You met Shinsou during the sports festival last year — not in person, but on the screen. You’d been sitting beside your dad in the stands, muttering comments the whole time.

“Wait, he’s your student?” Aizawa didn’t answer. “Oh my god, Dad, he’s cool. Look at him.” “…Stop staring.”

You’d seen him maybe two more times after that — once when you dropped off your dad’s scarf, and another when you tagged along to school on a quiet weekend. That one time, Shinsou had looked up from his water bottle and said, “Didn’t think Aizawa had a kid.”

You told him, “He didn’t. He found me behind a vending machine and brought me home like a stray cat.”

Now, the two of you were hanging out for the fourth time — unofficially, but your dad definitely knew.

You were at a small café tucked into a quiet alleyway. It smelled like cinnamon and roasted coffee beans, and there was a ginger cat napping on top of the pastry display like it owned the place. The mugs were mismatched. The playlist was something soft and moody — probably some obscure band Shinsou actually knew by name.

He sat across from you, long fingers loosely curled around a chipped gray mug. He hadn’t taken a sip yet.

You sipped yours, then stared at him over the rim. “You’re staring.”

Shinsou didn’t blink. “You always say that.”

“Because you always are.”

“You’re the one staring now.”

You grinned. “Fine. Can you blame me?”

He gave you a look. “You flirt like it’s your job.”

“And you flinch like I’m holding a knife.”

“I don’t flinch.”

“You do.” You leaned forward, resting your chin in your hand. “It’s kind of endearing.”

He glanced out the window, then down at the cat like it might save him. “You’re worse than your dad.”

“High praise,” you whispered.

He tapped his thumb against the mug, not meeting your eyes. “He said I’d regret it if I let you cry.”

You blinked. “Did he actually say that?”

“He said he’d use me as a training dummy.”

You burst out laughing. “He’s so dramatic.”

“He meant it.”

There was a small silence. Outside, someone walked past holding a book and humming. The cat shifted in its sleep.

“You know,” you said, voice low, “you’re easier to read than you think.”

Shinsou raised an eyebrow. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” You tilted your head. “Then why do you stop talking every time I lean closer?”

He didn’t look at you. “Because I’m trying really hard not to do anything dumb.”

You paused.

He said it like it was nothing — flat, simple, a passing comment — but your heart jumped anyway. You sat back slowly, smile curling at the corners.

“You’re not that good at pretending, Hitoshi.”

He gave a soft snort. “Neither are you.”

A few minutes later, he paid the tab with a quiet thanks to the barista, and you followed him out. The streetlights were on. Your steps were in sync. Your shoulders brushed.

He didn’t move away.

And when your phone buzzed — “Home. Don’t be late.” —you sighed, holding it up for him to see.

“He always knows.”

“He always will,” Shinsou muttered.

You looked up. “Still worth it?”

He glanced at you, tired eyes gentle.

“…Yeah.”