Chapter Text
You’re not expecting anything unusual the night it first starts.
It’s past ten, your clinic notes lay unfinished on the kitchen table, a bowl of curry reheating in the microwave, and you - hunched over leaning on the kitchen counter in pajamas and slippers, hair in a messy knot and glasses slipping down your nose while scrolling mindlessly on your phone. Ordinary. Quiet. Exactly how you liked your nights after a twelve-hour shift.
Which is why the shuffle of boots outside your apartment makes you pause mid-bite of lukewarm curry.
It’s not unusual for people to come and go at odd hours in this building, with it being close to the train station and therefore popular with shift workers, students, and the occasional little old person who refused to be looked after by their children. But this sound is odd - familiar to you in some ways yet out of place for the setting. The image of one of your regulars, old man Yamada with the limp, comes to mind.
You frown, setting your spoon down, curiosity pricking at you. A doctor’s instincts are hard to turn off, even when you try. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re opening the door to peek outside.
And that’s when you see him.
Tall, broad-shouldered, messy hair in a shade of violet that clashes with the dim yellow of the hallway light. His face pale with exhaustion, streaked with dirt and a trickle of blood from his temple. Usually-black hero uniform now speckled grey with dust, and scarf hanging half-undone, while his left hand presses against the wall opposite your door to support himself.
Your neighbor.
You know who he is, of course - everyone in the building does. Hitoshi Shinsou. Pro Hero. Quiet. Keeps to himself. A reputation for odd hours and an even odder quirk. You’ve maybe exchanged two polite nods in the months you’ve lived next to him, nothing more.
And now he’s slumping against the wall across from your door, clearly trying not to collapse.
“Uh,” you say intelligently, gripping the doorknob like it’s a lifeline. “You ok there?”
He lifts his head, eyes meeting yours. They’re striking up-close - a gentle shade of lavender contrasted by dark circles that make them seem otherworldly, even in a world where people walked around with literal superpowers. “Been better.” His voice is low, gravelly.
Of course. You're an idiot. Some days you wonder how you even got through med school.
You glance at the gash on his temple, the scrape along his jaw, and the way he’s gingerly keeping weight off his right leg. He’s bleeding on your welcome mat.
“Do you… need help?” you ask, equal parts concerned and wary.
There’s a pause, like he’s measuring you. “You’re some kind of doctor, right?”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “I didn’t think that was well-known.”
He shrugs, causing him to wince a little. “I pay attention.”
You sigh, stepping aside and trying to put on the air of confidence you reserve for your time at the clinic. “Alright, come in. But if you bleed on my couch, you’re buying me a new one.”
The corner of his mouth twitches with a barely-there smirk. “Noted.”
He doesn’t make it far before you’re steering him to sit at your kitchen table, curry forgotten. Up close, he looks worse - dried blood as well as dirt caked on his uniform, scrapes over his knuckles, and a dark bruise blossoming across his cheekbone.
“You should be at a hospital,” you say, grabbing your medical kit from the cabinet where you keep it for emergencies. (It’s supposed to be for emergencies involving your patients, not your neighbors, but life is full of surprises.)
“Hospitals ask questions,” he mutters, leaning back in the chair. “Too much paperwork.”
“And I suppose letting your neighbour find you trailing blood down the hall is less suspicious?” you shoot back, snapping on gloves.
To your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches again. “It kind of worked in my favour this time.”
You shake your head, biting back a scoff. “Lucky you.”
Still, your hands move automatically, gentle but firm as you clean the gash on his temple. He doesn’t flinch, though his eyes follow your every move, watchful and cautious. You’re used to patients fidgeting, complaining, cracking jokes, but he’s silent, almost unnervingly so.
Finally, you can’t help yourself. “Do you always come home looking like you lost a fight with a dumpster, or is this a special occasion?”
His lips twitch again. “Occupational hazard.”
“Of being cryptic?”
“Of fighting bad-guys.”
You roll your eyes but feel a little warmth unfurling in your chest despite yourself. There’s something strangely human about seeing him like this, less the intimidating Pro Hero and more… just a guy who was bad at taking care of himself.
You finish cleaning and start bandaging, your quirk kicking in as your fingers brush his skin. It’s not much of a power - just enough to accelerate clotting, ease bruises, dull pain. Nothing dramatic. But you see his shoulders relax slightly, the tension easing from his jaw.
“Better?” you ask softly.
He nods once. “Yeah.”
There’s another silence, but not uncomfortable this time. More… curious. Like he’s not used to being cared for like this.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he says after the pause, voice quiet, almost like you weren't meant to hear it.
“Maybe not,” you admit, taping the bandage into place. “But you’re my neighbor. And you were about to faceplant into the carpet. Someone had to make sure you didn't die in the hallway.”
That earns you a genuine huff of laughter - low and rough, but real. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” you say, standing and peeling off your gloves. Then you point at him with a stern look. “Seriously, though - next time, at least let me know before you collapse on my doormat. I nearly spilt my curry.”
His expression softens in that unreadable way of his. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
By the time he leaves - no longer actively bleeding, scarf rewrapped more neatly, and with strict instructions from you to rest - you’re left staring at your closed door, heart doing an odd little stutter.
Hitoshi Shinsou, your mysterious neighbor, the Pro Hero who barely speaks to anyone, just sat in your kitchen while you patched him up like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You shake your head, trying to convince yourself it doesn’t mean anything. You’re a doctor, helping people is what you do. That’s all it was.
And yet, when you finally sit back down with your cold curry, you can’t stop thinking about those lavender eyes watching you, the quiet gratitude in his voice, and the way his laugh, unexpected and reluctant, lingers in your ears long after he’s gone.