You found him asleep in the teacher’s lounge again.

Or, well—asleep was generous.

More like: crumpled in the corner of the couch, scarf half-draped over his face, the blue light of his grading tablet still blinking on the floor.

You didn’t wake him.

Instead, you crossed the room on soft steps, slid his tablet onto the table, and gently draped the old throw blanket over him. The same one you, Nemuri, and Oboro once made fun of him for—years ago in dorms that didn’t even exist anymore.

Funny how time stretches and snaps in on itself.

“Still the same,” you murmured.

He stirred. Not all the way. Just a slow blink from under tired lashes.

“…You always say that when you find me like this,” Aizawa rasped.

You didn’t even flinch. “Because it’s always true.”

He sat up with a groan, dragging a hand over his face. “What time is it?”

“Too late to keep working. Too early to pretend you’re fine.”

His brow twitched. “Did Hizashi tell you to check on me?”

“No,” you said. “Nemuri would’ve. If she were still here.”

Silence fell sharp and flat.

You sat beside him—like you always did.

Close enough to be familiar, but not quite touching.

“…I miss her too,” he said after a minute.

“I know.”

Neither of you said Oboro’s name.

Neither of you needed to.

You watched the lights flicker above, the faint hum of UA’s power grid humming like a lullaby beneath your skin.

“Do you ever think,” you said, barely above a whisper, “how weird it is that we’re the ones left?”

His eyes didn’t move.

“All the time.”

A breath passed between you. Quiet. Heavy.

Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out.

A wrinkled, bent photo. The same one from UA. The five of you. Stupid and young and full of dreams.

“You still carry that?”

He nodded. “Can’t throw it away.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“Nemuri would say we aged like milk.”

“Oboro would say you aged like a delinquent.”

You snorted. “He’d be right.”

Aizawa stared at the photo a little longer, then passed it to you without a word.

You didn’t take it. Not yet.

“Do you ever wish we’d all gone different paths?” you asked.

He didn’t even pause.

“No. I just wish we got to keep all five of us.”

Your throat ached.

You reached over—just briefly—and rested your head on his shoulder.

He didn’t move away.

Not tonight.