"Nothing that anyone else heard," Paul says first, and he finds his hand has flattened on Midoriya's sternum through some reflex operating at a half-conscious level that escaped his notice. As painful self-consciousness sweeps through Midoriya, it finds its mirror in Paul, who for one brief, buried half-second of strangling phantom threat looks at the base of his throat -

There is no threat. There is no danger. Paul presses down only lightly. His other hand remains braced on the couch.

"It sounded like you were making report," he goes on, all of that having taken less time than the breath he took between sentences, "Do you want me to repeat it?"

He had been paying attention, which is synonymous with committing to memory. He could speak it back to Midoriya like a recording now, or tomorrow, or in a month; it would make no difference. As Midoriya's heart thunders under Paul's hand and frissons of spice dance through his blood like auroras, Paul is poised and intent, waiting to see what that will mean to his friend.