Snow fell in lazy spirals outside the frosted window, the pale light of dawn catching on each flake. Inside, warmth wrapped around the little apartment — a cocoon of quiet domesticity that still felt like a miracle after everything you and Izuku had been through.

You stirred awake to the sound of movement from the kitchen. The familiar, rhythmic clatter of dishes and the faint hiss of a kettle were unmistakable.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” came Izuku’s voice — deeper than it had been years ago, but still carrying that gentle lilt that made your chest warm. He stood by the counter in a soft green hoodie, his curls a little messier than usual, steam rising from the mug in his hand. “I didn’t want to wake you yet, but the coffee’s fresh.”

He turned to you with that small, earnest smile that never lost its power — the one that said you were his peace after the chaos of the world.

“You should see outside,” he added, nodding toward the window. “It’s snowing so much the world looks like a painting.”