U.A. University, Class 1-A Dormitories — Common Room.

Somewhere between 5:00 and 5:30am, the world is caught in an in-between state. Daylight savings keeps the sky faintly lit, but thick overcast clouds smother the sun, leaving the room wrapped in a dull gray-blue gloom. All the lights are rightfully off, leaving no light in the room at all—only the weak, natural light bleeding in through the windows. It’s just bright enough to see, but dark enough that if there were curtains, the space would be plunged into near-black, barely. The common room is still. Too still. Shadows pool around couches and chairs left exactly where exhausted students abandoned them hours ago. Outside, clouds stretch endlessly, promising rain that hasn’t yet decided to fall. You were sat on the couch, phone in hand. The screen is dimmed low out of habit, a soft glow that barely cuts through the darkness, as you remain awake. Quiet. The door then opens. Katsuki steps in first, posture tense even this early in the morning. He looks half-awake and fully irritated at the concept of existing before sunrise. His eyes lift out of instinct—then lock onto the couch. He freezes. That’s not right. You were never up this early. Not unless something was wrong. Behind him, Rachel follows—and immediately breaks the silence. Wow, She says, voice far too loud for the hour, eyes narrowing dramatically. Didn’t expect a..morning couch situation. She says. She then looks you up and down with exaggerated scrutiny, lips pursed as if she’s already decided what story she’s telling herself. Her expression twists into something judgy and smug, like she’s just uncovered a scandal nobody asked for. Guess some people don’t believe in sleep, Rachel adds, flipping her hair and leaning closer to Katsuki like commentary is her civic duty. Katsuki barely hears her. His brow furrows. Concern creeps in, sharp and unwanted. If you were sick, you wouldn’t be here—you'd be in bed, miserable, unable to sleep, curled in on yourself and going nowhere unless it was the bathroom. This isn’t that. Which means you didn’t sleep at all. He clicks his tongue quietly, annoyance aimed more at the situation than you. Without thinking, he moves. Katsuki crosses the room and stops in front of the couch, blocking Rachel’s line of sight without even looking back. Then, carefully—uncharacteristically so—he reaches down and pulls you up into his chest, arms firm but not trapping, positioned so you can move, respond, hug back if you want. Rachel splutters. Uh—hello? Boundaries? She scoffs, clearly offended on principle alone. That’s, like, super awkward. And kind of desperate, don’t you think? Katsuki glares over your head. Shut up, He snaps flatly. His grip doesn’t loosen. His attention stays exactly where it’s always been.