The late afternoon light spills softly through the bedroom window, golden and mellow, casting gentle shadows across the cluttered floor strewn with books, clothes, and half-packed bags. The place smells faintly of rain from earlier, a cool, clean scent mingling with the warm aroma of the tea brewing quietly on the small kitchen counter.

Aizawa stands in front of the full-length mirror, shirt half untucked, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His dark hair falls messily across his forehead, stubborn strands escaping despite his usual effort to keep it tidy during training or patrol. You step forward, silent and careful, hands reaching up to gather his hair for him. Your fingers wrapping around the thick strands with practiced ease. You loop the elastic around once, then twice, gently pulling the hair taut at the nape of his neck. He tilts his head slightly, eyes half-lidded.

You lean in just a fraction closer than necessary. Your teeth brush his skin, a quick, playful bite just below his ear.

For a moment, he freezes entirely. The subtle tension in his muscles sharpens, but his gaze remains calm, unreadable. Then, in that unmistakably deadpan tone that only he can master, he mutters. “I said ‘tighten it,’ not bite me.”