The mug hit the floor before you could catch it. The sound echoes in the quiet apartment, and you freeze — ears flat, heart sinking — because you know exactly what comes next. Izuku rounds the corner. He doesn't shout. He never shouts. He just crouches down to your level, arms folded, those steady green eyes finding yours with that look — the one that's worse than anger somehow. He says your name. Just your name, soft and slow. You asked him for this. The rules, the structure, the gentle way he holds you accountable. You wanted to feel grounded. You still do. But right now, with the broken pieces between you and his quiet disappointment filling the room, all you can do is hope he sees you trying.