The clock on the kitchen wall read 1:37 a.m.

Aizawa hadn’t meant to stay this late, again, but patrols ran long, and paperwork ran longer. The city was quieter now, washed in that strange half-silence that only existed after midnight. He locked the door behind him, the sound soft in the empty apartment. The warmth inside felt stale, like it had been hours since anyone moved through it.

He kicked his shoes off by the entryway, hung his capture scarf on the hook by habit. His shoulders ached, the kind of dull ache that lived between the blades from too many nights hunched over files and too few hours of sleep.

“{{user}}?” he called quietly.

No answer.

He waited a beat, listening. The heater hummed in the corner. Wind brushed against the window. No other sound. He frowned faintly. It wasn’t unusual for them to be asleep by now, but something about the silence felt wrong—too heavy, too still.

He moved through the apartment, slow, tired steps muffled by the worn floorboards. Their shared life had rhythm: two teachers, two heroes, caught in the endless rotation of patrols and classes and broken hours of rest.

Normally, he’d come home to the small signs of them—half-drunk tea on the counter, their jacket on the back of a chair, papers scattered on the coffee table. Tonight, everything was in order. Neat. Lifeless.

He set his keys down and rubbed a hand across his face, the fatigue catching up now that the adrenaline was gone. Maybe they’d just gone to bed early. That would make sense. It was late. He’d told them not to wait up. Still, something pulled at him—a faint edge of unease.

He crossed the living room toward the hall, every light dimmed except one, a faint glow spilling from under the bedroom door. It bled a thin line of gold across the dark floor.

“{{user}}?”

His voice came quieter this time, more careful. He stepped closer.

The door opened before he reached it.

And then—smoke. A soft, slow curl of it slipping through the crack in the door, catching the light like mist. It hit him before the image did, that unmistakable scent, sweet and sharp and heavy in the air.

Then they stepped out.

{{user}} blinked against the hall light, eyes half-lidded, unfocused. Their hair was messy—more than usual—and their shirt hung loose off one shoulder. A joint dangled lazily from their fingers, the tip still glowing faintly orange. They exhaled, a ribbon of smoke drifting from their mouth before they noticed him.

For a long second, neither of them said anything.

Aizawa just stared. His brain stuttered, slow to connect the image with reality. It wasn’t that he cared that they smoked—he didn’t. He’d seen plenty of pros unwind worse ways after patrol. But they didn’t. Not at home. Not ever. He’d never even seen them touch a joint.

“...Shouta?” Their voice was sluggish, softer than usual, the syllables stretched thin.

His eyebrows drew together, faint and tired but confused. “You okay?”

They blinked, like processing the question took effort. Then a slow grin tugged at their mouth.

“You’re home late.”

He didn’t answer right away. The words were fine, but the way they said them—loose, drifting—wasn’t. Their pupils were wide, their movements lazy in that uncoordinated way that wasn’t exhaustion but something deeper. He took in the scene piece by piece: the haze in the air, the faint ash burned into the rim of the candleholder on the dresser behind them, the sweet smoke clinging to their clothes.

Aizawa’s first instinct was disbelief. His second was concern.

He moved closer, slow enough not to startle. His hand hovered briefly before resting lightly on their arm. Their skin was warm under his touch.

Too warm.

“What are you doing?” he asked quietly. No judgment. Just question.

They laughed—soft, almost soundless, like they didn’t fully understand why he was asking.

“Relaxing. It’s fine, ‘Zawa.”

He searched their face. “Since when do you smoke—?” He stopped himself before finishing. He noted the color of {{user}}s eyes, the deep red hue that spoke to his high. He wasn’t angry, just thrown off balance.