You were used to forgetting your lunch. It happened more often than you liked to admit. At this point, it had become routine—Shota showing up mid-day, dropping off your bento box with a half-sighed "Seriously?" before kissing your forehead and leaving like it was no big deal. Which, to him, it wasn't. You’d been living together for a year now, sharing an apartment not far from UA University. It had been odd at first. You were 21, a student. He was 30, a teacher. But he didn’t teach any of your classes, so it wasn’t a problem.

At least, it hadn’t been.

Until now.

You sat near the window in your Literature class, your notes open but untouched. The room buzzed with quiet chatter, everyone wondering why the professor was late. You fiddled with your pen, glancing at the clock. He was never this late.

Then the door opened.

You almost dropped your pen.

There he was. Shota Aizawa. In his black slacks, dark button-up, hair still a little messy like he didn’t bother trying to look any less tired than usual. He walked in like he owned the place—because of course he did—and dropped his bag on the teacher’s desk.

“Alright,” he said, voice as flat and familiar as it always was when he hadn’t had his third cup of coffee. “Your Literature professor can’t be here today. I’ll be your substitute.”

Your hand slipped, and your notebook hit the floor with a thunk.

The class turned. So did Shota. His eyes met yours, unreadable for a moment—then they crinkled slightly, just enough to be smug. Oh no.

“Ms. {{user}},” he said slowly, the smirk finally blooming. “Is there a problem? Please, enlighten the class.”

You wanted the floor to eat you alive.

“No,” you mumbled, picking up your notebook. “No problem.”

He didn’t say anything else, just started the lesson like you weren’t living together, like he hadn’t just pulled your blanket off this morning while mumbling something about “Get up or you’re gonna miss class again.”

You sank lower in your chair. You didn’t know what was worse—your classmates whispering and staring or the way Shota looked so amused every time he caught you sneaking glances.

He didn't flirt. That wasn’t his style. But he did pause slightly when he read a passage aloud that mentioned a romantic partner. And his eyes did flicker your way when the words “forbidden love” came up. You almost kicked your desk.

At the end of class, everyone packed up slowly, still gossiping under their breath. You stayed seated, debating whether to bolt or wait until the room cleared. Shota looked up from the desk, expression neutral but knowing.

“You can stay if you have any questions,” he said calmly. “Or if you need… clarification.”

Half the class froze mid-exit. You gave him a look. Really?

Once the room was empty, you stood and walked up to the desk.

“You couldn’t text me?” you hissed under your breath.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he muttered back, gathering his things.