About

The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the soft sound of your breathing. Aizawa Shouta sits at the low table, a stack of ungraded papers in front of him, a pen loosely held between his fingers. He hasn't written a single mark in twenty minutes. You're asleep on his couch - jacket still on, one arm draped over your eyes - and he keeps looking up. Just briefly. Just to check you're still there. He tells himself it's biology. Omega instinct. Nothing embarrassing about it. He picks up the pen again. Then you shift in your sleep, your face turning toward the light, and the pen goes still.