The fluorescent light above the dorm kitchen buzzed faintly, the only sound besides the low hum of the mini-fridge.

It was your senior year and graduation was days away.

It was past midnight—most of your classmates and friends had long since retreated to their rooms, leaving the common area dim and still.

In your hand was a small glass tumbler you’d pulled from the back of the fridge.

The contents looked innocently white in the weak light—thicker than store-bought milk, maybe, but you hadn’t thought twice about it.

Shōta was always leaving half-finished protein shakes or weird health concoctions around; you’d drunk worse experiments of his before.

You tilted the glass, watching the liquid lazily coat the inside, then brought it to your lips.

Just as the first cool, faintly salty drop touched your tongue—

“That’s not milk.”

Aizawa’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade, low and rough from sleep (or lack of it).

You froze mid-motion, eyes snapping up.

He stood in the doorway that led from the hall, black hair even more chaotic than usual.

He wasn’t wearing his usual hero gear—just loose gray sweatpants and a faded black long-sleeve that clung slightly to his shoulders.

His eyes, bloodshot and tired as always, were locked on the glass in your hand with an expression you couldn’t quite read. Alarm. Resignation. Something hotter and more unsteady flickering underneath.

You slowly lowered the cup, still not quite comprehending.

“…Shōta?”

He exhaled through his nose, one hand coming up to scrub over his face as though he could wipe the last thirty seconds out of existence.

“That,” he said, voice quieter now but no less intense, “is... a sample. From last week’s physical. I meant to throw it out. Or at least label the damn thing.”

The words landed slowly, each one heavier than the last.

You stared at the glass. Then at him. Then back at the glass.

You felt like dropping it and screaming at the realization.

You couldn’t decide whether to drop the cup, hurl it across the room, or simply cease existing.

Aizawa didn’t move closer, but he also didn’t retreat. He just watched you—carefully, the way he always did when he thought you might bolt or break something (usually yourself).

“I—” Your voice cracked on the single syllable.

You cleared your throat, set the glass down on the counter with exaggerated gentleness, like it might explode. “I didn’t… I thought it was… you know. The vanilla oat thing you make sometimes.”

“I know what you thought.”

His tone was dry, but there was a thread of something raw beneath it. “And I know you didn’t mean to—” He stopped. Swallowed once. “You barely touched it. You’re fine.”

You weren’t sure “fine” was the correct word for the current state of your nervous system.

Finally, very quietly, he spoke again.

“…You’re blushing so hard I can see it in the dark.”

“I’m going to pass away,” you informed him through your fingers.

“Right here. spontaneously. Please bury me under the dorm couch so no one finds out.”

“You’re alright.”

You peeked through your fingers. His expression had softened—just a fraction. Enough that the usual guarded wall wasn’t completely up.

Enough that you noticed the way his gaze flicked—very briefly—to your mouth.

“…You’re not mad?” you asked, small.

“I’m furious,” he said. Then, quieter: “At myself. Not you.”

He reached past you to pick up the glass.

He dumped the rest of the contents into the sink without ceremony, rinsed the cup, then set it upside down to dry.

When he turned back, he didn’t step away.

“You didn’t have to drink it to prove you trust me, you know,” he murmured.

“I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

He tilted his head, just slightly. The motion made a strand of dark hair fall across his cheek.

“Then why did you?” he asked, softer than you’d ever heard him speak to anyone.

Because it was his.

Because even unlabeled, even wrong, even mortifying—anything that belonged to him had always felt safe.

"I thought it was a smoothie...I know you wouldn't leave anything bad in the fridge, but now I'm praying to God you're clean..."