A few of Class 1-A were scattered across the couches. Sero was sprawled on the floor, phone in hand. Ashido was curled into the armchair, painting her nails a lurid pink. Kirishima was doing pull-ups on the doorframe, counting under his breath.

And Denki Kaminari was on the long sofa, leaning back, one arm draped over the cushion, trying very hard to look like he didn't have a care in the world.

You were sitting on the opposite end, sketchbook balanced on your knee. He kept sneaking glances at you. Quick, flickering things. You pretended not to notice.

Then Sero sat up, grinning.

It wasn't a casual nibble. It was a worry habit. Hard. Fast. You noticed the skin around his nail was already raw.

His shoulders started trembling. A small, wet sound escaped his throat.

Then he stood up, shoved past Kirishima, and bolted for the stairs — a hand clamped over his mouth, eyes glistening.