(Jiro POV)
Jiro hadn't moved.
Hadn't loosened her grip.
Hadn't stopped staring at him—at Denki, at his tired, barely-there smile, at the way his fingers curled weakly in hers, like even now, even after everything, he was still trying to reassure her.
Idiot.
Jiro swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, trying to breathe right, trying to process that this was real.
That he was awake.
That he was here.
Her fingers tightened in his—gentle but firm, like she was afraid he'd slip away if she didn't hold on properly.
Denki shifted—barely, slowly, clearly struggling—but his golden eyes flickered toward her with something soft.
Something quiet.
Something safe.
Jiro exhaled shakily, feeling her chest tighten.
"You scared me."
Denki's lips twitched—small, exhausted, but undeniably his.
"I know."
Jiro let out a broken laugh, rubbing her thumb against his knuckles, feeling the faint hum of his electricity, his life, his presence beneath her touch.
And for the first time in days, she allowed herself to breathe properly.
Denki was here.
Jiro hadn't planned this.
Hadn't thought about it.
Hadn't considered that this moment—this painfully raw, overwhelmingly real moment—would lead here.
But Denki was alive.
Barely.
Exhausted.
Weak.
But here.
And Jiro—Jiro had spent days gripping his hand, fighting against the sheer terror of losing him, refusing to let go, refusing to step back, refusing to accept that there had ever been a moment where he wasn't going to wake up.
And now—finally—he was awake.
He was watching her—his golden eyes soft, tired, but full of something quiet, something knowing, something real.
His fingers—shaky, weak—curled in hers, warmth slipping through her veins like his electricity had never truly left her.
And before Jiro could process it—before she could stop herself—she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his, exhaling shakily, feeling the way his breath shuddered against hers.
"You're really here," she whispered, voice trembling, tears slipping from her eyes before she could stop them.
Denki smiled.
Soft.
Barely there.
But real.
Jiro swallowed hard, blinking fast, feeling her chest tighten, feeling her pulse stutter—feeling everything in one sharp, unbearable wave.
And then—before doubt, before hesitation, before fear could take hold—
She kissed him.
Gentle.
Tear-streaked.
Full of every emotion she hadn't been able to say.
Denki froze for half a second—shock flickering through his exhausted expression—before he melted into it, pressing closer despite his weakness, despite the heaviness in his limbs, despite the strain in his body.
His fingers tightened in hers.
His electricity sparked faintly against her fingertips.
And for the first time—the very first time—Jiro let herself believe that she had never truly lost him.
Not even when it felt like she had.
Not even when he had come so dangerously close.
Denki was still here.
And Jiro wasn't letting go.
Not now.
Not ever.
(Denki POV)
Denki didn't know how to describe this feeling.
The exhaustion? That was obvious.
The pain? Unbearable but expected.
The relief? Overwhelming—because Jiro was here.
But this—this moment—was something entirely different.
She was close.
So close that he could feel the faint warmth of her breath against his skin, feel the lingering tremble in her fingers as she held onto him like she was terrified he'd disappear.
Her forehead pressed against his—shaky, hesitant, painfully real—and Denki, for the first time since everything went wrong, felt alive again.
Then—
She kissed him.
Denki barely had time to process it before his entire world shifted.
The pressure was soft—gentle, fragile, full of something deeper than words—but it hit him like lightning to the chest.
He froze for half a second—stunned, breath caught, body too weak to fully react—but then—
Then, he melted into it.
His fingers—slow, shaky, barely functional—tightened around hers, his electricity humming faintly beneath her touch, his lips pressing back despite the weight in his limbs, despite the exhaustion threatening to pull him under again.
Jiro was crying.
Denki felt the dampness against his skin, felt the way her hands held onto him like a lifeline, felt the way she collapsed forward just to be closer.
And Denki—Denki would have spoken if he could.
Would have told her—told her that he was here, that he was still fighting, that he wasn't going anywhere.
But he was too weak.
Too tired.
Too consumed by the sheer electricity of this moment.
So instead—
Instead, he kissed her back.
Soft.
Tired.
Because even if he couldn't say it right now—
Jiro needed to know.
Needed to feel it.
That he was still here.
That he had never truly left her.
And he never would.
(A few days later)
Denki had never been good at staying still.
Patience wasn't his strong suit.
Waiting wasn't his thing.
And yet—here he was, stuck in a hospital bed for days, feeling like his entire body had betrayed him.
But today?
Today was different.
Today, he could finally sit up without feeling like he was about to black out.
His muscles still ached, his energy was barely there, but the moment he managed to push himself upright, the sheer triumph in his chest almost made up for the fact that it took way too much effort.
And then—
"You look like you're about to fall over, idiot."
Denki smirked before turning his head toward the voice he knew better than his own heartbeat.
Jiro.
Sitting in the chair beside his bed, arms crossed, eyes sharp but undeniably soft, like she wasn't sure whether to scold him or cheer for him.
Denki grinned weakly, leaning back against the pillows, still exhausted but undeniably victorious.
"I'm sitting up, aren't I?"
Jiro rolled her eyes, but her shoulders relaxed, the tension she'd been carrying for days finally easing just a little.
Denki exhaled, shifting carefully, letting himself breathe properly for the first time since waking up.
"You stayed," he murmured, voice hoarse but steady.
Jiro blinked, staring at him for half a second before letting out a small, almost nervous laugh.
"Yeah. Of course I did."
Denki's grin softened.
He was still tired.
Still weak.
But not alone.
And for now—just for now—that was enough.
(Aizawa POV)
Aizawa had spent his entire career watching kids like these—watching them train, watching them struggle, watching them fall apart and put themselves back together again.
He had guided them, protected them, pushed them to grow.
But sometimes—sometimes—he had to just be there.
And right now?
Right now, he wasn't here as a teacher.
He was here as something else.
Something more.
The hospital room was quiet, save for the rhythmic beep of monitors and the faint hum of voices just beyond the door.
Jiro sat beside Denki, her fingers curled in his, her expression soft but worn, her eyes carefully watching him—like she was afraid he'd disappear if she looked away for too long.
Aizawa understood that feeling.
Too well.
He stepped forward, hands in his pockets, gaze steady as he watched Kaminari finally sitting up, finally talking properly, finally breathing without struggle.
"You look better," Aizawa said simply, his voice gruff but even.
Denki turned his head, blinking tiredly, his signature grin still there but far weaker than normal.
"I mean… yeah. I'm alive, aren't I?"
Aizawa didn't smile.
Didn't react.
Just watched.
Denki shifted carefully, exhaling slowly, his golden eyes sharp but uncertain, something hesitant lingering there—something Aizawa recognized.
Something he knew all too well.
Denki was alone in more ways than one.
And Aizawa?
Aizawa wasn't going to ignore that.
Not anymore.
(Denki POV)
Denki had never really been close to Aizawa.
Not in the way some of the others were—not in the way Jiro was.
He respected him, sure.
Knew he cared, definitely.
Listened to him, even when he was being kind of scary.
But this?
This was different.
This was Aizawa standing here, not just as a teacher, but as something else.
Something that felt… steadier.
Denki swallowed carefully, his body still sore, his energy still low, but his mind clear.
He knew Aizawa was looking at him differently.
Knew he saw something deeper—something Denki usually tried to brush off, ignore, push aside like it didn't matter.
"What?" Denki muttered, voice hoarse but challenging, eyes narrowing just slightly.
Aizawa didn't blink.
"You don't have anyone visiting you."
Denki froze.
His grin faltered.
Jiro shifted beside him, her grip on his hand tightening just slightly.
Denki laughed weakly, trying to play it off, trying to pretend it wasn't a big deal.
"Yeah, well—never really had anyone visit me, so, you know…"
Silence.
Heavy.
Sharp.
Aizawa exhaled slowly, his posture relaxing, his voice softer than Denki had ever heard it before.
"You do now."
(Denki POV)
Denki blinked, his body tensing, his chest feeling too tight.
Jiro didn't say anything.
Didn't move.
Just held onto him, letting the words settle, letting the moment linger.
And Denki—Denki didn't know what to say.
Didn't know how to process the fact that Aizawa had just said exactly what he needed to hear.
So instead—
Instead, he looked down at his hand, at Jiro's fingers curled into his, at the presence surrounding him, at the reality that, maybe—
Just maybe—
He wasn't as alone as he thought he was.
(Aizawa POV)
Aizawa had been standing in this room for longer than he'd planned.
The moment he stepped in, he had expected to check Kaminari's status, maybe give Jiro some reassurance—then leave.
But now?
Now, he was watching something unfold that he couldn't walk away from.
Watching Denki sitting up for the first time, exhaustion clear but determination sharper.
Watching Jiro beside him, fingers tangled with his, her posture tense, her eyes never leaving his face.
And, more than anything—
Watching Denki react to the realization that no one had visited him.
Aizawa had always known Kaminari was alone in more ways than one.
The kid never talked about his parents.
Never had visitors during school events.
Never really had anyone waiting for him at home.
And today—today, in this hospital bed—was no different.
No family came to check on him.
No emergency contacts had been listed.
No one had arrived except his friends, his classmates—Jiro, Mina, Kirishima, Bakugo, Sero—the people he had fought beside, the people he had nearly died protecting.
Aizawa exhaled slowly.
"You don't have anyone visiting you."
Denki froze.
For half a second, his expression didn't change—his trademark grin still lingering, as if he was about to brush off the statement, spin it into a joke, pretend it wasn't a big deal.
But Jiro saw it.
Aizawa saw it.
The hesitation—the momentary crack in his confidence, the subtle shift in his posture, the flicker of something too raw to name beneath his golden eyes.
Denki laughed. Weak, nervous, forced.
"Yeah, well… never really had anyone to visit me, so, you know…"
Silence.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
Aizawa knew what that meant.
Knew exactly what Denki was trying to dismiss.
Knew exactly what truth he wasn't saying.
And Aizawa—Aizawa wasn't ignoring it.
Not anymore.
"You do now."
The words were simple.
Casual.
Spoken in the same steady, unaffected tone Aizawa used with all his students.
But their weight—their meaning—hit harder than anything Denki had ever expected.
(Denki POV)
Denki had heard a lot of things in his life.
Some good.
Some bad.
Most of them forgettable.
But this—
This was different.
"You do now."
Denki's breath hitched.
He knew what Aizawa meant.
Knew Jiro understood it too, just by the way her fingers tightened in his.
Knew this wasn't just about being in a hospital room, waiting to heal, waiting to leave.
Knew this wasn't just about having friends who cared.
This was about family.
Not the kind he had never had.
Not the kind that was supposed to be there and never was.
But the kind that had found him anyway.
Denki swallowed carefully, his chest feeling too tight, his throat too dry.
He wanted to say something.
Wanted to tell Aizawa that he understood—that he felt it, that he was grateful, that this meant more than words could ever explain.
But nothing came out.
Instead—
Instead, he glanced down at his hand, at the way Jiro refused to let go, at the presence of Aizawa standing firmly beside them, at the reality that, maybe—
Just maybe—
He wasn't alone anymore.
(Denki POV)
Denki had been stuck in bed for days.
And it sucked.
At first, he could barely move.
Then, he could sit up.
Now?
Now, he wanted to stand.
Needed to stand.
Needed to prove that he wasn't just some broken mess, that he wasn't trapped in weakness, that he could still be himself.
And that's exactly why he was gripping the side of the hospital bed way too tightly, preparing to haul himself up, despite the fact that his body was screaming at him to stop.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Denki flinched before turning his head toward Aizawa, who had apparently been watching him from the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Denki tried to grin.
Failed.
"Uh—standing?"
Aizawa's brows twitched, his eyes narrowing.
"And you think that's smart?"
Denki hesitated.
Not because he agreed.
Not because he was actually reconsidering.
But because Aizawa wasn't just scolding him like a teacher—wasn't looking at him with strict disappointment.
No—Aizawa was watching him closely, watching his every movement, watching his struggle like he wasn't just annoyed, but concerned.
And Denki wasn't used to that.
(Aizawa POV)
Aizawa wasn't surprised.
Of course Kaminari was trying to push himself too soon.
Of course he was ignoring how much strain his body had been through.
And of course—of course—he was pretending he was fine, even though he clearly wasn't.
Aizawa sighed.
Stepped forward.
And, before Denki could do something stupid, he grabbed his arm—firm, but careful.
"You're barely stable enough to sit up properly," Aizawa muttered, not letting go, not backing off, not letting him fall flat on his face.
Denki stiffened, blinking up at him like he didn't understand what was happening.
Like he didn't understand why Aizawa wasn't just telling him off, why he wasn't just ordering him back into bed.
Like he didn't understand why Aizawa was supporting him instead of dismissing him completely.
Aizawa exhaled slowly.
"You want to stand? Fine. But you're not doing it alone."
Denki swallowed hard, his golden eyes flickering between Aizawa's grip on his arm, the steady, firm hold keeping him balanced, keeping him upright—keeping him from failing completely.
And Aizawa?
Aizawa didn't let go.
Didn't step away.
Didn't let the kid fall, because falling wasn't an option anymore.
Not after everything.
Not for Denki.
Not for any of them.
Denki knew this was going to hurt.
He just didn't realize how much.
The first movement—just shifting his weight off the bed—felt like fire tearing through his legs, burning up his spine, sinking deep into muscles that hadn't been used properly in days.
He gritted his teeth.
Took a breath.
Forced himself forward.
Aizawa's grip on his arm didn't waver, steady and firm, keeping him balanced but not holding him back.
Denki appreciated that.
He hated being babied, hated feeling fragile, hated relying on people when he wasn't supposed to need them.
But right now?
Right now, he needed this.
His foot moved forward—just barely—and instantly, his body protested hard, pain flaring up so intensely that for a brief second, he thought he was going to collapse.
Aizawa shifted beside him, tightening his hold, but not stepping in completely.
Denki breathed through it.
The second step was worse.
The third? Even worse than that.
His legs shook, his pulse thundered, his vision blurred at the edges—but he didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
Wouldn't stop.
(Aizawa POV)
Aizawa had expected this.
Had expected Denki to push himself too fast, expected the grimace, expected the forced determination, expected him to pretend the pain wasn't as bad as it actually was.
And honestly?
Aizawa respected that stubbornness.
But he wasn't going to let Denki hurt himself in the process.
Denki took another shaky step, his body tensing immediately, his jaw locking like he was trying to keep from groaning aloud.
Aizawa sighed.
"Enough."
Denki didn't listen immediately.
His foot twitched forward again, his breath unsteady, his hands tightening into fists.
Aizawa let him have that moment—let him take one more step, one last proof that he could still push forward despite the pain—before placing a firm hand against his shoulder.
"I said enough."
Denki exhaled sharply, his entire body locking up, his golden eyes snapping up toward Aizawa's—frustrated, desperate, unwilling to stop even when his body was clearly begging him to.
Aizawa held his gaze.
Not challenging.
Not dismissing.
Just waiting.
Waiting for Denki to realize it himself.
Denki trembled—weakness catching up with him fast—and finally, finally, he let out a breath and let Aizawa guide him back down.
Back into bed.
Back into recovery.
Back into the reality that this wasn't going to be a quick fight.
(Denki POV)
Denki had gotten used to the quiet.
Used to the soft conversations, the steady presence of Jiro and Aizawa—their visits happening every single day, their voices familiar, their concern never forced.
But today?
Today was different.
Today, his hospital door slammed open, and the peaceful silence of recovery vanished instantly.
"DUNCE FACE!"
Denki flinched, eyes snapping up just as Bakugo stormed inside, his expression a mix of annoyance and something too subtle to name, his voice as loud as ever.
Right behind him?
Kirishima, grinning wide.
Mina, practically bouncing.
Sero, carrying snacks like this was a casual hangout and not a hospital visit.
Denki blinked.
Then—before he could even react properly—Mina rushed forward, slamming into the chair beside his bed, her hands gripping his arm tightly like she needed physical proof he was actually awake.
"Holy crap, Denki, do you have any idea how worried we were?! You were in the hospital for days, dude—days!"
Denki laughed weakly, noticing the way Kirishima crossed his arms, how Sero exhaled like he was letting go of some hidden weight, how even Bakugo's yelling wasn't as aggressive as usual.
They were worried.
Really worried.
And Denki—Denki felt that deep.
"I mean, yeah, I noticed." His voice was hoarse but playful, his golden eyes flickering with something softer, something unspoken but grateful.
"We saw Jiro sitting in here every damn day," Sero muttered, tossing a snack onto Denki's bed like it wasn't technically against hospital policy.
Denki blinked fast, glancing toward Jiro, who was standing in the corner—arms crossed, eyes sharp—but undeniably tense, as if she wasn't sure how to handle so much noise after so much quiet.
"Jiro's been here the most," Kirishima added, voice warm, giving her a knowing glance.
Bakugo huffed.
"No crap, she hasn't left the hospital since the medics dragged your half-dead ass in here."
Jiro turned sharply, glaring at him, her posture stiff, her fingers twitching like she wanted to punch him for saying it so bluntly.
But Denki—Denki saw the slight tremble in her shoulders, the weight of everything she had been carrying all this time, the way she didn't even deny it.
And for the first time since waking up, he felt just how much his survival meant.
To her.
To all of them.
Denki swallowed hard.
This?
This wasn't just a hospital visit.
This was proof that he wasn't just some background extra—that people actually cared, actually worried, actually saw him as someone worth sitting beside, worth visiting, worth fighting for.
And for Denki?
That meant everything.