The light hadn't broken through the window yet. The air was still—the kind that clung to the walls like memory.
Denki woke in an instant. Not gently. Not gradually.
He snapped upright like he'd been pulled from the ground, drenched in sweat, breath clawing its way out of his lungs in short, panicked bursts. His heart was a war drum. His ribs a battlefield.
He didn't scream. Didn't thrash.
But inside?
Inside, he was reliving it.
The blade.
The alley.
Jiro's scream.
His own blood on Kirishima's hands.
Sero's silence.
Mina trying so hard to keep herself together.
Bakugo's voice breaking—not yelling—for once.
He saw it all again.
Felt the fire slicing through his chest. Felt the world blur and stretch and end before it was supposed to.
And worst of all?
He saw their faces.
How they broke.
How they looked at him like he was already gone.
Denki clenched his fists. They were shaking. Not from charge. From the echo.
He turned his head slowly.
Jiro was still asleep beside him, one hand curled near his shoulder, her breathing steady and soft in a way that used to make him feel safe.
But not this time.
He stared at the ceiling.
I thought this was fixed.
I thought sleeping beside her would quiet it all.
I thought love could patch the parts lightning couldn't.
And yet…
The dread was back. The panic. The ache.
It didn't care how close he was to warmth.
It didn't care that he'd survived.
It just wanted him to remember.
He slid out from under the blanket, slow and careful not to wake her. His feet hit the floor like bricks, and his body followed—curling at the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, head in hands.
"I'm not fixed," he whispered.
Not to her. Not to anyone.
Just… to the dark.
He waited a minute. Then another.
Then—he slipped on his hoodie, pushed open the door, and stepped into the quiet hallway.
Because sometimes, healing isn't a straight line.
Sometimes, you need to fall apart all over again before you figure out what needs rebuilding.
And Denki?
He still didn't know where all the broken pieces lived.
But he was going to find them.
Even if it meant waking up every Wednesday like this.
The courtyard was drenched in pale morning light. Not golden, not warm. Just faint. Like the sky hadn't made up its mind yet.
Denki walked with his hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, shoulders drawn up like he could somehow disappear into the seams. His eyes were glassy, jaw clenched—not in anger, but in effort. Hold it together. Stay whole.
The campus was quiet. No students yet. Just faint wind brushing through trees and the shuffle of his own footsteps against damp stone.
And then—he saw it.
A bench. Facing the central fountain.
Occupied.
He stopped in his tracks.
Aizawa.
Sitting there, elbows on knees, mug of coffee held loosely in one hand, scarf draped across his shoulders like a sigh that never quite faded.
Denki stiffened instantly.
I can't let him see me like this.
His hands were still trembling. Not violently. Not dramatically. But enough. Enough to feel wrong. The kind of wrong he didn't know how to explain—not to the one person who saw through him. Not to the person he'd called Dad.
He turned slightly, ready to back away.
But—
"You don't have to leave," Aizawa said.
Not loud. Not commanding.
Just… there.
Denki froze.
Aizawa didn't turn around. Just took a slow sip from his mug, eyes still forward. "Sit. Or don't. But you're not hiding from me."
Denki's throat tightened. His pulse felt loud.
He hesitated. Then walked forward, slow and reluctant, and lowered himself onto the edge of the bench. Not close. Not far.
Just present.
"I—I had a dream again," he said after a long beat. Voice cracked. Hushed. "I was back there. The moment when it all happened. And it wasn't even dying that hurt the most. It was seeing everyone's faces. Watching them break."
Aizawa said nothing.
Denki didn't look up.
"I thought sleeping next to Jiro helped. Thought I was getting better. But this morning… I woke up and everything shattered again."
Another breath.
"I'm still broken."
Aizawa set his coffee down.
Then, slowly, turned his gaze toward Denki.
"You're not broken, Denki," he said, voice low. "You're hurting. That's different."
Denki swallowed hard, trying to blink away the ache behind his eyes.
"You called me 'Dad' because you didn't want to carry this alone anymore," Aizawa continued. "So don't."
Denki's hand twitched in his lap.
"I didn't want you to think I was weak again."
Aizawa shook his head once. "Weakness is pretending you're fine when you're bleeding. You're here. You're honest. That's strength."
Silence.
Then—Aizawa reached out.
He didn't pull Denki in. Didn't crowd him.
Just laid a hand gently on his shoulder. Grounding. Solid.
"You're not just my student anymore," he said. "And I won't let you spiral alone."
Denki closed his eyes.
And for the first time that morning, his hands stopped shaking.
(Later in the common room)
Denki sat curled into the far end of the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands, knees drawn up just enough to feel held. The morning light had shifted to gold now, stretching soft rays across the living room floor.
No one was awake yet—just that rare, fleeting quiet. The kind that didn't feel heavy. The kind he could breathe in for a few minutes without being seen.
Because soon, someone would walk in.
And then he'd have to smile.
Have to crack a dumb pun.
Have to pretend that the ache in his chest hadn't clawed its way back in like it hadn't spent the night chewing through his ribs.
Jiro would ask how he slept. Sero would toss him a sock. Mina would point out his hair doing that tornado thing again.
But none of them could carry the answer.
Because they'd already carried it once.
They were there.
When it happened.
When he broke.
When they broke with him.
And he couldn't—wouldn't—ask them to break again.
So he sat in the quiet.
Let it stretch.
Let it hold him for a little while longer.
Until—
"Move it, idiot."
Denki flinched.
His heart jumped. Shoulders stiffened. He whipped his head around, wide-eyed.
Bakugo stood behind the couch, arms full of ingredients—eggs, rice, a half-loaf of bread he looked ready to fight.
Denki swallowed, pulse still racing.
Bakugo raised a brow.
Denki forced a laugh. Too fast. Too light.
"Geez, man—you always gotta jump scare me like a horror movie villain before breakfast?"
Bakugo didn't laugh.
Didn't even smirk.
Just stared. Eyes narrowing. That quiet tilt of suspicion already humming beneath his skin.
"I didn't say anything sneaky," Bakugo muttered, dumping the groceries on the counter. "You're just twitchy."
Denki snorted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Hey, the Chargebolt model's always on edge. Electricity doesn't come with chill mode."
Bakugo didn't answer.
But he didn't walk away either.
He cracked two eggs with surgical precision, tossed them into a bowl like they'd insulted his mother, and glanced toward Denki again.
He saw it.
The way Denki's smile didn't reach his eyes.
The way his laugh stumbled on its own rhythm.
The way his hands were tucked deep into his sleeves.
Twitchy.
Hiding.
Bakugo folded his arms, leaning against the counter.
"Something wrong?"
Denki blinked. Fast.
"Nope. Just tired."
"Right."
That silence again. Heavy. Stretching.
And then—Bakugo's gaze cut toward the hallway.
"Aleasha up yet?"
Denki shrugged. "No clue. Probably still sparking away in her sleep like some kind of electric ninja."
Bakugo didn't smirk.
Just narrowed his eyes.
"Watch her."
Denki tilted his head. "Huh?"
"Something's off. She moves like she knows you. But doesn't talk like it."
Denki paused. A beat too long.
Then: "Yeah, I mean… maybe we just vibe. Electric types stick together, you know?"
Bakugo didn't blink.
"You ever met her before this week?"
Denki opened his mouth—then closed it. "No. She's just… new."
Bakugo nodded once.
But didn't buy it.
Because he'd seen the way Aleasha looked at Denki during training. Like her pulse lived in his shadow.
And today?
Bakugo would make breakfast.
He'd keep Denki steady.
And he'd watch Aleasha like the storm she refused to admit she was.
Because if anyone was going to protect Chargebolt—
It'd be the boy who already lost him once. Chapter 25 continues with the slow unraveling of tension beneath everyone's morning routine—quiet glances, faked smiles, and a hint of chaos wrapped in curiosity.
(Late Morning – UA Dorms)
The calm was fading. One sleepy footstep at a time.
The common room stirred gently as the first signs of Class 1-A life trickled in—slipper shuffles, hoodie yawns, the smell of rice creeping back into the air.
Denki, still perched at the corner of the couch, braced for the shift. Hoodie sleeves over his hands. Shoulders relaxed but too still. Smile loading.
His fingers curled just slightly in the fabric.
Here we go.
Jiro shuffled in first, earbuds looped around her wrist, hair rumpled in a way that made her seem half-asleep and half-witchy. She spotted him immediately—and that look crossed her face. That quiet, tight-lipped concern.
She dropped beside him without a word, tugging the blanket off the couch like it owed her warmth.
"You weren't there when I woke up," she said softly.
Denki blinked. "Oh, yeah—I just needed some air."
She didn't look convinced.
Then, gently: "How'd you sleep?"
He smiled.
Right on cue.
And he nailed it—just like always. Eyelids relaxed. Grin crooked. Voice warm. "Honestly? Pretty solid. No sparks, no nightmares. Just good old-fashioned recharge."
Jiro leaned her head against his shoulder—but her eyes didn't close. Not yet.
Because she always felt it. When he lied.
Meanwhile—Aleasha made her entrance. And of course… chaos followed.
She was mid-pass through the kitchen, arms full of tea packets and leftover toast when—wham. Her foot caught on a chair leg. Her balance disappeared like thunder in reverse.
"Whoa—crap—crap—!"
She lunged forward, toast flying like shrapnel.
And right there, standing at the stove, spatula in hand like a weapon?
Bakugo.
Aleasha smashed shoulder-first into his side, nearly taking them both down. She squeaked. He grunted.
But—he didn't explode.
Not even a barked insult. Just a sharp inhale and a twitch of his eyebrow.
Aleasha immediately scrambled back, hands up, face flushed deep crimson.
"Oh—I didn't mean to—uh—your rice! Sorry! I'll just—redirect my limbs better next time," she stammered, half-wincing, half-watching his expression.
Bakugo blinked.
No explosion. No snarl.
Just a low grunt as he steadied the pan and muttered, "You good?"
Aleasha paused. "Wait, that's it? No yelling? No flashy detonation?"
Bakugo scowled without heat. "You want me to throw eggs at your face?"
She blinked. "…No?"
"Then quit talking and let me cook. Oh, and watch your feet, voltage girl."
And went back to flipping rice like nothing happened.
Aleasha backed away like he'd given her a treasure map to survival. "He's actually kinda nice," she whispered to herself, grabbing a spoon off the counter like it validated her hypothesis.
Across the room, Mina's eyes sparkled with gossip lightning.
Slow blink.
Widened eyes.
Grin loading.
"Oh ho hooooo~," she whispered, nudging Sero in the ribs. "Did you see that? Our murder dragon didn't yell."
Sero blinked mid-slurp of juice. "Huh. Guess he's mellow today?"
"Nope," Mina said, already scheming. "He's suspicious. Which means drama. Which means—I am living."
Back on the couch, Denki chuckled faintly. But the tremble in his chest hadn't left. Jiro was still watching. Bakugo was still tracking. Aleasha was still waiting.
And for just one more minute—
He could pretend nothing had cracked beneath the surface.