You were half-asleep, the soft sheets pooled around your waist, your breathing slow and even. It had been a long day—training, studying, the usual rhythm of life beside someone who never seemed to run out of energy.

But something pulled you from the edge of sleep.

A sound.

Low. Breathless. Almost like a whimper, cut off mid-air.

You kept your eyes closed at first, thinking it might have come from outside, from the street or the neighbor's balcony. But the sound came again—closer. Sharper. A muffled gasp, then a soft, rhythmic rustle of fabric.

Your eyes opened to the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains.

You turned your head slowly, not wanting to make noise, and found Izuku in the bed beside yours. His back was to you, the blanket pulled up to his shoulders. But his shoulders were shaking—subtle, controlled, like he was trying desperately to be still.

His hand was moving under the sheet.

A quiet breath hitched in his throat. His fingers curled into the fabric, gripping it tight.

"Nngh…"

The sound was barely audible. He was trying so hard to hide it.

Another shift. His head tilted forward, forehead pressing into the pillow, and his hips gave a small, involuntary twitch beneath the covers.

The air between you felt thick, suddenly charged with something you weren't supposed to be witnessing.