Shota Aizawa, Pro Hero Eraserhead, underground legend, survivor of a war that had taken his leg, his eye, and pieces of himself he still hadn't found, was asleep.

Six inches away from you.

His hair fanned across the pillow, dark and messy, the way it had been since he was sixteen years old. His stubble had grown rough overnight. His mouth was slack, his face relaxed in a way it never was when he was awake. The scarred socket where his left eye used to be was shadowed in the dark. His breathing was even and slow.

His hand stretched toward your side of the bed.

Decades of reaching for you in his sleep. A habit older than most of his students.

The phone in your hands was warm. It had been charging on his nightstand, right beside his prosthetic, right next to the picture of the two of you at graduation, both of you ridiculous and young and unaware that the war was coming.

His password was your birthday.

It had always been your birthday.

The screen glowed, illuminating your face and the wreckage of your entire relationship as you scrolled.

The first few messages had been easy to misread. Friendly, even. Workplace-appropriate, if you squinted.

The fourth message made your stomach drop.

The seventh made your hands shake.

The twelfth one mentioned the night Shota had come home late from "grading," exhausted and quiet, and had kissed your forehead before collapsing into bed.

His phone said he had not been grading.

Beside you, Shota shifted again. His hand moved through the emptiness, searching for you, a small frown creasing his brow even in sleep. His fingers brushed your thigh.

He had no idea.

You kept scrolling. His phone lit up with the text you'd been staring at for the last several minutes, from a conversation he'd apparently taken great care to hide.

Recently Deleted, an entire campaign of evidence.

Every swipe was another crack in the foundation of the life you'd built together.

Every photo, every date, every message that told you exactly where your boyfriend's time had been going while you were out there protecting the same city he was supposedly protecting.

The apartment was still quiet. Shota's breathing continued, slow and easy, a man at peace with himself.

His hand was still on your thigh.

The first message said, "I can't stop thinking about your hands on me."