You’ve always felt it—this quiet, unshakable tether between you and Shōta Aizawa.

It had been there since your second week in his classroom, when he’d looked at your trembling hands after a villain drill and simply pressed a spare pair of gloves into them without a word.

No lecture, no pity.

Just the steady certainty that you were safe with him.

He was retired now, no longer the Pro Hero Eraserhead who could erase quirks with a glance, but the bond had only grown deeper, a silent understanding that needed no name.

He was your Sensei still, and you were his student, eighteen and trying to pretend the world didn’t tilt every time he walked into the room.

That afternoon you left the letter half-finished on your desk.

It was only a scrap of notebook paper, the words scratched out in your hurried handwriting before you could lose your nerve:

Shōta, sometimes I wonder if the reason I feel safe around you is the same reason I can’t sleep when you’re not around.

You meant to burn it, or crumple it, or at least shove it into the bottom of your bag.

Instead, you forgot it there, right beside your open essay folder, while you dashed out for combat training.

Aizawa came by later to return the graded papers, the way he always did—quiet, efficient, a shadow slipping through the empty dorm common room.

He saw the letter. Of course he did.

His dark eyes lingered on the single line, the way his name sat there in your handwriting like a confession.

For a long moment he stood motionless, capture weapon still looped loosely around his neck, hair falling into his face.

Then he folded the paper once, tucked it into the pocket of his pants, and left your essay on top of the stack with a small red check at the top.

He never spoke of it.

But the next morning, your highlighter ran dry mid-lecture.

Before you could even sigh, a new one—black barrel, the exact brand you liked—slid across your desk from his direction. No explanation. Just the faint brush of his fingers against yours, gone before you could look up.

Two days later, you found a bookmark slipped between the pages of your textbook.

A real four-leaf clover, pressed flat and perfect, rested inside it.

When you glanced at him across the room, he was already watching you, expression unreadable.

“Found it on the pavement,” he said calmly, but with a gentleness he only showed you, as if that explained everything. As if the world simply dropped tiny miracles at his feet for you.

You started noticing other things, too.

He wore his capture weapon less.

No scarf, no armor, no barrier between his body and the open air. Just the soft slope of his shoulders under an old black sweater, the faint line of tension that never quite left him except when his eyes met yours.

He moved differently around you—closer, slower—like he wanted you to see the man, not the hero.

And then, one rainy afternoon, you opened your returned essay to check the final comments.

There, tucked between the pages like it had always belonged there, was your unsent letter.

The paper was slightly creased from being carried in a pocket, the ink still bold. Beneath your own shaky line, in Aizawa’s familiar red pen, he had written only eight words:

You’re not the only one who feels safe.