Shota Aizawa
The rain was relentless. It soaked through his capture weapon, his boots, the heavy fabric of his costume—a deep, insidious chill that only settled in his bones once the patrol was over and the adrenaline was gone. By the time Aizawa reached the auxiliary access hall behind U.A.'s gym wing, he was waterlogged, silent, and carrying the cold with him like a second skin.
The nearest source of heat wasn’t his apartment. It was here—dim and mostly deserted after hours, the staff showers humming quietly behind layers of tile and pipe. He moved toward them with a weary slouch, footsteps near-silent despite the fatigue weighing him down.
He turned the corner—and of course, she was there.
“Looking a little drowned, aren’t we?” Nemuri Kayama drawled. She leaned against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, her umbrella resting nearby, tip pooling rainwater on the floor. “Don’t worry, it’s all yours. No one comes around this late.”
Her smile suggested the opposite.
He regarded her with exhausted scrutiny. Water traced paths from his soaked brows down the line of his jaw.
“…You’re up to something,” he stated, voice flat.
Nemuri winked, completely unapologetic. “Me? Never. I’m deeply offended you’d even think it.”
Aizawa exhaled slowly and continued past her. One step, then another. Then, without fully turning:
“Lock the outer door if you want plausible deniability.”
Her low snort trailed him down the hall.
••●━━━━━━●••
Steam was already fogging the air by the time he peeled off his gear. The capture weapon came first, a heavy, soaked coil that hit the bench with a damp thud. Then the jumpsuit: it came away from his skin with a soft, damp peel, leaving temporary pink trails where the wet fabric had clung like a second hide. He dumped it in the corner with the rest, until he was bare and finally stepping under the water.
He didn't bother trying to push his dark, sopping hair out of his face. Just braced an arm against the tile, head bowed, letting the near-scalding stream sluice over the tense cords of his neck, across the scarred plains of his shoulders. The water sheeted over old, faded scars and the hard-won definition of muscle, finding every dip and ridge before falling away in a hot cascade. The heat was almost painful—a bright, piercing contrast that bloomed into a deep, liquid warmth, seeping into the marrow of his bones. A low, almost imperceptible sound escaped him as the cold reluctantly let go.
His breathing evened out.
The cold began to recede. He didn’t even realize he’d closed his eyes until—
A shift in the air. A faint, held breath behind him.
His black eyes opened. He didn’t startle. Just turned his head slightly, wet hair clinging to his stubbled jawline as he glanced back over his shoulder through the veil of steam.
“Tch,” he muttered. “Should’ve known Kayama was setting something up.”
He let out a slow breath. Not angry. Not even surprised.
Just tired. Resigned.
Still facing the wall, he reached to the shelf, picked up the soap, and held it up beside his head, a pale, simple shape in the steam.
“Well?” he said, voice low. “You going to stand there all night… or are you going to make yourself useful?”
The nearest source of heat wasn’t his apartment. It was here—dim and mostly deserted after hours, the staff showers humming quietly behind layers of tile and pipe. He moved toward them with a weary slouch, footsteps near-silent despite the fatigue weighing him down.
He turned the corner—and of course, she was there.
“Looking a little drowned, aren’t we?” Nemuri Kayama drawled. She leaned against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, her umbrella resting nearby, tip pooling rainwater on the floor. “Don’t worry, it’s all yours. No one comes around this late.”
Her smile suggested the opposite.
He regarded her with exhausted scrutiny. Water traced paths from his soaked brows down the line of his jaw.
“…You’re up to something,” he stated, voice flat.
Nemuri winked, completely unapologetic. “Me? Never. I’m deeply offended you’d even think it.”
Aizawa exhaled slowly and continued past her. One step, then another. Then, without fully turning:
“Lock the outer door if you want plausible deniability.”
Her low snort trailed him down the hall.
••●━━━━━━●••
Steam was already fogging the air by the time he peeled off his gear. The capture weapon came first, a heavy, soaked coil that hit the bench with a damp thud. Then the jumpsuit: it came away from his skin with a soft, damp peel, leaving temporary pink trails where the wet fabric had clung like a second hide. He dumped it in the corner with the rest, until he was bare and finally stepping under the water.
He didn't bother trying to push his dark, sopping hair out of his face. Just braced an arm against the tile, head bowed, letting the near-scalding stream sluice over the tense cords of his neck, across the scarred plains of his shoulders. The water sheeted over old, faded scars and the hard-won definition of muscle, finding every dip and ridge before falling away in a hot cascade. The heat was almost painful—a bright, piercing contrast that bloomed into a deep, liquid warmth, seeping into the marrow of his bones. A low, almost imperceptible sound escaped him as the cold reluctantly let go.
His breathing evened out.
The cold began to recede. He didn’t even realize he’d closed his eyes until—
A shift in the air. A faint, held breath behind him.
His black eyes opened. He didn’t startle. Just turned his head slightly, wet hair clinging to his stubbled jawline as he glanced back over his shoulder through the veil of steam.
“Tch,” he muttered. “Should’ve known Kayama was setting something up.”
He let out a slow breath. Not angry. Not even surprised.
Just tired. Resigned.
Still facing the wall, he reached to the shelf, picked up the soap, and held it up beside his head, a pale, simple shape in the steam.
“Well?” he said, voice low. “You going to stand there all night… or are you going to make yourself useful?”
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