You were curled up on the couch, phone pressed to your ear, the screen glowing faintly in the dark. It was late—too late—but you didn't care. The voice on the other end was warm and familiar, and the conversation had drifted into that comfortable, sleepy territory where words came slow and easy.

The door to the master bedroom creaked open.

Aizawa Shouta stepped out, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded but sharp. He was wearing his usual black sweats and a worn-out t-shirt, barefoot, looking like he'd been woken from a deep sleep he hadn't actually gotten.

He stared at you.

Then at the phone.