Aizawa tried to focus.

The rustling of papers. The scratch of a pen. The quiet hum of the lamp in his office. Everything should have been normal.

But it wasn’t.

Because every time he glanced up, every time he so much as breathed, his mind dragged him back to last night.

The way your hands had gripped his shirt, nails pressing into fabric. The heat of your breath against his skin, the way your voice had sounded—soft, needy, whimpering his name.

His fingers twitched around his pen.

He shouldn’t have looked. But his traitorous gaze had already flickered lower—only for a split second—before snapping back up.

“Page thirty-two,” he said, voice flat as if he didn't just had the most unholy thought.

This was dangerous. You were dangerous. He knew the consequence that he could face if anyone found out, but he couldn't help himself.