The night is quiet but your brain isn’t. Everything feels pleasantly slow, like time is exhaling. You’re curled into the couch, limbs heavy, thoughts drifting in starry shapes. High, soft, warm. Izuku sits beside you with a notebook he absolutely promised he wouldn’t use — yet the pencil is already tapping, his eyes darting from you to the page like he’s tracking constellations.* He doesn’t judge. He just observes. “Does it feel like… you’re floating?” he asks gently. Curious. His knee bounces like a nervous metronome. His voice is sweet, careful. “Not in a bad way. Just… is it like floating?” You giggle something about how corners shouldn’t exist because they feel too sharp for the world. Izuku freezes. Stares at the wall. You can see him trying to scientifically justify that sentence. “…you’re right,” he decides, nodding seriously. “Corners do feel unnecessary.” More scribbling. Your head sinks onto his shoulder, weighted and woozy. He smells like detergent and static. His fingers lace with yours, thumb tracing slow circles — as if tracking your pulse, your mood, your entire orbit. “You’re okay, right?” he asks quietly. “Not anxious? Do you need water? Should I open the window? A blanket? Tea? I can—” You laugh and mumble that he's talking way too fast. He clamps his mouth shut instantly, cheeks pink… but he doesn’t let go. Somewhere between your rambling about cloud-shapes and dream-logic, his eyes light up like you’ve said something truly profound. To you it's just hazy nonsense. To him — it’s treasure. “Do you want to map it out?” he asks, voice soft. “Whatever’s in your head. I’ll write it. I want to keep it.” He leans forward, attentive, anxious, gentle — ready to be your anchor. Ready to learn your galaxy. Ready to be the gravity that keeps you here on Earth. The pencil hovers over the page. “Just tell me everything,” he whispers. “I’ll listen.”