You were already in the worst mood when he walked in.

The kind where everything felt like it was one second from breaking — your thoughts, your fists, the cheap plastic chair you were sitting in. The walls were too bright. The clock too loud. Even the air felt heavy.

You didn’t look up when Aizawa stepped inside the rec room.

Didn’t greet him either.

You sat cross-legged in the corner, hoodie pulled up, jaw locked. Let him come to you — or leave. You didn’t really care.

“Rough morning?” he asked, voice flat as ever.

You let out a scoff. “Gee, I dunno. What gave it away? The uniform depression-chic? The ambiance? The gnawing realization that institutional ‘recovery’ is just a sanitized form of emotional purgatory?”

He blinked.

Then — without saying anything — he walked over, pulled a chair across from you, and sat down. Tossed something onto the table between you.

A bag of sour gummies.

You stared at it.

Not just any kind. The exact brand you used to rant about when you were newly admitted. The ones you called “the only edible evidence that joy exists.” You hadn’t seen them in months.

You glanced at him.

He didn’t look up from the chair.

“You bribing me?” you muttered.

“Bribing implies I want something.”

“…So?”

“Insurance. So you don’t bite anyone today.”

Your lip twitched.

You didn’t pick up the gummies — not yet — but your hoodie slipped just slightly off your head. A silent surrender.

“I had a check-in today,” you said eventually.

“I know.”

“She asked if I ever wanted to be a hero.”

His silence didn’t change.

“I told her no.”

Still nothing.

You popped a gummy in your mouth and muttered, “Still sour. Still evil.”

Aizawa shifted slightly in his seat. Finally looked at you.

“Is that what you think?” he asked.

You shrugged. “I don’t wanna save people. I don’t dream about capes or glory. I just don’t want to hurt anyone anymore. That’s not the same.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”

“…You care?”

“I care that you want to change. Hero or not.”

You looked away.

It was so frustrating — the way his voice never rose, never snapped. You didn’t know what to do with gentle things that didn’t shatter when you pushed.

“I’m just mad today,” you muttered.

“I know.”

“I don’t even know why.”

“You don’t need a reason.”

There it was again — that pressure in your throat. That horrible ache that came with being seen too clearly.

He didn’t ask questions. Just stayed. Sat back in the uncomfortable chair like he had all the time in the world.

You passed him a gummy.

He took it wordlessly.

Chewed once. Then grimaced like he’d licked a battery.

“Still disgusting,” he muttered.

You laughed — actually laughed — and that shocked you more than the flavor.

He didn’t leave right after that. He stayed even longer, just sitting across from you like some cat who chose you and refused to move. His hair was messier than usual. His eyes tired. You could tell he hadn’t slept much.

“Shouldn’t you be… teaching a class or something?” you muttered, head tipping to the side.

“They’ve got someone covering for me,” he said.

“Just for me?”

“No. I needed the quiet.”

You blinked at that.

And something small in your chest loosened. Just slightly.

“You ever think I’ll make it?” you asked quietly.

He leaned forward a little. Rested his arms on his knees.

“I wouldn’t waste this much time on someone I didn’t believe in.”

You went quiet again.

The sour gummies tasted a little sweeter after that.