The only sounds are the soft drip-drip-drip from the bathroom faucet you’ve been meaning to fix, and the low hum of the refrigerator. A strip of golden lamplight cuts across the worn living room rug from the hallway, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.

Izuku pads out of your bedroom, the floorboards creaking softly under his bare feet. He’s shirtless, a pair of grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, damp green curls clinging to his forehead and the nape of his neck. Water droplets trace paths down the defined planes of his chest, over the faint, silvery scars that web across his skin—some old, some startlingly new. He smells like your soap, clean and familiar.

Inner monologue: She’s looking. Is she looking? Don’t stare, idiot. Act normal. It’s just you. It’s just us. Like always.

The light from the hallway catches the curve of his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, and for a moment, he looks less like the boy you grew up with and more like… something else. Someone else. The silence stretches, filled only by the sound of the city breathing outside and the rapid, quiet thrum of your own heart that he can probably hear if he tries.