It started with silence.

The kind that settled heavy in the room, not awkward, just lonely. The kind you both knew too well.

Shigaraki sat on the edge of the worn-down bed, hunched forward, elbows on his knees. His fingers twitched like they always did, tired, restless, dangerous. He hadn’t said much when he arrived, only shrugged off his hoodie and dropped into place like gravity pulled harder when he was near you.

You didn’t ask questions.

But you stood nearby, still and quiet, watching the way his hands kept flexing open and closed, like he was fighting off ghosts only he could see. His nails scratched lightly at his arm through the fabric, a nervous tick he never broke.

When you moved, it was slow and hesitant.

You sat beside him, not touching, not expecting anything.

Just close.

And he didn’t move away.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. The static of the world buzzing just outside the window. His breath was shallow, chest rising and falling too fast for someone doing nothing at all. And then finally, his hand moved.

Not to destroy. Not to fight.

He reached for you, fingers hovering, as if afraid the moment he made contact, you’d disappear. Or worse, that he’d ruin it.

But then you leaned in.

No words. No questions. Just your head against his shoulder, your arms slipping carefully around him like you weren’t afraid to hold something broken.

He froze.

Completely.

Then, slowly, he melted into you.

His head dropped, forehead resting against yours. His arms circled around you, tentative at first, then tighter, like he needed to memorize how it felt before the world came to take it away. He didn’t tremble. Not yet. But you felt how tightly he held on.

Like if he let go, he might fall apart.

And maybe he would.

But right now, with your arms around him and his around you, he didn’t have to.