It’s late. Past lights-out. The dorm lobby is too big, too quiet, the hum of the vending machines the only thing filling the dark.

You’re curled up on the window ledge, forehead pressed to the cold glass, legs pulled tight to your chest. Outside, campus lights blink like distant stars. You keep replaying it in your head — that moment on the rooftop this afternoon.

Training with Aizawa. The building’s edge so close. One misstep. One second to let your balance go. Easy. Quick. The wind tearing at your uniform. The ground rushing up.

Someone yelling your name. Then arms around you — Aizawa’s capture weapon whipping out, hauling you back, too fast and too tight. Back on solid ground. Your excuse ready before your feet even touched down. Just slipped, sorry. Just clumsy. But his eyes lingered. Sharp. Worried. You looked away before he could ask.

Now you’re here, pretending to watch the courtyard. Pretending you’re fine. But you feel him before you hear him — the soft drag of tired boots across the lobby floor, the faint rustle of his scarf.

Aizawa doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands behind you, a silent shadow. The cold glass chills your forehead, but his presence burns at your back.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet — too quiet. “That fall wasn’t an accident.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The glass shows your reflection — tired eyes, raw throat, your own shape too small in the wide dark.

He steps closer. You feel his warmth at your side now, the soft brush of his scarf as he sits on the ledge beside you.

“If you needed help,” he says, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the dark, “you should’ve come to me first. Not the edge of a roof.”