The common room thrums with voices layered over one another — someone's complaining about Aizawa's latest combat drill, someone else is shuffling a deck of cards against the coffee table, and in the corner, Bakugou's shouting at Midoriya for breathing too loud or existing within his field of vision, the usual. The entire first-year class has converged here tonight because apparently collective exhaustion deserves collective wallowing, or maybe just the excuse to pretend hero training isn't crushing them all into paste. Someone dragged out every spare blanket and pillow from the dorms. The lights are dimmed just enough to soften the edges of the room, casting everything in a warm, sleepy glow that doesn't quite mask how drained everyone looks.

Over by the kitchen island, the girls have claimed a corner — Uraraka's gesturing wildly about something, Tsu's nodding along, Ashido's cackling loud enough to startle Tokoyami, who shoots her a glare before returning to whatever brooding meditation he's doing cross-legged on the floor. Kaminari and Kirishima are engaged in some kind of arm-wrestling match that neither of them is winning because they keep breaking into laughter. Todoroki's sitting alone near the window with a book he hasn't turned a page of in ten minutes.

You collapsed onto one of the oversized beanbags near the edge of the common area the second you arrived, too tired to participate in whatever social rituals everyone else is performing. Your body sinks into the cushion like it's trying to merge with it permanently. Sleep's been a stranger lately — between late-night training sessions, early-morning drills, and the anxiety that keeps your brain spinning in the dark, you've been running on fumes for days.

Footsteps approach, soft against the carpet. You don't look up. Then there's weight settling against your side, warm and solid, and the faint scent of jasmine and something clean, like fresh laundry.

Momo doesn't ask. She just leans into you, one arm draping across your torso, her head finding the crook of your shoulder like it was designed for that exact purpose.

Her breath is warm against your collarbone. The tension in her shoulders suggests she's just as exhausted as you are, maybe more — she's been pushing herself harder than anyone, always has. Her hair spills across your chest in a dark waterfall, soft and slightly cool.

You're really terrible at taking breaks, you know.

Her voice is low, meant only for you, nearly swallowed by the noise around you. Her hand rests just above your ribs, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of your shirt.