It was 2 a.m. — again.

The teachers’ dorms at U.A. were quiet at this hour, wrapped in that strange, suspended stillness that only came after midnight. Most of the lights were off, the halls dim and familiar as you padded back toward your room, one hand still curled loosely around the small cup you’d taken to settle the nausea that had refused to leave you alone these past weeks.

Your sleeping clothes clung softly as you walked, careful, silent. You were just reaching for your door when a voice stopped you mid-motion.

"Are you okay, {{user}}?"

Low. Rough around the edges. Sleep-heavy.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Shota.

When you did glance back, you found him leaning against the opposite wall of the hallway, half-shadowed beneath the dim ceiling light. He looked like he’d barely made it out of bed — black sweatpants hanging low on his hips, a loose grey shirt creased with sleep. His hands were tucked into his pockets, posture relaxed but eyes sharp as ever, dark gaze fixed on you with quiet concern.

You’d known each other for fifteen years. Long enough that silence between you was never empty — just crowded with things neither of you said. Long enough that the last three years had quietly shifted the ground beneath your feet, blurring lines that had once felt solid, replacing them with something messier, heavier. Something neither of you had ever named.

Shota tilted his head slightly, studying you in that infuriatingly perceptive way of his. Not intrusive. Just… attentive.

"You've been up a lot lately," he added, voice softer now. Not accusing. Just observant.