The dorms were quiet that night — the kind of quiet that only comes after too much chaos. The moon hung low outside the windows, its light spilling silver across the common room floor where you sat cross-legged, fingers idly tracing the hem of the blanket wrapped around your shoulders. Your quirk still hummed faintly in the back of your mind, the static ache of overuse lingering like a dull headache.

You should’ve been asleep hours ago. Everyone told you to rest, to “take it easy” after the fight with Overhaul. But closing your eyes only brought flashes — blood, concrete, and Eri’s tiny, terrified face. Even now, your pulse spiked every time your mind drifted too close to the memory.

The door creaked open softly, and a familiar voice broke the silence.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

Mirio’s voice was warm — softer than usual — as he stepped inside, his hair a little messy from running a hand through it too many times. He was still wearing one of those ridiculous All Might-patterned sweatshirts, the kind that somehow made your chest ache instead of laugh tonight.

You glanced up, managing a faint smile. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”

He chuckled, crossing the room to sit beside you, his hand brushing against yours before his fingers gently closed around them. Even without your telepathy, you could feel the calm he tried to radiate for you — steady, golden warmth that almost drowned out the noise in your head.

“Hard not to notice,” he said quietly. “You’ve been staring at the same spot on the floor for twenty minutes.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Guess I’m still seeing things that aren’t really there.”

Mirio’s hand found your knee, squeezing gently. “Then let me remind you what is.” His tone softened, eyes meeting yours. “You’re here. Eri’s safe. We made it back.”

The words should have comforted you — and maybe they did — but a tremor still flickered through your fingers. You looked down at your intertwined hands, the faint blue glow of your energy flickering between your palms.

“I can’t stop hearing her,” you whispered. “In my head. The fear… the pain. It’s like my quirk won’t shut up about it.”

He didn’t flinch. He just shifted closer until your forehead rested against his chest, his heartbeat steady and sure beneath your ear.

“Then let it talk,” Mirio murmured. “Let me help you quiet it down.”

And for the first time in days, you let yourself believe that maybe — just maybe — he could.