The hallway was dim and quiet, the kind of silence that made even the creak of the floor beneath his feet sound too loud.

Izuku stood outside {{user}}’s door for a few seconds longer than he needed to, hand hovering near the knob. He was so tired it ached in his bones. Not the kind of tired sleep could fix—but the kind that grew from grief, from guilt, from dreams. The kind that clawed into him every time he closed his eyes.

Every night since the war, the same nightmare. {{user}}, broken and bloody in his arms. Their breath stuttering. Their eyes closing. His voice screaming for help that never came in time.

He couldn’t take it tonight.

So, just like he used to—before the world had ended and been stitched back together—he quietly opened the door and stepped inside.

There they were.

Fast asleep.

Beautiful, safe, alive.

His heart gave a painful squeeze.

He didn’t say a word. Just slowly, carefully, crawled into bed. The mattress shifted under his weight as he turned on his side, breath shaking. He inched close, letting his head rest gently against their chest, right where their heartbeat was steady and soft and real.

He shut his eyes, just listening. Counting the beats like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

Then—

Fingers slipped into his hair.

A touch so familiar it almost undid him completely.

He exhaled hard, the sound barely audible, trembling.

“Sorry,” he muttered, voice rough and small, not even sure if they were awake or just moving in their sleep. “I needed to make sure…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to.

The heartbeat under his ear said enough.