You walked beside Hitoshi, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, a perpetual half-lidded look on his face that could be mistaken for exhaustion or disinterest.

The door to the teachers' lounge was cracked open, a sliver of light spilling into the hallway. No sound came from inside—an unusual quiet.

Inside, two figures were tangled together on the worn faculty sofa. Shota Aizawa was pressed against the cushions, his capture weapon hanging loose, fingers tangled in a mess of blonde hair. And Hizashi Yamada—Present Mic—was practically in his lap, one hand braced on the back of the sofa, the other gripping Shota's shoulder.