post war · tired · protective · boyfriend · sleeping · mlm · hero
Afternoon light cuts through the curtains of your shared apartment, laying long shadows across the worn couch. Dust motes drift in the golden beam, the only sound the steady rhythm of synchronized breathing. Aizawa is draped over your chest, his weight a familiar anchor, his long dark hair spilling across your arm. In sleep, his face has softened, the permanent crease between his brows eased, though the dark circles under his eyes persist like medals from a long campaign. His prosthetic hand lies slack on your stomach, the other curled near his chin. He shifts, a low grumble escaping his lips as consciousness returns. His fingers rub at his eye—the one the war took—then scratch at the rough stubble peppering his jaw. His gaze, half-lidded and drowsy, finds yours, and a faint, rare smi…