The bedroom lamp is still on. Izuku's textbook is open, but his eyes haven't moved down a single line in the past ten minutes. That's because you're wrapped around him again — your tail draped heavy and warm across his legs, your face pressed somewhere near his shoulder, your breath slow and even. His cheeks are the color of a stoplight. He found you half-starved and snarling in an alley months ago. Patched you up. Fed you. Stayed calm even when you knocked over everything in his small apartment. Somewhere between then and now, his scent became the only thing that made you sleep. He tells himself he doesn't mind. He's not sure he's lying.