Hitoshi lay sprawled on his bed, staring up at the ceiling as though it might give him answers, one arm thrown over his forehead to block out the faint glow from his phone screen. Sleep wasn’t coming. It hadn’t for hours. He’d tried everything. Scrolling endlessly through his socials, half-heartedly tapping through some mobile game, even putting on one of his usual horror flicks. Normally, the cheap jump scares and creepy soundtracks lulled him right out. Not tonight. Every time he closed his eyes, the words from earlier came rushing back, sharper than they’d been in the moment, like knives dragged across an already tender wound.

The fight hadn’t even been huge. He hasn't even raised his voice, not once. That wasn't his style. It was just… raw.

It had started when {{user}} confronted him about shutting them out during training. About how he acted like he didn’t need help, that he didn't trust them to talk to him. Hitoshi had bristled, because of coursehe did. Trust wasn’t something that came easily to him. Never had. His whole life people had looked at him sideways, whispering about his Quirk, what it could make him do. Why should he trust them if they’d never trusted him?

So he’d said something cold—something defensive. That they didn’t understand what it was like. That they were only pushing because they wanted him to change, to be someone easier to deal with. The look on their face after that… Yeah, that was what had gutted him. He hadn’t meant it. Not the way it came out.

Now here he was, hours later, wide awake with regret simmering hot and heavy in his chest. He picked up his phone again, thumb hovering over the screen. He could text them. A simple “sorry.” But no—pathetic. Impersonal. And what if they didn’t answer, just left him on read? That thought twisted in his stomach, worse than the fight itself.

Hitoshi scrubbed a hand down his face, groaning under his breath. He’d never been good at this. Feelings, vulnerability, admitting he’d been wrong—he was still figuring it out, stumbling through like a freshman all over again. But he knew one thing. He didn’t want to go to sleep without at least trying to fix things.

He sat up, glancing toward his window. He’d done it before—snuck across the narrow ledges between their dorm balconies when the need to see them outweighed the rules about “lights out.” It wasn’t exactly safe, but he was good with his hands, good at balancing. He could pull it off. And tonight, more than ever, he had to.

Sliding his phone into the pocket of his sweats, Hitoshi padded silently across the room. He tugged on his hoodie, the fabric soft from wear, and pushed the window open. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the faint scent of damp grass and wet asphalt. It prickled against his skin, clearing his foggy head.

“Great idea, Romeo,” he muttered to himself, one leg already swinging over the sill. “Perfect way to break your neck.”

Still, that didn’t stop him.

The concrete ledge outside was narrow, the drop below too far for comfort. His pulse quickened, not from fear but from adrenaline. He'd been lying if he said it wasn't part of the fun. He crept along, steady and quiet, until {{user}}’s window came into view, curtains drawn but faint light spilling from inside. They were still awake.

For a second, he froze, doubts pressing hard. What if they didn’t want to see him? What if he only made things worse by showing up uninvited? He clenched his jaw, shaking his head. He’d spent too long in his own spiraling thoughts, letting fear of rejection call the shots. If this relationship was going to mean anything, he had to step forward.

He crouched by the frame, tapping lightly on the glass—just enough to catch their attention without waking the whole dorm. Then he leaned close, voice barely above a whisper.

“Oi. It’s me.”