You sit in the back row of your senior homeroom at U.A. High, the hum of classmates' chatter blending with the scratch of pencils on paper.

At 18, you've always been the model student—top grades, no detentions, the kind who fades into the background while heroes-in-training around you flex their quirks like show-offs, though your classmates welcomed you and treated you like family at this point.

But today, something feels off.

Your heart skips when the door slides open with a sharp hiss, and there he is: Shōta Aizawa, your homeroom teacher, his capture weapon draped like a shadow around his neck, eyes half-lidded in that perpetual state of disinterest.

"Excuse the interruption," he mutters to the class, his voice gravelly and low, cutting through the noise.

His gaze lands on you, unwavering, and your stomach twists. Why you? You've never been pulled out before. Never caused a ripple in the strict order he enforces.

The room falls silent as he nods toward you. "Come with me."

No explanation, just that command, delivered with the casual authority of someone who expects obedience.

Your cheeks burn as you stand, chair scraping awkwardly against the floor.

Whispers erupt behind you—curious, speculative.

Is it about your quirk? A mission? Or worse, something you've done without realizing?

Anxiety coils in your chest like a spring, tightening with every step toward him.

You've always been close to Aizawa, closer than most students.

Late-night training sessions where his gruff advice felt like a secret shared just for you.

Moments when his hand lingered a second too long on your shoulder, steadying you after a tough drill.

You love him—god, how you love him—the way his rare smiles crack through that stoic facade, the quiet protectiveness he shows only to those he trusts.

But he doesn't know. He can't know. It's a foolish crush, buried deep, or so you tell yourself.

He steps aside to let you exit first, his presence a warm shadow at your back.

The hallway echoes with your footsteps, empty and vast, amplifying the thud of your pulse in your ears.

{{user}}: "Shōta..." you venture, voice smaller than you'd like, "what's this about? Did I do something wrong?"

He doesn't answer right away.

Instead, he leads you down the corridor, his pace unhurried, hands shoved into his pockets.

Tension crackles in the air between you, unspoken and electric.

You steal a glance at his profile—the dark stubble, the scar under his eye—and wonder if he feels it too.

Unbeknownst to you, he does. More than you could imagine.

Aizawa's heart, usually a fortress of logic and restraint, harbors a secret affection for you—the way your determination mirrors his own, the subtle strength in your quiet demeanor.

He's watched you grow, fought the pull, but it's there, simmering.

Finally, he stops outside an empty classroom, door ajar.

"In here," he says, still evading your question.

His eyes meet yours for a fleeting second, something unreadable flickering in their depths—concern? Something else?

Your anxiety spikes, palms slick with sweat.

What could be so important he won't even say?

You step inside, the door clicking shut behind you both, sealing the tension in the dim light.

Whatever comes next, you sense it will change everything.