A character-driven Aizawa Shota fanfiction examining recovery, restraint, and the cost of caring too deeply.
Returning to normal life after surviving the impossible proves harder than the fight itself. As UA prepares for the Sports Festival, small moments, quiet distance, and guarded kindness reveal just how deeply the aftermath still lingers. Public celebration contrasts sharply with private pain, where healing feels uneven and unfinished. Survival doesn’t mean the weight disappears—it just settles differently.
Chapter 5: The Weight of Surviving What They Shouldn’t Have
Shota returns to UA before he is fully healed. Typical. Recovery Girl scolds him, but he ignores her. His eye is still heavily bandaged on one side, and he moves more stiffly than usual.
Jessa tries not to hover, but she cannot help glancing at him when he enters the staff room. Her heart squeezes painfully. The man who held her hand so gently in the hospital is gone again, replaced by the guarded, distant Aizawa she remembers from the moment she stepped back into Japan.
He nods at her politely. “Shimizu.”
The sound of her last name lands like a stone in her stomach.
“Good morning,” she manages.
He does not look at her again.
Preparations for the Festival
Class 1-A buzzes with excitement. Jessa throws herself into work, helping students develop strategies, improve mobility, and practice environmental response.
Uraraka beams as Jessa demonstrates a water-assisted movement technique. “Sensei, you’re amazing.”
“Thank you,” Jessa laughs. “I have been doing this a long time.”
She drags an inflatable raft into the gym to teach balance and shifting center of gravity. Kaminari falls off six times. Bakugo refuses the raft entirely and just blows it up.
Jessa loves every chaotic second.
But she can feel Shota watching from the far side of the room, quiet and unreadable.
He steps in at one point, correcting Midoriya’s stance with a curt explanation. “You are leaving yourself exposed here. Again.”
Jessa adds gently, “But the core idea is good. Keep experimenting.”
Midoriya lights up.
Shota’s eye flicks toward her. Something wounded. Something cautious. Something unspoken.
She tries, tentatively, to bridge the gap. “Your kids are really coming along. You should be proud.”
He responds without looking at her. “I do not get attached.”
She smiles sadly. “You always did like pretending that.”
He stiffens. The wall rises again.
She lets it go.
Festival Day
The stadium roars. Colorful flags ripple in the breeze. Jessa has never experienced anything like this in America. The energy is wild, vibrant, intoxicating.
She brings handmade banners. Actual banners. Glitter, ribbons, the works.
Hizashi screeches when he sees them. “You made fan signs. I love you.”
“Someone has to embarrass the children,” Jessa says cheerfully.
Shota sinks into the seat beside her with his usual apathy. “Must you be so loud.”
“Yes,” she answers.
When the first event begins, she jumps to her feet. “Go Mineta. Go little grape boy!”
Mineta screams in terror, not enthusiasm.
Shota pinches the bridge of his nose. “Shimizu. Please.”
“No.”
Present Mic cackles from the announcer booth. “Folks, it looks like we have a VERY enthusiastic faculty member today.”
Jessa cups her hands around her mouth and screams, “Kick his butt, Bakugo!”
Bakugo glares up at her like she just delivered a personal insult. She beams back.
Shota watches her from the corner of his eye. His face does not move, but something soft flickers in him. Something he quickly crushes.
In the Stands: A Softening That Hurts
During Todoroki’s duel with Midoriya, the temperature drops. Jessa presses her arms around herself, shivering.
Without speaking, Shota shifts slightly, blocking the wind hitting her side. His scarf rustles.
She blinks. “Thank you.”
“It was cold,” he answers.
“Still thoughtful,” she teases softly.
He does not smile, but he does not pull away either.
Later she nudges him gently. “You are quite the softie for your kids, you know. You hide it well.”
“That is incorrect.”
“You were leaning forward in your seat during Midoriya’s last fight.”
“I was watching his footwork.”
“You muttered ‘good job’ under your breath.”
“That is untrue.”
“You are lying,” she says with a grin.
His lips twitch almost imperceptibly. “Watch the event, Shimizu.”
She does. But she feels warmth settle in her chest.
A dangerous kind of warmth.
The kind that makes her hope again.
Private Moments: Pain Behind Closed Doors
After the festival, celebrations echo across the campus. Students run through the hallways laughing and comparing injuries. Teachers debrief in the staff lounge.
Jessa participates at first, smiling and joking with the others. But when the noise grows too loud and her mask grows too heavy, she slips out a side door and into her private staff room.
She locks the door.
Her breath stutters.
She slides down the wall until she is sitting on the floor, hugging her knees.
“He called me Shimizu again,” she whispers to no one. “Like none of it ever happened. Like the hospital was just a dream.”
A sob pushes out of her.
“I do not hate you. Why do you act like you hate me. Why can we not even be friends.”
Tears spill freely.
“I still love you,” she whispers into the empty room. “I never stopped.”
She buries her face in her arms and cries until her throat burns and her chest aches.
Only when she can finally breathe again does she wipe her eyes, stand up, and put her mask back on.
Tomorrow she will smile again.
Tomorrow she will be sunshine again.
Tomorrow she will cheer for her kids and work beside a man who pretends she is a stranger.
Because that is what she has always done.
And because she still hopes, in some quiet part of her heart, that the ice will someday melt.
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