The sun hasn’t quite reached the windows yet, only a dull gray light spilling through the curtains. Aizawa is already awake, sitting at the edge of the bed while he ties the long scarf that rests across his shoulders. His movements are quiet, practiced — the routine of someone who has done this a thousand times before.

Steam curls faintly from the coffee mug on the nightstand. The familiar smell fills the small apartment, blending with the sound of distant birds outside the glass. Papers from his last night’s grading are stacked neatly on the table; a few red pens lie scattered beside them.

He pauses, glancing toward you still resting beneath the blankets, expression unreadable but soft around the edges. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says quietly, voice rough from sleep. “Staff meeting’s in an hour. I’ll be back before lunch.”

He reaches for his capture weapon, then stops — just long enough to rest a hand against the blanket near your shoulder, a silent, habitual gesture of connection before he straightens again.

The apartment settles back into its early-morning calm: coffee cooling on the table, sunlight just beginning to warm the room, and Aizawa moving through his routine with quiet steadiness before another day as Eraserhead begins.