Shadows between the lines (Aizawa X student reader

6. Distance

Weeks passed.

What began as tension had become a pattern. You snuck in and out of his life like shadow. Like a ghost tethered to him by silence and need.

And he let you.

That was the most painful part—he let you.

During the day, Aizawa was stone. Cold. Unreachable. You weren't sure if anyone else noticed, but you did. He didn't call on you in class anymore. Didn't touch you during training. He assigned you to other mentors for specialized drills. Even your morning combat sessions stopped. He blamed "schedule adjustments," but you knew better.

He was running.

From you.

From what he felt.

From the fact that this was no longer just a forbidden thrill—it was real.

⸻

The worst part?
He wasn't cruel.
He didn't lash out, didn't accuse, didn't mock you or make you feel used.

He simply... vanished. While standing right in front of you.

And that hurt worse than hate ever could.

⸻

You tried to focus on hero work. Tried to bury yourself in sparring drills, field reports, and midterm prep. Tried to act like this wasn't eating you alive from the inside out.

But at night, the silence screamed.

Your fingers twitched with muscle memory—tracing scars he kissed, recalling the heat of his voice in your ear when he made you come undone. You remembered every whispered warning, every moment of restraint he'd barely held on to.

You missed him.
Even when you saw him every damn day.

⸻

A week and a half into the silence, you cracked.

You didn't bother calling or texting. You knew he wouldn't answer.

So instead, you walked in the rain.

Across campus.

Off the school grounds.

To his apartment.

The hallway was empty, and the air smelled like static and old wood. Your hoodie stuck to your skin, soaked through. By the time you reached his door, you were freezing and furious.

You knocked once. Twice.

Nothing.

Then the door opened.

Aizawa stood there, barefoot in sweatpants and a black tank. Hair messy, dark circles worse than usual. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

His eyes widened the moment he saw you—dripping wet, trembling.

He didn't ask why you were there. Didn't demand answers or spit cold logic in your face.

He just stepped aside.

"Come in."

⸻

The apartment was dim, save for a single floor lamp and a quietly humming space heater. You stood awkwardly near the door, rainwater pooling beneath your boots.

He walked to the kitchen and came back with a towel. Held it out without a word.

You didn't take it.

You looked him dead in the eye.

"What are we doing, Aizawa?"

He froze.

You swallowed, heart pounding. "I'm not your secret. I'm not your after-hours distraction. If this is just sex to you, tell me. I'll leave."

He didn't speak.

You stepped forward. "But don't pretend I imagined it. You hold me like you're scared I'll disappear. You kiss me like you mean it. You take care of me like you care."

Still silence.

Tears burned behind your eyes, but you forced your voice steady.

"I don't want to be your dirty little secret anymore."

A beat passed.

Then another.

And finally—he spoke.

"I never wanted you to feel that way."

You blinked.

His voice was low, heavy. "I pulled back because I care. Because I know how this ends. It doesn't end well for either of us."

You stepped closer, voice soft now. "Then why did you let it start?"

He looked at you like you'd just cut him open.

"Because I'm selfish."

That made you falter.

"I let myself have you because I wanted something good again," he whispered. "Because for once, I wanted something that made me feel alive."

He looked down, hands clenched.

"And then I started needing it. Needing you. And that scared the shit out of me."

Your heart cracked open.

Slowly, you reached up, pressing your palm against his chest. His heart thudded beneath it.

"I'm not trying to ruin you," you whispered. "But I'm not going to let you run from this forever, either."

"I'm your teacher," he rasped. "You're my student. This is wrong."

You swallowed hard. "Then why does it feel like the only thing that's right?"

Another pause.

Then he reached for you—fast, like he couldn't help it.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you in, holding you tightly, like the world might rip you away. Your soaked hoodie clung to both of you. You buried your face in his shoulder, breathing him in.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Then, in a voice so low you barely heard it—

"I missed you."

You clutched him tighter. "Then stop pretending you don't."

He sighed. "You'll be gone in a few months. I don't know how to want something I can't keep."

You tilted your head up, lips brushing his jaw. "Then take what you can. While we still have it."

That night, he didn't fuck you.

He didn't touch you at all—not in that way.

Instead, he let you strip off your wet clothes. Gave you one of his shirts. Held you in bed like you were something precious. Kissed your hair. Rubbed circles into your back until your heartbeat slowed.

And when you finally fell asleep in his arms, his whisper ghosted against your skin—

"I don't want to let you go."