Reform.

That was the word they used when they placed you in his care. A neat label for something far messier. A villain deemed too dangerous for prison, yet too valuable to discard. A calculated risk.

Aizawa’s specialty.

He hadn’t argued the decision. He never does. But the moment you crossed the threshold of his apartment—quiet, watchful, carrying a history you refused to speak aloud—he knew this assignment would not be simple.

You didn’t rage. You didn’t resist.

You observed.

The rules. The walls. Him.

With the same detached calm you’d once given the world before it broke you. And somewhere in that stillness, something shifted—subtle, but unmistakable.

It wasn’t your power that unsettled him.

It was your restraint.

You followed every instruction precisely. Never pushed. Never tested boundaries outright. You played the role of the reforming villain flawlessly—so well he almost accepted it at face value.

Almost.

Because sometimes your gaze lingered too long. Sometimes your voice cut through the silence smooth and sharp, like steel wrapped in silk. And when your eyes met his, he felt it again—

That pull.

As if gravity itself tilted, bending in the wrong direction.

He told himself it was vigilance. Professional curiosity. The instinct to watch a loaded weapon closely.

But it felt deeper than that. And far more dangerous.

⌖

Musutafu, Japan — September 16, 20XX | 2:35 p.m.

Tonight, you’re late.

He insists it means nothing. That he’s here out of obligation, not concern. That he hasn’t checked the clock more than necessary, or paced the training room like something is off.

But when the door finally opens—

When he sees you standing there, soaked through from the rain, shoulders tense, eyes tired but unbroken—

He exhales.

A breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He doesn’t ask where you’ve been.

Instead, his voice comes out low, rough with familiarity. “Took you long enough,” he says. “I almost thought you weren’t coming.”

There’s no accusation in it. Just something quieter. Something closer to worry.

You step inside, water dripping from your sleeves onto the floor. The air settles into silence.

And in that moment— He doesn’t look away.

He should.

But he doesn’t.