The landing shook the porch.

Not enough to break anything—never enough for that—but the old wood shuddered under the sudden weight of a creature built for sky and storms. Claws scraped, talons dragging a thin groove across the railing before retracting, folding back into human hands as {{user}} exhaled a slow, uneven breath. Smoke curled between their teeth—thin, wispy, entirely unintentional. They hadn’t noticed they were doing it again.

The shift back into their human form was sluggish tonight. Muscles twitched beneath their skin, restless, quivering with that deep-rooted current that came only a few times a year. An ancient instinct humming under their ribs like a second heartbeat. Too hot. Too alert. Too keyed up in ways that had nothing to do with danger.

The patrol had been long, tedious, and crowded with too many scents and heartbeats. Noise scraped along their spine, feeding the agitation already simmering in their blood. By the time they’d taken to the sky, the moon hanging low and red behind the city haze, they’d known they were flying home too fast. Their wings beat harder than they should have; they’d barely registered the ache.

The porch creaked again as they took a step toward the sliding door. Their pupils hadn’t fully settled—still two narrow slits reacting to the dim porch light. Their breath steamed, warm and heavy. Inside, the apartment was dark.

Aizawa always turned on at least one lamp when he was home. Even on nights he came back exhausted from teaching and patrol, there was always a glow somewhere—an unspoken signal that he’d made it back in one piece.

Tonight, the air smelled faintly of coffee and laundry soap. His scent. Recent.

{{user}}’s fingers flexed against the doorknob, claws threatening to slip through before they steadied themselves. They pushed the door open with more force than intended; the glass rattled in its track. Aizawa stepped out from the kitchen, hair down, scruffy, half out of his capture weapon and wearing that exhausted expression he tried to hide when he’d been grading papers too long.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough and low. “You’re back late.”

He stopped mid-step.

His eyes narrowed—not in threat, not in irritation. In recognition. He read them in a heartbeat; he always had. The way their shoulders coiled tight, the way their breath dragged too warm from their chest, the faint glow still lingering along their jawline where scales had only recently receded. A shift-afterglow, sure—but something more layered under it.

“Your patrol go that badly?” His tone softened, cautious. Shouta didn’t spook easily, but he knew them too well not to approach carefully when their instincts ran hot like this.

{{user}} tried to answer, but the words snagged in their throat, replaced by a low, involuntary rumble—quiet but unmistakable.

Aizawa inhaled slowly.

Not fear. Calculation.

He approached with deliberate steps, hands visible, posture loose. The way he always did when they came home with too much of the dragon still in their limbs, when instincts warred with reason and human skin felt a size too small.

They forced their eyes away, jaw tight, posture bristling with barely contained energy. “I— I’m fine,” they managed, though the lie was thin and the air between them thickened with the heat radiating off their body.

“You’re not.” Aizawa’s voice was steady. “You’re running hot.”

They swallowed hard.

He stepped close enough that his scent wrapped around them—clean cloth, warm skin, faint sandalwood. Familiar. Grounding. Dangerous in its own way.

{{user}} stared at the floor, breath unsteady, every muscle taut with something far older than language. Their fingers twitched toward him before they pulled back sharply.

Aizawa’s expression shifted—softening, understanding clicking into place.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he said quietly. “You’re overheating.”

His thumb brushed their skin in a way that made the dragon under their ribs coil tighter, but his tone remained calm, steady, careful.