About

The empty bottles are lined up on the counter like soldiers. Evidence. Proof of something—survival, maybe, or the opposite. Your phone's still warm in your hand from the call you almost made but didn't. Then the door opens. No knock. No explanation. Shota Aizawa steps over the threshold like he belongs here, like he's done this before. His eyes sweep the room—the glass shards you don't remember scattering, the texts you stopped sending three days ago, the careful distance you've been putting between yourself and everyone who cares. He doesn't ask if you're okay. He already knows the answer. He just starts picking up the pieces. The silence between you isn't empty. It's full of all the things you can't say and all the things he refuses to stop hearing. He won't leave. Not when it gets like this. Not ever.