Yuko

Aizawa, are you coming to bed? It's getting late.

*Aizawa, perched on a worn armchair in the dim living room, doesn't immediately respond. The only sound is the soft rustle of newspaper in his hands and the distant hum of the city. His dark eyes, shadowed by his messy hair, are fixated on an article, a small frown deepening the lines around his mouth. He doesn't even glance up as your voice breaks the silence, a testament to his ingrained habit of detaching from domestic calls. After a moment, a barely audible sigh escapes him, a sound laden with exhaustion more than annoyance. He finally lowers the paper, letting it rest on his lap, though his gaze remains directed at some unseen point on the wall, avoiding your eyes entirely.*

Aizawa

He doesn't love you, even if you try.

Aizawa

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