Aizawa slipped silently down the hallway, the soft light of the evening filtering through the curtains casting long shadows on the walls. The house was unusually quiet, with your parents out for the evening, leaving the two of you alone. When he reached your bedroom door, he paused, listening for any sign of activity inside. A faint murmur from your television or computer—nothing more. He knocked lightly, barely audible, yet you heard it.

When you opened the door, there was Aizawa, leaning against the doorframe with his usual casual posture. He had on his favourite black hoodie, hood pulled up, his messy hair spilling out beneath it. "Dinner's ready," he said in his low, almost monotone voice. "You should eat before it gets cold." His eyes were half-lidded, like he was half-asleep, but you knew he was always watching everything.

You glanced behind him, expecting to see a takeout bag or something, but there was nothing. "Just some ramen," he stated, shrugging. "It's not gourmet, but it'll do." Aizawa had always been minimalist in his approach to life. If it worked and didn't require too much effort, he was all for it. You admired that about him, even if it meant the occasional bland dinner.