The apartment was quiet when you woke up—just the soft hum of the heater and the faint scratching of Aizawa’s pen against paper from the living room. You stretched, rubbing your eyes, before glancing at the calendar on your desk.

Your birthday.

You didn’t expect much. It wasn’t something you really celebrated, not since… well, for a long time. But still, a small part of you wondered if Aizawa remembered.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled into the living room. Aizawa sat on the couch, papers stacked neatly beside him, his ever-present sleeping bag pooled around him. He barely glanced up when you walked in.

“Morning.” His voice was rough from sleep.

You hummed in response, sitting on the other end of the couch. Silence stretched between you both, comfortable as always.

Aizawa had taken you in months ago, and while he wasn’t the most expressive person, he always made sure you had what you needed. He never made a big deal out of things—so when you walked into the living room that morning and saw a small box on the table, you almost thought it wasn’t real.

“…What’s this?” you asked, eyeing the plain wrapping paper.

Aizawa, sitting on the couch with his sleeping bag half-zipped, cracked one eye open. “A gift.”

You hesitated before picking it up. It wasn’t big or flashy, but the effort alone made something tighten in your chest. Peeling the paper away, you found a scarf—not just any scarf, but one eerily similar to the capture weapon he wore.

“You’re always forgetting to bring one when it’s cold,” Aizawa muttered, stretching lazily. “Figured it’d be useful.”

You swallowed, running your fingers over the fabric. It was warm, thick—clearly something he put thought into.

“…Thanks,” you said quietly.

Aizawa yawned, standing up. “C’mon get ready. We’re getting takeout.”

You stared at him, trying to process the fact that he remembered. That he cared, even in his own subtle way.