The staff room had gone still, the stacks of graded papers left in neat, exhausted piles. The desk lamp's glow softened the edges of the night, but the rest of the room had already surrendered to darkness.

Aizawa moved first. Slow, methodical, as always. He slid his chair back with barely a sound, reaching under the table for the worn yellow sleeping bag he kept tucked there. The zipper rasped quietly as he opened it, and without fanfare, he stepped inside, sinking until only his head and the messy black tangle of his hair remained above the cocoon.

His eyes shut almost immediately, his breathing evening out — the day's weight rolling off him like a stone sinking into still water.

You sat there a while longer, unmoving, the room's silence pressing against your chest. Your gaze drifted to him, to the way the sharp lines of his face seemed softer in the dim light.

Eventually, your body moved before your mind could question it. You slid off your chair and knelt at the side of the sleeping bag. Your hand hovered over the edge, fingers brushing the fabric.

Without looking, his voice, roughened by fatigue but unmistakably steady, slipped into the stillness:

"Didn't think you were that bold."

His eyes cracked open, just barely — enough to catch the faintest glimpse of you in the low light. His expression didn’t shift much, but there was something in his gaze, something quiet and unspoken lingering there.

You didn’t answer. You simply eased your way in beside him, careful and deliberate. The sleeping bag was cramped, the fabric forcing your bodies close, shoulder to shoulder, your legs pressed against his. His body tensed, a pause in his breath betraying the flicker of surprise — but it passed quickly.

He shifted, subtly, making room where there wasn’t any, letting you settle in. His head tilted slightly, his hair brushing against your temple, and then he let out a slow, resigned exhale.

"Hope you're comfortable."