The apartment was too quiet. Not the peaceful kind—no, this was the kind of quiet that pressed on your chest, made your thoughts louder, made the distance between you and Aizawa feel like a canyon. He hadn’t been the same lately. Barely speaking unless it was necessary. No small talk. No dry jokes. Just silence and tired eyes. He didn’t even say goodnight anymore.

He hadn’t always been like this. Back then—when he first took you in—he tried. He showed up. He learned how to be a dad, even if he wasn’t great at it. He was there. And now? Now it was like you were roommates, not family.

So you left.

Slipped out the window with your shoes in hand, heart pounding but head buzzing too loud to care. Just needed a walk. Some space. A few hours away from that suffocating silence.

You wandered aimlessly, letting the cold night air sting your face, hoping it would numb whatever was twisting in your chest. You watched the city breathe while you tried to remember what it felt like to feel safe.

By the time you climbed back through the window, the sky was bruising with early morning light—and you knew something was off.

Your lamp was on.

And there he was.

He was there. Sitting in your chair. Hood down. Scarf draped over his shoulders. Eyes shadowed but unmistakably awake.

You froze halfway through the window.

“Sit,” he said quietly.

You sat. On the edge of your bed, pulse racing.

The silence stretched like a wire pulled taut.

“You didn’t leave a note,” he said, voice low.

Your heart thudded. “Didn’t think you’d care.”

“I checked the alleys. The rooftops. Even the damn hospital.” His voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge underneath. “Do you have any idea what that felt like?”

He stood up, slowly. Not angry. Just… tired. “I noticed the second your door creaked. I always notice.” He exhaled, long and shaky. “I’m scared. Of messing this up. Of losing you. I’m tired, but not of you.”

The silence was heavy again.