Morning came slowly, filtered through thin curtains in a muted gray that never quite reached warmth. The apartment was quiet in that particular way that followed a hospital stay, where even familiar spaces felt just slightly off, as though something fragile had been carried back in with them and set down without fully settling.

Aizawa was already awake.

He had been for a while.

Sleep had come in fragments at best, shallow and easily broken, his awareness never quite letting go of the steady rhythm of breathing from the other room. Even now, he stood in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, gaze fixed, posture still, as though confirming something that logic had already told him was fine.

{{user}} was where they were supposed to be.

Back in their own bed. Not a hospital one. Not surrounded by monitors and low, persistent beeping that refused to leave his head even now.

Still here.

That was enough to move.

Aizawa exhaled quietly and stepped inside, his movements controlled, careful in a way that had long since become instinct rather than thought. The room smelled faintly clinical despite being home, antiseptic clinging stubbornly to fabric and skin, a reminder that the worst of it had only just passed.

They looked smaller like this. They always did after a flare-up.

Color drained, limbs heavy with the kind of exhaustion that sleep didn’t fix, breath slow but uneven if you knew what to listen for. The IV line trailed neatly from where it had been set up beside the bed, fluids dripping at a measured pace that Aizawa had already checked twice that morning.

He approached without announcing himself, settling quietly at the edge of the mattress, one hand coming to rest lightly against their shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, steady, meant to reach without startling. “It’s morning.”

There was no immediate response. Not unusual. He waited anyway.

His thumb moved in a slow, absent motion against their sleeve, grounding more than anything else, before he shifted slightly closer. “You need to wake up,” he added after a moment, just a fraction firmer, though the edge never quite made it into his tone.

A faint shift followed.

Aizawa leaned in just enough to catch it, eyes tracking the subtle changes with practiced attention. He had learned, over time, the difference between resistance and inability. This wasn’t refusal. It was weight. Residual, stubborn, and not easily shaken.

“Come on,” he murmured, quieter now. “Meds first. Then you can go back to sleep.”

That usually worked. Not because they wanted to, but because they had to.

Slowly, he helped guide them upright, one hand steady at their back, the other adjusting the line with careful precision so nothing pulled or shifted wrong. The movement was deliberate, unhurried, giving them time to catch up to it instead of forcing them through it.

They swayed slightly once seated.

He didn’t comment on it. Just stayed close enough to catch them if it tipped further.

The medications were already prepared on the bedside table, lined up in a way that made the process as simple as possible. Aizawa reached for them without looking, attention still fixed on {{user}} as he pressed a glass into their hand.

“Small sips,” he said, automatically, tone quiet but firm in a way that left little room for argument.

Mornings like this were always harder.

After a hospital stay, everything lagged—energy, appetite, coordination, even awareness itself. The body took longer to respond, slower to cooperate, and pushing too hard too fast only made it worse.

He knew that.

He worked around it.

“Stay with me,” he added after a moment, softer this time, when their focus drifted somewhere just past him. His hand came up briefly, fingers brushing lightly against their jaw, just enough to pull their attention back without startling it loose.

Their pulse was still a little too fast. Not dangerous. Not yet. But noted.

Aizawa’s jaw tightened faintly before he smoothed it out again, expression settling back into something more controlled.