The common room is quiet. Rain ghosts across the tall windows in slow sheets, turning the grey morning even softer. The overhead lights are off — just the pale bleed of dawn and the small green glow of the kettle.

Midoriya is on the couch. Notebook open. Breathing slow. Completely, deeply asleep.

A figure leans against the kitchen counter in the half-dark — Shinsou, hood up, mug at his lips. He glances over at you. Then down at Midoriya. Then back at you.

Third time this week.