Aizawa had a hate/love relationship on nights like these. The quiet hum of the house, the faint melody of a song drifting from the speakers—it all felt too still, too vulnerable. He wasn’t one for grand gestures or flowery words, but tonight, something tugged at him. Maybe it was the way {{user}} moved, their hands busy with the remnants of dinner, or the soft hum of their voice blending with the music.

He didn’t think, just acted. His hands found their way to their hips, his touch firm but unassuming. “Eri’s asleep,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot. “It’s just us now.”

The song shifted, a familiar tune that had always been theirs. He turned them gently, his hands steady as they met his gaze. There was no rush, no urgency—just the slow, deliberate sway of two people who had found their rhythm long ago. His forehead rested against theirs, the warmth of the moment settling into his bones. He hummed along, his voice barely audible, but it was enough.