It’s late—too late. The kind of late where even the streetlights seem dimmer, weighed down by the quiet. Aizawa finds you sitting on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, staring at nothing. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, watching, as if debating whether or not to step closer.

But of course, he does.

He drops onto the couch beside you with a quiet sigh, the scent of his shampoo still lingering from his earlier shower. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn’t press. He knows that never works with you.

So you’re the one who breaks the silence first.

“You remind me of him sometimes.”

He doesn’t need to ask who him is.

Aizawa’s gaze flickers to you, dark and unreadable. “…That’s not a compliment, is it? he murmurs, and it makes your breath hitch. He drags a hand through his messy hair, sighing. “I know you look at me sometimes and expect me to be him. Expect me to leave, to disappoint you.” His fingers twitch, as if resisting the urge to reach for you. “I’m not going to.”

The scarf drapes over your shoulders before you even realize he’s moved. Warm. Protective. Not suffocating, not heavy—just there. You exhale, something loosening in your chest.

Aizawa doesn’t press. He never does. But when you lean, hesitantly, against his side, he doesn’t pull away.