
“I like it,” Kaito said, already walking toward the door.
“Of course you do. You don’t have to deal with fogging up your visor from panicking in tight spaces.”
“Who panics in tight spaces?” Makoto blinked.
Emi pointed to herself. “Hi. Hello. Human claustrophobia gremlin, reporting for duty.”
Makoto just grinned wider. “All the more reason to stick with me. Don’t worry Emi, I’ll keep you calm.”
“She’s better off with me,” Kaito said smoothly.
Emi sighed dramatically as she hugged Hana goodbye, ruffling her hair. “Great. I’m being escorted into a potential infection zone by a grape murderer and a smug heartthrob.”
“I believe in you,” Hana whispered solemnly.
“Thank you, small angel.” Emi smiled at her.
As the three of them filed out the door, Emi glanced back one last time. Hana gave her a double thumbs up.
And Emi—despite the chaos brewing—smiled.
Yeah.
She was okay.
The room was quiet—eerily so, given how chaotic the rest of the ward was that morning.
The three of them stood at the foot of the hospital bed, eyes scanning the patient before them.
Takashi Suda. Male. 24. Construction worker. Recently involved in a workplace accident. No known pre-existing conditions. No genetic diseases on record. Admitted three days ago after collapsing at home.
His skin was pale with a feverish flush, and he was bundled in two layers of hospital blankets despite the already warm room. One of his arms trembled as he tried to reach for a tissue, missing entirely before groaning and letting his head fall back against the pillow.
Emi glanced at the chart again in her hands, lips pressing into a line.
Nasal discharge. High fever. Severe fatigue. Muscle weakness. Mild tremors. Insomnia. Hypersensitivity to sound.
No consistency. No clear pathology.
And absolutely no diagnosis.
Makoto leaned against the wall beside her, arms crossed. “I ran the full panel again this morning,” he said, quiet but firm. “All the tests came back clear. Viral, bacterial—nothing concrete. And nothing contagious either, thank god.”
“Nothing in the toxin screening?” Kaito asked, stepping forward and giving the patient a quick visual once-over, his brows drawn.
Makoto shook his head. “Zilch. I checked twice.”
Emi’s fingers drummed once on the clipboard, her eyes narrowing just slightly.
Something doesn’t fit.
Too many symptoms. Too disjointed. Too… conveniently unclear.
Her mind wandered briefly. Could be a quirk. She didn’t say it aloud, not yet. But if it was a quirk-related affliction, this shouldn’t be their case. It should’ve gone directly to the Quirk Medicine Division. Unless—
Unless someone had requested otherwise.
She held the thought and stepped forward with a soft smile.
“Hello, Mr. Suda,” she said gently, tilting her head slightly, her ponytail swaying with the motion. Her voice softened, sweet like honey and easy. “I’m Dr. Emi Fukukado. We’re here to check up on you, see how you’re holding up today.”
Takashi blinked up at her, eyes glassy from fever. “Don’t… don’t know what’s wrong,” he croaked. “Feels like… everything.”
“Well,” she said warmly, “that’s what we’re here to figure out, yeah?”
He nodded weakly. Emi stepped closer, her fingers gently pressing to his wrist to feel his pulse.
“Just gonna listen to your heartbeat,” she said softly, already leaning closer with her stethoscope. Her movements were precise, careful. But when she leaned over him, Takashi flushed.
Kaito, standing behind her, definitely noticed.
He cleared his throat and flipped the chart in his hands. “You mentioned dizziness yesterday, Takashi. Are you still experiencing that now?”
Takashi turned his head slightly. “Yeah. Feels like the room moves. Head’s loud. Ringing. Like music, not the good kind.”
“Any tingling? Numbness?” Emi asked as she shifted, touching two fingers to his neck to feel for swollen glands. Her touch was quick, efficient, practiced.
“Sometimes my hands go cold,” Takashi admitted. “Then hot. Like burning. And I—ah—” He sneezed violently into the tissue he finally managed to grab. “I can’t stop this crap. All day. No idea why.”
Makoto scribbled notes on his pad. “No trauma to the head in the explosion, right?”
“Not that they saw,” Takashi rasped. “I was in the clear zone. Just got hit with… like, pressure. Smoke. Wind or something. Then I blacked out.”
“Explosion sites can stir up latent toxins,” Kaito muttered. “But nothing on his labs.”
Emi squinted thoughtfully. “Takashi, have you ever been exposed to unusual quirks on site? Maybe unknowingly?”
Takashi blinked. “What… like a villain? No. We’re not really a Hero-heavy zone.”
“Any coworkers with known quirks? Maybe passive types?” she asked, stepping back now that her exam was complete. “Something that wouldn’t normally register as dangerous.”
“Uh…” Takashi looked dazed. “There’s this guy—Kenta—he’s got one that makes the ground vibrate when he’s stressed. But it’s never hurt anyone. It’s minor.”
Makoto perked up slightly. “Did you see Kenta on the day of the explosion?”
Takashi hesitated. “Y-Yeah. He was near the scaffolding. But he’s fine, I think. Why?”
“Just ruling things out,” Emi said gently. “No need to worry.”
They took a few more notes, quietly conferring over the chart as Takashi dozed lightly. His energy clearly fading with the effort of answering questions.
Emi stepped back, her coat sleeve brushing Kaito’s. Her voice was quiet as she leaned closer to him, keeping her tone low enough that Takashi wouldn’t hear.
“I think we should escalate this,” she whispered. “Something isn’t right. These symptoms feel… layered. Synthetic.”
Kaito’s eyes flicked to her. Like he can already tell what’s on her mind. “You think it’s a quirk .”
“Don’t you?” she asked, not looking at him. “It feels like someone’s painting over a real illness with symptoms that don’t belong. It’s like a misdirection.”
He didn’t respond for a moment. Then: “Yeah. I do.”
Makoto, already ahead of them, turned back from the hallway. “Lab’s waiting for another blood draw. You guys coming?”
“Be there in a minute,” Kaito said.
Makoto gave Emi a mock salute. “Don’t get lost in his dreamy eyes, Fukukado.”
“Shut up, Makoto,” she muttered, rolling her eyes and trying to hide her smile.
Kaito smirked as soon as Makoto left.
Emi turned back toward the patient’s room. But before stepping away, she paused.
“Do you think this was assigned to us on purpose?” she asked, quieter now. “Because if this is a quirk-related issue, they should’ve sent this upstairs.”
Kaito folded his arms. “Maybe they wanted a second opinion before alerting Quirk Control. If this is synthetic… they’re going to want everything airtight.”
She frowned. “So we’re the test run.”
“Maybe.”
She sighed and looked back at Takashi, who was now curled slightly under the blankets.
“I don’t like it,” she said honestly. “I don’t like using patients to prove a theory.”
Kaito gave her a look then—something unreadable, but heavy.
“You’ve got a big heart, Emi,” he murmured. “Don’t let it get in your way.”
“Big hearts are kind of my thing,” she said, smiling just a little. “Even if they make terrible shields.”
He said nothing. Just gave her the barest nod.
They turned, together, to follow Makoto down the hall. The tension of the case following them like a whisper, just out of reach.
A clipboard landed beside her hand with a solid thud , interrupting the rhythmic tapping of her keyboard.
Emi startled slightly in her seat, blinking at the stack of files that had appeared in front of her, then turned toward the source—Makoto, looking grim but alert despite the ungodly hour.
“The other piece,” he said, sliding into the chair beside hers, white coat still slightly rumpled. “Kenta. He just got admitted a few moments ago."
Emi’s brows furrowed. “Kenta…?” she repeated, then realization flashed across her features. “The coworker. The one with the tremor quirk.”
Makoto nodded.
Her eyes scanned the top sheet quickly, and she muttered under her breath, “This doesn’t make sense…”
Makoto tilted his head. “What is?”
She didn’t respond immediately—just shut her eyes, thinking, lips pressed into a line. Something about the timing didn’t feel right. The patterns weren’t patterns at all. They were… out of sync.
She turned to him suddenly, eyes sharp. “What time is it?”
He blinked, glanced at the corner of the monitor nearby. “Uh. 2:37 a.m.? Why?”
Emi scooched closer, leaned in as if she were about to drop a revelation, some twist in the puzzle they were missing. Makoto straightened, anticipating.
And then—
“I’m hungry,” she whined. “I can’t think properly right now.”
Makoto’s face went flat. “Seriously?” His lips twitched, caught between disappointment and exasperated amusement.
“You said you wanted me to function properly,” she said defensively, already minimizing her tabs. “Can’t save lives on an empty stomach.”
He huffed, scoffing under his breath. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe. But I’m cute,” she beamed at him. Throwing him a peace sign against her right cheek.
“Debatable.”
“Hey!”
Makoto stood and held out his hand. “Come on. Let’s go before I change my mind.”
Emi looked up at him, her eyes twinkling as she reached up with a conspiratorial grin, taking his hand like it was a secret pact between the two of them.
That look said everything.
‘You’re thinking what I’m thinking’ type of look.
“You already knew,” she sang, standing up and tossing her ID badge into her coat pocket.
Makoto laughed quietly. “Yeah, yeah. Go grab your purse, snack gremlin.”
“Yesss! Night ramen, here I come!”
She flung her coat over the back of her chair and skipped off, ponytail bouncing, while Makoto muttered something about “unprofessional chaos incarnate” and shoved the clipboard toward the end of the desk.
****
The night was colder than either of them expected.
Tokyo, usually buzzing with a low thrum even at ungodly hours, felt quieter on this side of the hospital district. The buildings around them loomed like sleepy sentinels, the windows mostly dark, except for the occasional glow of a vending machine or a passing patrol drone.
Makoto shivered, tugging his sleeves down uselessly. “Why the hell didn’t I grab a jacket?”
“I don’t know, maybe because you were too busy acting all dramatic with your clipboard?” Emi said, rubbing her hands together as they speed-walked down the sidewalk.
“I should’ve stolen Kaito’s sweater before sneaking out with you,” he muttered bitterly.
She gasped. “You blame me ?!”
“I do,” he said, looking completely serious. “You lured me with food. I lost control of my life.”
“I invited you to live.”
“Barely. This is frostbite weather.”
“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”
“It’s two degrees above freezing.”
“...Okay, maybe it’s that bad.”
They reached the convenience store, the automatic doors sliding open with a beep that sounded louder than usual in the sleepy street.
Inside, warmth washed over them like a gentle wave. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the soft hum of a freezer blended into the low pop music coming from the speaker near the snacks aisle. A salaryman dozed in one corner booth with an untouched bowl of ramen, snoring gently.
Emi made a beeline toward the refrigerated shelf, grabbing a couple of onigiri and then lingering at the ramen aisle with the reverence of a woman on a mission.
Makoto leaned against the soda fridge, watching her thoughtfully. “So. Back to the case.”
“Hm?”
“You were saying earlier—about the symptoms being ‘layered.’ Like painted over.”
“Mm,” Emi hummed, selecting the spiciest cup noodles she could find. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it. None of the systems align with one pathology. It’s like they’re being rewritten. Rewired.”
“By a quirk?”
“Maybe. But if that’s the case…” She paused, placing the noodles on the counter. “Why wasn’t it caught in the initial scans? Why weren’t we looped in before Takashi collapsed?”
Makoto rubbed the back of his neck. “Could be a new quirk. Or someone trying to hide it.”
Emi frowned. “Or someone testing something.”
He looked at her.
“That’s a stretch,” he said.
She sighed. “Yeah. I know. But… something feels wrong.”
They paid, thanked the cashier, and slid into the tiny corner booth by the window. Emi immediately opened her onigiri, tearing into it like it owed her money.
“God, I love onigiri," she groaned.
Makoto snorted. “You sound like you’re in a commercial.”
“I would do a commercial for these.”
“You’re delirious.”
“Sleep-deprived, cold, underfed—but functional . And a smile.”
They both cracked up at that, laughter bouncing off the plastic walls of the booth.
For a moment, the weight of the mystery lifted—just a little.
But as Emi leaned her cheek against her palm and stared out the window, slurping quietly on her ramen, her smile faded into a thoughtful stillness.
“This might be something bigger,” she said after a while, quieter.
Makoto looked at her. “Yeah, it might ,” he agreed. “And if it is, I think we just stepped into the middle of it.”
Their eyes met—serious now.
And outside, the first drops of a light, quiet light drizzle rain began to fall.
****
The automatic doors slid with a humming sound and both of them stepped out of the convenience store.
"S-shit, it's even colder now" Emi said, sending shivers down her spine. Basically freezing. "Yeah no shit, it just rained," Makoto muttered. Then suddenly his phone rings, He looks at the caller ID then back at Emi.
"Shoot, I gotta take this. Gimmie a sec then we'll walk back. Do Not go alone." He walked further for privacy and said the last statement sternly.
"Alright alright, make it quick, it's freezing!" Emi muttered, annoyed.
There she was, standing hugging herself alone in front of the bright light up convenience store. Her breath she exhaled made a fog.
Aizawa crouched low on the rooftop, shadows clinging to the folds of his scarf as he surveyed the quiet Tokyo streets below. His breath curled in the cold air, but his eyes were fixed on a familiar figure emerging from the convenience store doors.
There she was.
Emi. Wearing only thin scrubs and a ponytail swinging behind her like always. Laughing—God, she was laughing—even as the wind bit at her bare arms. And beside her, that same guy. The one from the hospital. Her colleague or something. He didn’t care to remember.
What he cared about was the way she looked under those fluorescent lights. Tired, but glowing. Hungry, but still warm. Beautiful, and completely underdressed for the weather.
Why the hell is she out here like that?
He should leave it alone. He was on duty. Underground patrol meant silence, shadows, and no personal distractions.
But his gaze didn’t move. Couldn’t.
She mattered now. More than he was ready to admit.
From across the rooftops, he watched as Makoto stepped away, answering a call with a quiet mutter. Emi stood alone beneath the glowing sign of the convenience store, arms wrapped tight around herself, shoulders shaking from the cold.
Her breath puffed out in little clouds.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Groaned. "This douche—can't he be any slower?"
And then she turned. Started walking back toward the hospital way, clearly ready to go alone despite Makoto’s warning.
That’s when Aizawa moved.
He didn’t think. He acted.
The scarf snapped forward with practiced grace, silken and precise, wrapping around her torso and muffling her startled gasp before she could scream. Her body lifted, legs dangling as he reeled her upward like some brooding spider hauling its prey. She flailed once, panicked—but then she landed softly on her knees on the rooftop above.
The cold wind howled around them.
“Emi.”
She flinched, head whipping around. His voice—deep, smooth, familiar.
He stepped out of the shadows and crouched in front of her, his expression calm but tight with worry. “It’s just me.”
Her eyes widened. “A-Aizawa?! What the actual hell?!”
He held out his hand to help her up. She hesitated before taking it—half because her heart was still pounding, half because his grip was warm, grounding.
He tugged her up, a little too fast, so she stumbled right into his chest.
Silence.
Her breath hitched as her palms landed against his coat, fingers splaying over the hard plane of his chest. He didn’t move. Neither did she. For a second, all she could hear was the rush of wind and their hearts thudding like drumbeats trying to sync.
Then she blinked. Flushed. “I—uh—what the hell was that?”
“You were alone. Freezing.” His voice was low. Unapologetic. “I saw you when I was patrolling.”
“You saw me and thought kidnapping me was the right move?” she shot back, flustered.
“I didn’t want to yell across the street like some idiot. You were with a colleague.” He said the word with a tone she didn’t miss. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Makoto?” she asked, tilting her head, eyes still wide.
He looked away. “Whatever his name is.”
Emi laughed, folding her arms and shivering a little. “Jealousy suits you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not jealous.”
“You kidnapped me, Zawa.”
His eyes flicked back to hers at the nickname. She noticed. Smiled.
“We were just on a snack run,” she said softly. “I didn’t think I’d be stalked by a Pro Hero on the way.”
“You came out in that?” Aizawa’s voice was low, but something in it caught—sharp and concerned. His eyes dragged slowly over her scrubs, clinging to her frame in the wind. He looked away quickly, jaw tightening as if scolding himself for even looking. “You’ll get sick.”
Emi huffed, arms folded due to the cold, cheeks flushed. “I’m not cold-blooded. I’m fine.”
He didn’t look convinced. Unamused.
“You’ve been overworked,” he said, stepping toward her. “I can see it all over your face.” His gaze lingered on her eyes. “And letting yourself walk around half-frozen in the middle of the night isn’t exactly the smartest move. You’re a doctor—you should know better.”
His voice was gentle, but firm—his version of care, always veiled in gruffness. And somehow that made it feel more intimate.
“Oh, please,” Emi muttered, pouting. “I have an immune system made of steel. Unlike you who smokes like a damn chimney—”
He moved.
In one smooth step, he was in front of her—close. Closer than he should be.
His hand braced beside her head against the concrete wall, effectively caging her between his body and the chilled rooftop bricks. The sudden movement knocked the breath out of her lungs, her back barely brushing the wall, her chest rising fast.
“I told you…” he murmured, voice low and rough, almost tender in its intensity. “I’m trying to quit. Didn’t I?”
His words ghosted over her ear, his breath warmer than the night around them. Every syllable felt like it was drawn out just for her.
Emi’s breath caught. Her heart thumped violently in her chest, fingers curling instinctively into the front of his coat. Her eyes fluttered up to meet his—half-lidded, shadowed beneath his messy hair, watching her.
Studying her.
No distance left to retreat. No words left to say.
“I…” Her lips parted, but her voice betrayed her. Her mind spun with the nearness of him, the heat in his gaze, the memory of their last closeness—the balcony, the stolen cigarette, the way his hand had lingered on hers just a second too long.
She swallowed.
“G-good,” she whispered, barely audible. “You better.”
He didn’t move. His eyes flicked down to her lips. Then back to her eyes.
“Let’s see how long you last,” she added, a teasing lilt in her voice, though her pulse was anything but calm.
He leaned in just enough to make her breath hitch again. His presence wrapped around her like smoke—intoxicating, deliberate, patient. “I’ll prove it,” he murmured, his voice like gravel smoothed over silk.
The air between them thickened. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment too long, as if testing how much closer he might lean.
He didn’t. But he didn’t step away either.
Instead, the silence swelled between them—full of things unsaid. Things he couldn’t say. Things she wasn’t ready to hear.
Like how the way her laugh had echoed on the balcony haunted him when he tried to sleep.
Or how she always smelled like lemon balm and chamomile and the distant warmth of home.
She blinked up at him again. Her lips parted slightly, almost inviting.
He noticed.
He always noticed.
Aizawa exhaled softly and finally, reluctantly, stepped back. Just far enough to give her room. Just enough to breathe.
But it was clear—he wasn’t letting her go emotionally. Not even close.
Emi stayed where she was, back still pressed against the wall, hands at her sides, flushed and shaken in a way she didn’t expect.
“You—” she tried to say something, anything to break the tension.
He just looked at her. Eyes soft, but unreadable.
Then a ghost of a smile touched his lips. “You drive people crazy, you know that?” He murmured, as if it slipped out without permission—too soft to be scolding, too sincere to be a joke. By people he meant, me .
Emi froze, her mouth slightly open. Something about the way he said it—low, resigned, almost fond—sent a rush of heat through her that had nothing to do with the weather.
She laughed, breathless and shaky. “You’re not exactly easy to forget yourself, Eraser.”
The name lingered between them, heavier than expected. Her voice had softened when she said it. Like it wasn’t just his title—but a secret she now held close, something she knew that few others did. Aizawa’s expression didn’t change, but she saw the flicker in his eyes. Like it meant something that she used it. That she’d chosen it just then.
He stepped back, only slightly, and turned toward the edge of the rooftop.
“I should get you back,” he said.
“Back to the store?” she asked, but didn’t move.
He glanced at her from over his shoulder. “Unless you’d rather freeze to death on a rooftop in your scrubs.”
She narrowed her eyes at him playfully. “Not ideal, no.”
He gave a quiet snort. “Then come here.”
Before she could take a step, he was already reaching for her—swift, firm, and with the kind of quiet confidence that left no room for hesitation.
His arm wrapped securely around her waist, pulling her toward him in one smooth motion. Her body collided with his chest, solid and warm beneath the thick black of his gear. Her hands instinctively pressed against him—one flat on his chest, the other curling into the edge of his shirt.
“A-Aizawa,” she breathed, startled. Her heart shot into her throat. “Warn me next time.”
“Didn’t want to give you a chance to argue,” he muttered, his face mere inches from hers now. He pulled her even closer, and she felt his capture scarf shift at his neck, readying. The fabric brushed her cheek, whisper-light.
Her breath caught. “You’re really gonna swing with me like this?”
“You’ve done worse,” he teased, voice dry.
“That’s debatable,” she whispered, cheeks blazing. Her work does sometimes consider some crazy stunts. On humans at least. She tried to keep her voice steady, but failed miserably. “God, I hate heights…”
He paused. Just for a second. She didn’t notice, but he did. He always noticed.
His hold on her tightened, gentle but protective. He adjusted his stance slightly so that his body would shield hers from the wind.
“Hold on tight,” he said, and something in his tone was different this time. Not just instruction. A promise.
“What? No, no, wait—”
But it was too late.
The scarf snapped forward, and they lifted off.
The city blurred beneath them—flashes of light, wind biting at their faces, the sudden lurch of gravity pulling down hard. Emi’s arms flew around his neck on instinct, clinging to him like a lifeline. Her face buried into the crook of his shoulder, breath coming out in a startled gasp that brushed warm against his skin.
He felt every inch of her against him. The tremble in her legs, the tightness of her grip, the way her hair whipped across his cheek in the wind. And he cursed himself, quietly and without mercy, for how much he liked it.
The landing was soft. Fluid. Precise.
But she didn’t let go.
She clung to him even after they touched down beside the convenience store. Her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, her cheek still pressed against his neck, her breath still warm there. Her whole body trembled slightly—not just from fear, but the adrenaline, the surprise, the fact that she’d just flown through the sky in the arms of a man who looked like a walking shadow and held her like she was something precious.
“Emi,” he said softly.
She didn’t move.
“Emi,” he repeated, a bit more gently, his hand resting on her back now—fingers splayed as if anchoring her to the ground.
Finally, slowly, she stirred. Her lashes fluttered. She looked up.
And then shoved him.
“Idiot!” she barked, cheeks scarlet. “You could’ve warned me! I thought I was gonna die!”
He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t.”
“That’s not the point!” She hit his chest again, though it barely moved him. Her face was still burning. No longer feel cold from the weather. “I could’ve had a heart attack!”
“But you didn’t,” he said again, this time softer. There was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, like he was proud of her and trying very hard not to show it.
She glared at him. “You’re the worst.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m not!”
“You’re cold.”
She was. But not from the weather anymore.
“Don’t…” she said suddenly, voice quieter now. Her hand pressed against his chest. “Don’t scare me like that.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he reached up and wrapped his fingers around hers—gently lowering her hand from his chest, but not letting go.
“Don’t get sick,” he said. “Be careful.”
Her brows twitched. “Why do you care so much?”
His gaze met hers. Steady. Deep. Dark.
Because you care for me. More than anyone I know.
“I just do.”
That was all he gave her instead.
And somehow it was enough.
She scoffed quietly, the tension slipping off her shoulders like mist. “I will. You too… Eraserhead.” Her voice was lighter now, but not mocking. A private smile touched her lips, like she was letting him in on something again.
That’s the first time she called him by his full Hero name.
He nodded, hand still lightly holding hers. Then, with one last squeeze, he let go.
Emi turned on her heel with a skip, waving. “See you at home, Zawa !”
The nickname made him roll his eyes. “Stop calling me that.”
But she was already halfway back toward the store, her breath fogging up in front of her, the bounce in her steps unmistakable.
Aizawa watched her until she disappeared into the light.
Only when she was gone did he step back into the shadows—goggles sliding back over his eyes, scarf tight, the ghost of her warmth still clinging to his chest.
And then, with a quiet curse under his breath, he swung back into the night.
Makoto was already standing outside the store when she returned, arms crossed tightly over his chest, hugging his arms to seek warmth, and a half-eaten sausage bun in one hand. His brows shot up the second he spotted her, his breath forming small clouds as he exhaled sharply.
“There you are!” he said, voice slightly muffled by the bun in his mouth. “Where the hell did you go? I told you not to walk off!”
Emi blinked, paused… and then with the grace of a well-trained liar, she patted her stomach and winced dramatically. “Ramen emergency. That spicy one you dared me to eat?” She pulled a face. “Did not agree with my digestive tract. I had to find a restroom.”
Makoto blinked, chewing slowly. “...Seriously?”
“Do I look like I’d joke about spicy ramen revenge?” she replied, all wide eyes and pouty lips. Her cheeks were flushed, but whether from the cold or something else, Makoto couldn’t tell. Probably both.
He made a noise of understanding and gestured to her with his half-eaten bun. “Serves you right. I told you it was gonna kill you. You always think you can handle spice when—”
“—When actually I can,” she cut in, nose in the air. “I just wasn’t prepared emotionally. ”
Makoto laughed, loud and full of warmth despite the hour. “You’re such a drama queen.”
“And you eat sad, beige food like you’ve given up on life.”
He looked at his sausage bun, visibly offended. “Hey. Don’t come for the classics.”
She chuckled, wrapping her arms around herself again as the breeze picked up. Despite the cold, she still felt warm. Residual warmth—like it was still lingering on her skin. From him.
Makoto glanced sideways at her, narrowing his eyes.
“You okay?” he asked, more gently now. “You’re all… smiley.”
“Am I not allowed to smile?” she shot back, her voice pitched high and suspicious.
“You are,” he said slowly. “Just not like that. You’re smiling like you saw someone you weren’t expecting to see.”
Emi stiffened.
Too quick.
Makoto blinked. “Wait. Did you see someone?”
“Pfft—what?” She laughed way too hard. “Who could I possibly see? At this hour? In this weather?”
His brow arched.
“Emi.”
She tugged her scrub tighter and looked up at the sky instead, as if Tokyo’s skyline held answers. “Let’s go back. I think the spicy ramen taught me a valuable life lesson.”
Makoto let out a suspicious hum but didn’t push it. “Uh huh. Fine. But you’re telling me everything later. I will drag it out of you.”
“No, you won’t,” she said sweetly, linking her arm through his as they walked. “Your interrogation skills are like your snack choices. Weak and outdated.”
He scoffed again and gasped in mock offense. “Rude.”
She laughed softly, but her mind was elsewhere. Her arm still tingled where he’d held her. Her waist still remembered the feel of his hands. And her chest… well, that part of her was absolutely not cooperating. Her heartbeat refused to settle, and every time she replayed the way his voice dipped low near her ear, she wanted to scream into a pillow.
She didn’t realize she was smiling again until Makoto bumped her shoulder with his.
“Still grinning,” he muttered.
“Shut up,” she mumbled back, eyes on the ground, cheeks glowing.
Elsewhere, on the rooftops…
Aizawa crouched low on the edge of a sloped building, silent and still as the night around him. The city stretched below—flickering neon, buzzing wires, passing cars—and yet, all he could see was her.
The way she looked at him, breath fogging up between them. The sound of her laugh, warm and nervous. The press of her chest against his when he held her. How tightly she clung to him like he was the only thing anchoring her to safety.
He hadn’t meant to grab her like that. Not really. Not until he saw her standing there alone, shivering, arms wrapped around herself like the cold might hollow her out.
His instincts took over before his thoughts could catch up. And now… he was stuck with this —the ghost of her weight in his arms. The lingering warmth on his scarf where her cheek had been. The phantom press of her fingers curled into his chest.
It was dangerous how much he noticed. Every single detail.
How much he wanted to notice.
He never meant to memorize the sound of her breath. Or the way her voice pitched when she was flustered. Or how her body fit too perfectly against his, like she'd always belonged there.
His scarf stirred slightly in the wind.
He leaned into the shadow of a nearby tower, hidden again. Camouflaged. Watching. Waiting.
He wasn’t sure what unnerved him more—the way she felt in his arms, or how much he already missed it.
" You're going to get sick," he'd told her.
But he was the one feeling unsteady now.
Restless.
Like he'd just opened a door he didn’t know how to close.
Aizawa let out a breath through his nose, slow and silent.
He was on patrol. He needed to focus.
But all he could feel was her.
Skin to skin.
Breath to breath.
And the very real, very dangerous craving for more.
Notes:
Just a wittle note for you readers, I've have a few chapters done in draft but just letting you guys know that I might be a little slow with the updates now. I do try to post and make time to write. But just like eveyone that has a life, I have a thing going on. A tend to be busy these few upcoming months. But worry not, I will still try to post at least once a week.
Thank you for the comments and support, totally loved every single feedback and comments on every chapter hihi.
Chapter 12: Quick Pause In Conversation, She Plays Songs I've Never Heard
Chapter Text
The hospital smelled faintly of antiseptic, cold coffee, and the unmistakable buzz of flu season.
Coughs echoed from behind curtained bays, every other corner had a box of tissues running dangerously low, and a subtle layer of exhaustion clung to every doctor, nurse, and overworked intern like static electricity.
Emi didn’t mind it. The chaos, the fatigue, the overlapping complaints of sore throats and body aches—it was oddly comforting. Predictable. Seasonal. Like nature’s reminder that even in a world of quirks, some things stayed beautifully mundane.
She rounded the nurses’ station, sipping from a paper cup she knew was cold but pretended it wasn't, eyes skimming through a digital chart on a nearby screen. Her hair was tied in a loose, slightly messy ponytail, bangs framing her face as usual, and her coat was only halfway buttoned like she got distracted mid-motion.
Makoto materialized beside her, his mask already tugged under his chin as he popped open an energy drink with a weary sigh.
“Six cases of fever in the last hour,” he muttered. “And one guy who insists his hiccups mean he's pregnant.”
Emi didn’t look up. “Was it the old man from bed twelve?”
Makoto blinked. “...Yeah.”
She nodded. “Tell him congratulations. I’ll throw him a baby shower.”
He handed her a mask.
Like clockwork.
Emi blinked at the light blue rectangle dangling between them, then slowly reached out and accepted it with two fingers as if it were a dead insect.
“That’s number… what? Four today?” she mused.
“Five,” Makoto said flatly. “Kaito gave you one during rounds. Nurse Saki handed you one in the hallway. And I’m pretty sure Hana tried to put one on your face with her tiny little hands .”
“And all of them were appreciated ,” Emi said sweetly, slipping the mask into her coat pocket without a second thought.
“Yet. You never wear them,” he said, staring at her like she was an unsolvable puzzle.
“I do!” she insisted.
“Sure you do. When?”
“Well... during surgery!”
“That’s because you’re required to dumbass.”
She grinned. “See? I’m very law-abiding.”
Makoto made a face. “You’re a biohazard.”
Just then, Kaito approached with perfect posture and a clipboard tucked under one arm like a shield. His white coat didn’t have a single wrinkle, and he had the kind of calm energy that made patients trust him and interns fear him.
“I heard you turned down another mask,” he said without looking up from the chart.
“I accepted it,” Emi corrected, holding up the one in her pocket proudly. “I just didn’t deploy it.”
“You’re impossible,” he said, and without hesitation, handed her another one.
Makoto burst out laughing.
“You guys act like these are Pokémon cards,” Emi said, now holding one mask in each hand. “Gotta catch ‘em all.”
“You should wear them,” Kaito said, but his tone was half-resigned. “You’ve been exposed to dozens of patients today—at least pretend you’re concerned about infection control.”
“I am concerned! That’s why I keep giving mine to other people.”
“Oh, so you’re like the Mask Fairy,” Makoto quipped. “Stealing PPE to redistribute it?”
“Exactly,” Emi nodded, deadpan. “I’m Robin Hood, but for flu season.”
Kaito rubbed his temple. “You’re going to catch something.”
“I’m stronger than the flu.” Emi puffed her chest slightly, planting her hands on her hips. “I’ve built up an immune system from years of eating street food and accidentally drinking expired milk.”
Makoto made a horrified noise. “You what ?”
“Relax, I was fine!” she said brightly. “It only took me down for, like, four days. Max.”
Kaito muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “medical malpractice on yourself” .
Just then, a nurse brushed past them with a clipboard and called out, “Room twelve’s coughing up something neon green now, good luck!”
Makoto raised a brow. “I call not it.”
“I call double not it,” Emi said quickly.
“You can’t double call it.”
“Too late.”
Kaito sighed and scribbled something into his chart. “You two are exhausting.”
“Only because we’re charming,” Emi winked. “You love it.”
“Debatable.”
Before Kaito could make a dignified escape, Emi leaned over and gently tugged the mask out of his coat pocket.
“See?” she said, holding up three now in one hand like playing cards. “I’m rich.”
Makoto gave her a look. “If you don’t wear one of those in the next five minutes, I’m duct-taping it to your face.”
“You wouldn’t.”
He took a step closer. “Try me.”
“You touch me with that tape and I’m sneezing on your lunch.”
Kaito looked up slowly. “I’m officially pretending I don’t know either of you.”
But despite the teasing, the warmth between the trio was palpable. It was the kind of rapport built over long nights, too many double shifts, and shared silence in on-call rooms. Beneath Emi’s defiance and playfulness was something sharper—her mind was elsewhere. Tugging at a thread that no one else had quite caught yet.
Because while the flu was spreading, something else was too.
And Emi couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just seasonal.
Something was off .
Room 314 was quiet—eerily so, considering how full the hospital had become with sneezing, coughing, and the soft chaos of flu season. The fluorescent light above flickered slightly, and both patients were propped up in their beds, separated by a pale blue curtain.
Takashi was pale. Kenta looked worse.
Emi pushed the door open gently with her hip, her tablet hugged to her chest, and her fifth unused mask of the day still tucked neatly into her coat pocket.
“Morning, boys,” she greeted softly, slipping into the room with Kaito and Makoto trailing behind.
Both men stirred. Takashi offered a weak smile; Kenta just blinked, his eyes rimmed with red, his forehead glistening with sweat.
“Still alive?” Makoto asked dryly, checking the vitals monitor above Kenta’s bed.
“Barely,” Kenta croaked, voice hoarse.
“Charming,” Emi said, scribbling something down on her tablet as she moved to Takashi’s bedside. “Any new symptoms? Sore throat, chills, spontaneous quirk activation?”
Takashi huffed a tired breath. “Unless getting dizzy every time I stand up is a new power, no.”
“He’s been coughing more,” Kenta said from behind the curtain. “Like, heavy. Hurts the ribs.”
Kaito stepped forward, pulling the curtain back halfway to glance at both men at once. “You’re both still running fevers. Higher than yesterday,” he noted, glancing down at his chart. “Medications aren’t making any significant changes.”
Emi leaned in closer to Takashi, pressing the back of her hand to his cheek before checking his pulse manually. She frowned.
“Your breathing still feels labored,” she murmured. “Almost like something’s pressing on your chest... but your scans were clear yesterday.”
“Maybe it’s just the flu,” Takashi offered, not sounding convinced.
“No,” Emi said without hesitation, standing straight and tapping her pen against her palm. “It’s something else. Flu season’s a mess, yes—but you two? You’ve been sick longer. And it’s not following the same pattern.”
Kaito nodded in agreement. “Both of you are on the standard antiviral regimen, yet there’s been no drop in your temperature, no ease in respiratory symptoms.”
Makoto folded his arms, thinking. “And there’s the timeline—Kenta, you got sick days after Takashi, right?”
“Three days,” Kenta rasped.
“And you work together?” Emi asked, moving over to his bedside and gently peeling back the corner of his blanket to check for any visible bruising or discoloration along his arm. “Same building? Same section?"
“Same construction site,” Kenta said. “We work together at times, yes.”
Emi and Kaito exchanged a look.
Makoto raised a brow. “So the chance of it spreading between you two is high. But still... no one else from your workplace has shown symptoms?”
“Not yet,” Kenta said. “At least not that I know of. Everyone else just has regular sniffles. We’re the only ones who—” he paused to cough violently into his arm, wincing. “—who ended up here.”
Emi leaned against the counter by the window, crossing her arms as she stared at both men. There was something off —she could feel it in her gut, that strange itch at the back of her mind that never went away when a puzzle was unresolved.
“This doesn’t sit right with me,” she said softly. “Two people. Same workplace. Same symptoms. Different timeline. No one else was affected.”
Kaito stepped beside her, reviewing the chart again. “And no response to flu treatment. Which means we need to consider alternate causes.”
“You think it’s quirk-related?” Takashi asked, sounding nervous now.
“It’s on the table,” Kaito said, honest as ever. “Could be something environmental. Something triggered by exposure.”
“Has anything unusual happened at work lately?” Emi asked. “New worker? Chemical cleaners? New quirk related equipment? New tech installed?”
Both men shook their heads slowly.
“Okay,” Emi sighed, rubbing her temples. “We’re going to need HR records. Floor plans. Cleaning logs. Everything we can get from your workplace.”
“Great,” Makoto said, deadpan. “I’ve always wanted to file hospital paperwork and case paperwork in the same shift.”
Emi snorted. “Welcome to hell. Population: us.”
Kenta chuckled weakly, then winced. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts to breathe.”
“Then don’t laugh,” Kaito said dryly, flipping the page on his clipboard.
“Wow, you’re all sunshine, huh?” Emi teased him. Poking his arms.
Kaito didn’t reply, but his lips curved upward just slightly at the edge.
As the trio began checking charts and comparing vitals again, the tension in the room shifted. Something about seeing the two patients lying there, pale and weak, with no clear diagnosis in sight—it bothered them more than they’d admit out loud.
But it was Emi , especially, who felt the weight.
She glanced at Kenta’s trembling hand and thought about how many people came in here with a cough and left with a diagnosis.
But this wasn’t that simple.
Something was being missed. She could feel it in her ribs.
And she hated that feeling
The breakroom hummed quietly, filled only with the faint hum of the vending machine and the rhythmic click of keys from Kaito’s laptop. A moment of rare peace in the middle of a flu-ridden hospital shift.
The door swung open with a soft creak.
"Did you report it?" Emi called over her shoulder without looking up, already halfway through making coffee at the counter. Her messy bun was starting to fall out, strands of green hair curling around her ears, and the sleeves of her scrubs were rolled to her elbows. She stood barefooted in her clogs, shoulders slightly slumped, clearly running on caffeine and habit alone.
She didn’t need to turn around to know it was Makoto. She could recognize the sound of his lazy footsteps and the specific way the door opened when he was the one pushing it.
"Yeah, finally," Makoto said as he strolled toward her. "But they said it’ll take some time. Bureaucracy moves slower than a snail on morphine."
He walked over to where Emi is and he peeked over her shoulder and saw two steaming paper cups on the counter.
"Aww," he cooed, reaching past her with zero shame, "for me? Emi, you shouldn’t have."
She squinted at him. “Makoto.” A warning.
But he already had his hand on one of the cups, grabbing both and waltzing toward the table with exaggerated swagger.
"That’s mine, idiot!" Emi groaned and reached after him, but he lifted both cups out of reach like a child stealing snacks.
"You’ve had three cups this morning," Makoto said smugly as he set one in front of Kaito and sat down with the other. "You’ve hit your daily quota."
"Since when do I have a quota?!" Emi threw her arms up and stomped toward them with mock indignation. “And since when are you my caffeine regulator?!”
"Since I care about your kidneys, liver, and—frankly—your soul," Makoto said, taking a sip.
He grimaced.
Emi narrowed her eyes. Hands clutching her hips like a mother scolding a child. “What?”
He swallowed slowly, then made a face. “Why is your coffee so… good? Like, sickeningly good? Sugary, creamy—exactly how I like it.” He looked at her suspiciously. "Wait… are you psychic?"
Kaito chuckled lowly behind his screen.
"You said 'eugh,'" Emi pointed accusingly, pulling out a chair with dramatic flair. "You don't get to insult it and then enjoy it."
Makoto gave her a toothy grin. “You know you love me.”
“Unfortunately,” she deadpanned and sighed, sliding into the seat next to him. “I’ve already talked to HR about transferring you to pediatrics. No luck.”
Kaito finally looked up, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His dark hair was slightly messy, though loose strands had fallen around his face, and his glasses were slipping down from how long he’d been staring at the screen.
Emi raised an eyebrow at his quiet sigh. “What’s up, McDreamy?”
Kaito let out a groan. “Please stop calling me that.”
Makoto smirked. “C’mon, it suits you. Tall, fit, unfairly symmetrical face. And a Hafu. You're a walking drama show.”
He rolled his eyes. “Been in the OR too long. My back’s killing me,” Kaito muttered, leaning back and cracking his shoulder with a wince. “And your voices are like scalpels to my brain.”
“Awh, don’t be such a grump,” Emi teased as she got up and circled behind him, placing her hands firmly on his shoulders. "You're gonna give yourself a permanent hunch."
She started massaging gently, expertly finding the tight knots in his upper back.
Makoto leaned his chin on his hand, watching with an amused grin. “Look at that, Emi’s using her Quirk: Human Heat Pad.”
Kaito groaned lowly—half protest, half pleasure. “Don’t stop.”
But Emi had other plans.
Her eyes flicked to the coffee cup still in his hand, and she smirked as she kneaded deeper into his shoulder.
Makoto saw the glint in her eye. “Oh, she’s plotting. This is a distraction technique.”
“Shh.” Emi whispered with mock innocence. “Therapy in progress. Has nothing to do with distraction. Kaito is just getting old.” Emi smiled, shrugging and applying gentle pressure.
"Old my ass. I'm barely thirty," Kaito grumbled, voice hoarse.
Emi grinned. “Thirty in doctor years is like, what? Forty-five? You’re one stiff joint away from retiring.”
As Kaito melted into her touch, Emi smoothly reached around and swiped his coffee cup.
But he was faster. He moved his hands and cup away from her.
"Hey—" she began, but it was too late.
"Use your words, Dr. Emi," he groaned, as he took a long sip before passing it behind him, towards her.
Makoto laughed so hard he nearly snorted into his own mug. “He really played you.” Emi immaturely stuck her tongue out and enjoyed the coffee with a satisfied sigh.
Still half-limp from the massage, Kaito simply held out his hand, wiggling his fingers expectantly. “Keep going. I didn’t say stop.”
Emi groaned and resumed rubbing his shoulder with one hand while sipping his coffee with the other.
Makoto leaned over, grinning. “Domestic.”
“Oh shut it, Makoto,” she muttered, eyes sharp.
The room hummed with a cozy silence after that. Just the three of them, their shared fatigue, and the low thrum of fluorescent lights.
Eventually, Kaito tilted his head back. “So. The construction site records?”
Makoto nodded. “Still pending, but it’s taking too long. They need to hurry or we’re flying blind.”
Emi sighed. “We’ve ruled out known airborne pathogens. The timing, the exposure… Something’s off.”
“They work on sites, right?” Kaito murmured, thinking aloud. “High traffic warehouse. Lots of moving parts.”
“Shared locker room, opened break spaces. Could be environmental,” Emi added, fingers absently still working into Kaito’s shoulder.
“But it doesn't explain why they’re the only two affected out of twenty-something coworkers,” Makoto pointed out.
They all grew quiet again.
“…Maybe it is a Quirk interaction,” Emi said after a beat. Her voice had softened. “I’ve seen cases before where exposure to latent quirks or dormant traits caused delayed reactions.”
Kaito nodded slowly, thoughtful. “Still, that’s rare. And hard to prove.”
“Exactly,” she sighed. “All theories for now. Gotta wait for those records to confirm anything.”
It’s useless if they all talk and theorize with no proof.
There was a pause.
And then, just as Kaito was melting against Emi’s touch again, she patted him on the back—and slapped his shoulder unexpectedly hard.
"Ow—what the hell?!" he jerked upright, eyes wide.
Emi was already backing up, grinning as she held the coffee cup. “Sorry, Dr. McDreamy. Massage time is over. My shift’s done!” She points out at the wall behind her, which is empty. No clock.
Makoto burst out laughing. “She’s a menace.”
Kaito scowled, looming over her with a dark glare. He swiped his coffee cup from her hand and felt it, empty.
“You drank all of it?”
“Every drop,” she chirped, kissing the rim of the cup dramatically.
Makoto froze mid-laugh when he saw the faint twitch of a vein on Kaito’s forehead. “Uh-oh.”
Emi grabbed Makoto’s sleeve, panic in her eyes. “Abort mission.”
“Run?”
“Run.”
The two bolted to the door like kids escaping detention, Emi’s laugh trailing behind her as she looked over her shoulder.
“Take care, Kaito! Go lie down before your back gives out!”
Kaito stood in the center of the breakroom, scoffing. He reached back to the spot on his neck where her fingers had been moments before.
It was still warm.
He smirked to himself.
“She’s a disaster,” he muttered—but his lips twitched upward anyway.
Her shift had ended early.
The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Emi let out a long, deep sigh—the kind that seemed to deflate every tense muscle in her body all at once. Her bag slid off her shoulder and landed with a soft thud by the entryway, her shoes kicked off haphazardly beside it. For once, the silence of her apartment didn’t feel lonely. It felt earned.
She moved slowly through the space, dim lighting spilling gold across the warm wooden floors. The soft hum of her refrigerator, the faint breeze from the window she’d left cracked open that morning—it all felt like home wrapping its arms around her.
The shift had been long. Not particularly dramatic, just steady. The kind of steady that wore you down without realizing it. A sea of flu cases, fevered cheeks and sore throats, parents clutching tissue boxes and overworked nurses moving like ghosts down the halls. It was that time of year again.
But her thoughts hadn’t really been on the flu. Not entirely.
She’d been thinking about Takashi and Kenta. Still undiagnosed. Still a mystery. Still tugging at the back of her mind with that frustrating, nagging feeling that it wasn’t a coincidence. She’d sent in another request for their workplace medical logs—there had to be something in there. A thread. A clue. Anything.
Now, she was home, her loose sweater soft against her skin, sleeves pulled halfway up her arms. Her hair was damp from the shower, twisted into a lazy bun at the nape of her neck. Barefoot and warm for the first time all day, she padded into her small kitchen, humming under her breath. A tune she didn’t even know. Something aimless and content.
She opened the fridge, not expecting much, and stood there for a moment in the cool light, lips pursed.
She wasn’t hungry, exactly. Not for food.
Her eyes flicked to the half-full bag of dark chocolate chips on the second shelf.
A slow smile curved her lips.
Cookies.
Cookies would fix everything.
She started moving without another thought—flour from the pantry, sugar from the cabinet, a stick of butter that she softened with practiced hands. It was muscle memory at this point. Cream the butter and sugar. Add the vanilla. Eggs. Dry ingredients.
The act of baking always grounded her, and tonight, it was like her body knew she needed it before her mind did. There was something healing in the rhythm. Something soft and safe.
She stirred gently, scraping the sides of the bowl with a wooden spoon, then tasted a small dollop of dough on the tip of her finger.
Perfect.
But the moment was short-lived.
She glanced at her oven and groaned aloud.
“Right. Of course .”
Still broken. Still dead. Still waiting on the part that was apparently stuck somewhere between a warehouse and a three-week shipping delay.
But of course it happened a few weeks ago when she was about to use it to toast a piece of bread and it almost burned her entire kitchen. What did she expect from an old oven?
Never again. Better not risk it.
She let her head thunk lightly against the cabinet.
“…Betrayal.”
She stood there for a long moment, staring at the bowl in her hands. She could put it away. Save it for later. Pretend it didn’t matter.
But then—
“So…” she said, recovering slightly. “You’ll let me use your kitchen?”
His voice dropped. “Yeah.”
“For the bread,” she teased, eyes still on his mouth.
He looked at her, gaze slow and heavy.
“Sure,” he said. “For the bread.”
His voice played in her head. Low. Dry. That slightly annoyed, half-exasperated way he said things when he didn’t mean them as an offer, but as a fact.
Aizawa.
She stilled.
Of course, he’d said it offhandedly. Probably didn’t even remember. Or maybe he did and regretted it the second she smiled at him like she might actually take him up on it.
Still…
Her eyes drifted toward the wall they shared. That stupid, thin wall. She had memorized the soft creak of his window, the almost imperceptible thud of his footsteps when he came in late at night.
Was he home?
The thought lit something warm and fizzy in her chest. She felt it slide beneath her ribs, too familiar now to deny. The ache she carried with her lately whenever she thought about him. About how he’d held her on that rooftop. The way his voice had dropped when he told her to be careful.
The way she didn’t feel cold at all when he was that close.
She exhaled slowly, heart thudding.
This was ridiculous. She was being ridiculous.
But the bowl of dough was in her hands and her oven didn’t work and he had said she could use his. It was perfectly reasonable. Logical, even.
Totally normal behavior.
She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, then paused, glanced down at her outfit. Comfy shorts and a loose sweater that has a smiley face on it that starts to fade. Not exactly impressive, but she wasn’t about to change. That would be trying too hard.
At least she’s comfortable like this.
She laughed to herself softly, then grabbed the bowl and headed to the door.
Each step across the hallway felt like a step toward something she couldn’t quite name. The soft padding of her bare feet against the wood, the low hum of the hallway light, the faint scent of rain from earlier still clinging to the air.
She stopped in front of his door and took a breath.
Lifted her hand.
And knocked.
Once. Twice.
Then waited.
Her fingers curled tighter around the bowl as her heartbeat started to pick up again, that familiar fluster tightening in her chest.
Please be home.
Please don’t mind.
Please… open the door.
The door creaked open, and Aizawa stood in the frame, half-shadowed by the warm, low light from his apartment. His hair was loose around his shoulders, damp at the ends like he’d just stepped out of a shower. A plain black T-shirt clung to his chest, loose gray joggers hanging low on his hips. Barefoot. Relaxed. And yet—
The moment he saw her, his spine straightened just a little. Or maybe not. Maybe she was just reading too much into things. But his gaze swept over her in one slow, silent pass. From the flushed brightness in her cheeks, to the lazy bun barely holding her hair together, to the worn hoodie hanging off one shoulder and the bare legs beneath it. His eyes lingered. Just for a second. Maybe two.
And then they were back to flat and unreadable.
But the heat in his chest? That didn’t lie.
He hadn’t expected her.
But he wasn’t complaining.
“Emi,” he said, with a short nod, his voice as steady as always. Like she was a passing colleague in the hallway and not the woman who had clung to him on a rooftop just days ago, warm and breathless and buried in his neck.
She beamed at him, like the hallway light got brighter just because she was standing in it.
“Aizawa,” she grinned, leaning forward slightly, rocking on the balls of her feet.
He watched her mouth move around his name and tried not to feel anything about it. Failed miserably.
Emi’s hands tucked behind her back—an innocent gesture that made her look ten times more suspicious. Mischievous. Like she was hiding something. And she was.
“Remember when you said I could use your oven?” she asked, taking one step closer into his space, her voice light, but her eyes… her eyes were watching him carefully.
Aizawa blinked.
He did remember. Regretted saying it the moment it left his mouth, because it was dangerous— she was dangerous. The way she kept slipping under his skin without trying. And now here she was, all soft hoodie and shining eyes, holding a mixing bowl like it was a peace offering. Or a trap.
He stepped back, opening the door wider.
“I remember, unfortunately,” he said evenly. “Are you here to burn my kitchen down?”
Her grin widened, and she slipped past him like she belonged there, like she’d done it a hundred times before. And at that time, it felt like it.
“Please,” she scoffed, heading toward the kitchen. “I’m an excellent baker. Besides, you agreed. ”
“Didn’t think you’d take it so literally,” he muttered as he closed the door behind her. But he didn’t stop her. Of course he didn’t.
“Mm, well. Here I am. You have a working oven and I have…” she turned toward him dramatically, holding up the bowl, “...cookie dough. A very fair trade, I think.”
He raised an eyebrow as he leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Watching her.
“What’s in it?”
“Chocolate chip. The classic. Nothing fancy.” She pulled open a drawer—like she’d been here before, like she already knew where things were. He didn’t correct her. “Besides,” she added over her shoulder, “you look like the type who likes something simple and slightly bitter. Like your coffee. Or your personality.”
His mouth twitched. A fraction.
“I could take that personally.”
“You should, ” she said brightly, peeking into a cabinet. “Where’s your baking tray?”
“Top cabinet, left.” The words came out before he could stop them. Damn her.
She stretched to reach it, and his gaze flickered to the sliver of skin revealed beneath her clothe. His throat tightened. He looked away.
She turned back triumphantly with the tray in hand. “I’m not even gonna ask when you last used this.”
“Good,” he said, still watching her. “I’d lie.”
She snorted and turned back to her task, lining the tray with parchment paper and scooping the dough. Every movement was casual, confident, like she felt safe here. Comfortable in his space. Too comfortable. And yet, something about it settled him, too.
He stayed quiet as he watched her hum softly, hips swaying a little while she worked. She smelled like vanilla and citrus shampoo and soap—like warmth and calm and something almost heartbreakingly human.
“You’re staring,” she said after a beat, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
He didn’t look away.
“You walked into my apartment with a bowl of sugar and took over my kitchen,” he said. “You want me to stare.”
She laughed and nudged the tray into the oven before setting a timer.
“No, I want you to have cookies,” she teased. “The staring’s just a bonus.” She smiled and tilted her head slightly.
He opened his mouth to reply—but nothing came out. Her eyes were too bright. Her smile was too soft. Her presence was too much.
And yet not enough.
She turned, leaning against the counter beside him, hip bumping gently into his.
“You’re really not going to offer me tea or anything?” she teased.
He grunted. “You want hospitality now?”
“Minimum wage for oven usage,” she said with a wink.
He rolled his eyes and pushed off the doorframe, walking toward the kettle. She watched him from behind, arms crossed, smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
He moved like a man who didn’t want anyone in his space but had already decided to let her stay.
And she—God, she couldn’t stop watching him. The way his hair stuck to his skin, how broad his back looked in that shirt, the quiet patience in his movements. The careful silence he wore like armor.
She’d been waiting for this moment all day. Not the cookies.
Him.
The smell of vanilla and browned butter was slowly wrapping around the room, warm and sweet, clinging to the walls like memory. Emi stood at the counter, barefoot and comfortable, sleeves rolled up past her elbows as she scraped the mixing bowl clean with a spatula. She was humming under her breath—something soft and familiar. It was the sound of someone relaxed, unwound.
Aizawa watched from where he leaned against the fridge, one ankle crossed over the other. His eyes followed her every movement without shame—quietly alert, amused, and mildly captivated. The back of her shirt was dusted in flour. Her hair had mostly come undone, bangs curling softly at her brow. She had smudged a streak of chocolate on her cheek without realizing it.
“How do you always manage to look like you’ve lost a war with your own baking?” he asked dryly.
Emi glanced back over her shoulder, spatula still in hand. “Excuse you. This is the face of culinary triumph.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Triumph doesn’t usually look like a five-year-old covered in cookie dough.”
She huffed, turning to fully face him now, licking a bit of batter from her finger. She caught him watching.
He didn’t look away.
“You’re awfully observant for someone who pretends not to care,” she said, smirking.
“I’m observant because I care,” he replied, tone flat. “I pretend not to care because you’re annoying.”
Emi clutched her chest dramatically. “So cold. I come into your home, I warm up your kitchen, I make cookies with love, and all I get is slander?”
“I didn’t ask for love in my cookies.”
“No,” she said, walking closer, grinning with the mixing bowl. “But you’re getting it anyway.”
She dipped the spatula back in the bowl and held it up toward him, smirking. “Here. Try this. Fresh from the battlefield.”
He stared at it, deadpan. “You realize this is raw egg, right?”
“Live a little, Zawa.”
Her use of the nickname made something twitch at the corner of his mouth. He took the offered spatula anyway. Licked it. Slow and unbothered. Eyes still on her.
Emi blinked. Her breath hitched. Just slightly.
“Well?” she asked, voice a little higher than before.
Aizawa tilted his head. “Too sweet. Like someone trying too hard.”
She gasped. “You. Take it back.”
He handed her the spatula, stepped a little closer. “You really want me to lie to you?”
“I want you to admit you like it.”
“I like that it shut you up for five seconds,” he said, his voice low, dry—borderline sinful.
She gawked at him. “You are so—!”
“Charming?” he offered, leaning past her to grab the tray of cookie dough.
“I was gonna say infuriating.”
He didn’t argue. Instead, he slid the tray into the preheated oven, his arm brushing hers as he passed. She didn’t step away. Neither did he.
“You’re a mess,” he said, glancing down at the streak of flour on her shirt. “How do you function as a doctor?”
“Very well, thank you,” she said with a playful scowl.
“You sure? You’ve got half a chocolate chip in your hair.”
“What—where?” Emi began pawing blindly at her bangs.
Aizawa watched her struggle for a few seconds, amused. Then, without a word, he reached up and gently plucked a crumb from the top of her head. His fingers grazed her scalp. Soft, brief.
“There,” he said, letting his hand drop again.
Emi looked up at him, a little pink in the cheeks now. “Thanks.”
He said nothing.
She turned away quickly, pretending to check the timer. “Cookies’ll be ready in, like, twelve minutes.”
“Mm,” he said. “Twelve minutes of peace before you invade my space again.”
Emi whipped around. “Invade? I improve your space.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Absolutely. Admit it, you like having me here!”
Aizawa didn’t reply. Just looked at her for a long beat—really looked. She was flushed, a little sweaty, tired from her shift. But there was something else, too. A softness behind her eyes. She stood barefoot in his kitchen like it was hers. Like she’d always belonged.
And he realized he liked seeing her like this. Raw and real. A little chaotic, a little messy. No makeup, no performance. Just her.
It made something low in his gut stir.
“...You have flour on your nose,” he murmured, taking a slow step forward.
She wrinkled her nose. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“Where?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he reached out again—this time using his thumb to brush it off. His hand lingered against her cheek, just long enough to feel the warmth of her skin. Her breath caught. His fingers smelled like coffee and soap.
Neither of them said anything.
Her eyes flicked to his mouth. Just once.
A beat passed.
And then he stepped back, fingers curling into his palm.
“You’ll get chocolate on my floor next,” he muttered.
Emi cleared her throat, flustered, and laughed. “I’ll mop it myself.”
“You’d better. And while you’re at it, clean the rest of the apartment.”
“Only if you feed me dinner.” She beamed.
He shot her a look. “This isn’t a restaurant.”
“It could be,” she said with a grin. “You’ve got a moody chef vibe going.”
“You’ve got a problem,” he replied.
“Maybe” She shrugged “But you like it.”
“I tolerate it.”
“Same difference.”
And he didn’t deny it.
They stood there in the thick of it—elbows bumping, heat between them, cookies baking, something else rising in the air neither of them could name. Close enough to feel it. Too far to call it real.
Yet.
The hospital halls had finally begun to settle, the storm of the day softening into a lull. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, humming over scuffed floors and quiet nurses’ stations. Just hours ago, the emergency ward had been a whirlwind of coughing patients, nurses running charts down corridors, and doctors calling out medication changes mid-stride. But now, there was a calm. A brief breath in the middle of what everyone knew was only the beginning of flu season.
Makoto sat in the corner of the staff room, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, scrolling through the preliminary results that had just pinged through on his tablet. His brows furrowed as his eyes darted across the data. Then stopped. He leaned in closer. His breath hitched slightly.
"No way," he muttered.
Just then, Kaito walked in—hair still damp from a quick rinse after a long surgery, the collar of his coat slung lazily over one arm. He glanced at Makoto and immediately caught the shift in the air.
"What is it?" he asked, setting down a half-empty coffee and stepping beside him.
Makoto turned the screen toward him wordlessly. Kaito scanned it. His brow arched. Then furrowed. Then flattened again.
They were quiet for a beat.
Makoto leaned back in his chair, exhaling. “We were right,” he said, almost in disbelief. A slow, amazed smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Kaito’s lips curved into something more knowing. “ She was right,” he corrected smoothly, one hand reaching over to tap a line on the screen — quirk exposure markers. Environmental origin. Foreign but localized. Cause: unknown but confirmed.
Makoto chuckled. “Yeah. She did keep saying it wasn’t viral.” He rubbed the back of his neck, grinning. “Damn. Emi’s gonna be insufferable.”
“She’s gonna be thrilled.” Kaito’s smile widened, softening his usually sharp features. “She’s been chasing this all week.”
Makoto looked over at him, eyes shining. “We need to tell her.”
Kaito nodded. “Definitely.”
Without another word, both of them stood. Makoto grabbed his coat and shrugged it on with hurried enthusiasm. Kaito moved more calmly, methodical, but his pace quickened when Makoto darted toward the exit like a man on a mission.
“Do you even know where she lives?” Kaito asked, half-teasing as he caught up.
Makoto shot him a grin over his shoulder. “She sent me a pic of her balcony plants once. You think I wouldn’t put the pieces together?”
Kaito scoffed. “Stalker behavior.”
“Resourceful,” Makoto corrected smugly, pushing open the hospital doors.
The air outside was crisp—early evening and faintly damp, the kind of cool that settled into your collar and made you glad for a scarf. The city was beginning to glow with night lights, yellow street lamps reflecting off wet pavement as the two men walked side-by-side down the narrow sidewalk.
They didn’t speak much. There was no need to. The silence between them was easy—comfortable.
Until Makoto broke it.
“She’s gonna go feral,” he said with a grin. Imagining her reaction once they tell her.
Kaito smirked. “She’s earned it.”
Makoto glanced sideways. “You think she’s already home?”
Kaito shrugged. “Probably halfway through her baking goods or her sleeping marathon.”
Makoto snorted. “Bet if she’s baking she’s struggling with her oven again.”
Kaito raised a brow. “She better be using protection.”
“Wh—Kaito!” Makoto choked on his own laugh, nearly stumbling.
Kaito didn’t even crack a smile. “I meant oven mitts.”
“You so did not .”
Kaito kept walking, smug.
Makoto shoved him lightly. “Pervert.”
“Doctor,” Kaito corrected.
Their laughter echoed lightly off the empty sidewalk as they rounded the corner toward Emi’s apartment complex, both of them walking a little faster now, both already picturing her reaction—how her face would light up, how she'd probably yell, maybe jump into Kaito’s arms in a sugar-fueled victory dance, and then lecture them both about how they finally believed her.
And maybe, for just a moment, Kaito thought about how proud she’d look. About how much he liked seeing her like that.
He didn't say it out loud.
Not yet.
Chapter 13: I Miss My Cocoa Butter Kisses, Hope You Smile When You Listen.
Notes:
Cookies, naughty conversation as well as company. Being vulnerable when it's just the two of them. Also, getting to know each other, keeping the dots connected. And test results!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The scent of brown butter and vanilla curled through Aizawa’s apartment like a warm hand pressed to the sternum. It clung to the air, sticky-sweet and heady, softening the sharp edges of his dimly lit kitchen. Emi stood barefoot at his sink, sleeves of her sweatshirt shoved up to her elbows as she hummed something vaguely jazzy under her breath. Her hair was still a little damp from her post-shift shower, and a strand stuck to the curve of her neck.
Aizawa leaned against the counter a few feet behind her, arms crossed, watching her clean.
The soft clink of ceramic faded as Emi placed the last rinsed mug upside down on the drying rack. The warm scent of browned butter, sugar, and vanilla had begun to fill the small apartment, thick in the air like a spell cast by comfort itself. The oven ticked faintly behind her, and the place— his place—was warm in a way that felt unspoken. Not just from the heat.
She turned to lean her hip against the counter, tugging the sleeves of her oversized sweater down as she hummed quietly to herself. Content. Relaxed.
But not alone.
Aizawa leaned near the fridge, arms crossed, one brow raised like she was a mildly amusing science experiment. He didn’t say a word. Just watched.
Observed.
“You’re staring,” she teased, not bothering to look at him. She grabbed a dish towel and wiped the faint moisture from her hands, swinging her hips a little as she moved back to the island.
“You hum when you're pleased with yourself,” he said flatly. Like he’s stating a fact.
“Guilty.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Better than growling at the world like a wet cat.”
He made a sound — somewhere between a scoff and a breath — as she hopped up onto the counter again, legs swinging slowly. Comfortable. Bold.
She was glowing a little, flushed from the heat, from the sugar in the air, from him —though she’d never say that out loud.
He walked toward her with slow, deliberate steps, each one echoing in the air between them. She felt it. That static pull. The kind that had nothing to do with physical space, but something deeper. Needier.
She tilted her head at him, playful.
“Are you always this grumpy?” she asked, letting her knees nudge apart a little as he got closer. “I wonder what you were like as a kid. Did you always look like someone stole your lunch money?”
“Wouldn’t know,” he replied, stepping between her legs. Unashamed.
He didn’t touch her. Not yet. Just stood there, close enough for her to smell the scent of rain and steel on his shirt, his usual scarf that usually hangs loosely draped around his neck like a lion’s mane is missing. Leaving the sight of his neck full on display for her.
He looks…comfortable .
“Do you have baby pictures?” she continued, undeterred. “C’mon, please! I bet you were so cute—big eyes, pouty mouth, grumpy little fists—”
“No.”
“I’ll trade you a cookie.”
“I don’t want a cookie.”
“Everyone wants a cookie.”
“I’m not everyone.”
She pouted at him dramatically. “Well, that’s just selfish.”
“You’re loud,” he muttered, dryly. “And you talk too much.”
Emi smirked and leaned forward until their foreheads nearly touched. “You like it.”
He didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just let the moment hang.
“You don’t know what I like ,” he said quietly.
Her breath hitched.
Something about the way he said it—not threatening, not playful. Just... true . Like a promise or a warning.
Maybe.
Before she could recover, he placed a hand low on her waist. Then slid it under the hem of her sweater, under the shirt beneath. Warm skin met warmer palms. And her spine straightened like he’d yanked a string.
“W-What are you—!”
“Mind getting your ass off my counter?” he said, almost conversationally. But his hand didn't move.
It shifted . Fingers splayed wider. Rubbed slowly over the soft, sensitive skin of her waist. His thumb grazed the indent beside her hip, back and forth, like he was drawing circles no one else would ever be allowed to see.
Her lips parted, but her voice betrayed her.
He leaned closer.
“Emi,” he said, quieter now. Almost fond .
She nearly gasped just from the way he said her name. Like it was his.
“I—You’re being weird,” she mumbled, trying not to let the shiver show.
He ignored her. His palm flattened, sliding further along her waist. He could feel her—bare, soft, warm, breathing .
“You gonna get down?” he asked, voice low, gravely.
Her response was a choked sound that wasn’t quite a word.
He pinched her side lightly. Just enough to make her flinch.
“Aizawa!” she squeaked, eyes wide, her thighs snapping shut, trapping him, against his hips as her hands found his chest instinctively. “You pervert !”
“You’re the one on my counter.”
“You’re the one touching me!”
“I’m aware.”
She tried to glower at him, but it came out more flustered than intimidating. His other hand ghosted over her thigh, not touching—but close. Very close.
“You’re warm,” he murmured again.
She could’ve said something like
‘I’m human that’s why’.
But instead
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you are.”
He let that settle.
And then, slowly—like he couldn’t help himself—his gaze dipped to her throat. Her collarbone. The exposed skin under her sweater where it had slipped off one shoulder. She saw the way he swallowed. The tension in his jaw.
Her hands were still on his chest. She could feel his heartbeat.
It was fast.
Faster than usual.
He leaned in, nose brushing her cheek, his mouth barely grazing the shell of her ear as he exhaled a breath that made her shudder .
She couldn’t move.
Couldn’t think.
Then—
DING!
The oven timer blared to life, piercing the silence like a fire alarm.
They both jumped.
Emi shoved her palm into his chest with more force than necessary, eyes wide and flustered.
“The—The cookies!” she stammered, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “Y-you—you distracted me!”
“You distracted yourself ,” he said, deadpan.
She slid off the counter, but his hand slid with her . Up her waist, fingers skating against her back—unintended, or maybe not—until she hit the floor with a soft thud and gasped at the way his hand grazed the side of her ribcage.
“Oops,” he said without an ounce of remorse, finally letting go.
“Y-you’re a pervert,” she whispered, shoving hair behind her ear aggressively. Slightly pouting.
He scoffed, crossing his arms again as she opened the oven, letting the scent of fresh-baked cookies fill the space between them.
“I’ll make you eat the burned ones,” she muttered, cheeks burning.
“I’m not scared of you.”
“You should be.”
“I’m scared for you,” he corrected, stepping past her, low enough to murmur, “You're out of your depth, aphrodite .”
She turned, mouth open to snap back—only to realize he was smirking again.
Slow.
Subtle.
Dangerous.
Like he already knew he’d won.
“You said you remembered which apartment,” Kaito grunted as he climbed the last step, the echo of their footsteps softening into the dim hallway. His breath came out slightly annoyed, fogging in the cooler air of the building’s stairwell.
“I do remember!” Makoto replied, shifting the manila folder clutched in his hand. “She said it was either 3A or 3B... or—” he mumbled, voice trailing off, “was it 3D…?”
Kaito stopped mid-stride.
“Clearly, you don’t,” he deadpanned.
Makoto frowned. “Hey—don’t make that face.”
Kaito didn’t respond, just started walking again, slow and calm with the weight of patience thinning. His coat rustled behind him as he made his way down the corridor.
“Wait, wait—where are you going? You’re seriously just going to leave because I slightly forgot—?”
“If I were Emi,” Kaito said, voice even, almost amused, “which apartment would I choose?”
Makoto narrowed his eyes, watching him slow between two doors — 3A and 3B. There was a small potted plant outside. A pair of mismatched umbrellas leaned beside the other. The hallway light flickered gently above them, buzzing faintly.
“Oh, now you’re pretending to be intuitive?” Makoto scoffed, catching up.
“Not pretending,” Kaito said, tilting his head toward the apartment with the worn welcome mat, a sticker-covered mailbox, and a faint scent of something sweet still wafting from the inside. “Just paying attention.”
Makoto stood beside him, glancing back and forth between the two doors.
“So…” he started, nudging Kaito with his elbow. “Are you gonna knock or just stand here brooding like a noir detective?”
Before Kaito could open his mouth, something brushed against his ankle.
A soft sound broke the silence.
“Mrrrow.”
Both of them looked down.
A tabby cat — fluffy, with a creamy white chest and golden-green eyes — weaved between their legs, purring audibly as it bumped its head against Kaito’s shin.
Makoto blinked. “Well, hello there.”
Kaito crouched down immediately, his posture changing like someone flipping a switch. His hand extended gently, letting the cat nuzzle into his fingers before scratching under its chin.
“Do you have a name?” he murmured, voice soft in a way he reserved only for animals and unconscious patients.
Makoto chuckled. “Didn’t take you for a cat whisperer.”
The cat plopped on the floor and rolled over shamelessly, showing its fluffy belly.
Makoto bent down beside him. “Are you Emi’s?” he asked seriously, as though expecting an answer.
Kaito gave him a slow glare. “Did you really just ask the cat a question?”
Makoto just shrugged and rubbed its belly. “Don’t judge. It might be a very smart cat. And this dude sure looks like her, don’t you think?”
Kaito raised a brow. “Looks like—?”
“C’mon. That smug face. Big eyes. Mischievous. Green as spring.”
Kaito considered it. “…He does kind of have her attitude.”
The cat yawned dramatically in response, curling up right in front of apartment 3B.
Kaito looked at the door.
“Huh. That settles it.”
“What, because the cat chose?” Makoto asked, half-joking. Though he can't be serious... Right?
“No. Because it smells like cookies,” Kaito muttered with a twitch of a smile. He stood up, shifting the report in his hand. Knocking on the door twice.
Makoto looked at the cat again.
“I swear if Emi’s been hiding a cat from us this whole time…”
“She wouldn’t. She tells us everything,” Kaito said as he knocked gently on the door. “Even the stuff we don’t want to hear.”
Makoto nodded, then muttered under his breath, “Like that time she explained her dream about being a hot dog vendor for lizards…”
Makoto was disturbed by Kaito knocking on the door again
.
And the door handle clicked.
They both snapped up, alert.
And from inside—
“Who is it?” came her voice—warm, muffled, and just a little breathless through the door.
Kaito’s lips twitched upward. He recognized that tone. Surprised. Unprepared. Maybe even a little flustered.
“We brought news,” he called, tapping the folder in his hand against his thigh. “You might want to sit down.”
“And cookies,” Makoto chimed in, raising his voice playfully. “If there’s any left.” shrugging his shoulders.
There was a brief pause.
“Kaito? Makoto?!” Emi's voice shot up in pitch, startled and sharp with genuine surprise. There was a rustle from within, some soft thudding, a muffled, “Shit—wait—!” and something that sounded suspiciously like a drawer slamming shut.
The door creaked open.
Emi peeked out, wide-eyed, her expression somewhere between sheepish and startled. She was dressed in an oversized, heather-grey sweater that drooped slightly off one shoulder, her cheeks tinted with warmth—not just from the oven, judging by how she wouldn't quite meet their eyes. Strands of her bright hair had fallen loose from her bun, brushing against her jaw as the scent of brown butter and melted chocolate wafted into the hallway like a trap.
Makoto blinked once. “Uh.”
Then Emi stepped back, opening the door fully—and that’s when he appeared.
Shouta Aizawa.
A man moved silently through the warm light of her apartment, stepping just far enough into view to be seen, but making no effort to greet or acknowledge the newcomers. He didn’t look startled. Or apologetic. Or even curious.
Shouta Aizawa was stillness wrapped in indifference.
His eyes—those sharp, obsidian things—half-lidded and unreadable, flicked over Kaito and Makoto like a man sizing up two passing clouds. Barefoot, shoulders relaxed, his presence was unassuming in a way that made it more unsettling. He wore a wrinkled black shirt, slightly unbuttoned at the collar and pushed to the elbows, exposing lean forearms lined with quiet strength. His hair was down and still slightly damp near the ends, like he’d recently run his hand through it without care.
He said nothing.
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t blink.
He simply stood there—lean, quiet, exuding a palpable silence that felt more like a warning than a greeting.
And yet, the contrast was almost disorienting.
Because standing beside him, Emi looked flushed and flustered in the way she only got when she wasn’t expecting to be seen like this—barefoot, cozy, visibly at ease especially not when in her own home. There was a closeness between them that didn’t need words. The scent of cookies, the faint clink of a mug in his hand, the low hum of music still playing from inside. All of it spelled domestic.
And sweet
hell
, did he look like a sin wrapped in laziness. His shirt—black, cotton, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a glimpse of his collarbones—was wrinkled and hung low on his lean frame. His sleeves were pushed up to the elbows, veins prominent along his forearms, one hand holding a mug, the other in his tucked in his pocket. Like he
belonged
there.
Well. Maybe. Yeah, because it is his house afterall.
The air between them seemed to thicken.
Makoto blinked again. “…Hello?” it came out in a confused and ‘what’s going on here?’ tone.
Kaito’s brow twitched. His sharp gaze dragged from Aizawa’s comfortably rumpled figure to Emi, who was clearly not prepared for company, then back again.
Aizawa remained still.
He didn’t offer them a greeting, didn’t raise his voice or lift a brow. Typical. If anything, the only acknowledgement he gave was the briefest glance—detached, assessing—before turning his head slightly and taking a slow sip from the mug in his hand, as if this whole encounter barely required his attention.
“…Oh,” Makoto said, eyes wide.
“…Oh,” Kaito echoed, slower, lower. In realization.
As if on cue, the fluffy tabby cat darted between their feet and sauntered into the apartment, tail high. Like it knew exactly where it belonged.
Silence.
“Well, this is…” Makoto started, glancing between them, “…surprisingly domestic.”
“Yeah,” Kaito muttered. “Didn’t realize you started living with a cryptid.”
Aizawa didn’t blink. His gaze lifted—flat and unamused—to meet Kaito’s.
He didn’t say a word.
The air tightened just a little.
Emi gave a weak laugh, eyes wide and unconvincing. “It’s not—he’s not—uh, we were just—I came by to— He’s—”
“To eat your cookies?” Kaito asked dryly, arms crossed. “Looks like he helped himself.”
Aizawa finally moved—just a small shift of his weight, a slow blink. Then he spoke.
Voice low. Even. Cool.
“She offered.”
There was no smirk. No sarcasm. Just a flat, impenetrable truth.
Makoto stared. “I’ve never seen a man look like he wandered out of a noir film and into a bake-off.”
Aizawa’s brow quirked, subtly. Not in amusement—more like curiosity. Then he glanced toward Emi. Not them.
He hadn’t spoken to either of them by name. Not once. Every move of his felt calculated in its minimalism—sharp, silent, and deliberately uninterested.
It was like watching someone play the part of a stranger.
But Emi… she was different.
Kaito saw it first—the way her eyes flicked toward Aizawa for just a moment too long. The way her hand brushed the door handle nervously. Her posture tense in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with trying to keep something private from spilling out.
The air was thick.
Makoto cleared his throat. “Should we… be worried about what we’re interrupting?”
“NO! You’re not interrupting anything .” Emi replied almost immediately.
“Only if you don’t shut up,” he said flatly, and took another sip of his drink. Aizawa didn’t even turn to look at him this time.
They both replied in unison.
Kaito’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Okay then.”
Makoto raised his hands in surrender. “Point taken.”
Kaito didn’t move. His eyes lingered just a second longer on her flushed cheeks. “We brought the test results.”
Aizawa’s eyes flicked to Emi at that, something sharpening under his sleepy expression.
“Right…” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear, her voice softer. “Right. You guys should come in.”
Kaito stepped forward, pausing beside her. “You okay?”
She nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just… caught off guard.”
Makoto muttered under his breath, “Caught red-handed, more like.”
“Makoto,” she hissed, tugging him by the wrist. “Come in and stop talking.”
The two men stepped inside. As they passed Aizawa, he didn’t move out of the way—but something about his presence made them do it instinctively.
Makoto gave Emi a teasing glance as he walked past. “By the way,” he said casually, “we didn’t know you owned a cat.”
“Yeah,” Kaito added. “Bit of a surprise.”
“Hm? I don’t,” Emi blinked, genuinely confused.
Kaito frowned and pointed. “Then what’s that smug thing down the hall?”
“Oh! That kitty,” she laughed.
“I just feed him regularly, he’s not mine!” Emi smiled, walking toward the kitchen.
Aizawa’s gaze flicked to her with a raised eyebrow, then slowly back to them.
“…You feed him too?” he asked, finally speaking directly to her.
Emi glanced over her shoulder, blinking. “…Yeah. You too?” She tilted her head slightly.
“I’ve been feeding him since before you moved here,” he said flatly, as if that ended the matter.
The pause was too rich with implication.
Makoto snorted.
Kaito sighed. “God help us. They’re co-parenting a street cat.” he muttered under his breath that only Makoto heard him, which made him scoff.
The smell of cookies clung to the air—rich, buttery, just sweet enough to wrap the small kitchen in warmth. The cooling tray sat on Aizawa’s kitchen island, steam curling faintly from the golden-brown rounds.
Makoto’s eyes darted toward them like a wolf circling prey, though he pretended otherwise, leaning lazily against the counter. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, casual, but his gaze betrayed him every few seconds.
The moment Kaito stepped into the apartment, his brows furrowed.
Something… didn’t add up.
The place wasn’t wrong, exactly, but it felt off . His eyes moved slowly across the living room: plain white walls, sparse furniture, clean lines, a low square table, a black couch that looked like it had never known company. A stack of vinyl records leaned against the wall, and a faintly humming humidifier whispered in the corner.
Makoto leaned in beside him, squinting like he was studying evidence.
“This… is not what I expected.”
Kaito nodded once, eyes still scanning. “Same. Honestly thought we were walking into pastel chaos. You know—plants, candles, maybe a cat tower or two.”
“Right?” Makoto added quickly. “Or those aesthetic med school photos she keeps in her phone. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen her scrolling those on break.”
Kaito’s lips twitched, but he didn’t deny it.
Before either of them could voice the obvious question, Emi’s voice rang out from the kitchen, sharp and airy all at once—like she’d been expecting it.
“Before you ask, no. This isn’t my apartment.”
The two men froze.
“…Huh,” Makoto said after a beat.
“I knew something felt off,” Kaito muttered.
“It’s his.” Emi jerked her chin toward the tall, brooding figure leaning against the counter, arms crossed, expression unreadable as he bit into another cookie.
Aizawa didn’t say a word. He only raised one dark brow at the mention of him, as if daring anyone to comment.
“My oven’s broken,” Emi explained, sliding the tray of cookies fully onto the island. “So I came over to use his.”
Makoto opened his mouth—already smirking.
“Nothing more,” Emi snapped, eyes narrowing as she jabbed a finger in his direction. “Don’t even start.”
Makoto raised both hands in surrender, grin widening. “Didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. I saw your face.”
She crossed her arms, cheeks faintly pink. “And I know I’ve told you my apartment number before.”
“You did,” Kaito said calmly, though the corner of his mouth quirked. “But in our defense—”
“The cookies,” Makoto interrupted smoothly, stepping forward like he’d solved the mystery of the century. “We smelled them all the way down the hall.”
“This apartment,” Kaito clarified, pointing toward the ceiling like the scent still lingered in the air. “Specifically.”
“So naturally,” Makoto continued, already reaching for a cookie, “we followed our noses.”
“And then we saw a fluffy cat and knew it had to be you,” Kaito added, voice flat as stone.
Emi rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t fall out. Still, a smile tugged stubbornly at her lips. “Horrible detective work, gentlemen.”
Their laughter filled the kitchen, light and unrestrained.
Aizawa, still leaning against the counter, chewed quietly. His eyes didn’t move from her—not once—as she turned to face her friends. He watched the way her shoulders relaxed, the way she lit up around them, as if her voice had a special register reserved for the people she trusted.
Gods, he could get used to that sound in his kitchen.
“You two want coffee,” he said coolly at last, “or did you come here just to eat my stuff and insult my interior design?”
Makoto perked immediately. “You have coffee?”
Kaito sighed. “Focus.”
Aizawa didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed off the counter, moving with quiet certainty toward the coffeemaker. His steps were steady, casual—but his eyes flicked briefly toward the messenger bag slung across Kaito’s shoulder before turning away again.
Emi caught it too. Her smile dimmed just slightly, eyes locking onto the folder peeking out of the bag.
Kaito noticed her shift and gave her a small nod. “Figured you’d want to see this sooner rather than later.”
Immediately, Emi moved toward the table, her mood pivoting in an instant. She tugged her sleeves down over her hands, palms pressed together as though grounding herself.
Aizawa hesitated just before the coffeemaker. Only for a moment. He watched her body language—the crease between her brows, the sudden tension in her jaw. Then, wordless, he turned back to his task, pretending not to listen but hearing every word.
“Alright!” Emi burst out, forcing brightness back into her tone as she clasped her hands. “Gimme the test results!”
Kaito smirked, already sliding the envelope higher, just out of reach like a big brother baiting a younger sibling. “What, no please?”
“Kaito!” Emi stretched across the table, fingers just grazing the paper. “You’re insufferable!”
“That’s a strong word,” he said lightly, shaking the envelope. “Maybe I’ll keep it for myself. Frame it. Hang it above my bed.”
Makoto leaned against the couch’s arm, arms folded, grin lazy. “Your bed doesn’t deserve that kind of joy.”
Emi gasped in mock betrayal. “Makoto! Don’t just stand there—help me!”
He shrugged. “I’m enjoying the view.”
Her jaw dropped. “Unbelievable. You’re both the worst.”
The sound of their laughter rang through the apartment.
From across the kitchen, Aizawa sipped quietly from his mug. He let the bitter taste linger longer than necessary, though the coffee had cooled already. It wasn’t his world—not the teasing camaraderie, not the bright noise that bounced off walls.
But gods, he couldn’t tear his eyes from her.
She was ridiculous. Too loud. Too soft. Annoying.
And still—he couldn’t look away.
“ Argh !”
A sharp yelp snapped him out of it. Kaito bent double, clutching his stomach as Emi yanked the envelope free, victorious.
“That’s what you get!” she crowed, fist still curled from the jab she’d delivered. She stuck her tongue out for good measure.
Makoto laughed so hard he nearly toppled from the chair. “She actually punched you—gods, Emi—”
“You’re all cruel,” Kaito muttered, though his smirk betrayed him.
Emi tore open the envelope like a child at a birthday, her eyes scanning hungrily—only for Kaito to pluck it right back from her hands.
“Hey! Kaito—!”
“Relax,” he said gently, and for once, she did.
He flipped the folder open. “Takashi’s labs.”
Emi leaned closer, eyes sharp. “And?”
“The readings are strange,” he murmured, pointing at the page. “Doesn’t fit flu, viral, bacterial. Not neurological either. Something else.”
“Quirk-related,” Emi whispered. Her pulse quickened. “I knew it.”
Makoto frowned. “What makes you so sure?”
Emi looked up, face solemn. “Because I’ve seen a case like this before. Just once. During my intern year.” She paused, swallowing. “The doctor suspected a sleeper-type quirk exposure. Someone carrying an aura effect without realizing it. Symptoms were nearly identical.”
“That’s terrifying,” Makoto muttered.
“And rare,” Emi said. “Which means whoever triggered this—if it was a quirk—probably doesn’t even know they’re doing it.”
Across the kitchen, the coffeemaker hissed to life. Aizawa poured himself another cup, silent.
Kaito’s voice dropped. “We’ll need broader scans. Quirk suppression tests. Genetic markers, Bloodwork for genetic anomalies.” Makoto agreed.
“Already ahead of you,” Emi said, a little breathless. Her eyes stayed glued to the folder. “I knew it. I’ll talk to the head of diagnostics tomorrow. We need to act fast if there’s a risk of spreading.”
Which earned an impressive scoff from Makoto.
“As expected, from Dr. Emi herself.”
Emi smiled momentarily from her serious work mode, and glanced at her friends. “But I was right, though.”
Her grin was crooked, her hair sliding with the tilt. Light caught on the strands, softening her, and in that fleeting second Kaito found her—unintentionally—adorable. He thought it, but didn’t say it.
“Of course you are,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Makoto rolled his eyes, dramatic. “When have we ever doubted you, darling?” His voice was teasing, syrupy sweet.
That word—darling—hooked Aizawa’s attention. Subtle, sharp. He didn’t turn his head, but his ears sharpened like a blade being drawn.
Kaito only smiled, letting his eyes slip closed a beat too long.
“Aww, come here you—”
Before either of them could react, Emi had hooked both arms around their necks and dragged them down to her level, giggling. Her laugh spilled warm and bright between them, muffled against their shoulders as she squeezed.
“Well, thank you for never doubting me anyway,” she grinned into the space she had forced them into.
Makoto wheezed, half choking. “Emi—you’re—cutting off—airflow—air—”
Kaito didn’t resist. He let her cling, let the warmth seep in. His hand twitched, then drifted down, brushing—tentative—toward her lower back. Just about to settle when—
Ding.
The coffeemaker chimed. And then followed — thud.
Three heads snapped up.
Two mugs sat on the table, steam curling. A third remained in Aizawa’s hand. He’d moved without sound, but his presence landed heavy, changing the air like a shift in weather. His dark gaze lingered on Emi only a second—too quick, too sharp—before it cut away.
Emi jolted back as if caught, slipping free from the tangle of arms with a forced little laugh.
Kaito’s fingers curled into a fist, the hand that had been reaching for her pressed back into his pocket. Controlled. Contained.
Without a word, Aizawa stepped closer. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask. He simply placed the mug in Emi’s hand. A quiet clink of porcelain meeting her fingers.
Emi blinked, startled. “Oh—thank you.”
He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. He just turned back to the sink, rolling up his sleeves as he began rinsing the oven tray. Back turned, but every line of him coiled—present, listening, close.
Makoto watched with a grin, the kind that said I see it . Kaito only cleared his throat, softer, hiding his mouth against his fist.
And then the whispering started.
“So… the Pro Hero just lets you use his kitchen now?” Kaito muttered low, a glance flicked at Aizawa’s broad back.
Emi shot him a look sharp enough to cut. “You want to start this right now?”
Makoto smirked, leaning in. “He makes your coffee. I mean, I’ve seen a lot of red flags, Emi, but this one smells dangerously like domesticity.”
“Don’t,” Emi warned. Her finger jabbed the air at him.
“Oh, it’s too late,” Makoto grinned. “You’ve changed—from coffee-guzzling chaos to… housecat. Is this what love looks like?”
Emi’s hand shot out, pinching his cheek hard.
“—Ow, ow, ow!” he hissed in a whisper, wriggling against her grip.
“If you don’t shut up, you’re covering my clinic duty for a month.”
Makoto froze. “…Copy that.” He rubbed at his cheek, sulking.
Kaito tried not to laugh, but his voice gentled when he looked at her again. “You okay?”
The question knocked her off balance. Her mouth parted, as if ready with some witty retort—but none came. She just nodded, quiet. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I think I am.”
But before the moment could settle, Makoto leaned close, smirk curling. “So… that’s him, huh?”
Her eyes widened. A smack landed on the back of his head. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Ow!”
Kaito chuckled, grabbing a cookie from the plate. “Just using his oven, right?”
Emi deadpanned. “I will throw you out of this man’s apartment.”
All three glanced at Aizawa. He scrolled on his phone, face unreadable. Unbothered—or pretending to be. Emi wasn’t convinced. He’s a Pro Hero afterall.
And then Makoto’s grin shifted. Mischief. Stupid, gleaming.
“I’m gonna go talk to him.”
Emi’s head snapped toward him. “No—you’re not—Makoto—”
Kaito was already rising with him.
“You guys—!” she hissed, flustered.
Kaito smirked over his shoulder. “Relax. We’re just being polite.”
That was a lie. She knew it.
Aizawa was just finishing a sip of coffee when they closed in, two tall figures brimming with easy charm.
Makoto stuck out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. Makoto. I was there the night you were admitted.”
Aizawa stared at the hand, then at the man. A beat too long. Reluctantly, he accepted. “Didn’t notice.”
Translation: didn’t care.
But he had noticed. He remembered. The rooftop night.
Then Kaito stepped forward. Taller. Calmer. His hand extended. “Kaito.”
Aizawa’s jaw flexed before he replied. “Aizawa.”
He remembered him too. The touch on her back. The man that came when Emi was at his bedside.
“Sorry for barging in,” Makoto said cheerfully. “Smelled too good to resist.”
“Yeah,” Kaito added with a soft smile. “We figured, where there are cookies, there’s Emi.”
“It’s fine.” Flat. Dismissive.
And then Emi barreled in, planting herself between them, hands on her hips. “Would it kill you two to text me first?”
Aizawa’s eyes flicked down—unwilling, betraying him—as her sweater lifted a little with the motion. Just skin. Just a sliver. But his throat tightened.
Kaito noticed. He always noticed.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Makoto teased.
“Yeah, we were hoping for cookies. Or something spicy.”
“You’re idiots,” Emi sighed. But her smile lingered, bright and soft.
Aizawa’s eyes never left her. That smile—it rooted in him like something he didn’t ask for but couldn’t shake.
Kaito raised a cookie in salute. “You were right, doc. Quirk-based. You win.”
“Of course I win,” Emi beamed. “I said it from the—”
She broke off in a muffled yelp.
Kaito’s hand had settled, casual, at the curve of her lower back.
Right in front of him.
Aizawa froze. His grip tightened around his mug, porcelain biting into his palm. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just burned—silent and still, but sharp enough to cut air.
His place. His coffee. His—
No. Not his. She wasn’t his.
What? What am I talking about?
But inside, something burned. Something feral and dark and possessive. He memorized that curve of her waist. He knew it. He lived in the space his hand had once rested, in a quiet late night, on his balcony and he’d pretended not to care. And now Kaito’s hand was there like it belonged.
And now Kaito’s hand was there. Easy. Familiar.
Aizawa wanted to break something.
Emi, oblivious, kept talking. “Like I said, I—”
Makoto shoved the cookie into her mouth. "Yum!"
She choked, muffled. “Mhhmhm!”
“Translation: ‘Damn right,’” Makoto laughed.
She smacked Kaito’s arm and shoved him away, cheeks puffed with crumbs. “You guys are the worst!”
Aizawa still hadn’t looked away. She didn’t flinch when Kaito touched her. Didn’t even notice. Why didn’t she react? Did she like it? Or have they always been like this?
The better question is, why is he imagining things?
And then—like a knife twisting—
he thought: Is that what they are? Friends? More?
Makoto stole her coffee while she was still chewing the cookie. “Thanks, doc.”
“Hey!” Emi snapped, reaching for the mug, but he only danced backward, smug grin widening.
Kaito shook his head. “You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days.”
“Please,” Makoto smirked, sipping boldly. “If caffeine poisoning hasn’t done me in, nothing will.”
Emi lunged for the cup. He dodged.
“Makoto!”
“Emi!” he mocked back, sing-song.
She finally managed to grab his sleeve, yanking hard enough that hot liquid sloshed over the rim. He yelped, clutching the mug like it was sacred treasure. “Abuse! I’m filing a report!”
“File this,” she threatened, aiming another pinch for his cheek.
“Not the cheek again—Kaito, help me!”
But Kaito just smirked, biting into another cookie. “She warned you bro.”
Through it all, Aizawa stood at the counter. Silent. Watching. His jaw flexed once, twice. He told himself he didn’t care, but every time Makoto leaned too close, every time Kaito’s voice softened around her, it pressed against something raw in his chest. He tolerated them—trying to—because they were hers. That was the only reason they weren’t already out the door.
And when Kaito finally checked his watch, it felt like relief and disappointment tangled together.
“We should head back,” he said quietly.
Makoto groaned, downing the last sip of Emi’s stolen coffee. “Fine, fine. Real life calls.”
Emi walked them to the door, barefoot padding soft against the floorboards. She hugged Kaito quickly, but Makoto lingered with that mischievous glint. He bent close, voice low enough for only her to hear.
“Updates,” he teased. “And hey—if you two are gonna keep making cookies together… wear protection.”
Her eyes widened. A sharp smack landed against his arm. “Get out!”
He laughed, unrepentant, as Kaito tugged him toward the hall. “See you at the hospital, Emi.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t stay out too late,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.
The apartment felt strangely hollow after Kaito and Makoto left. Their laughter and teasing had clung to the walls, and now the silence pressed in thicker than before. Emi leaned against the door for a moment after shutting it, cheeks warm from Makoto’s smug expression. The look he’d given her at the threshold had screamed ‘tell me everything later’ —the kind of teasing promise only an old friend could give. She had rolled her eyes at him, of course, but the echo of his grin still burned on her face.
She turned, finding Aizawa where he stood in the kitchen, half-shadowed against the wall. Hands buried deep in his pockets, his expression unreadable. Watching her. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word. But Emi swore the silence between them was heavy, laced with something she couldn’t quite name.
“Sorry about that,” she said, breaking the tension with a sheepish laugh. “Uninvited guests and all. We’re working on a case together—patients with weird overlapping symptoms. And I had some thoughts that I wanted to run by them.” She rolled up her sleeves and headed to the sink, running the tap. “Honestly, I think it’s quirk-related. The patterns are too specific—”
The water gushed over Emi’s hands, warm and steady, but she hardly felt it. Not when Aizawa’s presence loomed behind her like a shadow, filling the small kitchen. She could sense the shift before she heard him move — the soft whisper of cloth, the deliberate step.
Then his hand slid across her waist. Firm. Possessive. Right where Kaito’s had rested earlier.
Emi’s breath hitched. Her fingers fumbled against a slippery plate, nearly sending it clattering back into the sink. “H-hey—”
Slowly, she turned her head, meeting his eyes over her shoulder. He was so close. Too close.
“A—and it turns out I was right,” she muttered continued, her voice caught somewhere between nervous and breathless.
His hand stayed where Kaito’s had been moments ago—covering it, erasing it. Claiming the space as his own. Aizawa’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes, dark and sharp, pinned her like a thread through fabric.
He leaned in just enough that she felt his breath against her temple. “Of course you are,” he murmured, voice low and rough, like smoke dragging across her skin.
Shivers ran straight down her spine. Her ears burned. God, his voice. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, close enough that the heat of his chest radiated into her back, steady and inescapable. His thumb brushed once against her side, not accidental, not quite gentle either. A touch that lingered. A reminder.
Emi scrambled to focus on something— anything —other than the fact that her grumpy, brooding neighbor had her caged between his body and the sink. “Ha ha… well, yeah,” she stammered, forcing a laugh, pretending her hands weren’t shaking as she scrubbed a plate. “So basically—uh—that was our patients’ test results. Very exciting stuff, really—”
He didn’t budge. If anything, he pressed closer, his body a steady, quiet presence at her back. Trapping her without a word.
She swallowed hard, trying to focus on the dishes. “Y—you know, most people offer to help with dishes, not… loom over someone doing them.”
“I’m not most people.” His voice was low, rough silk against her skin. His breath stirred the loose strands of her hair, and the closeness of it made her knees wobble.
God, he was right behind her. Too close. Too steady.
She forced a laugh, her hand trembling as she set another plate into the drying rack. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
“Have you.” His tone wasn’t really a question.
Emi tried to shrug, but his hand on her waist anchored her. “Mhm. Grumpy neighbor who doesn’t like people. Very unique.” She smiled at the sink, though her cheeks burned.
For a beat, silence. Then she felt it: the slow lean of his body, closer, until her back brushed against his chest. Barely—yet unmistakable.
Her heart jumped straight to her throat.
“A-are you—” she started, but the words tangled in her mouth when his lips brushed against her ear. Not a kiss. Just the ghost of it, the suggestion .
“You always talk this much when you’re nervous?” His voice brushed against her ear, teasing, deliberate. His murmur rumbled low, husky.
Emi nearly dropped the plate. “N-nervous? Me? Ha! No, I—uh—I just… like sharing knowledge, you know?” She could hear herself babbling, could feel the heat rising up her neck.
“Mm.” His hum against her ear was skeptical, amused. His hand tightened slightly at her waist, fingertips pressing just enough to remind her of their position. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Her face burned so hot she thought steam would come off her. “You—” She huffed out a shaky laugh. “You’re terrible, you know that?”
“Maybe.” She felt rather than saw his smirk. “You make it easy.”
Her heart hammered. She wanted to say something clever, but her brain betrayed her. All she could think about was the press of his hand, the warmth of his body, the way every inch of him radiated steady control while she scrambled on her words.
Emi squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, torn between wanting to sink into the floor and wanting to spin around and shove him. But her body betrayed her. Her pulse raced, her breath came shallow, and god help her, she leaned back just a fraction too much—feeling the heat of him against her spine.
The plate slipped from her wet fingers, clattering loudly into the sink. The sound shattered the moment, jolting her back to reality.
She scrambled, laughing nervously, too high-pitched. “W-whoops! Butterfingers. See? Not nervous at all.”
He didn’t move away. His hand still anchored her in place, his body still too close, the weight of his attention burning into her.
Finally, she snapped her head toward him, cheeks blazing, eyebrows tight, grin crooked and defiant. “You like messing with me, don’t you?”
Aizawa’s eyes dropped briefly to her lips, then lifted back to her gaze. His smirk was subtle, dangerous. “You have no idea .”
Her breath caught—again. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to push him back or drag him closer.
But before she could decide, before she could find her footing, he finally—finally—stepped away. Slowly, deliberately, like he was letting her go because he chose to , not because he had to.
And she spun around, practically leaping away from his reach. Her crooked smile wobbled but held.
“Right! All done,” she announced, trying for casualness, though her voice cracked halfway through. She wiped her damp hands on a towel, putting a few feet of safety between them.
Aizawa smirked. Not mocking—amused. Like he’d seen her trip over herself and found it endlessly entertaining.
He leaned back against the counter, arms folded across his chest, settling into his usual posture. The shift in his body language only made her more aware that he’d let her go. That, if he wanted, he wouldn’t have.
“They’re very fond of you,” he said quietly, breaking the silence.
Emi blinked at him, caught off guard. “My friends? Yeah.” She smiled, softer this time. “We’ve been through a lot together. Intern years… all the struggles, the late nights, the screw-ups. You don’t really survive that kind of hell unless you stick together.”
He nodded slightly, gaze fixed on her. “And Makoto,” he continued, his tone deliberately casual, though his eyes were sharp. “The youngest?”
The question startled her. Aizawa never asked things like this. Never reached.
She tilted her head, surprised he even remembered Makoto’s name. “You could say that. He’s only a few months younger than me. But he’s already the head of the ER department.” Pride crept into her voice.
“And that other one,” he drawled. “The hāfu guy.” The way he said it was flat, dismissive.
Emi rolled her eyes. “Kaito,” she corrected with a laugh. “Head of oncology. We’ve all grown into our own corners. But we all wander outside our departments. Keeps things interesting.” She smiled again, busying her hands with literally anything.
Aizawa hummed, eyes narrowing slightly. He was listening. Listening more than he ever did with anyone.
Emi didn’t notice. She was already moving about the kitchen, packing leftover cookies into containers as she talked.
“How about me?” She laughed lightly, amused with herself. Glancing over her shoulder. “Aren’t you going to ask what I am?”
He lifted a brow. That says ‘go on, I’m listening ’
“Well,” she grinned, “nothing too special. Just the head of general surgery.” She puffed up her chest in mock pride before giggling.
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smirk. He just studied her for a long moment before saying, quietly:
“It is special. I think it’s admirable.”
The words caught her off guard, hitting deeper than they had any right to. Emi blinked, then softened, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Ah…Thanks, Aizawa.”
He didn’t answer, but his gaze lingered.
She filled the silence with a grin. “Anyway. It’s fun to wander the ER now and then. After all, that’s how I met you —the night you were admitted.” She chuckled.
His eyes slid shut briefly, like he was bracing against the sound of her laugh. Too much. She didn’t notice.
When she turned back, she was holding out a plate to him. “Here. Payment.”
He blinked, brows furrowing. “Payment?”
“For using your oven.” She shrugged, lips curved in a grin.
His eyes widened just slightly. He hadn’t expected her to take his earlier teasing seriously. He wouldn’t have minded if she never paid him back—not if it gave her reason to return.
She lifted another container. “And these are for me. Deliveries.”
“…Deliveries?” The word left his mouth before he could stop it.
Her grin turned mischievous. “For someone special.”
Aizawa’s gut clenched. Right. Of course she would have someone. Of course someone else got to be the reason for that smile. He didn’t know why the thought needled under his skin.
Emi, oblivious, thought of Hana. Her little patient would light up at the sight of these cookies.
Aizawa’s expression tightened anyway.
“Oh, don’t look so disappointed, Zawa!” she teased, voice sing-song, cooing like she was poking fun at a sulking child.
“I’m not,” he muttered flatly.
“Mhm. Sure you’re not.” She smirked knowingly, balancing the containers as she padded toward the door.
“…They’re for a patient,” she admitted quietly, once she’d tortured him enough.
His eyes flickered. A small, sharp glint of relief—gone in an instant.
Emi giggled at the sight. “I should head back. Need to rest before another shift.” Her tone softened, quieter now, like she didn’t want to leave.
He studied her, then nodded once.
“Please,” he said, his voice gentling in a way that sent a shiver straight down her spine. “Get some rest.”
Her heart gave a funny little skip.
“Ha! You almost sound like you care about me, Zawa ,” she teased, trying to hide the way her chest fluttered.
Before he could reply, she was already halfway out the door, a grin plastered on her face. “See you around, Mr. Grumpy. Looking forward to borrowing your oven again. Make sure to write me some feedback!”
The door clicked shut before Aizawa could form a response. And then she was gone, slipping into her own apartment with a wave and a smile that left him standing silent in the hall.
He stood there in the silence she left behind, heart thrumming too fast.
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face.
Hell.
She was going to drive him insane.
Notes:
Hi Hello, I'm back. Finally. Your patience is truly appreciated. And the amount of comments ive read were such a boost of confidence and motivation. But unfortunately, I am still not sure if I am able to update weekly...yet. At least for now, but Hope you enjoyy this chapter as much as I do. A few more drafts are still pending to be polished haha.
Let me know how you guys think on this one.
Chapter 14: Just Let Me Adore You Like It's The Only Thing I'll Ever Do
Notes:
Recently leaned about mountain GOAT (greatest of all time). And they are indeed. Greatest of all time. And seems like Emi declared that she is just as strong as them. Strong, immune and never know when to give up. Also, is this really what we call... balance?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The hospital was already buzzing before Emi even had her first sip of coffee. The season had finally turned, and with it came the inevitable flood of flu cases. Hallways echoed with the sound of coughs and sneezes, parents carrying feverish kids, and nurses darting in and out of rooms with trays of meds and thermometers. Gloves snapping.
Emi didn’t mind the chaos. In fact, she thrived in it. Rounds were loud, messy, and a little bit frantic — but to her, that was the rhythm of life here.
She tugged her white coat tighter over her scrubs and breezed down the hallway, bright smile flashing at patients and colleagues alike. Predictably, she wasn’t wearing a mask.
“Emi.”
Her name was delivered with the perfect blend of disapproval and weary fondness. Dr. Kaito leaned against the nurse’s station, arms crossed, a surgical mask looped neatly over his face. He raised a brow at her as she breezed past. “Mask. Now.”
“I’m fine,” Emi said, sing-song, tossing him a grin over her shoulder. “I’m practically immune. Strong as a mountain goat.” She said while flexes her arms.
Kaito’s eyes narrowed, though his mask muffled the twitch of a smile. “Mountain goats still get sick, you know.”
“Not this one!” she called, dodging around a nurse wheeling a cart.
Makoto appeared on the opposite side of the hall, pushing his glasses up his nose with a sigh like he’d been expecting this battle. “She’ll listen to you about scalpels and sutures, Kaito, but not masks. It’s a lost cause.” As if this isn't the first time they deal with this.
“Hey,” Emi protested, pivoting on her heel to face them both, her hands on her hips. “Masks make me feel like I’m suffocating, okay? Unless I’m in surgery. Then fine, obviously. But out here?” She flapped her hands dramatically in front of her face. “I need the oxygen to fuel my genius.”
“That’s not how oxygen works,” Kaito muttered.
Makoto shook his head, fighting a smile. “I’m telling you now, Emi — if you go down with the flu, you’re buying us drinks at Haru’s next time.” His voice carried easily down the hallway, drawing the amused attention of a couple of interns who tried (and failed) to stifle their laughter.
Emi gasped, clutching her chest with theatrical offense. “That’s highway robbery! You just want free drinks.”
“Correct,” Makoto said without missing a beat.
“I’m in,” Kaito added, eyes glinting over the edge of his mask.
Emi squinted between them, then broke into a grin. “You’re on!” she yelled, startling a passing orderly. “But you two will be paying for my drinks when I don’t get sick.”
Makoto’s smirk widened. “We’ll see.”
She stuck her tongue out at him before turning on her heel and sprinting down the hall, her sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor. Behind her, she could hear their low chuckles following her, that mix of fondness and exasperation she’d grown used to over the years.
“Dr. Emi! Wait!”
And of course. Akira, her perpetually frazzled intern, came pelting after her, a clipboard clutched to her chest and her stethoscope nearly flying off her shoulders. She was already out of breath.
“Keep up, Akira!” Emi called back with a laugh, weaving around a gurney with the ease of long practice.
“I—I’m trying!”
Her laughter echoed down the corridor, blending with the chaos of flu season, the warmth of her banter lingering like sunlight even as she disappeared into the swirl of patients, nurses, and the endless rhythm of the hospital.
“Cardio training included in your internship,” Emi called over her shoulder. “You’re welcome!”
Akira groaned, nearly crashing into a nurse pushing a wheelchair.
By the time they reached the pediatric wing, Emi had already shifted gears. She slowed, her grin softening as she pushed open the door to a room where three small kids were huddled under blankets, flushed cheeks and runny noses giving away the obvious culprit. Their parents looked up with tired eyes that begged for sleep.
“Good morning!” Emi sang, sweeping in like sunlight through the door. She pulled a fresh thermometer from her pocket and crouched beside the youngest patient, "Well hello there mister." A boy with red eyes and pointy ears clutching a stuffed bunny plushie along that's wearing a 'PLUS ULTRA' written shirt. “What’s your plush's name?”
“...Captain Might,” he sniffled, eyes big. He answered nervously.
“Captain Might?” Emi gasped in awe, placing the thermometer gently under his arm. “That’s the bravest name I’ve ever heard! Bet he doesn’t get scared of flu bugs at all, huh?”
The boy giggled weakly. "Yeah! Just like All Might."
Because of course. Who else would it be?
Emi winked at him agreeing, then stood and scanned the charts.
Behind her, Akira tripped over her own shoelaces, trying to keep up with note-taking. Emi turned her head just enough to catch it. “You good back there, Akira? Or do you need me to tie your shoes for you too?”
Akira flushed, fumbling with her clipboard. “I-I’m fine!”
One of the older kids snickered at that, perking up just enough to tease. “She’s like your mom!”
That made Emi bark out a laugh, hand to her chest. “Excuse you, I’m far too young and cool to be a mom. I’m like—your chaotic babysitter who sneaks you candy.”
The little girl with blonde hair in the bed across from them perked up. “Do you have candy?”
Emi made a dramatic show of patting her coat pockets, whispering as if sharing a secret. “Maybe. But only for warriors who promise to take their medicine like champions.”
The girl grinned, nodding eagerly.
Akira muttered, shaking her head lightly at her attending. “You’re unbelievable…” but she couldn’t hide her smile. What a wholesome sight to be part of.
Emi shrugged, still scribbling notes into the chart. “What can I say? Bribery works.”
From the doorway, a nurse’s voice floated in again, patient and dry as ever. Knows the green haired too well. “Dr. Emi, medicine is not supposed to be bribery.”
“Correction,” Emi called back without missing a beat, “medicine is healing. Bribery is just a tool of the trade.”
The parents laughed — tired but genuine — and the sound settled something soft in the room. Emi thrived in that balance: the mess, the noise, the laughter woven into it. Even in the middle of flu season chaos, she somehow made it feel less heavy.
After hours of weaving through flu chaos — tissues, thermometers, stethoscope, crying toddlers, and Akira nearly fainting from stress — Emi finally slowed down enough to let her mind wander. Her shoulders ached from rounds, and her hair was falling out of its bun, but a soft smile tugged at her lips anyway.
She was thinking of Hana. Because who else?
Aizawa too. Well sometimes.
Sh tried to push aside her handsome slash crush slash Pro Hero neighbour out of her thoughts when she's at work (and fail miserably so at times).
But Hana. Her favorite pediatric patient. It had been a few days since she last checked on the little girl, and Emi missed her chatter more than she cared to admit. She wondered, not for the first time, if Hana liked the cookies she’d baked and sent along a few days ago. The thought alone made her heart soften, and her pace slowed as she turned toward Hana’s room.
With a motherly sort of smile plastered across her face, Emi padded quietly up to the familiar door, raised her hand, and knocking on the door three times in a playful rhythm.
“Hana, it’s me!” she sing-songed.
She barely had time to blink before—
Squirt!
Cold water sprayed across her face, startling a sharp yelp out of her. She stumbled back a step, blinking furiously as droplets clung to her eyelashes.
“What the—!”
“Stop right there!” Hana’s tiny but commanding voice rang from inside the room.
Emi froze, dripping, then squinted through the haze. “Hana?!”
When her eyes finally focused, the sight that greeted her made her jaw drop. Confused.
Hana was crouched beside her hospital bed, wearing a surgical mask far too big for her small face and gripping a neon water gun like it was a prized weapon.
And of course she wasn’t alone.
Kaito and Makoto were crouched with her, both in their masks, both armed with matching water guns, peeking over the edge of the bedside table like soldiers at war.
“You heard the girl,” Makoto intoned, his voice overly serious, as if this were life or death. His water gun was already aimed at Emi’s chest.
“Put on your mask, Emi.” Kaito’s voice followed, smooth and commanding. Even with most of his face covered, she could hear the smugness laced beneath it.
Damn it, those two totally planned this and got Hana involved.
Emi’s mouth fell open. “You’ve got to be kidding me! All three of you—against me?!”
Kaito’s tone didn’t waver. “Mask, or leave. We don’t want to get sick.”
Makoto nodded solemnly. Hana mimicked him, bobbing her head so hard her beanie wobbled like a metronome.
“You guys are so dramatic,” Emi groaned, wiping her wet cheek with her sleeve. “I’m perfectly fine—”
She didn’t even finish the sentence before her nose twitched. Her hand flew up, and—
“Ahhh-choo!”
A loud sneeze exploded out of her.
“AHH! Emi-san’s infected!” Hana squealed, dropping into Makoto’s arms for shelter. The two of them clutched each other like characters in a soap opera about to face certain doom.
Emi groaned, unamused, scrunching her reddened nose. “And the best acting award goes to…” she muttered under her breath.
Her pout was deep enough to draw a scoff out of Kaito. He rose smoothly from his crouch, brushing imaginary dust off his knees, and began walking toward her with a slow, deliberate calm that made her shift against the doorframe.
“Kaito, no!” Makoto shouted, overly dramatic, hugging Hana tighter.
“Dr. Kaito! Don’t sacrifice yourself for us!” Hana cried, throwing her little hand against her forehead, pretending to swoon into Makoto’s chest.
Emi’s eyes rolled so hard they nearly stuck. “You three are impossible.”
Still, her heart did a little flip when Kaito stopped in front of her, standing close enough that she could smell the faint, clean scent of his soap. His eyes, calm but glittering, stayed fixed on her. He didn’t so much as glance at Makoto’s antics.
Of course he wouldn’t. Kaito always played 'the straight man'. Except—when it came to her. He didn’t need to say much; his silence, his nearness, it always managed to get under her skin.
Arms folded, Emi scowled up at him. “I’m just here for my Tupperware.”
That, predictably, drew Hana’s attention. Her head popped up from behind the table. “You brought us more cookies?!” she asked eagerly, eyes wide.
Makoto leaned forward too, eyebrows raised. “More cookies?”
Emi smirked and stuck her tongue out. “No. Just the Tupperware.”
The disappointment on Hana and Makoto’s faces was so exaggerated it could’ve been rehearsed. Emi almost laughed — almost. Instead, she huffed, still pouting, while Kaito chuckled softly under his breath at her sulk.
“Here,” he murmured, turning to the bedside table. He picked up the familiar blue-lidded container and carried it toward her, every step measured, slow.
Emi expected him to hand it over. He didn’t.
Instead, he stepped so close that she instinctively backed up — a step, then another — until she was fully out in the hallway. His arm rose, hand pressing against the doorframe beside her head, effectively made her step out from the room. Caging her out.
Her breath hitched.
His voice lowered, smooth as silk but edged with that teasing sharpness that she so used to at this point, it annoys her.
“Strong as a mountain goat, my ass.”
Heat flooded Emi’s face instantly. She tried to bite back the laugh threatening her throat, lips twitching as she glared up at him. “That was just dust.”
“Mhm. Sure it was.” His smirk deepened, eyes glinting as if he could see right through her.
Snatching the Tupperware from his hand, Emi huffed. “Whatever. Believe what you want. I’m still making you pay for my drinks.”
“Mm. Pretty confident for someone who sneezed mid-sentence,” Kaito countered. His voice dipped lower, teasing and quiet, just for her to hear. “Looks like a bad sign to me.”
Emi bristled, desperate not to show how much his closeness was rattling her. Oh how tempting it was for her to wipe that smug look on his face.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover. I’m not sick. Not even a little.”
Over his shoulder, she could see Hana and Makoto whispering and giggling, clearly enjoying the show. Her chest softened when Hana’s laughter rang out — light, unhindered. That sound always undid her. She smiled.
At least she's laughing.
A sudden sharp pinch on her already-red nose snapped her back. “Ow ow ow ow! What the hell, dumbass?!” Emi slapped his chest, glaring up at him.
Kaito’s smirk softened, though his voice was serious when he murmured, “Put on the damn mask, Fukukado. Don’t get Hana worried.”
Her chest squeezed at that, though she covered it with a scoff. “Aww, I knew it. You are worried about me.”
“Someone has to be,” he muttered. He stare at her face momentarily. "Correction. Everyone is."
She grinned, all teeth and sunshine. “Mountain goats are tough, Kaito. Strong, unshakable.” She flexed her arm dramatically, again. Which looked pitiful compared to the solid chest she’d just smacked.
That earned a rare laugh from him — soft, breathy, but real.
“Right. Whatever you say, mountain goat.”
Shaking her head, Emi finally stepped back, tying her hair into a quick ponytail. “I’m just glad Hana’s doing okay and happy. Take care of her while you keep me exiled.”
“You’d be in with us if you just put on—”
Emi slapped her hands over her ears and made loud lalalaaa noises to drown him out.
Makoto’s chuckle and Hana’s giggle filled the room. Kaito just shook his head, scoffing as he stepped back inside.
And Emi, despite her dripping face and bruised pride, couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips.
The ER had chewed her up and spit her out today. Truly.
She had lot worse flu season, chaos, busy day in the hospital before. And seems today's happened to be one of them.
ugh.
Hours of flu season chaos left Emi with dried vomit on the hem of her scrubs, a faint ache in her back from crouching down to kids’ bedsides, and a vague buzzing in her ears from answering too many questions at once. Parents, patients, interns—it all blurred into a steady hum of voices and fluorescent light. She’d powered through it with her usual grin, though, cracking dad jokes, cheering kids up, even coaxing a giggle from the crankiest six-year-old by promising to teach him “professional doctor-level bandage origami” next time.
She lived for that kind of chaos. Certainly.
But somewhere between the third kid coughing directly into her hair and a teenage patient vomiting on her sneakers, she started to notice her body dragging. Not enough to stop. Just… off. Her smile still lit up her face, but the muscles in her cheeks felt heavier than usual. Her throat felt scratchy, her voice catching once mid-laugh like her body was trying to tell her something she didn’t want to hear.
Naturally, she brushed it off.
Mountain goats don’t fall off cliffs, after all.
Akira, poor frazzled Akira, had been glued to her side all day, sprinting after her through surgeries and ER consults with wide eyes and a clipboard that looked about two seconds from being dropped on the floor. The girl had stamina, Emi would give her that—but she also had eyes. Sharp ones. And those eyes had started darting toward Emi more and more as the shift wore on, lingering on the flush high on her cheeks, the faint sheen of sweat along her temples.
“Dr. Emi, are you—”
“I’m fine,” Emi had cut in cheerfully, patting her intern’s shoulder with a grin. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re sweating more than me. I’m just… glowing.” She tossed her hair for effect, earning a laugh from a passing nurse.
Even a handsome ER patient earlier had caught her out. She’d been leaning over to check his vitals when his fingers brushed hers, lingering in that half-charming, half-irritating way some men do.
“Your hands are freezing,” he’d said with a crooked smile. “And your face is burning up. Take care, love. It’s flu season.”
Right Mr Flirt. Tell me something I don't know.
She’d laughed, dismissed it with a wink, told him mountain goats don’t catch colds. But his words lingered.
Now, standing in the cramped locker room after her long dreadful shift,
Finally.
Emi stared down at her 'emergency' meeting clothes folded neatly in the bottom of her locker. A fitted white blouse, crisp and freshly laundered. A black pencil skirt that hugged her hips a little too well. Professional, efficient—at least in appearance.
But totally impractical in comfort.
She groaned under her breath. “Why can’t we just wear the scrubs? We literally save lives. Who cares if my shirt has a coffee stain?”
Unfortunately rules were rules, and if she wanted to keep her job (and not give the chief another reason to snap at her), she had to play along. She stripped out of her scrubs, tugged on the blouse, buttoning it quickly before sliding into the skirt. It cinched perfectly at her waist, snug against her hips and thighs. She smoothed the fabric down with a faint grimace.
Great. Now she looked like a proper doctor-administrator hybrid.
She also felt like her body was slowly turning into a furnace.
The mirror above the lockers reflected back flushed cheeks and tired eyes she quickly masked with a practiced smile. She twisted her green hair into a neat ponytail, bangs out, slipped into her heels, and plastered her brightest grin onto her face. Or ... tried to.
Professional. Capable. Untouchable.
Even if her skin prickled and her legs felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each.
The meeting room buzzed with the usual chaos of doctors forced into close quarters after long shifts. Some muttered irritably about schedules, others flipped through case notes, and a few sat slouched in their chairs like prisoners waiting out their sentence. Emi slipped in quietly, offering quick smiles and waves, ignoring the way her blouse clung to her damp skin.
And of course, there they were. Makoto, glasses catching the light as he tapped a pen against his tablet, and Kaito, mask still looped neatly over his face even though they weren’t in the ER anymore. The two of them looked up almost in sync as she walked in, and she felt the weight of their gazes immediately.
Act natural, Emi. Don’t let them know. Or else you'd have to empty my wallet for the bet.
She adjusted her skirt and slid into a chair just as the chief entered, his prickly voice filling the room.
“Ah… Fukukado. How nice of you to actually join us this time.”
Emi froze mid-motion, her hand halfway to tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She forced a smile, bright but thin.
“Yes, sir,” she chirped. “You know me. I like to make an entrance.” She said shrugging.
She has been skipping the last four general meetings in a row.
Ahaha... Christ. Now he's definitely gonna keep an eye on me.
Kaito’s eyes narrowed just slightly, a twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying the smirk he was fighting. Makoto, on the other hand, grinned openly at her from across the room like a cat who’d just spotted a mouse.
She wanted to melt into the floor. She wanted to go back home.
Instead, she sat straighter, folding her hands neatly in her lap, pretending her back wasn’t screaming at her from the way the pencil skirt dug in
Thirty minutes in of bureaucratic droning later, she was ready to collapse. Her legs ached, her blouse clung uncomfortably to her skin, and her body radiated heat in a way that made it hard to concentrate on anything but the clock. She kept her smile on, nodding when appropriate, hiding the heaviness in her limbs.
The second the meeting ended, she was on her feet, already plotting her escape. Her shift was over. She could slip through the corridors, dodge Makoto and Kaito, and make it to the exit without them noticing how red her face was or how unsteady her steps had become.
Because if they caught her like this?
She’d never hear the end of it. They’d tease her mercilessly, reminding her of every stubborn word she’d said about mountain goats and immunity, dragging up stories from her intern days to fuel the fire.
No. Absolutely not.
She refused.
The meeting finally broke with the scrape of chairs and the collective sigh of overworked specialists desperate to go home. Papers shuffled, pens clicked, and voices rose as people drifted into smaller conversations.
Emi was already halfway out of her seat, her bag looped over her shoulder, her smile plastered on like armor. Her plan was simple: head down, walk briskly, slip out unnoticed. Easy.
Except, of course, nothing in her life was ever that easy.
“Fukukado.”
Makoto’s voice slid into her path like a tripwire. She froze, clutching her bag strap a little tighter before glancing up with wide, innocent eyes. He stood a few feet away, glasses catching the harsh light, arms folded like he’d been waiting for her. His grin was too smug, too knowing.
“Leaving without saying goodbye? That’s rude, even for you.”
She laughed, light and quick, already angling toward the door. “Not rude, just efficient! It’s called time management, Makoto. Look it up.”
“Mm,” he hummed, stepping into her path before she could dodge. “Or maybe it’s called running away before we can remind you about that bet.”
Emi pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. “Running away? From you? Please. I’m in heels. If I was really running, you wouldn’t be able to catch me.”
That earned a low chuckle from him, but his eyes narrowed just slightly as he leaned closer. “Funny, considering you look like you’re about to keel over. Face red, voice scratchy… Didn’t someone say something about mountain goats earlier?”
Emi scowled. “Tch. Traitor. I thought you were supposed to be on my side.” She muttered.
“Not when it comes to free drinks,” Makoto said smoothly, his smirk widening.
Before she could retort, a shadow loomed just over his shoulder.
Kaito.
He wasn’t grinning. He wasn’t smirking. He just… watched her. Mask still looped over his face, dark eyes steady and unreadable. Somehow, that was worse than all of Makoto’s needling combined.
Emi straightened automatically, the smile snapping back onto her lips. She gave him a little wave. “Don’t look at me like that, Kaito. I’m fine. Really.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just tilted his head slightly, gaze trailing from her flushed cheeks down to the way her hand gripped her bag strap like she needed it to steady herself.
Finally, he said, voice quiet but cutting through the noise of the room:
“Your ears are red.”
That made Makoto laugh outright. “Her ears, Kaito? That’s what gave her away?”
“It’s always the ears,” Kaito replied evenly, his gaze never leaving hers.
Emi felt her entire body flush hotter—not just from the fever. Embarrasment maybe. She huffed, waving a hand like she could brush off the weight of his irritating stare. “Dust. Just dust. Or maybe I’m embarrassed to be seen next to you two. Ever think of that?”
Makoto smirked, leaning in conspiratorially. “Careful, Emi. The last person who said that ended up sneezing in front of the chief mid-meeting. I’d hate for history to repeat itself.”
Her jaw dropped. “Makoto!”
He just shrugged innocently.
Emi groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You two are unbearable.”
But when she peeked up again, it wasn’t Makoto’s smug face that held her. It was Kaito’s, steady and unflinching. He’d stepped just close enough now that she could see the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, the smallest hint of a smirk behind the mask.
“Strong as a mountain goat, huh?” he murmured, just for her.
She groaned. He was teasing her, yes—but his eyes told a different story. Beneath the dry humor was something sharper. Concern. The kind that saw straight through her bright grin and caught the fatigue in her bones. She can't when he does that.
“Damn right I am,” she shot back, chin lifting stubbornly. “And this mountain goat is going home. Alone. No commentary, no bets, no lectures.”
Makoto snorted. “We’ll see if you make it down the hall without sneezing on someone.”
Emi narrowed her eyes at him, then spun on her heel, her skirt tugging snug around her thighs as she strode toward the door. The click of her heels echoed across the floor, sharper than her usual sneakers, a sound she hated but endured.
Behind her, she could hear Makoto chuckling and Kaito’s quieter footsteps, deliberate, measured. Watching. Always watching.
And damn it, she could feel the weight of their gaze lingering even as she pushed through the door.
The night air hit her like a wall when Emi finally pushed through the hospital doors.
It should have been a relief. Cool, heavy with the smell of asphalt and damp concrete from a rain earlier in the evening. A contrast to the sharp, recycled air of fluorescent-lit corridors. Usually she loved that moment—when the city breathed around her, when the stars pressed faintly against the smog.
But tonight, it felt like she had stepped into ice water. Her overheated skin flinched under the cool air, as if every nerve had been stripped raw.
Her body was burning.
She tugged her coat tighter around her blouse, but it was useless—sweat still clung damp at the small of her back, soaking through the thin fabric. The pencil skirt that had seemed crisp and professional this morning now pinched at her hips, squeezing against swollen heat. Her stockings trapped warmth against her legs, and the sharp tap of her heels on the pavement was too loud, too fast for how heavy each step felt.
She muttered to herself, voice hoarse. “This is what I get for bragging. Mountain goat, my ass. Some goat I am.”
Her breath fogged faintly in the cold, though her own body heat felt suffocating.
And still—stubbornness guided her feet not toward home, but toward the glowing windows of a corner market.
The corner market’s door gave a half-hearted chime when she pushed it open, the stale warmth inside rushing against her face. The air smelled faintly of instant ramen and detergent, the kind of scent that clung to the tiles no matter how often they mopped.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed quietly, a little too bright against her aching eyes. The lone clerk at the counter—barely more than a kid, slouched over his phone—lifted his gaze for only a second. Emi straightened her shoulders immediately, her lips pulling into that familiar smile she wore like armor. The kind that said, I’m fine. I always am.
Her heels clicked softly as she moved down the nearest aisle. Her coat felt too heavy on her back, the strap of her bag biting into her shoulder. She muttered to herself under her breath, words scratchy in her raw throat.
“Flour… sugar… eggs… just the basics. In, out, home. Easy.”
Pretty sure she’s out of all of that stuff back home.
Her fingers trailed along the boxes stacked neatly on the shelf, but they trembled more than she liked. She curled them quickly into her palm, forcing her hand steady as she reached for the paper bag of flour. It felt heavier than it should. She hugged it against her chest, chin tilted up in mock confidence as if that could erase the wobble in her steps.
Her vision swam for a moment when she turned the corner into the next aisle. She braced herself casually against a shelf, pretending to scan the rows of sugar when really she just needed her knees to stop shaking. Her breath came shallow, sticking hot and damp in her chest.
The clerk’s gaze flicked her way again at the sound of her heel catching against the tile. She caught it—of course she did—and forced herself upright, pasting on a brighter grin. She even tossed him a little wave, voice too hoarse to match the cheer she tried to thread into it.
“Don’t mind me. Clumsy today.”
He gave her a polite nod and went back to his phone, satisfied with the act.
Her smile fell the second his eyes dropped, replaced by a grimace as she pressed the back of her wrist against her damp forehead.
“Stupid,” she whispered to herself. “You might actually deserve an oscar for this Fukukado.”
But still she kept moving, because Emi Fukukado didn’t limp home empty-handed. She collected the sugar. The eggs. A carton of milk she probably didn’t need but grabbed anyway because it gave her something to hold onto.
By the time she reached the counter, her chest was heaving shallowly, though she tilted her head just so, flashing the clerk a cheerful grin as if she weren’t swaying faintly on her feet. She dug for coins in her purse with trembling fingers, hiding the shake with a joke.
“Bet you don’t see many women buying baking staples at this hour, huh?”
The kid shrugged, smiling faintly as he rang her up. “Guess not.”
She chuckled, though it scraped dry in her throat. “Well, someone’s got to keep the sugar industry alive.”
Her own laugh nearly sent her into a cough. She bit it back, biting her lip hard until the bag was packed and slid across to her. She thanked him with a bright nod, gathered the bag into her arms, and turned on her heel.
The chime above the door rang again as she stepped out into the night.
The cool air hit her harder than before, slicing sharp against fever-hot skin. Her knees nearly buckled right there on the sidewalk, but she forced herself upright, cradling the bag tighter like a shield.
The city stretched quiet around her, lamps glowing in yellow pools against the damp pavement. Usually, she loved this part of the walk—the soft lull after the chaos of the hospital, the way her mind could wander ahead to what she’d bake tomorrow, who she’d surprise with it.
But tonight, the air pressed heavy on her shoulders. Her body screamed for rest.
And still, she smiled faintly, whispering to herself as she set one foot forward.
“Flour. Sugar. Eggs. Home.”
Like a charm. Like if she said it enough times, it would carry her the rest of the way.
The walk home should have been short. It always was, on better nights—when she hummed under her breath, balancing groceries and thoughts of recipes, letting her mind wander. Tonight, the street stretched endless, every step echoing too sharp through her bones.
Her calves ached with the pinch of her heels. Her chest was sticky where her blouse clung, damp and tight, her breasts straining against fabric gone too warm. Heat radiated from her body like she’d swallowed a furnace, and still she pressed forward, muttering, coaxing herself.
“Just a little more. Just a little more, Emi.”
And then the stairs loomed.
Can't they fix the fucking elavator already??
She stopped at the bottom, glaring up at them as though they had wronged her. The grocery bag swayed heavily in her grip.
“Damn it,” she breathed. Her voice cracked. “Just… a few more. You’ve done worse. Thirty-hour shifts. Six-hour surgeries. This is nothing.”
She took the first steps. Two. Three. Her thighs burned, her vision flickered. Halfway up, her knees buckled slightly. She let out a low groan and set the bag down carefully on the step, one hand bracing the wall, her forehead dropping to her palm. Sweat plastered stray strands of hair to her skin.
Her vision blurred again, the stairwell spinning slightly. Fuck.
Her chest heaved. “Pathetic. Pathetic Emi. Look at you—”
A hand closed around her waist. Firm, steady. Another braced over her hip, grounding her before she could sway.
She gasped, startled— her body jerked in surprise, breath catching—until she felt herself being pulled upright, steadied against someone taller, broader, unshakable. Before fear could take root, the weight of him pressed in. His scent. His height. The quiet rumble of his voice, low and familiar.
“For fuck’s sake, Emi.”
Her head tipped toward the sound. Her lips parted around his name. Eyes widened.
“A…Aizawa.”
She tried—she really did—to straighten, to pull herself away, to pretend she was fine. But her knees betrayed her again, quivering under her weight. His grip only tightened, strong and sure, pulling her against his side. His arm slid beneath her ribs, solid as an iron bar, holding her steady.
Her chest stuttered.
“What the hell are you doing?” His voice was sharp, but underneath… it trembled faintly. Not with anger. It sounded more like … worry.
She forced a crooked smile, her pride sparking even through the fever. “I’m fine,” she muttered, breathless. “Just… trying to get back to my—”
“Stop.” His tone cut through hers, low and firm. “Hold on to me, Emi. Stop squirming.”
The command landed heavy, and her fingers obeyed before her pride could stop them. They curled into his coat, trembling. His scarf brushed her wrist when he adjusted his hold. He was steady. Solid. Too warm for how cool the night was—and still, she was sure he could feel the fire raging under her skin.
“You’re burning,” he muttered, more to himself than her.
The words sent a shiver through her fever-hot skin. Her body leaned into him unbidden, tilting closer, too close, her pride unraveling thread by thread.
She leaned without thinking, her cheek brushing his shoulder. Too close. Too much. But her body wouldn’t obey her anymore.
With his free hand, he bent down, snagging the grocery bag like it weighed nothing. He adjusted his grip on her hip, guiding her carefully up the stairs step by step, each movement deliberate. His body was steady, unyielding, while hers felt like it was unraveling in his arms.
Emi swallowed against the dry ache in her throat. “…I could’ve managed,” she whispered, stubborn to the last.
“Sure you could’ve,” he said, deadpan. His calloused fingers shifted against her waist, steadying her. “Right before you fainted face-first into the stairs.”
Her ears burned hotter than her fever. “You didn’t have to—”
“I did.”
Simple. Certain.
She hated needing help. But god, she needed it.
Her chest tightened. The ache in her throat wasn’t from fever anymore.
By the time they reached her floor, her legs were trembling so hard she could barely keep herself upright. Her keys clinked loudly in her shaking hand as she fumbled at the lock. “See?” she tried, too-bright, too hoarse, cracking at the edges. “I’m good now. You really don’t have to—”
His hand mever left her hip.
“You can barely stand.” His voice was rough velvet, cutting straight through her lies.
Her keys slipped once. Twice. The third time, a shadow brushed hers. Long, calloused fingers plucked them easily from her grip.
“Shouta—”
“Stop.” One word, steady enough to still her. Firm, yet gentle. In a weird way.
Her lips parted, but no protest came out. Not when his voice left no space for argument.
The door clicked open, and he guided her inside with steady pressure at her back. “You’re not brushing me off. Not this time.”
Her apartment smelled faintly of lavender detergent, warm and lived-in. It should’ve been comforting. Instead, it was suddenly far too intimate with him in the doorway, shadows curling around them both.
“I’m sure you’ve got patrols. Reports. A million other things—”
He steered her toward the couch, lowering her gently until her knees gave way. “You took care of me.” His voice was sharper now, leaving her no room to wriggle free. “More than once. You didn’t care how inconvenient it was.”
“That’s… different,” she tried, weakly.
“No, it isn’t.” He crouched in front of her, close enough his knees brushed hers. His gaze locked steady on her face, heavy and grounding. “This is balance.” He paused before continuing. “This is what friends do.”
Her chest squeezed at the word.
“Friends,” she whispered, the word trembling in her throat.
His hand rose, brushing against her cheek. His thumb lingered beneath her temple, tender in a way that broke her. “You’re burning up.” And shit, she hates how his hands molded comfortably against her.
Her breath caught at the touch, fever and something else tangled together.
“You need to change,” he murmured, gaze flicking to her damp blouse, her tight skirt. His jaw clenched before his eyes locked back on hers. Eyes furrowed. “These clothes aren’t helping.”
Despite everything, her lips curved faintly. “What, you don’t like them?” She said, tilting her head to the side with a sly smile.
His answer was steady. Too steady. “They fit you.” A pause, low and certain.
“Beautifully.” he said under his breath. And it sounded like he’s saying it more to himself.
Her heart stuttered. Heat burned deeper in her chest.
But before she could recover, he stood, slipping off his scarf and setting it on the table. “Stay here. I’ll put your bags in the kitchen and get you water. Where's your pills?”
"... Kitchen island...Top right drawer." She muttered.
Shouta nodded, but befoer he could take a step, her hand shot out weakly, clutching his wrist.
A pause.
Shouta raised an eyebrow.
“…I don’t want to be a burden, Shouta.”
He stilled. Slowly, he turned his wrist, letting his fingers brush against the delicate underside of hers, deliberate and light.
“You’re not.”
Simple. Certain. Assuring.
Her throat went dry. Drier than it already is.
When he finally pulled away, the air felt too empty without his warmth.
Emi sat slumped against the couch cushions, her breathing shallow, her cheeks flushed bright from fever. She still managed to smirk faintly, even as sweat clung damp at her hairline.
The Pro Hero came back few seconds later.
“I don’t know, Eraser,” she rasped, the playful lilt still there despite her voice being hoarse. “You sure you’re not just trying to get me out of my clothes?”
Aizawa froze mid-step. He didn’t even turn, but the sharp lift of his shoulders gave him away. His voice, when it came, was flat.
“Don’t test me, Emi.”
She chuckled weakly, the sound breaking off into a cough that left her clutching at her ribs. He was back at her side in two strides, crouching low, one hand pressed warm and steady to her back, the other brushing hair from her face before he even thought about it.
“Idiot,” he muttered, but softer now. His thumb lingered an extra second against her temple. Swiping her bangs away. “Stop wasting energy on jokes.”
Her eyes fluttered half-shut, but her mouth still curved faintly. “If I don’t make jokes, I’ll just… lie here feeling miserable. And that'll only make me feel worse.” She tilted her head, leaning ever so slightly into the palm he hadn’t pulled back yet. “Besides, has anyone ever told you before that you’re cute when you’re annoyed?”
That earned her a heavy sigh. He pulled his hand away, running it down his face as though the motion might ground him. “You’re delirious.”
“Maybe,” she whispered with a shrug, and then let out the softest laugh. “But it's still true.”
He ignored that. At least, outwardly. Inside, his chest tightened, his thoughts turned traitorous. The heat of her skin under his palm still burned his fingertips, and the image of her damp blouse clinging to her body kept threatening to resurface. He forced it back down, buried it.
She’s sick. That’s all this is. Focus.
“You need to change,” he said again, voice lower, more certain. “Those clothes are making it worse.” He muttered again.
Her lashes fluttered, heavy from the fever and the pills already softening her edges. She gave him a lazy smile. “And here I thought you liked them.”
His jaw clenched. He bent, closer than he meant to, close enough for his hair to fall forward, shadowing his eyes. “Don’t.” The word was barely a growl. “You don’t know how hard I’m already working to ignore you right now.”
That shut her up—if only because her cheeks flushed deeper, and she let her head fall back against the couch with a quiet little sigh.
“Fine fine,” she mumbled. “But you have to help me up. My legs feel like jelly.”
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t argue. His arm slid beneath her knees, the other bracing around her back, lifting her like she weighed nothing. She gave a soft squeak of protest that melted into a weak laugh, her forehead pressing against his collarbone.
“Wow. Strong,” she murmured against his shirt, her words muffled and warm. “You’ve been hiding these muscles from me, Eraser.”
As expected. He is a Pro Hero after all.
He ignored the flush creeping up his neck. “Shut up.”
Her laugh came again, softer this time, edged with sleep. She relaxed in his hold as he carried her down the hall, his stride steady, his grip protective without even thinking about it. Every shift of her weight pressed heat into his chest, seeping into him until he swore he could feel the fever himself.
Inside her bedroom, the shadows were soft, the faint lavender scent from her sheets filling the air. He lowered her gently onto the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her more than necessary.
“I’ll get you more water,” he said, straightening. “And a wet cloth. Stay put.” He said again.
She caught his wrist before he could move away, her fingers weak but insistent. “Bossy.” Her voice was barely above a whisper now, her lips tugging at the faintest smile.
“Necessary,” he countered, prying her hand gently from his wrist and folding it back against the blankets. His fingers lingered an extra second around hers, squeezing once before he let go.
“Stay put, Emi.”
He said ‘stay put’ to her three times. Like she’s going to sprint out of his sight anytime.
Emi chuckled to herself.
Aizawa balanced the glass of water carefully in his hand as he nudged the door open with his shoulder.
“Emi—”
The word cut short, stuck like gravel in his throat.
She was standing just by the bed, blouse halfway peeled off, the pale fabric sliding down her shoulders. Fever-flushed skin glowed in the dim lamplight, and for a half-second his gaze betrayed him—catching the delicate lace beneath, a shade of soft rose that clung to her curves far too well.
He shut the door immediately, quick and sharp, the glass in his hand trembling just enough that the water rippled.
“Shit.” The curse stayed under his breath, barely audible. His jaw was tight, his pulse harsher than it should’ve been. Idiot. She’s sick. She needs rest. Not—this. He dragged his free hand down his face, trying to erase the image already burned into his mind.
From the other side of the door came her voice, rasped from fever but still carrying that impossible spark of humor.
“Ever heard of knocking, Eraser? You should try it sometimes.”
He exhaled slowly, forcing his voice into its usual calm. “Sorry. I thought you were finished.”
There was a pause, then a laugh—soft, teasing, utterly unbothered. “If you wanted to see me strip, you could’ve just asked.”
His grip tightened on the glass, knuckles pale. For a moment he said nothing, just let the silence hang heavy, until he found the only response that wouldn’t betray him.
“Please don’t tempt me.” He whispered to himself. Like a sigh. Sure enough she wouldn't hear over the wooden door.
The flatness of his tone was enough. Her laugh broke off, her cheeks heating more than the fever already managed, and for once, Emi had no comeback.
What the fuck?
When he finally stepped back inside, she was tucked beneath the blankets, her nightshirt rumpled but covering her properly, her hair damp against her temples. She looked smaller, softer somehow, surrounded by the lavender-scented sheets.
He set the water down on the bedside table and lowered himself into the chair beside her bed. She rolled her head lazily toward him, her smile faint but mischievous.
“You’re no fun.”
“You're annoying.” he replied, leaning back, his eyes sweeping over her flushed face, the way she tugged the blanket higher as though it might soothe the fever radiating from her skin.
“Mm. And yet you’re here,” she whispered, her voice already thick with drowsiness.
That one landed harder than he expected. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, watching her struggle to keep her eyes open.
“Drink,” he ordered softly, handing her the glass. His fingers brushed hers, lingering longer than they should’ve as he steadied it against her trembling grip.
She sipped obediently, the corner of her lips curving. “Bossy.”
“Practical.”
“You say that like it’s any different.”
He didn’t reply, just took the empty glass back and set it aside.
The silence stretched, softer now, filled with the sound of her uneven breathing and the distant hum of city life beyond the window. Her lashes fluttered, heavy, but her voice pulled again.
Aizawa stayed seated at her bedside, one elbow braced against his knee, watching her fight to keep her eyes open. She was stubborn even against sleep — of course she was. Emi Fukukado couldn’t go down quietly, not even against fever and exhaustion.
Her lips curled, a faint smirk tugging despite the weakness in her face.
“You know… you’ve got this whole… mysterious-hero vibe going on, Shouta.” Her voice rasped, a little rough around the edges, but still threaded with mischief. “But you’re actually… kind of sweet.”
He raised a brow, unimpressed. “Sweet, huh?”
“Mm.” She let out a tired laugh, her head rolling lazily against the pillow so she could look at him more directly. “You fuss. All quiet and broody, like you don’t care… but then you do things like this. Taking care of me. Staying when you could’ve left. You’re…” Her lashes fluttered, her words wobbling at the edges. “You’re a good man, Shouta.”
He looked away, jaw tightening. Compliments always sat like splinters under his skin — and from her, they burned. “You’re tired. Stop talking. You’re only making it worse.”
“Maybe.” She grinned faintly, though her eyes slipped half-shut. “But I mean it.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to steady himself, to push down the uncomfortable thrum in his chest. “You should stop wasting energy on nonsense. Just sleep.”
“Mm-mm. Not nonsense.” She shook her head weakly against the pillow, hair spilling across her cheek. “I… feel comfortable with you. Like I don’t have to… force myself to be fine. Even now, looking like this—” she gestured vaguely at herself, damp hair, flushed face, drowning in blankets— “you don’t look at me any different. You just… stay.”
Her voice softened at the edges, a quiet truth slipping past her usual shields of laughter and light. “That means a lot to me.”
More than you'll ever know.
For a long beat, he couldn’t answer. His chest ached with it, that raw honesty, the way her fever-hazed eyes looked at him like he was something more than just a neighbor or a hero she happened to find out about. Like he was someone she trusted.
Finally, he leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees. His voice was low, rougher than he meant it to be. “You don’t need to thank me. This is basic kindness. What friends do.”
Her lips curved at that. A small, sleepy smile, fragile but genuine. “Friends, huh?”
“Don’t make me regret saying it,” he muttered, though softer this time.
She chuckled, a breathy sound that faded almost as soon as it came. “I like being your friend, Shouta.” Her eyes fluttered again, slower now, the fever and pills tugging her steadily downward. “You’re… better company than you think you are.”
He watched her fight the pull of sleep, her smile lingering, weak but determined. There was something beautiful in it — that even worn down, burning with fever, she could still find light enough to tease, to comfort him.
The silence stretched, warm and heavy. He reached out almost without thinking, brushing back the damp strands clinging to her temple. His fingers lingered too long against her burning skin. She leaned into it instinctively, her cheek pressing into his palm, and something inside him nearly broke.
Her breathing slowed, evening out, her smile softening as her words blurred mid-sentence.
“Stay… just… stay with me…” she murmured, barely audible, already half-asleep.
He exhaled through his nose, the sound soft, almost resigned. Of course she’d ask that. Of course she’d make it impossible to leave.
So he stayed.
God, he did.
He adjusted the blanket higher over her shoulders, then tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb brushed lightly across her temple, lingering as though he could will her fever down with touch alone.
“Shit. You're burning up,” he muttered under his breath, but his hand never moved. He sat there in the lavender-scented quiet of her room, his gaze fixed on the curve of her smile even in sleep, and let the weight of her trust settle heavy in his chest.
Too close. Too dangerous. But he couldn’t look away.
Notes:
Lol. Looks like mountain goat do still get sick. I'm sorry if this chapter isn't very well written like the previous chapters. But I promise the next chapter will be me making up to you guys. Thank you for reading.
Also. I love how Emi alternate calling him by various names. LIke Zawa, Eraser, Shouta, Grumpy. And 'friends' isn't some American sitcoms. It's apparently what's going on between the two of them... or is it?
Let me know how you think on this one?
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