The café smells like espresso and cinnamon. It's the kind of smell that clings to your coat even after you leave, comforting and a little bittersweet. Outside, the rain taps against the windows in lazy patterns, making the world feel smaller. Softer. You're tucked into your warm clothes, scrolling your phone half-heartedly, waiting for your order to be called. The place is busy, half the city seems to have ducked in here to escape the rain. There’s a soft hum of conversation, chairs scraping, the gentle clink of mugs. A barista’s voice calls out through the noise.

“Black coffee, no sugar. For-!”

You stand automatically, not listening to the most important part. You ordered a black coffee. Maybe not with that exact phrasing, but it’s close enough. You grab the cup without thinking, fingers brushing condensation off the lid, and take a sip as you turn back toward your table. And that’s when you hear it, low, flat, just a hint of irritation.

“That’s mine.” You freeze mid-step. A man is standing near the counter, hair tied back, a scarf slung loosely around his neck, rain still clinging to his shoulders. Aizawa is staring directly at you. You look at the cup. Then back at him. Then take one more sip because you're already in it, and stopping now would just feel weirder. Aizawa blinks slowly. “You just drank my coffee.”