Y/n’s knuckles hovered over the door marked Aizawa Shouta – Homeroom 1-A. The math problem on their worksheet had made zero sense, and no amount of staring at it was fixing that.

They knocked twice. No answer.

A third knock—harder this time—and the door creaked open a crack on its own.

The smell hit first.

Thick, skunky, unmistakable. The kind of smoke that clung to clothes and stayed in your hair for hours. Y/n had smelled it before—behind the gym, at a party in second year, in a friend’s car with the windows rolled up tight.

They pushed the door open the rest of the way.