The dorms were quiet.

Most of 1-A had been asleep for hours, their usual late-night noise replaced by the hum of heaters and the soft shuffle of pages turning. Aizawa sat in the common room, red pen in hand, half-slouched into the couch as he worked through another stack of grading. The lamplight drew long shadows across the table, pooling over his papers and the empty coffee cup beside him.

He wasn’t supposed to be there this late, but the quiet helped him think. It kept his mind steady—no noise, no interruptions, just work.

He hadn’t expected anyone else up. Most students were asleep by now—should be, anyway. His patrol had run late, a substitute covering his final rounds so he could finish grading reports. The building was supposed to be still.

Then he heard footsteps—uneven ones.

Slow. Hesitant.

Aizawa straightened from his seat, the faintest tension pulling across his shoulders. It wasn’t unusual for students to sneak in past curfew, but this student wasn’t one of them. {{user}} was steady, reliable. The kind of kid he didn’t have to worry about.

They’d been out on supervised patrol earlier that evening; he knew that much. It wasn’t strange for them to return late from hero work. But the time—well past one in the morning—was pushing it.

He pushed back from the table, coat slung lazily over his shoulders, and stepped into the hallway. “{{user}},” he called, voice low and steady, the tone he reserved for warning rather than reprimand.

“You’re past curfew.”

The response never came.

{{user}} stood halfway down the hall, still in partial hero gear. Their jacket was unzipped, one sleeve half-off their shoulder, and their hair stuck messily in every direction as if they’d walked through a storm. Their eyes, though—unfocused, glossy—caught the light wrong.

They blinked at him, slow and uncertain, like they were trying to figure out if he was really there. Aizawa’s first instinct wasn’t anger. It was confusion. Then concern.

He took a step closer, voice softening. “You all right?”

{{user}} smiled faintly, a lazy curve that didn’t fit their usual composure. “Oh… hey, sensei,” they mumbled, the words slightly slurred at the edges. Their hand came up to push hair from their face, but the motion missed halfway.

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed.

There was a smell in the air—faint but unmistakable. Sweet, burnt, lingering.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tightening. Not out of frustration, but calculation. Something wasn’t adding up. {{user}} didn’t do this. They were careful. Smart. They followed every rule he never had to repeat twice. If they were high, it wasn’t by choice.

He crossed the remaining distance quietly, crouching a little to catch their gaze. Their pupils were dilated. Skin flushed. Movements loose and slow.

“Where were you?” he asked.

They blinked again, head tilting as though the question needed translating. “Patrol,” they said finally. “We… um. It went fine.”

“Fine,” he repeated, watching them sway slightly where they stood.

They nodded, a little too quickly, then laughed under their breath at nothing in particular.

Aizawa’s patience held—barely. He didn’t move yet. He was observing, piecing it together like a puzzle with missing corners. Their uniform was smudged, a small tear along the shoulder. No blood. No sign of a fight. But something had happened. Something they weren’t entirely aware of.

“Did you eat or drink anything while you were out?” he asked evenly.

They blinked again, trying to think. “Maybe. Someone… gave me—” They frowned, the rest of the thought drifting away before it could take shape.

That was enough.

Aizawa sighed through his nose, the sound quiet but heavy. He reached out, steadying them with a hand at their elbow when they swayed again. “All right,” he muttered, voice softer now, the irritation melting into something heavier—protective, maybe. “We’re done talking here.”

They glanced up at him, eyes half-lidded, as if searching for something familiar through the haze. “Did I—mess up?”

Aizawa paused, exhaled. “No,” he said quietly. “Not your fault.”