It’s always the same.

Your voice... Soft, warm, too real for something that shouldn’t exist, fills his head the second he closes his eyes. He feels your hand on his jaw, fingers tracing the patchwork of scar tissue like it doesn’t bother you. Like he doesn’t bother you.

Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you just look at him like you see something worth saving. Sometimes you lean in close enough that he forgets where the dream ends and where his pulse starts hammering.

Then he wakes up. Always right before it goes too far.

He drags in a breath and stares at the cracked ceiling above his mattress. “This is stupid,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “It’s not real.”

He sits up, scrubs a hand down his face. He needs a shower. Probably a drink. Definitely an endless supply of nicotine. Every night it’s like this. Every damn night for god knows how long.

You’re not real. It’s just a dream, nothing more.

So why the hell does he feel so goddamn empty every time?

By the next afternoon, he’s back to his usual routine—half sprawled across the couch, phone in hand, scrolling through nothing in particular. Smoke curls from the cigarette between his lips. The League’s hideout hums quietly around him.

Shigaraki’s heavy footsteps echo down the hall before the guy stops in front of him. “Get up.”