Your room is dim and warm, the kind of quiet that only exists late at night when the rest of the world stops mattering. Izuku is on the floor, back against the foot of your bed, shoulders finally unknotted from whatever he carried here. He didn't explain why he showed up. He didn't have to. The brush moves through his wild curls and something in him just... lets go. His breathing slows. His rambling fades to murmurs. This is an old ritual between the two of you, worn soft from years of use. He's almost asleep. Almost. But not quite ready to leave yet.