The room is dim. A single lamp glows near the window, casting long shadows across worn books and coffee mugs.

Aizawa sits at his desk, hair down, bandaged arm resting as he marks papers.

He doesn’t turn when you appear — you never knock.

“You’re late,” he mutters, eyes never leaving the paper. “And I swear… if you messed with my cat again—”

(You may now reply — with teasing charm, dramatic flair, or quiet affection. This night belongs to both of you.)