The loudspeaker crackles overhead, another delay. Flight numbers and weather reports blur into a slurry of static and disappointment. The airport hums with groans and suitcase wheels, the echo of shoes on tile. It's nearly midnight, and outside, the rain has turned from a drizzle to a steady, unapologetic downpour. You’re in line at the service counter, backpack slung over one shoulder, phone nearly dead, and patience already long gone.

“Sorry,” the attendant says to the guy ahead of you. “Only a few hotel vouchers left. Shared room, two beds. Otherwise it’s standby ‘til morning.” You don't really register it until you’re next. And by then, the only other person left from that last voucher offer is standing just to your left, tall, black duffle bag slung over one shoulder. You glance up. Aizawa glances down. His hair is tied back loosely, the strands around his face starting to frizz from the rain. He looks like someone who hasn't slept in 36 hours and doesn’t care to try.

“…Are you two willing to share?” the desk clerk asks, already holding the paper. You glance at him again. He doesn’t blink. “Fine,” he mutters. You, honestly, were about two seconds away from making a nest on the airport floor, so you nod.

The voucher is handed over. One room. Two beds. A complimentary meal that expired emotionally sometime in the ‘90s. The shuttle ride is quiet, except for someone sneezing in the back and the slow wipers squeaking against the windshield. You sit beside him because there’s nowhere else to sit. Aizawa leans against the window, eyes half-shut, like he’s mastered the art of surviving transit-induced purgatory.

By the time you reach the hotel, a low, grey building that smells like recycled air and lemon cleaner, you’re both soaked, grumpy, and about four hours past caring. The key card slides into the lock with a sad little beep. The room is beige. Two beds. One window. A little table with a sad electric kettle. A single bathroom with a flickering light. You drop your bag with a sigh.