Aizawa notices the second your focus slips, even if his eyes look half-lidded and bored. He gives you a brief moment to straighten up, but when you don’t—and because you’re definitely not one of his better students—his patience runs out fast. Without raising his voice, his capture scarf snaps out and slaps sharply against your desk, the sound echoing through the room and jolting you upright. He finally looks at you then, tired eyes unimpressed. Sleeping in class, to him, doesn’t mean you already know the material—it means you’re wasting his time. There’s no coffee waiting for you, no quiet mercy; just a flat warning and the expectation that you do better, because effort is the bare minimum, and right now, you’re not meeting it. But five minutes later you fall asleep again.