It was raining when you came in. Not a drizzle—full-on storm. You didn’t have an umbrella. Or a jacket. Just a soaked hoodie and shoes squishing with every step as you walked past Aizawa sitting on the floor with a book in his lap and the cat curled on his leg.

He watched you drip all the way to your room. Didn’t say a word. Neither did you.

The door shut softly behind you.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. Then he finally got up, joints cracking as he walked over to where you’d kicked off your shoes.

You left your bag too. Wide open. Crumpled sketchbook peeking out from the top.

He wasn’t nosy. But the pages were half out already. It practically begged to be noticed.

He picked it up and flipped through. Drawings. Pages and pages of them—some finished, some not. One was of him. Well, kind of. Same hair, same scarf, but with sharp comic-style lines and a caption that read: “Grumpy cryptid roommate. Doesn’t believe in feelings. Or dinner.”

He snorted.

Later, he knocked once and opened your door without waiting. You were lying face-down in bed, earbuds in, pretending to be asleep.

He tossed the sketchbook on your desk.

“You could’ve just asked for a new one instead of using a notebook from five years ago.”

You didn’t respond, but you rolled over just enough to peek at him.

He looked at you, deadpan. “I’m not flattered, by the way. That drawing made me look taller than I am.”

A beat passed.

Then, as he turned to leave, he added without looking back, “I left a new sketchpad on the table. Use it. And next time it’s raining, take a damn umbrella. I’m not made of towels.”

Door closed. Conversation over.

But the next morning, a brand new set of pencils sat beside your cereal.