His fingers touched the small of her back, and she might as well have been naked in that moment. Something about that touch; she felt completely vulnerable. Momo's dark eyes went to his face, but his hair had fallen to curtain in his expression. The urge to reach out and brush his hair away from his face was almost more than she could ignore; she put her hands into her back pockets so that she wouldn't. Her palms were sweaty.

They were approaching the door to his apartment now. His private, off-campus apartment. Of course he would want to come here, she told herself. Why would he risk being caught going back onto the UA campus injured and bloody? She shouldn't be here though. This was dangerously private ground for her to cross into with him — especially now that she had word to articulate what she felt toward him now. But his hand was on the small of her back, and he matched her step-for-step as they ascended the stairs, bodies almost touching, and even if this led to a bad decision, it would still be one of the best she could ever make.

This would be illicit. He was her teacher. He was a Yakuza boss. He was twice her age. And he was the most attractive, magnetic man she would ever meet, she knew that much already. Momo thought she felt his fingertips curl into her back slightly, and heat rushed her cheeks.

Was this for cameras, she wondered, or was it because it was her?

She hope it was because it was her.

When they reached the door Momo tugged down the edge of her beanie, fingers checking to make sure most of her hair was still tucked up inside it. He was unlocking the door to his apartment with one hand while the other stayed on her back. It fell away only after he closed the door behind them. She reached up and pulled off the beanie then, her hair spilling across her shoulders, and her heart was a rat-a-tat-tatting away behind her ribs. Then she took off the fake glasses frames she'd worn, too, setting them on a corner of the nearest surface.

Momo watched as he went into the kitchenette and took a bottle of liquor from the counter. He didn't take a glass, instead just twist off the top and tilting his head back to drink straight from the bottle. His throat worked as he drank, then he set it down and slid it away with a grimace.

"Do you know someone with a healing quirk you can call?" she asked hesitantly, almost afraid to draw attention to herself — like if he noticed her, he might tell her to leave.

"No," Aizawa said curtly. "I'll handle it."

She wanted to ask how, but knew if she kept her mouth shut she'd probably see it anyway. So Momo was quiet as he took a couple quick breaths then picked up the bottle for another swig. He turned his back on her and headed for his bedroom.

"This way," he called.

His bedroom. Her earlier wonderances — his hand on her back, his fingers curling into her — came back, and she felt a flutter. She took in the room with interest; it matched the rest of his plain apartment. There were two pillows on the neatly made bed, and she recognized the blanket. A sense memory of the smell whispered over her. A television was mounted on the wall across from the bed, and Aizawa retrieved the remote from the dresser and turned it on. The channel that came up was the news; why that surprised her, she wasn't sure. He handed the remote to her then, his face shuttered and drawn.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"You're going to sit there and let the TV babysit you," Aizawa answered.

"Where are you going?"

"Right in there." He pointed with two fingers toward an open door; the lights were off inside. She realized now that it was a bathroom.

Ah. He wasn't leaving her unsupervised in his apartment still. The fact he wasn't willing to leave her unattended confirmed that there were definitely things in his modest, bare apartment that he actively did not want her to find.

Momo didn't speak while he went in the bathroom, flipping on the light as he went. She stood in the middle of the room, watching him as he squatted and began fishing underneath his sink. Out came a bottle of rubbing alcohol. A first aid kit. A clean white towel. He glanced at her through the doorway as he stood, items in his hands, and frowned openly at her.

"Sit."

It was a simple command, but at first she didn't know where she was supposed to do it. Then she slowly lowered herself onto the foot of his bed, and only then did he turn away. Momo laid aside the remote control so her hands could smooth over the soft, worn material of the blanket.

She was on his bed. It was firm — the opposite of the soft, lux mattress she'd somehow expected. She shouldn't be, of all places, on his bed while alone in his apartment with him. The things coming to mind made her cheeks flush and toes curl. There was a quiet sound to her right, and Momo's head turned in that direction.

He'd pulled off his shirt and let it fall to the floor beside his feet. Her breathing hitched.

She hadn't forgotten what she'd seen the first night she'd knocked on his door; what he looked like shirtless. But her memory had done him no justice. Her mouth was so dry as she watched him, eyes tracing over his tattoos, dedicating snapshot after snapshot to her memory. He wasn't looking at her; it felt safe to do while she was unobserved. The harsh light of the overhead light settled brightly into the ravines and valleys of his body. Into the defined hollows between his abs, across the broad plane of his chest. Looking at him, breathless, Momo learned what it meant to want.

His tattoos were fierce and brilliant, covering almost every inch of his body, naked from the waist up. Each was sharper and more vivid than she'd remembered. The oni. The samurai warrior. Lotus blossoms, koi, shisa. From this angle she could see a geisha half-exposed at the waist of his sweatpants, surrounded by a pattern of black scales. Above the geisha was where the bandage covered. Blood was seeping out around it, and Momo's eyes riveted to it as she watched him peel the bandage back.

Oh it was ugly, he'd been right about that. Momo covered her mouth with her hand, and the movement caught Aizawa's attention. He looked over at her, lips pursing into a thin grimace as he realized how intently she was watching.

"Change the channel or something," he gruffed, and nudged the door so it was almost shut.

"Do you need help?" she called.

"No."

Momo rolled her eyes and brought her focus back to the television — it was a report on the recent city council meeting to address the costs associated with repairing the damage from the Kamino Ward incident. There was pushback; one of the major insurance companies involved was refusing reimbursement. They thought Heroes should foot the bill, and there were people who agreed. But her mind kept wandering. Wandering to the fact that she was in his bed, that they were here alone. Wandering to what might happen if she—

He cursed loudly on the other side of the door, and Momo sat up fast. She hadn't even realized she'd laid back on his bed, that she'd stretched out across his blanket. She heard a loud hiss next, and she swung her legs off the bed. Momo rose and crossed to the door, sliding in.

He was twisted in front of the mirror, head craning around to see his lower back in the reflection. He'd tied his hair back, but a few pieces had come loose. The wound was inflamed and swollen-looking, and he'd gotten a few sutures through. There was a simple sewing needle between his fingers, and her eyes went to the spool of common sewing thread on the counter. He glanced up at her as she came in, eyes rolling back in his head.

"Is that elastic thread? You can't use that."

"It's worked just fine every other time," Aizawa objected, shifting away from her.

She winced as he pulled the needle through, and Momo's skin absolutely crawled as she watched the thread follow it out. His breath came out in a hiss between gritted teeth. He repeated the procedure, and she almost launched herself at him again as he pulled the thread through.

"That's enough!"

Momo lifted her sweater, exposing the bare skin of her flat stomach, so that she could create a spool and hand it to him. An encased needle followed a moment later. Syringes came after that.

It was only as she pulled her shirt back down that it even occurred to her what she'd done. Her quirk was simply second nature, and how she used it was normal. She had never had that sense of shame when it came to her body as a result. But she'd pulled up her shirt in front of him, giving him a long look at her bare, naked skin.

But for the moment her trepidations were gone. Concerns about his age and who he was were nonexistent. He was suddenly just a man, and she just a woman.

"What's all this?" he asked, taking the spool between his fingers and tilting it to inspect, as though looking for what was so special.

"Absorbable monofilament."

"And what are those?" he continued.

"Local anesthetic."

Aizawa glanced at her, eyes sharp and probing.

"If you somehow end up as a mere support Hero," he said, "I'm going to have no choice but to recruit you for myself."

Butterflies slammed her hard, and she languished in the afterglow his words left behind.

"For how many times you're going to jab me with those syringes though, I could have this stitched up and done." She could see further protest on his face, but perhaps he saw something on hers because he put his hands up in surrender, then reached for the syringes. "Whatever."

Momo handed them to him. She wanted to remind him he should resterilize the area, but decided her input on that matter would likely be unwelcome. He bit the cap of one of the syringes in between his teeth and spat it into the sink, then turned to inject himself with the local.

The needle sliding under his skin — into the colorful ink of his tattoos — was mesmerizing in a way she'd never expected it to be. She wondered, for the first time in her life, what it felt like to get a tattoo — if it was comparable pain to a needle. She dismissed the thought quickly; her quirk required she show too much of her body for her to ever experience a tattoo. He repeated the injection process with a second needle. Then one more for good measure.

"If you want I can—"

"No, you won't." He was shaking his head, poking at the wound with the needle before pulling out the couple sutures he'd done. "It's just in an awkward place, but I can manage."

Momo crossed her arms over her breasts, eyes pointedly moving from his waist back to his face then back again. He'd returned to his perch on the counter, twisting around in an effort to see the wound. After a prolonged struggle, he glanced at her.

"No," he said again, firmer. "You aren't learning to do a continuous vertical mattress suture on me. I'm sure you've already thought of another solution anyway. Right?"

His brows went up expectantly. Momo raised her sweater again, closing her eyes and focusing as she created a simple vanity mirror. She pointedly placed it on the counter near him, and touched the top of the mirror to demonstrate that it could swivel for him to angle it, then sat down on the closed toilet.

"Thanks. The TV is out there," he said dismissively, glancing at her as he lined the mirror up with the wall mirror over his counter.

"I'd rather watch you mutilate yourself," she said, smirking, but then he shot her a look that made her cover her mouth to hide how she bit her lip.

"I'm glad you find this entertaining," Aizawa responded coolly, looking away as he settled into his new position, mirrors aligned.

Momo said nothing back as she watched him. She didn't even have words for how or why it was so disproportionately attractive to watch him work with his eyes locked on the mirror, stitching his own wound closed. Fresh blood wept from the injury, and it didn't take long for his fingertips to become wet and red from the work. The bathroom was quiet now — with the local taking the edge off the worst of the pain, it was easier for him to work.

He was good with his hands. Momo watched with appreciation as he deftly worked through the continuous vertical mattress suture, his attention completely honed in now that he didn't have pain to distract or or slow him. He'd done this more than a few times, that much was clear. And now her attention strayed away from his needlework, instead if studying the landscape is his body. She wondered how many tattoos had been done to cover scars, and how many tattoos had been interrupted by injuries. Her eyes roved over him with interest, looking for where those places might be.

A small snip caught her attention, breaking her out of her absent reveries. He had a small pair of medical shears from his first aid kit in hand, and he was cutting off the excess thread from his stitches. She wasn't sure how long had gone by, but Momo sat up straighter, as though awakening from dozing off. Aizawa had his back to her and he was washing his hands. She stood.

"Thanks," he said over his shoulder, not quite looking at her. "For the local. It made it easier."

She lingered there, watching him wordlessly as he grabbed a towel to dry his hands on. Her infatuation only grew as she watched him; it was the way his tattoos glided over his muscles with every movement. It was how he had, without a moment of hesitation or self-doubt, fought unarmed to protect her against a man with a knife. It was that he'd tortured another man to death in her name. It was the absolute certainty that he lived every moment of his duplicitous life. Aizawa turned away from the sink, reaching up to take his hair down, and she could take it no more.

Momo closed the distance between them with two steps, and she laid her fingertips on his chest. She could feel the firmness of his muscles under her touch, and the reactive flex as she leaned her slight weight into him. She went up on the tips of her toes, closing her eyes, and kissed him.

His lips were disarmingly soft against hers, and she inhaled a shallow breath of surprise at the sensation. She wanted more. She needed more. Momo tilted her head slightly, uncertain of what she was doing but undeterred by her own inexperience, and her lips moved lightly over his. Then his hands were on her shoulders — God, yes, his hand were on her, and she began to deepen the kiss. His fingers dug in, except his hands were pushing her away, and her eyes fluttered open in surprise.

"What are you doing?" Aizawa demanded, hands still on her shoulders so that he could keep her at arms length.

Momo touched her lips. "I—"

"You are my student! You're fifteen! What are you thinking!"

Her face was hot with embarrassment, and she could feel tears springing up in her eyes. She blinked rapidly to hold them in.

"I thought — the things you've done for me, how you act toward me, I thought—"

"You thought wrong. There is no lifetime I will ever live where I am attracted to you like that. Never."

It was like a slap to the face. The tears escaped her then, burning hot trails down her cheeks, and she tried to turn away from him, reaching up to wipe her face with the backs of her hands. He grabbed her wrists with one hand, shoving them down, and he took her face in his other hand to force her to look at him. His grip was hard. Firm. Uncaring and cruel. Momo tried to look away but his grasp tightened until she met his eyes. She swore she saw a flicker — something like regret. But just as quickly as she'd seen it, it was gone. His gaze hardened.

"I want no business with children. That includes you."

She flinched under his words.

Aizawa let go of her face, and she retreated away from him, furiously wiping away her tears, lip trembling.

"Give me your burner and get your shit. You're leaving."

Momo fished out the burner and dropped it on the counter, realizing the finality of his demand. She'd made a huge miscalculation, and he wasn't going to give her the opportunity to what she'd done. Aizawa picked it up and shoved it into his own pocket, then pointed to the apartment door.

"Wait there."

He shut the door to his bedroom behind her, and the tears came hard then. Momo dropped her head, covering her face as she cried, choking down her sobs into a deafening quiet. Something in her chest hurt; it was a sharp, twisting pain in her heart, and she hunched over from the unexpected agony. Rejection. Shame. Regret. If she'd known his reaction, she never would have taken the risk. Momo covered her face with her hands, shoulders quaking as she tried to stifle the torrent of emotions overwhelming her. She wanted to suffocate them and push them down.

"Your ride's outside."

Momo jerked, caught off-guard by Aizawa's voice. His words were cold and detached, and she couldn't bear to look at him as she flung the apartment door open and left. She didn't bother to shut it, and she absently heard it quietly click shut behind her. Then the sound of the deadbolt.

A familiar SUV was idling directly in front of the stairs. Momo opened the door and climbed into the back, and Kobayashi turned in the driver's seat to look at her. There was a long pause.

"Are you hurt?" was his only question.

He was her father's guard. And Momo knew in her gut that if she told him to go put Aizawa down, he would — or, at least, he'd try to. But she didn't want revenge. This mistake was wholly her own.

"No," she whispered. Then the lie; "Just what happened earlier — I'm sorry, it just upset me. Please take me home."

She felt Kobayashi watching her for a long moment, and she didn't look at him as she grabbed her seatbelt and buckled it in. He took the cue and began to drive.