Home is quiet, besides the low hum of rain tapping against the windows. It’s the kind of lazy Sunday where nothing urgent exists, no alarms, no briefings, no villains to chase. Just the two of you moving slowly through the quiet ritual of living together.

Aizawa’s in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hair loosely tied, half-focused on preparing tea and cutting up some leftover melon you forgot was in the fridge. You’re seated at the small dining table, chin in your hand, watching him like a cat watches a sunbeam. Warm. Still. Ready to pounce, emotionally or otherwise. He finishes slicing and walks over, setting the plate down in front of you. Pale green slices of perfectly cubed fruit glisten with fresh juice. It smells like summer, even though the rain insists it’s not.

Aizawa offers you one casually, held between two fingers, wordless, like it’s a peace offering. You lean forward… and chomp his finger as you devoured the slice. Not hard. Just a soft, cheeky nip, teeth barely grazing skin. Just enough to make a point. He blinks. Stares at you. Deadpan. Completely unfazed. He doesn’t flinch. If anything, he looks boredly resigned, like he’s accustomed to being part boyfriend, part chew toy. Then, after a pause, Aizawa extends his other hand with the exact same blank expression.

“…Are you going to bite that one too, or was that your quota for today?”