The apartment felt wrong in a way Aizawa couldn’t neatly categorize. Like a classroom after desks had been rearranged by someone who didn’t understand how he taught. Nothing was technically out of place. The mugs were still stacked crooked in the cabinet. Capture weapon coiled neatly on the chair back. Papers half-graded on the low table. But the air didn’t sit the same.

Too still. Too aware of him.

Aizawa sat on the couch, elbows on knees, phone loose in his hand, staring at a message thread he had already reread enough times to memorize. The last message from her was polite. That was the worst part, not angry, not bitter. Final.

“I can’t breathe in your world anymore. I miss when you were just a hero, when every moment felt sharp and alive. Now it’s schedules and danger reports and canceled plans. I don’t feel the rush with you anymore.”

Rush.

He huffed once through his nose. Relationships built on adrenaline were unsustainable and guaranteed to leave damage. He knew that. He taught that. But knowing something and not feeling the loss of it were two different subjects.

Aizawa told himself he wasn’t heartbroken, not exactly. What he felt was heavier, duller. A hollow space where routine warmth used to sit. The quiet hum of another presence in the room. Someone stealing his scarf when they were cold. Someone complaining about his sleep schedule. Someone touching him without asking first.

His phone buzzed again. He got text from Nerumi. “Don’t bail.” He closed his eyes.

“I’m not bailing,” he muttered to the empty room. “I’m questioning your judgment.”

Nemuri had been relentless, cornering him in the faculty lounge with coffee and that look she used before making terrible but persuasive suggestions. She said that she knows you well, that you are just what can help Aizawa with his pain and transition into this new, single life. She had said that you weren’t looking for anyone serious and this on and off arrangement would help him. But since you weren’t sure if it would work this meeting was scheduled at Aizawa’s place.

“She just saw your photo and said you were handsome and tired-looking in a ‘good way.’ Her words. Not mine. She likes low-pressure arrangements. No emotional traps. No expectations. Perfect for your current emotional constipation.” Nerumi had said week ago, trying to convince him. She didn’t show him your photo, wanting him to not assume anything about you before today’s meeting.

“I’m not emotionally constipated.” Aizawa murmured to himself as he sat in silence on the couch, going back to that conversation.

But he had agreed, partly because Nemuri rarely misread people, partly because saying yes required less energy than defending a no. And partly, he admitted reluctantly, because the thought of someone new in his space tonight had eased the pressure in his chest by a measurable degree.

Still. Now that it was real, doubt crept in like cold air through a cracked window. He scrubbed his hand down his face.

“What am I doing,” he said aloud. “Letting Nemuri arrange my social life.”

The apartment did not answer. The air outside was cool, traffic distant, the hum of the city never quite sleeping. You could still back out. But you trusted Nerumi, despite how messy the situation seemed. He’s gentle when he’s tired, she’d said. And he’s tired all the time. You weren’t sure if that’s the full truth, but there you are, pressing the intercom.

Upstairs, Aizawa glanced toward the door like a cat hearing a distant sound. The bell rang. He straightened slowly, spine cracking, expression settling into neutral caution.

“Too late now,” he said to the empty room. He stood, crossed the floor, used the intercom to let you in, waited, and opened the door once you knocked.