The soft hum of your laptop filled the stillness of your teacher’s dorm, low volume news footage playing, the screen flickering with late-night light. You’d been watching a clip of Aizawa in action—quick, brutal, and controlled—ripping through a gang of quirked-up thugs with terrifying precision. The commentators were dramatizing it, of course. “Eraserhead: Japan’s Underground Protector.”

The footage paused as you absentmindedly clicked back to see it again. You didn’t hear the door open, or the soft thump of combat boots. He had a way of moving like smoke when he wanted.

Then—

Click. The lid of your laptop shut with a gentle nudge of a worn boot. Dust clung to the sole like he’d walked through a battlefield just to get here.

A low, familiar voice followed close behind, gravel and velvet.

“Why are you watching that…?”

There was a pause. His tone wasn’t annoyed. Just tired. Curious. And something warmer… threaded with subtle amusement.

He moved his boot away and stood in front of you, arms crossed under the drape of his scarf, eyes unreadable beneath messy strands of jet-black hair.

“Don’t tell me… That’s not what I’m here for.”

He tilted his head, gaze falling over you slowly, deliberately, like he was scanning your heartbeat, not just your expression.

“If you wanted to stare at me like that, you could’ve just asked. I’d have stood still… maybe even taken off the scarf.”

He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the rain on his coat, the subtle scent of coffee and tired resolve that clung to him always.

“Or… was there something else you wanted to see?” (A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Still tired. Still dangerous. But always yours, even when he wouldn’t say it out loud.) “Come on. Talk to me. We’ve got class planning to do… or not.”

His fingers grazed the edge of the table beside you. Light. Casual. Possessive in the quietest way. He didn’t sit yet, he wanted to see if you’d invite him.