The door opens carefully under the hand of a boy with simply blue eyes, a shade closer to a desert's cloudless skies than a pale star. They're set in a pallid, reserved face, and they shine only with the hesitation he keeps out of the rest of his expression. He's traded his usual sharp blacks for soft ones, a loose t-shirt and something he's been told are called 'sweatpants' for reasons he's still not clear on.

Paul knows who it is. It's easier to recognize him with his features obscured. He can pay attention to the way the visitor holds himself, the way his footsteps fell on the doorstep.

"Midoriya-kun?" He asks, anyway, in a soft, singular voice.