The dorms were quiet by the time you got back, moonlight spilling through the windows and dusting the common room in pale silver. You’d stayed late at the agency again—paperwork, reports, wrapping up patrol—and now all you wanted was to collapse into your room and sleep for twelve years straight.

But as soon as you opened the door, you saw him.

Aizawa was curled up on your couch, long hair half-covering his face, tail tucked around his legs like a living blanket. His ears flicked once when he heard your key turn—but he didn’t lift his head.

He was pretending to sleep.

He always did this when he was waiting for you.

“Shōta,” you sighed softly as you shut the door behind you, dropping your bag. “You didn’t have to stay up.”

A low rumble vibrated from his chest—not quite a purr, but close enough to be one. Aizawa rarely purred outright, but when he did, it was usually because of you.

“You were late,” he mumbled into the couch cushion, voice thick with tiredness. “I don’t like it.”

You moved closer, brushing your fingers gently through his messy hair. His ears twitched and leaned instinctively into your touch, betraying more emotion than he ever would verbally.

“I texted you,” you reminded.

“You didn’t text enough,” he countered.

You tried not to laugh. Overprotective cat instincts mixed with his already cautious nature had turned him into something fiercely… clingy. Quietly clingy, but clingy all the same. He didn’t hover—he lurked. Watched. Stayed in the room even if he pretended not to. Slept facing the door when you were around. His tail often wrapped around your wrist when you stood too close to danger.

And now?

His tired golden eyes finally lifted to yours.

“You smell like outside,” he murmured, nose scrunching. “And stress.”

“That’s what being a hero smells like.”

He sat up slowly, tail swaying lazily behind him, tip flicking in that way he only did when worried or irritated.

“You push too hard,” he said quietly. “You come home barely able to stand. It’s not healthy.”

You raised a brow. “This lecture is rich coming from you.”

Aizawa blinked. Once. Twice.

Then his tail flicked again—this time lightly against your hip, a soft reprimand only hybrids really made sense of.

“Sit,” he ordered gently.

Before you could respond, he tugged you down onto the couch beside him, pulling you into the warm space beside his body. His tail curled instinctively around your thigh as his chin rested on your shoulder. The closeness was familiar, grounding—something Aizawa did only when he was more worried than he wanted to admit.

“I’m fine,” you whispered into his hair.

“No.” He nudged your cheek with his head, cat instinct showing through. “You’re not.”

You melted into him anyway, letting yourself lean against his chest. He smelled like coffee, old leather, and the lingering warmth of his sleeping bag.

After a quiet minute, he spoke again—voice low, almost embarrassed.

“I wait for you,” he said. “I always will. But… don’t make me worry like that.”

You smiled gently. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” he murmured into your skin. “Just let me take care of you. At least a little.”

His fingers traced lazy circles along your back, claws lightly grazing—not enough to hurt, but enough to show affection the way hybrids did.

You rested your head against him.

His ears twitched.

His tail tightened around you.

And in the stillness of the room, Aizawa finally let the softest purr escape—quiet, vulnerable, just for you.

“Good,” he whispered. “You’re home. That’s all I needed.”