#caregiver!reader

The world outside is hushed and glistening, painted white with fresh snow. Inside, the morning light is pale, but the air is warm. You are just stirring awake when a weight shifts against your side.

Minho is awake, but he’s very little this morning, a rare occurrence, especially since you returned. His cat ears are flattened tightly against his head, and he is shivering despite being completely cocooned in blankets.

“C-cold,” Minho mumbles, his voice tiny, burying his nose into your neck.

You gently rub the space between his twitching cat ears. “Good morning, jagi. You are so cold. Let’s get you warmed up.”

He shakes his head dramatically, clinging to you. “It’s wet outside.” His cat side is winning the internal debate, even though his eyes flicker toward the window with a spark of childlike curiosity.

You smile softly, understanding the internal battle. “It’s snow. Look how beautiful it is. We’re going to build the biggest, most handsome snowman ever! He needs you to give him perfect cat ears.”

The promise of a cat creation is enough to pique his interest. He sits up, watching you bundle him into five layers, fuzzy mittens that cover his hands entirely, and a scarf that hides everything but his pretty boba eyes.

Once outside, Minho hops back and forth on the porch, reluctant to step onto the pristine white expanse.

“Come on, kitty,” you coax, stepping onto the snow yourself. You squat down and gently roll a small, perfect snowball. “Start small. Just a little rolling.”

Minho watches, then carefully joins you. He pushes a small handful of snow, mimicking your movement, but the cold instantly seeps through his mittens. He lets out a sharp, soft hiss and shakes his hands violently, retreating to stand against you.

“It’s wet!” he grumbles, using the warmth of your coat to hide his nose.

“It’s not that cold,” you murmur, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Tell you what. You gather the whiskers and the eyes, and I'll do the hard work. Can you boss me around, big boy?"

That proposition seems to appeals to him. Minho stands back, tail giving a slow, thoughtful sweep in the snow as watches as you roll the massive, foundational base.

The front door creaks open and Chan steps out, wearing a thick wool sweater and a knowing grin. He stops on the porch, leaning against the railing as he spots the heavily bundled hybrid.

"I didn't know we were building a snowman today," Chan teases, his voice warm and rumbly. “You're looking especially tiny today, Min."

Minho lets out a tiny, indignant puff of air, his ears twitching under his beanie. He shuffles closer to your leg, hiding half his face behind your hip, but he manages a small, defiant tail-flick toward the Alpha.

"Shut up Channie!" Minho squeaks out from behind the scarf.

You gasp softly, reaching down to give his bundled shoulder a firm but gentle squeeze. "Minho, hey. We don't use those words, remember? That’s not a nice way to talk to Channie. Tell him you’re sorry for being rude."

Minho’s ears droop instantly under his hat, his tail going still. He looks down at his boots, a muffled, "Sorry, Channie..." drifting up from behind his scarf.

Chan chuckles, his expression softening into a fond, dimpled smile as he looks at the contrite little cat. "It's okay, kiddo. I know you're just excited." He winks at you and retreats back inside, leaving Minho huffing with a new sense of determined energy.

You roll the three balls into place, and Minho finally steps forward to apply the finishing touches. He uses twigs for whiskers, two smooth pebbles for eyes, and you manage to craft two soft, pointy snow cones for his cat ears.

But when he tries to stick a final, tiny button onto the snowman’s jacket, the delicate, over-wrought motion is too much. He slips, landing on his bottom with a soft oof, his mittens filling with snow.

He doesn't cry, but his face crumples instantly in cold, wet despair. He holds his heavy, snow-caked mittens out toward you, letting out a high-pitched, miserable whine.

"It's biting! The snow is biting my hands!" he wails, his ears drooping fully. "I'm all wet and. My socks have water in them." he whispers sadly, a fat tear welling in his eye.

You rush to scoop him up, mittens and all, tucking his cold face into your neck. “Aww jagii. Let’s get this wet stuff off you.”

You retreat immediately inside, kicking the door shut behind you. You sit him down on the laundry room bench, and he continues to whine softly, his bottom lip trembling. You peel off the soaked mittens and the heavy coat, then move on to the damp socks. His little toes are pink from the chill, and he gives a small, pathetic hiss when the cold air hits them.

"So cold," he whimpers, reaching his arms up for you.

"I know, baby. Just one second." You quickly grab a thick, oversized hoodie from the dryer—warm and smelling of lavender, and help him guide his arms through the sleeves. You pull a pair of fuzzy, thick socks over his feet, rubbing his soles to get the circulation going. He purrs weakly, the sound gaining strength as the warmth of the dry clothes begins to settle in.

You carry him to the fireplace, where the logs are already crackling. You sink into the plush rug, pulling a mountain of faux-fur blankets over both of you. You gently start running a soft, warm towel over his damp cat ears, drying the fur with slow, rhythmic strokes.

Minho sighs, melting into your lap like honey. He looks through the window at the cat-snowman standing proudly in the yard. He looks satisfied, his earlier grumpiness replaced by a sleepy, content haze.

The quiet is broken by the sound of shuffling feet as Han wanders into the room. He spots the two of you and his face lights up with a grin.

"Can I come in?" Han whispers, taking a tentative step toward the pile of blankets. "It looks so cozy. I want to cuddle too."

Minho's ears twitch, and he immediately huddles closer to you, his small hands bunching the fabric of your hoodie as he hides his face against your chest. "No, Hannie," he says firmly, his little voice muffled but certain. "No cuddle pile. Mine. Minho's."

Han pouts dramatically as he looks at you for help, but Minho just lets out a tiny, warning hiss and tightens his hold on you. You give Han a sympathetic look, and he eventually sighs, scurrying off to find another boy to cuddle.

You were one of Eri’s caregivers, assigned to watch her and her quirk development. And since you seemed qualified and Eri didn't shrink from your presence, Aizawa saw no immediate reason to pay you any further mind. You were simply a variable in Eri's recovery, just doing your job.

The first few times you spent with Eri, Aizawa was watching of course. He wanted to make sure she was in good hands.

He stood in the observation room, arms crossed, as you sat on the floor of the sunny therapy room with Eri. You weren't trying to test her Quirk or push her limits. You were showing her how to press flowers between sheets of wax paper.

"See?" you said, your voice soft and steady. "They're fragile, but if we're gentle, we can keep their beauty safe." you guided her hands gently, her eyes were wide in fascination as she pressed the flower in.

Aizawa gave a single, slow nod in the privacy of the empty room. Not bad, he conceded silently. You certainly understand the assignment.

For weeks, his interactions with you were strictly professional, limited to clipped exchanges about Eri's progress, meal times, and sleep schedules. But Aizawa was a man whose survival depended on noticing the details others missed, and against his better judgment, the details about you began to compile.

He noticed the pocket of your cardigan always held a few wrapped candies, not only for Eri, but also for tired students who came by to visit Eri after a long day.

He noticed the way you spoke to Eri—not with pity, but with compassion and a kind smile.

He noticed the way you always stayed patient even when things didn’t go smoothly. He watched you endure a spilled glass of juice or a sudden, fearful outburst without a single flicker of irritation, your smile remaining a kind, constant presence.

He tried not to think much of it. Of course he’d start noticing things when he sees you everyday. There’s nothing unusual about it. He’s just taking note of what kind of person you are just in case. That’s all there is to it.

The turning point was a bad night. Not just difficult—bad. Eri was sobbing, shaking, and screaming uncontrollably after a particularly nightmare. Her quirk had flared, a single horn sparking. Aizawa had activated Erasure, but the emotional storm remained. Then you arrived. Your hair was mussed from sleep, your eyes soft with drowsiness, having been summoned urgently from your on-campus residence. You took in the scene in a single, sweeping glance—the trembling girl, the hero at his wit's end. Your gaze didn't linger on Eri's horn, but on Aizawa's face, on the rare, unguarded panic etched into his features.

You first made your way to him. Giving him a small nod and a smile, “I got her. You can stand down, Aizawa-san.” you'd said softly, your gaze holding his tired one.

The permission to stop, to not have to be the sole pillar holding up the world for a moment, was something he hadn't realized he needed. Aizawa released his Quirk, his dry eyes stinging, he watched as you knelt before Eri, your voice a low, soothing hum, and talked her through the panic attack, your words causing visible relief to the trembling child.

After that, the walls came down, brick by brick. He started seeking your opinion on everything, from bedtime stories to coping strategies. He began lingering after your sessions, inventing flimsy excuses about "protocol" and "scheduling," but the truth was far simpler: he just wanted to exist in the quiet, calming space you created. The daily reports became the highlight of his routine, not for the data on Eri's progress, but for the few precious minutes of your undivided attention.

He noticed even more details about you. He noticed how your eyes gleamed with genuine, unadulterated pride when you recounted Eri's smallest victories. He saw the way you'd shyly tuck a strand of hair behind your ear when Mic praised your patience. He'd memorized the specific sound of your giggle.

And he noticed, most disturbingly, that he was starting to notice you too much

It was a quiet invasion. The thought of you would cross his mind at the most inopportune times. During a tedious staff meeting, he'd find himself wondering if you'd managed to get Eri to try the new brand of apple juice. While grading papers at 2 AM, his brain would supply the memory of your laugh from earlier that day, a sound that was somehow both gentle and bright. He began to recognize the specific rhythm of your footsteps in the hallway and would feel an inexplicable sense of anticipation when they drew near.

It was illogical. It was unprofessional. And it was, much to his chagrin, becoming a persistent fact of his life.

That was the problem— Aizawa was a pro hero. The warmth spreading through his chest when you smiled at him was a vulnerability. The way his focus snagged on you during patrol was a security risk. You were a civilian. Your world was one of quiet nights and bedtime stories, while his was one of violence and perpetual danger. To drag you into his orbit was not just selfish, it was negligent. You deserved stability, a partner who came home at a reasonable hour, not one who might not come home at all.

He was emotionally reticent, chronically sleep-deprived, and his life was not his own—it belonged to UA, to his students, to the safety of the public. What could he truly offer you? Fragments of time stolen between crises? It wasn't enough. You deserved more. You deserved everything.

The realization was a cold splash of water. This… fondness… wasn't a development; it was a liability. For you.

And so Aizawa distanced himself.

The daily reports were received with a curt nod and filed away without comment. If you tried to share a small victory about Eri, he’d respond with a flat "That's your job." The warmth in his eyes when he looked at you was replaced by a familiar, professional detachment. He made sure your interactions were strictly transactional and devoid of the quiet intimacy that had begun to bloom.

When you tried to engage him in conversation, his responses were clipped, his eyes carefully avoiding yours. He was rebuilding the walls between you.

It was painful but necessary. He was pushing you away to keep you safe, to free you from the burden of a life tied to his. It was the most logical course of action.

He watched you from a distance, his heart a tight, aching knot in his chest as your hopeful smiles in his direction gradually faded into confusion, and then into a quiet, resigned hurt. He saw the light in your eyes dim just a little when he entered a room, and he knew he was the cause.

You tried to grow used to the strict professionalism of it all. There was no point in trying if you were going to be met with Aizawa’s dismissive attitude anyway. Yet you couldn’t help but miss his smile. It hurt. He was hurting you while trying to protect you. Yet he didn’t quite know how much he was hurting you. Your breaking point was on your special day.

You sent him a text, your message unusually hesitant.

‘Good morning, Aizawa-san. Just to let you know, I won’t be able to make my session with Eri this afternoon. It’s my birthday, and my family has surprised me with plans for the whole day. I hope that’s alright?’

You stared at the screen, a foolish, hopeful part of you daring to wish for a simple "Happy Birthday."

But how silly it was for you to hope.

‘Noted. We have other caregivers’

The words were a physical blow. We have other caregivers. You were replaceable. Of course you were; you knew that logically. But the deliberate coldness, the absolute dismissal on a day that was supposed to be happy… it felt like hatred. The man you had slowly, carefully let yourself care for had just made it painfully clear that he felt nothing for you at all. Maybe he just wanted you gone?

Aizawa reread the message a few times, his thumb hovering over the screen, but not daring to type anything more. He deleted the draft of a second message—Enjoy your day—deeming it too familiar

He put his phone away, the ghost of your imagined smile haunting him.

A birthday. You should be smiling, celebrated, surrounded by people who could give you the normal, happy life you deserved. A life he could never be a part of.

And he was fine with that. Perfectly fine.

The next time you met was a few day after, you were sitting on the floor of Eri’s room after she’s finally fallen asleep, her small head pillowed in your lap, when Aizawa walked in.. The room is lit only by a soft nightlight shaped like a rabbit. For a few moments the room was completely silent, only filled with the soft sound of the girl’s breathing.

“She had a good day today,” you whispered, not looking at him, your focus entirely on carefully smoothing a strand of silver hair from Eri’s forehead. Your voice was hollow, stripped of the warmth he’d grown accustomed to.

Aizawa watches you from the doorway, his expression unreadable in the dim light, but his gaze never leaving you. He sees the absolute tenderness in your touch, the unwavering patience in your eyes. He sees the person who has quietly carved a space for herself not just in Eri’s life, but in the fortified, lonely corners of his own.

‘Only because of you,’ he wanted to say. The words burned on his tongue, a confession he could never allow himself.

Then, you spoke again, your voice quiet but clear.

"You know, I was thinking of leaving."

Aizawa did a double-take, his carefully constructed composure cracking. He straightened up, his dark eyes wide and fixed on you, looking genuinely taken aback. The air left his lungs in a quiet rush.

"What?" The word was sharp, involuntary, laced with a panic he failed to mask.

You finally lifted your gaze to meet his.

"My work here is done, for the most part," you continued, your voice terrifyingly even. "Eri is more stable. The other caregivers are perfectly capable. And it's clear... it's clear my presence is no longer required. Or wanted."

He took a step into the room, his mind racing, a cold dread seeping into his veins. This was what he wanted, wasn't it? For you to be safe, away from the danger that clung to him. For you to have a normal life.

But the thought of this room without you, of his life without the quiet rhythm of your presence, felt like a death sentence.

"Don't," he said, the word rough, almost pleading. He crossed the room in three long strides and knelt before you, his eyes desperate, his professional detachment gone, incinerated by fear.

"You told me yourself, you have other—"

"I was lying." The admission tore from him. He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, vulnerable. "I was... trying to protect you. From me. From my life."

He paused, the words forming with painful care, each one a struggle against a lifetime of self-imposed isolation. "You... create stability. You're a fixed point. For her." His eyes held yours, unwavering. "And..." He took a slow, shuddering breath, the truth finally breaking free. "For me."

You stared at him, your eyes wide, the air in the room shifting.

"I find myself... relying on you," he continued, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper, as if sharing a secret. "Not just with Eri. I notice your absence in a room. I anticipate the sound of your footsteps. It's illogical. And... inconvenient."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Inconvenient?" you whispered, the word a fragile question.

Aizawa’s gaze was unwavering, "Because I'm a pro hero. I'm not supposed to need someone. But I've found that I do." He leaned forward, his voice the softest you'd ever heard it, filled with a terrifying, wonderful honesty. "I need you."

He looked from your face to the sleeping child in your lap, then back to you, his entire being focused on your answer.

"So," he said, the word final, a plea and a command. "Stay."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you were smiling, a real, radiant smile that reached your eyes for the first time in weeks. You carefully shifted Eri, settling her more comfortably on the cushion before reaching out, your hand finding his.

"I'm not going anywhere," you whispered, lacing your fingers through his.

And in the soft glow of the rabbit nightlight, as he felt the warmth of your hand in his, Shota Aizawa finally allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was deserving of love and care as well.

He also made a mental note to get you a birthday present.

Please do not repost or translate my work. Reblogs and comments are appreciated though!

You had come to see Hector through the vent in your bedroom as always, listening to him ramble on in a deep, confident voice that you knew wasn't really his. He'd talk about business around the house, being that he's in just about every room. He knows everything that goes on, even if he's only really interested in what you do all day.

"The Hanks, I helped them with one of their sports thingies the other day. I don't really understand the appeal, but–" Hector continues until he's cut off by you clearing your throat.

"Hector... are you ever going to let me see your face?" You ask, knowing it's probably not a good idea. He's sensitive, especially when it comes to his face. It's honestly something that you've fallen in love with, though you still wish to love all of him.

"You- you want to what?" Almost immediately, Hector's confident tone is replaced by his usual voice. Shaky, unsure, even slightly embarrassed. He's always been good at keeping up his front around you, but when it slips, so does he.

"I promise you can show me. You know I'd never judge you, love." You attempt to reassure the vent, only to be met with a quiet sniffling sound. Your eyes go wide, realizing the source must be Hector.

"I... I need to go now." His voice sounds small, and he's obviously in tears. Before you can even reply, you hear a shift in the vent, followed by the air turning off. Hector must have gone back to the attic.

You make your way to the attic Dorian, looking up to him for... any kind of advice, really. He gives you a nod, as if confirming that Hector is indeed up here.

"I really didn't mean to–" You start, only for Dorian to nod again. He knows. He, like Hector, is all over the house.

"He's alright. I suppose he'll need a great deal of comforting. Just don't judge what you see." Dorian moves aside, allowing you entry. He places a hand on your shoulder and squeezes gently before letting you pass.

You make your way to Hector, finding him curled up in his corner near Memoria and Artt. Neither of them seem to judge the situation too harshly. They understand both your curiosity and Hector's insecurity.

Hector slowly looks up at you, his bottom lip quivering slightly. He tries to speak, only for a sob to come instead. He buries his head in his hands, hiccuping through cries that echo around the attic.

You sit beside him, guiding his body to yours. Your arms wrap around him, one hand resting on his back and the other resting on his head. He buries his face against your chest, wanting to hide himself from the world.

"Hector, you're beautiful. You never have to worry about me not liking you because of your looks." You coo at him, raking your fingers through his curls and watching them bounce back into place.

He shyly looks up, his big brown eyes still filled with tears. As soon as he sees your kind face staring back at him, he seems to calm down. Gradually, he stops shaking, the tears stop coming, and his sniffling is all that remains. He places his chin on your shoulder, arms coming to wrap around you.

"You... you think I'm beautiful?" He asks quietly, his voice still quivering. All he needs is reassurance, to be shown a genuine love that he hasn't felt in so long. You hold him tighter.

"Of course I do. You're just as beautiful on the outside as you are on the inside." You reply, your voice gentle and calm. You decide you'll have to have a conversation about your relationship, but that'll be for later. Right now, you've got your Hector to take care of.

He was also curious.

Every day, there’d be a new question for you.

What’s your favorite season?

When’s your birthday?

Why are you going to college?

That last one made you chuckle.

Malcolm enjoyed learning new things, but school made him uncomfortable. He didn’t come outright and say it, but you knew firsthand that kids could be mean. You just hoped the advice you’d given him helped in some way. Made him realize that he never had to change for anyone.

He seemed interested in your schooling, especially when you told him you only had one class on certain days and the rest of the day you did anything you wanted. And that led to a question that almost broke your heart.

“So, you want to be here?” His eyes were downcast, fingers rubbing against his knees. The sulking of his shoulders and the doubt in his voice were things no child should ever feel.

You put on a smile, even though you wanted to shed the tears behind your eyes.

“I want to be here,” you said.

When he looked up, he was smiling—small—but genuine. And you had to stop the sigh of relief.

Martin and Jessica Whitly were nearly always out of the house. Mrs. Whitly was the beautiful socialite of high society. Dr. Whitly was a renowned surgeon. If Martin wasn’t working and Jessica wasn’t brunching, they were at parties raising money for this charity and that.

They loved their children. They were their whole world. However, you wondered if they really knew their children. Of course, Ainsley was young but opinionated nonetheless. It was Malcolm you worried about, especially with Dr. Whitly.

You weren’t sure what it was about him, but whenever you interacted—which wasn’t much—he seemed too together. His smile felt attached, like a mask hiding fangs. You wouldn’t have noticed anything wrong if it weren’t for his eyes. They were…hollow, in a sense. They only filled when he was with his son. And at first, you thought it was sweet, but the longer you knew them, it felt off.

You loved your job. You really did. You were paid well and had a flexible schedule, and the Whitly’s even let you host a study group when finals came around. But your gut told you not everything was as picture-perfect as it seemed.

After you had put Ainsley down for a nap and pulled out your book, Malcolm walked in.

“Hey Malcolm, everything okay?” you asked, giving him a small smile.

The little boy shrugged and sat beside you, eyeing your book. You held it out for him.

“Want me to read it to you?” you asked.

He didn’t answer, still avoiding your eyes.

It was like you saw yourself at that age, untethered in a way you didn’t know how to explain. You remembered seeking out one of your parents but not saying anything. You needed comfort and didn’t know how to ask for it.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

“It would help a lot if I could read this out loud—help me memorize the story. Would you mind if I did that?” you asked gently.

He slowly shook his head and settled into the back cushions.

“Great.” You leaned back and opened your book.

You kept your voice low—less like you were reading to someone and more like you were doing it for yourself.

And ever so slightly, Malcolm’s head drifted to the side. He caught himself a few times, and you had to stop from chuckling the more he did it. But soon enough, his head hit your shoulder, and his breathing evened out.

You regarded him silently.

He had so much courtesy for his parents, but you always sensed something was missing.

It was hard to shake how excited he got when you arrived. Maybe it was because he knew you were here for him and his sister. Not to set up for a party or to impress his parents. Someone genuinely interested in hearing what he had to say.

You sighed softly and carefully flipped the page. You’d stay here as long as he needed.

Taglist: @phenomenal-bird, @steph-speaks